Rage (34 page)

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Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Rage
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W
hen they got back to the mission, Moses helped Tara out of the Packard. She was still pale and shaking like a woman with malaria. Her clothing was ripped and soiled with blood and dirt, and she could hardly stand unaided.
Kitty Godolphin and her camera crew had escaped the wrath of the mob by running across the railway tracks and hiding in a storm-water drain, then working their way in a wide circle back to the mission.
‘We've got to get out of here,' Kitty yelled at Tara as she came out on to the verandah and saw Moses helping her up the steps. ‘I've got the most incredible footage of my life. I can't trust it to anybody else. I want to get on the Pan Am flight from Jo'burg tomorrow morning and take the undeveloped cans to New York myself.' She was so excited that her voice shook wildly, and like Tara her denim jeans were torn and dusty. However, she was already packed and ready to leave, carrying the red canvas tote bag that was all her luggage.
‘Did you film the nun?' Moses demanded. ‘Did you film them killing Sister Nunziata?'
‘Sure did, sweetheart!' Hank grinned. He was close behind Kitty. ‘Got it all.'
‘How many cans did you shoot?' Moses insisted.
‘Four.' Hank was so excited he could not stand still. He was bouncing on his toes and snapping his fingers.
‘Did you get the police shooting?'
‘All of it, sweetheart, all of it.'
‘Where is the film of the nun?' Moses demanded.
‘Still in the camera.' Hank slapped the Arriflex that hung by his side. ‘It's all here, baby. I had just changed film when they grabbed the nun and ripped her up.'
Moses left Tara leaning against the column of the verandah, and crossed to where Hank stood. He moved so casually that none of them realized what he was about to do. Kitty was still talking.
‘If we leave right away, we can be in Jo'burg by tomorrow morning. The Pan Am flight leaves at eleven thirty—'
Moses had reached Hank's side. He seized the heavy camera, twisting the carrying strap so that Hank was pulled up on his toes helplessly, and he unclipped the round magazine of film from its seat on top of the camera body. Then he turned and smashed the magazine against the brick column of the verandah.
Kitty realized what he was doing and she flew at him like an angry cat, clawing for his eyes with her nails. ‘My film,' she screeched. ‘God damn you to hell, that's my film.'
Moses shoved her so violently that she collided with Hank, taking him off balance and they fell over each other, sprawling together on the verandah floor.
Moses hit the magazine again and this time the can burst open. The ribbon of glistening celluloid spilled out and cascaded over the retaining wall.
‘You've ruined it,' Kitty screamed, coming to her feet and charging at him.
Moses tossed the empty can away, and caught Kitty's wrists, lifting her bodily off the ground and holding her effortlessly, though she struggled and kicked at him.
‘You have the film of police brutality, the murder of innocent blacks,' he said. ‘The rest of it you were not meant to witness. I will not let you show that to the world.' He pushed her away. ‘You may take the Packard.'
Kitty glared at him, massaging her wrists where the skin was red from his grip and she spat like a cat.
‘I won't forget that – one day you will pay for that, Moses Gama.' Her malignancy was chilling.
‘Go,' Moses commanded. ‘You have a plane to catch.'
For a moment she hesitated, and then she whirled, picked up her tote bag.
‘Come on, Hank,' she called, and she ran down the stairs to the Packard and sprang into the driver's seat.
‘You cock-sucking bastard,' Hank hissed at Moses as he passed. ‘That was the best stuff I ever scored.'
‘You've still got three cans,' Moses said softly. ‘Be grateful for that.'
Moses watched them drive away in the Packard and then turned to Tara.
‘We must move very fast now – the police will act at once. We have to get out of the township before they cordon it off. I am a marked man – we have to get clear.'
‘What do you want me to do?' Tara asked.
‘Come, I'll explain later,' Moses said and hustled her towards the Buick. ‘First, we must get clear.'
T
ara gave the salesman a cheque and waited in the tiny cubicle of his office that stank of cheap cigar smoke while he phoned her bank in Cape Town.
There was a crumpled newspaper on the cluttered desk, and she picked it up and read it avidly.
SEVEN DEAD IN P.E. RIOTS
NATIONWIDE DISTURBANCES
500 ACTIVISTS BANNED
MANDELA ARRESTED
Almost the entire newspaper was devoted to the defiance campaign and its consequences. At the bottom of the page, under the lurid accounts of the killing and the cannibalization of Sister Nunziata, there were accounts of the action taken by the ANC in other sectors of the country. Thousands had been arrested, and there were photographs of protesters being loaded into police vans, grinning cheerfully and giving the thumbs-up sign that had become the protester's salute.
The inner page of the newspaper gave the lists of almost
five hundred persons who had been banned, and explained the consequences of the banning orders – how they effectively terminated the public life of the victim.
