Tenth Chapter
Life is either a grand adventure or nothing (Oom Schalk Lourens said) and nothing often makes more sense.
Through long hard hours of the night Grootjan and Kleinjan rode their horses until the black mare fell and the white stallion stopped and just stood there, refusing to take another step, shivering in the moonlight.
“We have to leave them here,” said Grootjan. “Uncle Herman can fetch them.”
“She’s suffering,” said Kleinjan, “I must…I have to shoot her, Pa.”
The mare lay on her side, struggling for breath. The sounds of her tortured breathing told Kleinjan she was inhaling fire, not air. The sounds went through him like dum-dum bullets, tearing him apart. Grootjan understood, and gently held his son’s shoulder.
“You can’t shoot her here, Jannie. The Tommies will hear at the blockhouse.”
(Note to historians: after the official end of the war against the Boers, the English built blockhouses, tiny armed forts, all over the country to contain the tide of Boer guerillas who refused to lay down their arms. And what did these sneaky Boers do? They sneaked around the blockhouses in the dark, even attacked blockhouses and destroyed some of them.)
“Are we there already?” Kleinjan was close to tears.
“Half an hour’s walk.” Grootjan spoke softly. “We crawl past the Tommies, get to Uncle Herman’s farm before dawn. If he keeps his promise we’ll have fresh horses.”
“Can’t I shoot just one Tommy?” Kleinjan was crying now.
After the war many of the blockhouses were simply abandoned, but Prime Minister Botha decided some should be used as police stations, it saved the government money. But with the police and defence forces still in the hands of the war’s victors, most of these stations were manned by English policemen: Tommies. And peace time be damned, Boers like Grootjan and Kleinjan would never forgive them the suffering and death they inflicted on the Boer families they forced into camps, “concentrating the local population for their own safety,” to quote British Commander-in-Chief Herbert Kitchener, whose wonderful idea it was originally. The bastard sincerely believed this inhuman war-crime would make Boer guerillas lay down their arms and become loyal subjects of the King. Did it work out well for him?
Not so you’d notice.
Grootjan and Kleinjan never really surrendered, and they hid their rifles and ammunition before they were caught.
Tonight it felt good to openly carry the Mausers again. Kleinjan missed his young bride terribly, but If they somehow managed to deliver the Gibson diamond to Pretoria, and the great stone did buy the Boer rebels a new war, then everything would have been worth it.
“You know what to do.” Grootjan patted Kleinjan on the shoulder and walked over to rub his exhausted stallion down, leaving his son to do what he had to do.
Kleinjan wiped his tears on his sleeve, and sank to his knees at the side of the suffering animal. He took out his hunting knife, held the black mare’s head gently and cut her throat.
Gerrit Johannes opened his eyes, tried to focus. He was lying on a well-lit floor, a shaking floor, and it was making the clack-clack sound of wheels running on tracks.
A train, he realised, I’m on a train and the train is moving. My head hurts. Something hit me. She hit me. Emily hit me. Where is she? The lights are on, she left the lights on, she probably went to the latrine. It’s at the end of the carriage, two compartments down, she’ll be back in a minute.
He slowly got to his feet. His face hurt. What de donner did she hit him with?
Then he saw the compartment’s water jug, lying empty on the lower bunk. She didn’t hit him in the face, that was someone or something else. He touched the back of his head with four fingers. There was a bump and it was wet. The four fingers came back bloody.
Orraait, she’s angry, he thought, very angry. When Emily is angry, she’s capable of any fucking thing. In her younger days she didn’t take being raped lying down, she and her furious mother went after the rapist and God knows where his broken bones are now. So what exactly is she capable of on this train?
He heard a scraping sound. It came from the compartment door. Someone was trying to open it from the corridor side. The door was locked. Emily must have locked it when she went out. To keep her stuff in the compartment safe? Or to keep him locked up?
The scraping sounded louder now, urgent. Someone was really trying to get in. Friend or enemy? Gerrit Johannes suspected enemy, his list of friends on this train was not a long one.
He was actually reaching for his Webley when the memory fog parted: Lieutenant Connery had the revolver now, and the bliksem wanted to shoot its owner with it.
Gerrit Johannes glanced at the metal water jug. It would be simply useless if the door opened and someone entered with a real weapon cocked to fire. He would have to be behind the enemy, tapping the enemy’s head hard with the jug before the person knew what was happening.
