The Covenant (136 page)

“More than all the men on both sides, we have lost our children.”

“There was nothing we could do about it,” a young general said.

“There’s something we can do about it now,” another man said. “We can surrender.”

This was the word that De Groot was waiting for. Quietly he said, “We shall never surrender. We can carry this fight for another six years.”

“We can indeed,” one of the younger generals said. “But can our children?” And the debate continued.

On a day in late April an event occurred at the Chrissie Meer camp which worsened, even more, English-Boer relations. As Detlev van Doorn was about to eat a spoonful of meal, his sister Johanna rushed into the tent and knocked the bowl away.

“Don’t touch it!” she screamed.

He was so ravenous that he automatically fell to the floor, grabbing for the mealies, but again she cried, “Don’t touch it!” and although her own body was wasting away with hunger, she ground the food into the dust.

“Johanna!” he pleaded, bewildered by her action.

“They’ve mixed ground glass in our food. Mrs. Pretorius ate some and died.”

There were sixteen good medical reasons why Mrs. Pretorius should have died that day, and the seventeenth was most forceful of all: typhoid. But the prisoners began to believe that she had died from eating powdered glass, and no amount of logical persuasion could convince them otherwise. Thus the hideous legend festered and spread.

The little doctor, whose voice so often rose to a scream in this charnel house, came out to the women to swear upon his sacred honor that the English would never do anything like that. He himself ate the pap. Would eat another dishful right now, taken from anywhere. “The English,” he insisted, “do not put ground glass in people’s food.”

“Kitchener would!” a woman cried, and all his efforts were fruitless. As Johanna told her hungry brother that night, “Always remember, Detlev. When we were starving the English tried to kill us with ground glass in the mealies.”

At the final meeting of the generals it was agreed that Paulus de Groot be kept away. They had heard his speech on bitter-ending; they respected his heroism; but the time had come when further resistance was futile. The Boers were ready to surrender.

After the painful decision was reached, they sent the young lawyer Jan Christian Smuts to inform the old man. Smuts, having been a courageous commando leader himself and one of the youngest, carried good credentials, and when he appeared, De Groot could guess his mission: “It’s all over, Paulus. You can go home.”

“I would like to fight once more, Jan Christian.”

“So would we all. But the children …”

“The children most of all would understand.”

“You must go home.”

“Let me have my Venloo men and we’ll go.”

“No.” Smuts laughed. “None of that, old man. We’ve sent the Venloo men on ahead. We couldn’t trust you.”

“Can I be at the surrender? I’d like to smash that Kitchener.”

“No, it’s best if you go home.”

“Perhaps so,” the old man said, and without farewells he called
for Van Doorn, and together they sought out Micah Nxumalo, and the three veterans headed north. When they reached the crest from which they could first see the lake, they looked down at the awful desolation of what had been their homes. Of De Groot’s farm, there were no signs except the charred stumps of the buildings, not six inches above the ground. Of Vrymeer, only the shells of the structures built by Tjaart van Doorn were visible. Of the place where Micah Nxumalo’s huts had stood, only the base of the rondavels remained.

The two white men did not speak. Sybilla was dead, and Sara, and the twins. Johanna was lost somewhere, and Jakob prayed that the boy Detlev was with her. When he turned to look toward the direction of the concentration camp, as if to find the children, he saw the matched peaks of Sannie’s Tits and they reminded him of the twins, those precious girls. He dropped his head. He had not the courage to go down the hill to that ruined farm, those vanished hopes.

General de Groot tugged at his arm: “Come, Jakob, much work to be done.” And as the ponies moved forward, the old warrior said with clenched determination, “We lost the battles. We lost the war. Now we must win in other ways.”

T
HE EDUCATION OF
D
ETLEV VAN
D
OORN BEGAN ON THE DAY
he came over the hill with his sister from the concentration camp at Chrissie Meer and saw the devastation of his home. His father and old General de Groot were waiting in the ruins, and after the briefest greetings they led him to a grassy slope where Nxumalo’s five huts had stood. There he saw, sticking up from the earth at regular intervals, four wooden tombstones bearing in ill-formed letters the names:
SYBILLA DE GROOT, SARA VAN DOORN, SANNAH, ANNA
.

“Never forget,” the general said. “These women were murdered by the English, who fed them powdered glass.”

Detlev was seven, a little boy with the pinched features of an old man and the cautious wisdom of someone in his forties. “They were buried in the camp. They can’t be here.”

“Their tombstones,” De Groot said. “For remembrance.”

“Those aren’t stones,” Detlev said.

“Later, when we have a farm again,” his father said. “We’ll have proper stones.”

“Wood or stone,” De Groot said, “you must never forget.”

“Where shall we stay?” Johanna asked.

“We’ve fixed up the old wagon,” her father said, and he led his children to that frail relic in which his father, Tjaart van Doorn, had
taken his family across the Drakensberg, then north of the Limpopo, and finally back to Vrymeer. Van Doorn and the general had locked the big wheels and used boards to form a kind of shelter on the wagon bed, but it clearly could not hold a young woman like Johanna, a boy and two grown men. When De Groot saw her look of perplexity, he laughed. “You two sleep up here. We two down below.” And she saw that under the wagon body, her father had arranged boards on the ground, where he and the old man would make their beds.

On the first wintry night that the four spent together—no pillows, no blankets—Jakob awakened at dawn, and in the dim light saw over his head, carved into the heavy wood of the frame, the rubric
TC
–43 and he wondered what it signified. When De Groot awakened, Jakob asked, “What do you suppose this means?” The old general squinted his eyes, studied the marks, and remained silent, as though brooding over something. Finally he grumbled, “One of the only two decent Englishmen I ever knew. Thomas Carleton built this wagon and he and Richard Saltwood gave it to your father. Yes, gave it.” He reflected on the enormity of having taken refuge under an English wagon, then added, “I rode two thousand miles in this wagon … walking beside it most of the way.”