There was also the much shorter list of persons who had been arrested for high treason and furthering the aims of the Communist Party, and Tara bit her lip when she saw Moses Gama's name. The police spokesman must have anticipated his arrest, but it was proof that the precautions Moses was taking were wise. High treason was a capital offence, and she had a mental picture of Moses, his head hooded, twisting and kicking from the gallows crossbeam. She shuddered and thrust the image aside, concentrating on the rest of the newspaper.
There were photographs, most of them murky and indistinct, of the leaders of the ANC, and she smiled humourlessly as she realized that these were the first fruits of the campaign. Up to this moment, not one in a hundred white South Africans had ever heard of Moses Gama, Nelson Mandela, or any of the other leaders, but now they had come bursting in on the national conscience. The world suddenly knew who they were.
The middle pages were mostly filled with public reaction to the campaign and to the government's countermeasures. It was too soon for the foreign reactions, but local opinion seemed almost unanimous: condemnation of the barbaric murder of Sister Nunziata, and high praise for police courage and the swift action of the Minister of Police in crushing the Communist-inspired plot.
The editor wrote:
We have not always been able to commend the actions and utterances of the Minister of Police. However, the need finds the man and we are thankful this day that a man of courage and strength stands between us and the forces of anarchy—
Tara's reading was interrupted by the used-car salesman. He bustled back into the tiny office to fawn on Tara and to gush.
‘My dear Mrs Courtney, you must forgive me. I had no idea who you were, or I would never have subjected you to the humiliation of querying your cheque.'
He ushered her out to the yard, bowing and grinning ingratiatingly, and held open the door of the 1951-model black Cadillac for which Tara had just given her cheque for almost a thousand pounds.
Tara drove down the hill and parked on the Donkin overlooking the sea. The military and naval outfitters were only half a block down the main street and from their stocks she picked out a chauffeur's cap with a glossy patent-leather peak and a dove-grey tunic with brass buttons in Moses' size which the assistant packed in a brown paper bag.
Back in the new Cadillac she drove slowly down to the main railway station and parked opposite the entrance. She left the key in the ignition and slipped into the back seat. Within five minutes Moses came out. He was dressed in grubby blue overalls and the police constable at the railway entrance did not even glance at him. Moses sauntered down the sidewalk and as he drew level with the Cadillac Tara passed the paper bag through the open window.
Within ten minutes Moses was back, the overalls discarded, wearing the chauffeur's cap and smart new tunic over his dark slacks and black shoes. He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.
‘You were right. There is a warrant out for your arrest,' she said softly.
‘How do you know?'
‘There is a newspaper on the seat.' She had folded it open at the report on his arrest. He read it swiftly, and then eased the Cadillac out into the traffic stream.
‘What are you going to do, Moses? Will you give yourself up and stand trial?'
‘The courtroom would be a platform from which to speak to the world,' he mused.
‘And if you were convicted, the gallows would be an even more riveting pulpit,' she pointed out acidly, and he smiled at her in the rear-view mirror.
‘We need martyrs – every cause must have martyrs.'
‘My God, Moses, how can you speak like that? Every cause needs a leader. There are many who would make fine martyrs, but very few who can lead.'
He drove in silence for a while and then he said firmly, ‘We will go to Johannesburg. I must talk to the others before I decide.'
‘Most of the others have been arrested,' Tara pointed out.
‘Not all.' He shook his head. ‘I must talk to those who have escaped. How much money do you have?'
She opened her handbag and counted the notes she had in her purse.
‘Over a hundred pounds.'
‘More than enough,' he nodded. ‘Be prepared to play the grand lady when the police stop us.'
They ran into the first road-block on the outskirts of the city at the Swartkops bridge. There was a line of cars and heavy vehicles and they moved forward slowly, stopping and starting, until two police constables signalled them over and a young police warrant officer came to the passenger window.
‘Good afternoon,
Mevrou
.' He touched his cap. ‘May we look in the boot of your car?'
‘What is this about, officer?'
‘The troubles, madam. We are looking for the troublemakers who killed the nun and ate her.'
Tara leaned forward and spoke sharply to Moses. ‘Open the boot for the policeman, Stephen.' And Moses climbed
out and held the lid open while the constables made a cursory search. Not one of them looked at his face, the chauffeur's uniform had rendered him miraculously invisible.
‘Thank you, lady.'
The warrant officer waved them through and Moses murmured, ‘That was most unflattering. I thought I was a celebrity now.'
It was a long and arduous drive from the coast, but Moses drove sedately, careful not to give anyone an excuse to stop them and question them more carefully.
As he drove he tuned the Cadillac's wireless for the South African Broadcasting Corporation's hourly news bulletin. The reception was intermittent as the terrain varied, but they picked up one exciting item.
The Soviet Union supported by her allies had demanded an urgent debate in the United Nations' General Assembly on the situation in the country. This was the first time the UN had ever shown an interest in South Africa. For that alone all their sacrifice had been worthwhile. However, the rest of the news was disquieting. Over eight thousand protesters had been arrested and all the leaders banned or picked up, and a spokesman for the Minister of Police assured the country that the situation was firmly under control.
