Rage (32 page)
Authors: Wilbur Smith
When Kitty asked them, âHow would you feel if black people came to swim here?' some of them giggled nervously at a question they had never considered before:
âThey aren't allowed to come here â they've got their own beaches.'
And at least one was indignant. âThey can't come here and look at our girls in bathing-costumes.' He was a beefy young man with sea salt caked in his sun-streaked hair and skin peeling from his sunburned nose.
âBut wouldn't you look at the black girls in their bathing costumes?' Kitty asked innocently.
âSis, man!' said the surfer, his handsome tanned features contorted with utter disgust at the suggestion.
âIt's just too good to be true!' Kitty marvelled at her own fortune. âI'll cut that in with some footage I've got of a beautiful black dancer in a Soweto night club.'
On the way back to the mission Kitty asked Tara to stop at the New Brighton railway station once again, for a final reconnaisance. They left the cameras in the Packard and two white-uniformed railway constables watched them with idle uninterest as they wandered around the almost deserted platforms that during the rush hours swarmed with thousands
of black commuters. Quietly Kitty pointed out to her team the locations she had chosen earlier, and explained to them what shots she would be striving for.
of black commuters. Quietly Kitty pointed out to her team the locations she had chosen earlier, and explained to them what shots she would be striving for.
That night Moses joined them for the evening meal in the mission refectory, and though the conversation was light and cheerful there was a hint of tension in their laughter. When Moses left, Tara went out with him to where the Buick was parked in the darkness behind the mission clinic.
âI want to be with you tonight,' she told him pathetically. âI feel so alone without you.'
âThat is not possible.'
âIt's dark â we could go for a drive to the beach,' she pleaded.
âThe police patrols are looking for just that sort of thing,' Moses told her. âYou would see yourself in the
Sunday Times
next weekend.'
Sunday Times
next weekend.'
âMake love to me here, please, Moses,' and he was angry.
âYour selfishness is that of a spoilt child â you think only of yourself and your own desires, even now when we are on the threshold of great events, you would take risks that could bring us down.'
Tara lay awake most of the night and listened to Kitty's peaceful breathing in the iron bed across the cell.
She fell asleep just before dawn, and awoke feeling nauseated and heavy, when Kitty leapt gaily out of bed in her pink-striped pyjamas, eager for the day.
âJune 26th,' she cried. âThe big day at last!'
None of them took more than a cup of coffee for an early breakfast. Tara felt too sick and the others were too keyed up. Hank had checked his equipment the previous night, but now he went over it again before he loaded it into the Packard and they drove down to the railway station.
It was gloomy and the few street lights were still burning while under them the hordes of black commuters hurried.
However, by the time they reached the station the first rays of the sun struck the entrance and the light was perfect for filming. Tara noticed that a pair of police Black Maria vans were parked outside the main entrance and instead of the two young constables who had been on duty the previous day there were eight railway policemen in a group under the station clock. They were in blue uniform with black peaked caps and holstered sidearms on their polished leather Sam Browne belts. They all carried riot batons.
However, by the time they reached the station the first rays of the sun struck the entrance and the light was perfect for filming. Tara noticed that a pair of police Black Maria vans were parked outside the main entrance and instead of the two young constables who had been on duty the previous day there were eight railway policemen in a group under the station clock. They were in blue uniform with black peaked caps and holstered sidearms on their polished leather Sam Browne belts. They all carried riot batons.
âThey have been warned,' Tara exclaimed, as she parked across the street from the two vans. âThey are expecting trouble â just look at them.'
Kitty had twisted around and was giving last-minute instructions to Hank in the back seat, but when Tara glanced at her to assess her reaction to the waiting police, something about Kitty's expression and her inability to meet Tara's eyes made her pause.
âKitty?' she insisted. These policemen. You don't seemâ'She broke off as she remembered something. The previous afternoon on the way to the beach, Kitty had asked her to stop outside the Humewood post office because she wanted to send a telegram. However, from across the road looking through the post office window, Tara had seen her slip into one of the glass telephone booths. It had puzzled her at the time.
âYou!' she gasped. âIt was you who warned the police!'
âListen, darling,' Kitty snapped at her. âThese people want to get themselves arrested. That's the whole point. And I want film of them getting arrested. I did it for all our sakesâ' She broke off and cocked her head. âListen!' she cried. âHere they come!'