Like Emily did.
The door made a squeaky sound and suddenly fell into the compartment, its hinges dangling loose. A grinning Johnny Zulu stepped over the door, his short pick-axe raised in triumph.
He spoke perfect English, in a whisper. “Mister Gerrit, you seem to be having a spot of woman trouble.”
Behind him Manny Porra entered, smiling and gripping his pick-axe, ready for action.
“Ja-nee,” Manny whispered, “when she starts locking the door it’s time to run.”
Greatly relieved, Gerrit Johannes put on a stern act. “Jislaaik, I thought I said stay away from here, now you’re breaking down the place?”
They went for an act as well.
“Did he say stay away? When did he say stay away?” Johnny Zulu, frowning.
“Jislaaik, I think he said stay away from the ladies.” Manny Porra, scratching his curly head.
“Did you see her out in the corridor?” Gerrit Johannes, tense.
They stopped clowning, looked at him with real concern.
“We know where she is,” said Manny.
“You’re not going to like it, boss,” said Johnny.
South of Sterkfontein Dam, alone in the swaying gondola, Neef Berg was terrified but fighting the demons of despair. The loss of Sir William Gibson (never to be a true knight, alas) did lighten the load of the damaged balloon, and it seemed to be gaining speed with the wind behind it.
Was that good or bad? He didn’t know, Willy would have known, but Willy was beyond caring if this bloody wind was pushing his balloon to destruction or not.
And the gas was still leaking. The hissing sound made him see a huge black mamba in his mind, hissing at him as it reared up and opened its evil mouth to show him the deadly poison-filled teeth.
Father in heaven, Neef Berg prayed without really saying a prayer, it was damn hard not to give in, join Willy in heaven or hell, he could simply leap to his death or shoot himself with his pretty cowboy gun.
The condola creaked loudly, and creaked again.
What did it mean? Did it mean anything?
He wasn’t sure, but it felt as if the wind was blowing harder, and there seemed to be a subtle lift as the balloon rushed towards the sharp rocks of the mountains standing sheer against the moonlit sky. It could be his shredded screaming mind playing a trick on him, but it really felt as if the wind was lifting the balloon.
If he smashed into that wall of rock at this speed he would not survive Willy by more than, say, fifteen minutes? The basket (apology, Sir William, gondola) would disintegrate and send his crushed body spinning to its death in the valleys below.
Wait. If the lift by the wind continued, could it give the balloon enough height to pass over that solid wall of mountain?
Neef Berg believed in the power of prayer, but his late mother and father did warn him not to expect or demand miracles from God. He feared it would take a real miracle to get this crippled balloon over the dangerous Drakensberg.
Dear Father in heaven, perhaps it was time to land this thing. If he survived a landing, could there be a farmhouse nearby with a fire and food? There must be a farmhouse nearby, he knew this land, there were farms with houses everywhere.
And if the landing killed him, so be it.
Using both his frozen hands, Neef Berg undid the cord tied to one of the stays and took as firm a stand as he could, ready to pull hard on the cord. Unless he misunderstood Willy’s talk on this emergency measure, pulling the cord would rip a large section of the balloon skin open, causing hot air to escape. The balloon would start going down immediately.
His hands aching from the cold, Neef Berg steeled himself and pulled the cord.
Light, shaped like a lightning bolt, entered his field of vision.
He stopped pulling the cord and looked at the light, amazed, trying to understand it, holding his breath so tightly he could hear his heart beat.
Was it man-made light or a fire on the Drakensberg? It seemed a bit patchy, with black dots inside the light, yet large and wide enough to be a fierce bush fire. But fire moves; this lightning bolt of light was steady, motionless. No, it was not really a lightning bolt, it was only shaped liked one.
And then Neef Berg knew. What looked like a stab of lightning, was actually a jagged gap in the mountain wall and light shone through it from the other side.
What caused the light? Could it be the gaslights of a town on the other side, on the southern slope of the Drakensberg?
He made a sobbing sound, a mixture of relief and fear. Please, God, please, If he could somehow steer the balloon through that jagged gap or just get close to it, and if this wind would help him instead of trying to destroy him…
The gas, the leaking gas, he had to stop it or at least slow it down. He hurriedly stripped down to his shirt, made of khaki cloth so thick sweat never showed through it. He ripped the shirt off and bound it in layers around the gas burner. The cold hit him so hard he actually stopped breathing because it hurt too much.