They drove on until after dark when they stopped at one of the small Orange Free State hotels that catered mainly for commercial travellers. When Tara asked for board and lodging for her chauffeur the request was taken as matter of course because all the travellers employed coloured drivers, and Moses was sent around the back to the servants' quarters in the hotel yard.
After the plain and unappetizing fare in the hotel dining room, Tara telephoned Weltevreden, and Sean answered on the second ring. They had returned from their hunting safari with Shasa the previous day, and were
garrulous and excited. Each of the boys spoke to her in turn, so she was treated to three separate accounts of how Garrick had shot a man-eating lion. Then Isabella came on the line, and her sweet childish lisp tugged at Tara's heart, making her feel dreadfully guilty at her lack of maternal duty. Yet none of the children, Isabella included, seemed to have missed her in the least. Isabella was just as long-winded as her brothers in recounting all the things that she and Nana had done together, and the new dress that Nana had bought her and the doll that grandpa Blaine had brought back from England especially for her. None of them asked her how she was and when she was coming home to Weltevreden.
Shasa came on the line last, distant but friendly. ‘We are all having a wonderful time – Garry shot a lion—'
‘Oh God, Shasa, don't you tell me about it, I've already had three accounts of the poor beast's death.'
Within a few minutes they had run out of things to say to each other. ‘Well then, old thing, take care of yourself. I see the uglies are cutting up rather rough on the Rand, but De La Rey has it well in hand,' Shasa ended. ‘Don't get caught up in any unpleasantness.'
‘I won't,' she promised. ‘Now I'll let you go in to dinner.' Shasa liked to dine at eight o'clock sharp and it was four minutes before the hour. She knew he was already dressed and checking his watch. When she hung up she realized that he hadn't asked her where she was, what she was doing or when she was coming home.
‘Saved me from having to lie,' she consoled herself.
From her bedroom she could look over the hotel yard, and the lights were on in the servants' quarters. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with loneliness. It was so chilling, that she seriously thought about creeping across the yard to be with him. It took an effort of will to thrust that madness aside, and instead she picked up the telephone again and asked the operator for the number at Puck's Hill.
A servant, with a marked African accent, answered and Tara's heart sank. It was vital that they find out whether the Rivonia house was still safe. They could be going into a police trap.
‘Is
Nkosi
Marcus there?' she demanded.
‘
Nkosi
Marcus no here, he go away, missus,' the servant told her. ‘You Missus Tara?'
‘Yes! Yes!' Although she did not remember a servant, he must have recognized her voice, and she was about to go on when Marcus Archer spoke in his normal voice.
‘Forgive me, my dear, for the music-hall impression, but the sky has fallen in here. Everybody is in a panic – the pigs have moved much quicker than anybody expected. Joe and I are the only ones to survive, as far as I know. How is our good friend, have they got him?'
‘He's safe. Can we come to Puck's Hill?'
‘So far it seems as though they have overlooked us here, but do be careful, won't you? There are road-blocks everywhere.'
Tara slept very little and was up before dawn to begin the last leg of the journey. The hotel chef had made her a packet of corned-beef sandwiches and a thermos of hot tea, so they breakfasted as they drove. Any stop would increase their chances of discovery and arrest, and except to refuel they kept going and crossed the Vaal River before noon.
Tara had been seeking the right moment to tell Moses ever since she had returned to the Transvaal to be near him, but now she knew that there would never be a right moment and that within hours they would be at Puck's Hill. After that nothing was certain except that there would be confusion and great danger for all of them.
‘Moses,' she addressed the back of his head in a resolute voice, ‘I can't keep it from you any longer. I have to tell you now. I am bearing your child.'
She saw his head flinch slightly and then those dark mesmeric eyes were glowering at her in the driver's mirror.
‘What will you do?' he asked. He had not asked if she were certain nor had he queried his paternity of the child. That was typical of him – and yet he had accepted no responsibility either. ‘What will you do?'
‘I am not sure yet. I will find a way to have it.'
‘You must get rid of it.'
‘No,' she cried vehemently. ‘Never. He's mine. I will take care of him.'
He did not remark on her choice of the masculine pronoun.
‘The child will be half-caste,' he told her. ‘Are you prepared for that?'
‘I will find a way,' she insisted.
‘I cannot help you – not at all,' he went on remorselessly. ‘You understand that.'
‘Yes, you can,' she answered. ‘You can tell me that you are pleased that I am carrying your son – and that you will love him, as I love his father.'
‘Love?' he said. ‘That is not an African word. There is no word for love in my vocabulary.'
‘Oh, Moses, that is not true. You love your people.'
‘I love them as a people entire, not as individuals. I would sacrifice any one of them for the good of the whole.'
‘But our son, Moses. Something precious that we have made between us – don't you feel anything at all for him?'

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