Faintly on the dawn there was the sound of singing, hundreds of voices together, and the group of policemen in the station entrance stirred and looked around apprehensively.
âOK, Hank,' Kitty snapped. âLet's go!'
They jumped out of the Packard and hurried to the positions they had chosen, lugging their equipment.
The senior police officer with gold braid on his cap was a captain. Tara knew enough of police rank insignia from firsthand experience. He gave an order to his constables. Two of them began to cross the road towards the camera team.
âShoot, Hank. Keep shooting!' Tara heard Kitty's voice, and the singing was louder now. The beautifully haunting refrain of
Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika
carried by a thousand African voices made Tara shiver.
Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika
carried by a thousand African voices made Tara shiver.
The two constables were halfway across the road when the first rank of protesters marched around the nearest row of shops and cottages and hurriedly the police captain called his constables back to his side.
They were twenty abreast, arms linked, filling the road from pavement to pavement, singing as they came on, and behind them followed a solid column of black humanity. Some of them were dressed in business suits, others in tattered cast-off clothing, some were silver-haired and others were in their teens. In the centre of the front rank, taller than the men around him, bare-headed and straight-backed as a soldier, marched Moses Gama.
Hank ran into the street with his sound technician following him. With the camera on his shoulder he retreated in front of Moses, capturing him on film, the sound man recording his voice as it soared in the anthem, full and magnificent, the very voice of Africa, and his features were lit with an almost religious fervour.
Hurriedly the police captain was drawing his men up across the whites-only entrance, and they were hefting their batons nervously, pale-faced in the early sunlight. The head of the column wheeled across the road and began to climb the steps, and the police captain stepped forward and spread his arms to halt them. Moses Gama held up one
hand. The column came to a jerking shuffling halt, and the singing died away.
hand. The column came to a jerking shuffling halt, and the singing died away.
The police captain was a tall man with a pleasantly lined face. Tara could see him over their heads, and he was smiling. That was the thing that struck Tara. Faced with a thousand black protesters, he was still smiling.
âCome on now,' he raised his voice, like a schoolmaster addressing an unruly class. âYou know you can't do this, it's just nonsense, man. You are acting like a bunch of skollies, and I know you are good people.' He was still smiling as he picked a few of the leaders out of the front ranks. âMr Dhlouv and Mr Khandela â you are on the management committee, shame on you!' He waggled his finger, and the men he had spoken to hung their heads and grinned shamefacedly. The whole atmosphere of the march had begun to change. Here was the father figure, stern but benevolent, and they were the children, mischievous but at the bottom good-hearted and dutiful.
âOff you go, all of you. Go home and don't be silly now,' the captain called, and the column wavered. From the back ranks there was laughter, and a few of those who had been reluctant to join the march began to slip away. Behind the captain his constables were grinning with relief, and the crowd began to jostle as it broke up.
âGood Christ!' Kitty swore bitterly. âIt's all a goddamned anticlimax. I have wasted my timeâ'
Then onto the top steps of the railway station a tall figure stepped out of the ranks and his voice rang out over them, silencing them and freezing them where they stood. The laughter and the smiles died away.
âMy people,' Moses Gama cried, âthis is your land. In it you have God's right to live in peace and dignity. This building belongs to all who live here â it is your right to enter, as much as any other person's that lives here. I am going in â who will follow me?'
A ragged, uncertain chorus of support came from the front ranks and Moses turned to face the police captain.
âWe are going in, Captain. Arrest us or stand aside.'
At that moment a train, filled with black commuters, pulled into the platform and they hung out of the windows of the coaches and cheered and stamped.
âNkosi Sikelel' iAfrika!'
sang Moses Gama, and with his head held high he marched under the warning sign WHITES
sang Moses Gama, and with his head held high he marched under the warning sign WHITES
ONLY.
âYou are breaking the law.' The captain raised his voice. âArrest that man.' And the thin rank of constables moved forward to obey.
Instantly a roar went up from the crowd behind him. âArrest me! Arrest me too!' And they surged forward, picking Moses up with them as though he were a surfer on a wave.
âArrest me!' they chanted. âMalan! Malan! Come and arrest us!'
The crowd burst through the entrance, and the white police constables were carried with them, struggling ineffectually in the press of bodies.