But the hissing sound stopped. Was the dangerous problem really solved? Or did the shirt only slow down the leaking of the gas?
Shaking with cold, he threw on his jersey, scarf and coat in seconds. The cold remained a hellish problem, but he could breathe again.
The light was still there, shining out of the mountain wall. It beckoned him, convinced him it could save his life.
“Stay there! I’m coming! I’m coming!” he shouted at the light.
He was hysterical, yet determined. Madmen get to be like that.
In cloudy patches of moonlight and with the strong wind gathering more cloud, Neef Berg launched a battle for survival probably unique in the history of balloon flight. Forcing his frozen hands to pull here, grab there, now shouting with frustration, then mumbling prayers to God, he at times seemed to be dancing in that gondola. His eyes, blinking too fast in the grip of screaming nerves, stayed on that gap brightly lit and looking like lightning.
Yes, Neef Berg was an unpleasant man with unpleasant desires, but no-one could ever call him a coward. He was not even Neef Berg anymore, he was mad Ahab roaring as he stood up to harpoon the white whale, he was blind Samson furiously embracing the pillars of Dagon’s temple, his hair streaming wildly in the wind. He was not only trying to aim the balloon, he was willing it to stay high and ride the wind into that beautiful fucking light shining through the Drakensberg.
The first-class compartment was, fortunately, spacious enough to accommodate six people. Only one of them, Captain Lawrence, was actually assigned to the compartment, but it would be awkward to describe the others as guests. The two detectives, Blair and Thatcher, were there to protect Captain Lawrence and his precious cargo, the Gibson diamond code-named Emily’s Smile. Lieutenant Connelly, with his component of soldiers, was there to support not only the stone and its protectors, but to ensure the success of the mission to reach Durban and deliver the stone into the hands of the navy captain waiting to secure it in his cabin’s safe, and then sail it to England.
For the moment Bernardus van Aswegen, the train conductor, had forgotten why he was there. The shock of seeing the sixth person now present in this compartment, sitting there with tears flowing and lying like rug, was doing strange things to his mind.
“His full name is Gerrit Johannes Pretorius,” Emily Gibson was saying, dabbing at her tears with a fine handkerchief, “he abducted me and warned me to play along or Willy, Sir William, would suffer the consequences. Forgive me, I know I acted ridiculously, but I love my husband dearly.”
Captain Lawrence was torn between accepting her story and ordering Lieutenant Connelly to arrest her and place her under guard in her compartment. He held the badly crumpled telegram in his hand, the message she claimed Gerrit Johannes Pretorius had given her to read. Captain Lawrence had managed to unfold and press the telegram into a readable shape again.
“Miss Emily,” he said, trying to use quiet diplomacy, “if I understand this message correctly, you accompanied Mister Pretorius on board of your own free will.”
“That is such a lie.” She seemed to be holding back a sob. “Don’t you see, Captain? He’s not on his own, there are Boer rebels in Johannesburg and Pretoria who help spread these lies for him. I believe my husband told you personally they would do anything to keep Miss Emily’s Smile in this country. My abduction and the murder of Lieutenant Connelly’s men were part of it.”
Lieutenant Connelly nodded. “Distract the enemy. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we, Captain? At the Battle of Abjaterskop you were led to believe the attack would be from the left, but it actually came from the right.”
“That is quite correct, Lieutenant,” said Captain Lawrence.
Bernardus van Aswegen glanced at the one-eyed coward. Among the Boers it was old news that Lawrence half-blinded himself to dodge the Battle of Abjaterskop.
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Miss Emily attempted a tear-filled smile. “I’m afraid Gerrit Johannes is a master of distraction. That’s how he managed to steal Emily’s Smile.”
“Really?” Detective Constable Blair had heard quite enough of this. “Madam, the stone named after you is safely in it secure box. It is my and Detective Constable Thatcher’s task to ensure the box stays secure.”
“Indeed,” added Thatcher, “I personally tested the lock on the box just before you came in. We do it regularly.”
Emily looked at Thatcher with kind eyes. “I’m sure you did your duty, Constable, but when did you last open the box?”
Suddenly, silence. If you didn’t count the noise of a travelling train.
Bernardus van Aswegen had no reason on earth to like or admire this woman, but at that moment he came close to it. She had the English bastards where she wanted them.