To hell with Cronjé. Ingrid Winterbach
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and deliberate. In the dim light his coat takes on a greenish tinge – as if it has been exposed at length to dripping water, as if it is covered with moss; as if he has been swimming in it underwater.
Though Reitz is thirsty, the sour milk sticks in his throat.
They sit at the big, coarse wooden table, facing the door, but Oompie does not join them. He busies himself at the stove. “You have books,” he says. “You have big books in which you write. You are educated men. You have knowledge of hills and vales. Of the forces that create mountains. Of the birds of the sky and the flowers of the veld. Of the small animals and insects. You know each one by type and by name. But you have not reached the end of your long journey.”
“Show them a few tricks, Oompie,” Gert Smal interrupts.
The old man does not seem to hear. “You’ve been wandering for a long time,” he continues, his back still turned to them. “You’re weary of travelling. You left a leader who was ill-disposed towards you. Keep your eyes open. God’s ways are mysterious, but the ways of man are treacherous. God makes Himself known through His creation – but man’s motives are always inscrutable. One of you has a problem. It is linked with feelings of guilt.”
Reitz feels the hairs on his arm stand on end.
Gert Smal is becoming more restless; he is still cleaning his teeth with the piece of wood.
“Show them a few tricks, Oompie,” he insists.
But Oompie ignores him as one ignores a troublesome child.
At this point Gert Smal decides he has had enough. He gets up. They have to go, he says. They can’t sit around here all day.
Instantly Oompie’s expression changes.
“You wouldn’t happen to have something – pleasurable – for an old man to look forward to?” His demeanour is sly again, almost lewd.
“We’ll see what we can do, Oompie,” Gert Smal says brusquely. “We can’t promise anything.”
Before they leave Oompie gives Gert Smal a jar of honey and three cans of milk.
When they take their leave, he embraces them again. He bids them a warm and fond farewell and extends his arms over them in blessing as they depart.
*
Going back down the mountain is much quicker than going up. Gert Smal leads the way, leaping from rock to rock like a klipspringer. He certainly has energy to spare after their visit, and after his sullen silence of the morning, he is now positively garrulous.
“The old scoundrel is as randy as a billy goat! Every so often he takes himself a new wife.”
Gert Smal leaps from rock to rock with great flourish. “There was a time when he had a great many wives around here. We couldn’t keep up with his demands,” he declares.
“Goodness,” Ben remarks. “How long has he been here then?”
Gert Smal chooses not to reply.
Reitz casts a quick, furtive glance in Ben’s direction.
“Once he and his new bride have worked each other over good and proper,” Gert Smal continues, “the old bugger’s words take wing. In times of plenty his prophecies make the hills resound.”
“And how often does that happen?” Ben inquires cautiously.
“By God and the devil,” Gert Smal replies. “Not often these days. Not easy to keep up the supply nowadays. Not many young Kaffir girls left in these parts. All dead or carried off to camps, or so starved they’ve lost their appeal.”
“Really?” Ben inquires, pausing for a few moments to study an interesting-looking insect at his feet. Reitz can see Ben would dearly love to linger and inspect the beetle, but it is obvious Gert Smal will not put up with dawdlers.
“The general keeps the old fellow up here,” Gert Smal remarks over his shoulder as they struggle to catch up with him, “because he’s a bad influence on the men. He unsettles them.”
“How?” Ben inquires from his position a few paces behind Gert Smal – still cautious, for he knows the man does not welcome questions.
“The men see things. They imagine they hear voices. They have dreams.”
For a while they continue in silence.
“And besides,” Gert Smal continues, “he’s our bee man. He has a way with bees. He talks to them. He never gets stung.”
“Is that so?” Ben remarks, trying not to sound too interested.
Later still, when they have almost reached the camp, Gert Smal declares: “Actually, the old man is a great sorcerer. He was just out of sorts today.”
*
That night around the fire Gert Smal is surly at first, his high spirits of the afternoon apparently flown.
Before long, however – after their devotions, and once the evening hymn has been sung – he brings out the bottle again, and once more launches into a tirade. This time Ben and Reitz are more careful when it is their turn to drink.
“To hell with Piet Cronjé,” Gert Smal proclaims. “In 1899 he intercepted Jameson at Doornkop, and that was the only thing he ever did worth mentioning. By 1888 Paul Kruger was buying up arms for all he was worth. Wily old sod. Alfred Milner was steering the negotiations towards a declaration of war. To hell with Alfred Milner too. Twenty-two thousand Uitlanders signed a petition. Oom Paul should have shown them who was in charge right from the beginning, even before he and Milner met in Bloemfontein.”
Gert Smal spits out a piece of wood. “Milner outwitted Oom Paul right from the start – pretending to negotiate a period for giving the Uitlanders the vote. That was just his way of putting the pressure on until Oom Paul was forced to give in. No, Oom Paul said at first, there’s no way. Later he couldn’t take it any more. You want my country, he said, and bawled like a bloody woman.” Gert Smal’s voice is bitter. He takes a swig from the bottle. He continues.
“While Oom Paul was drying his tears, Milner was laughing up his sleeve. Bloody hell! To hell with Milner. No, Oom Paul said after each new concession, no, no further. Send the troops, Alfred Milner said. He knew – the bastard knew. On September the twenty-second the ultimatum came: the Uitlanders are to be given full equality, and the franchise after a year. That’s what happens when you don’t show them who’s in charge right from the start. Some people thought Oom Paul was bluffing. He had Jan Smuts draft his own ultimatum. They asked for arbitration. He should have known, Oom Paul should have known there’d be no arbitration. And Alfred Milner got what he wanted – he got his war.”
Gert Smal takes a huge swig from the bottle. He gazes into the fire grimly, as if all these events have only just taken place instead of three years ago. As if things could have gone differently.
“Alfred Milner be damned, his complete bloody English arse be damned,” he declares in measured tones, taking another swig from the bottle. (Tonight Gert Smal is too far gone to be bothered with a mug.)
“We raised our army,” he goes on. “Three generations taking up arms together. But we weren’t prepared for war. Neither was the goddamn British army.”
Shortly afterwards Japie Stilgemoed and Kosie Rijpma go to bed. But Ezekiel remains in the shadows a short distance away, just outside the light of the fire. And the dog with the yellow eyes keeps watch at Gert Smal’s feet.
“Ezekiel was reared by hand,” Gert Smal declares suddenly. “He never knew his own people.”
“Poor Kaffir,” Willem comments.
“Ezekiel knows our history,” Gert Smal says. “There’s nothing you can’t ask him about history and the Bible.”
“Poor Kaffir,” Ben confirms softly.
“The only thing you can’t teach him,” Gert