âArrest me!' It had become a roar. â
Amandla!
Amandla!'
Amandla!
Amandla!'
The captain was fighting to keep his feet, shouting to rally his men, but his voice was drowned out in the chant of âPower! Power!' The captain's cap was knocked over his eyes and he was shoved backwards on to the platform. Hank, the cameraman, was in the midst of it, holding his Arriflex high and shooting out of hand. Around him the white faces of the constables bobbed like flotsam in a wild torrent of humanity. From the coaches the black passengers swarmed out to meet and mingle with the mob, and a single voice called out.
â
Jee
!' the battle cry that can drive an Nguni warrior into the berserker's passion, and â
Jee!'
a hundred voices answered him and â
Jee
!' again. There was the crash of breaking glass, one of the coach windows exploded as a shoulder thrust into it and â
Jee
!' they sang.
Jee
!' the battle cry that can drive an Nguni warrior into the berserker's passion, and â
Jee!'
a hundred voices answered him and â
Jee
!' again. There was the crash of breaking glass, one of the coach windows exploded as a shoulder thrust into it and â
Jee
!' they sang.
One of the white constables lost his footing and went sprawling backwards. Immediately he was trampled under foot and he screamed like a rabbit in a snare.
âJee!'
sang the men, transformed into warriors, the veneer of Western manners stripped away, and another window smashed. By now the platform was choked with a struggling mass of humanity. From the cab of the locomotive, the mob dragged the terrified engine-driver and his fireman. They jostled and pushed them, ringing them in.
sang the men, transformed into warriors, the veneer of Western manners stripped away, and another window smashed. By now the platform was choked with a struggling mass of humanity. From the cab of the locomotive, the mob dragged the terrified engine-driver and his fireman. They jostled and pushed them, ringing them in.
â
Jee!'
they chanted, bouncing at the knees, working themselves up into the killing madness. Their eyes were glazing and engorging with blood, their faces turning into shining black masks.
Jee!'
they chanted, bouncing at the knees, working themselves up into the killing madness. Their eyes were glazing and engorging with blood, their faces turning into shining black masks.
âJee!'
they sang.
âJee!'
and Moses Gama sang with them. Let the others call for restraint and passive resistance to the enemy, but all that was forgotten and now Moses Gama's blood seethed with all his pent-up hatred and
âJee!'
he cried, and his skin crawled and itched with atavistic fury and his fighting heart swelled to fill his chest.
they sang.
âJee!'
and Moses Gama sang with them. Let the others call for restraint and passive resistance to the enemy, but all that was forgotten and now Moses Gama's blood seethed with all his pent-up hatred and
âJee!'
he cried, and his skin crawled and itched with atavistic fury and his fighting heart swelled to fill his chest.
The police captain, still on his feet, had been driven back against the wall of the station-master's office. One epaulette had been tom from the shoulder of his uniform and he had lost his cap. There was a fleck of blood at the corner of his moustache where an elbow had struck him in the mouth, and he was struggling with the flap of the holster on his belt.
âKill!' shouted a voice. â
Bulala
!' and it was taken up. Black hands clutched at the police captain's lapels, and he drew the service revolver from its holster and tried to raise it, but the crowd was packed too densely around him. He fired blindly from the hip.
Bulala
!' and it was taken up. Black hands clutched at the police captain's lapels, and he drew the service revolver from its holster and tried to raise it, but the crowd was packed too densely around him. He fired blindly from the hip.
The shot was a great blurt of sound, and somebody yelled with shock and pain, and the crowd around the captain backed away, leaving a young black man in an army-surplus greatcoat kneeling at his feet, moaning and clutching his stomach.
The captain, white-faced and panting, lifted the revolver and fired again into the air.
âForm up on me!' he shouted in a voice hoarse and breaking with terror and exertion. Another of his men was down on his knees, submerged in the milling crowd, but he managed to clear his revolver from its holster and he fired point-blank, emptying the chamber into the press around him.
Then they were running, blocking the entrance, jamming in it as they sought to escape the gunfire, and all the police constables were firing, some on their knees, all of them dishevelled and terrified, and the bullets told in the mass of bodies with loud, meaty thumps, like a housewife beating the dust from a hanging carpet. The air was thick with the smell of gunsmoke and dust and blood, of sweat and unwashed bodies and terror.
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