Detlev, who was already awake, called down from above, “How could you ride and walk at the same time?”

Reaching into the wagon, General de Groot pulled the boy out and tossed him in the air. When he set him on the ground he said, “You do what you have to do. Once I helped carry this wagon down the Drakensberg.”

“What will you do, sleeping down there, if it rains?” Detlev asked.

“I won’t let it rain,” De Groot promised, and during the four weeks it took to assemble a kind of roof over one room of the ruined farmhouse, it did not.

In the second week they stopped work when Detlev cried, “People coming!” Across the veld they saw a distant file walking toward them, and ominously Jakob reached for his gun. “Kaffirs,” he said, indicating that his son must stand behind him.

In the chaos after the war, bands of homeless hungry blacks had started raiding Boer farms in the district, stealing what they could find and roughing up any farmer who tried to protest, but there was nothing to fear from this company, for Detlev shouted, “It’s Micah!”

At the sight of only three Van Doorns and one De Groot, tears began to roll from Micah’s eyes, for he knew that the absence of the
others could mean only one thing, for he, too, was returning from a camp, one for blacks, in which his family and friends had been interned, and of his four wives, only two had survived; of nine children, only three were left.

The suffering of these black Boers would go unrecorded. Even Maud Turner Saltwood, who had done so much for Boer women and children, had to admit, in a final report, that the situation of the black internees had been without hope: “Beyond affording a little relief to the sick in the few camps I visited, we were able to do nothing.” More than one hundred thousand blacks and Coloureds had been herded behind barbed wire; how many came out alive would never be known.

When De Groot learned of Nxumalo’s heavy loss he was overwhelmed. In a gesture from the heart he held out his arms to his saddle companion and embraced him: “Kaffirjie, as true as there’s a God in heaven we’ll not forget what they did to both of us. Stay close and one day we’ll ride again.”

Nxumalo nodded.

“This what’s left of your family?” the general asked, and when Nxumalo nodded again, the old man took a step back to survey the land where the handsome rondavels had once stood. “We must all start over. But this time, by God, they’ll not be able to burn down what we build.”

So Nxumalo and his people returned to their security at Vrymeer, and he sketched in the ruins how his women must build the new huts. Early next morning he led the men who’d accompanied him from the camp to the Van Doorns’ farmhouse, where they all started work. They did not ask what the arrangement would be for their employment. They just carried on as before.

The Van Doorns were surprised at the end of the first month when the old general informed them that since they now had protection from the weather, he would like to start rebuilding his farm. “But you’re to live with us,” Johanna protested with great warmth.

“No, I want a place of my own.”

“Who will cook? How will you live?”

The answer came from one of Nxumalo’s wives. “He is old,” she said. “He needs help. We go to his place.” And Micah agreed that the woman and a young girl must accompany the old warrior to his shattered home.

Utilizing the foundation of what at best had been a miserable
house, they put together what could only be called a hartebeest hut, a pitiful affair with a flap-door and no windows. One morning as Jakob surveyed the astonishing place he thought: In our barbarism we retreat many centuries. A hundred years ago our people lived better than this. Two hundred years ago they surely built better huts.

Could he have gone back to the year when Mal Adriaan, Dikkop and Swarts lived here beside the lake, he would have found them in simpler but better quarters than these, and certainly in the days of the first Nxumalo the village and fine rondavels that stood here were superior to what the old man occupied. The centuries pass, Jakob thought, and men stay about where they were.

The rains were coming late this year, producing a drought so severe that many farmers in the area, faced by the necessity to rebuild and also to fight dust, were giving up and moving to Johannesburg, where they could at least find some kind of employment in the mines. “I don’t like this,” the general complained when he heard that four families had pulled up stakes and headed for the city. “Boers are farmers. Our name says that. We don’t do well in cities. The damned mines, they’re for the Englishmen and Hoggenheimer.”

“Who’s Hoggenheimer?” Detlev asked.

“The Jew who owns the mines,” and he produced a newspaper which had been circulated avidly from farm to farm. It contained two biting cartoons by a persuasive artist named Boonzaaier, showing a bloated Jew, fingers bejeweled, vest enclosing a gigantic belly, cigar at an angle, wearing a derby while gorging on the food for which starving Boers pleaded in vain. That was Hoggenheimer, and on him was thrown the blame for everything ill that was happening in the conquered republics.

“If you ever run away to Johannesburg,” the old man said, “you’ll meet Hoggenheimer.”

The old general came over to the Van Doorn farm quite often, riding his pony, wearing his frock coat and sometimes his top hat. He came not for food or companionship, but to supervise the education of young Detlev: “You must remember that your great-grandfather, one of the finest men who ever lived, was dragged to an English court, where a Kaffir was allowed to bring testimony against him …” Night after night he reviewed with Detlev the vast wrongs done by the English at Slagter’s Nek and at Chrissiesmeer, where they put ground glass in the meal. “Never trust an Englishman,” De Groot reiterated. “They’ve stolen your country.”

“But Mrs. Saltwood was English,” Detlev said. “She brought the food that kept us alive.”

De Groot, remembering how he had confronted Mrs. Saltwood on the stoep at De Kraal, would concede only that “some few English ladies, yes, they had hearts.” But having granted this, he would proceed with the litany: Slagter’s Nek … Kitchener … glass in the meal.

The education was fiercely effective and achieved precisely what De Groot intended. “Detlev, your father and I fought our battles, and we lost. You will fight other battles, and you will win.”