A Time for Courage (36 page)

Harry would not look over towards the compound, he would not allow his ears to hear the moaning which was not the wind. He would not allow himself to think of Baralong behind that fence. He looked instead over to the stamp engine clearly visible on this night which was moonlit as it had been when he had first seen the mine; colourless without the hot light of the sun but during the day there was colour. There was red and blue and black and white. Oh yes, there was black and white.

Harry turned Kim round. He was glad to be leaving the gold-field at last but they had not been wasted years, by God no, for he had learnt a great deal, mostly about himself, and he knew that the heat and the cold and the knowledge had dug lines deep into his face, and his mind would never be as empty as it had been before. He also knew that this would please Hannah even though she was in the midst of her own battles.

Would the diamond fields be different? He hoped so but he feared that they would not. Kim was walking steadily, his hoofs striking sparks on the flat stones. Yes, Harry thought as he clasped the reins loosely in his hands, not turning once to look at the mines, he was glad to be leaving, glad to be going with Baralong. Now what would Frank think of that sentiment? But, of course, he would never know because Harry knew better than to tell him.

Harry thought back over that first decadent year out here in South Africa when the excitement and anticipation he had begun to feel in Kimberley continued to burn and which now filled him with shame. How easily he had been drawn by Frank into the life enjoyed by the other management employees; how easily he had worked and talked and drunk with them through the hot dry weeks of the summer months from September to April. There had been barely any of the sudden sharp showers which the Rand usually experienced and therefore little water so that only the very rich could wash, and only then in soda water, and that in itself had drawn the young men closer together. He thought of the winter, so cold and yet so dry, and the smell of the mine; its sounds, its darkness which had thrilled him and made him feel so good, as Penhallon had done, and he had been content to let Kimberley wait as he built up his stake money and pushed aside the noise from the compounds.

He had soaked into his pores the dust from the ore, watched as the natives crouched in the upward-sloping stopes, their candles in their hats throwing a flickering light as they hunched into hand-drills which dug at the rock face. By God, it had felt so good and he had also worked in the offices and learnt much and in the evenings and weekends he had been free, and that was what Harry now remembered, sitting on Kim, looking back on the person who had once been him.

In South Africa, in that first year spent living amongst the vulgar extravagance of Johannesburg with its tasteless opulence, its noise, its excitement, he had felt free, had felt as though he were a man. There were none of the restrictions and traditions of England out here; the dreary rules of his father’s people, just the excesses and pleasures of a new town which had made its own rules, its own wealth and power, and along with it had provided him with work that he loved. It had thrilled him. The conventions of his childhood were cast aside as he explored the music-halls, the clubs, the gambling, and occasionally, in spite of his promise to himself, the whores.

In the evenings when they were not out watching some show or drinking and eating at some new hotel he and Frank had sat in the nearby bar drinking warm flat beer or harsh Cape brandy talking of their own dreams of wealth, their ambitions for their future. Harry had spoken of his farm until Barry, a friend of Frank’s who knew the property that Uncle Simon had bought, told him that it was good for nothing but farming ostriches, and who wore ostrich feathers these days? Frank had laughed and so too had Harry because the others had.

Barry explained that there was no river in the near vicinity and no signs of alluvial deposits of diamonds and so they had laughed again and he had not bothered to make the trip to see the broken-down house that Barry described because there was too much work to do here and besides, he had been made to feel foolish. He would visit it at some much later date.

He and Frank had always sat in the same chairs in the bar; his was maroon velvet whilst Frank’s was green. Whenever Harry sipped that first beer he would drop his shoulders, savour the sourness of his drink, and look at the charcoal sketch on the opposite wall portraying the early banket of the outcrop being mined by teams of kaffirs who cut into it with picks and shovels, whilst behind them were drawn, in fainter lines, the stamp batteries crushing the ore. He would sit there, letting his body relax, letting the beer take effect, letting the conversation ebb around him as he took in each detail, knowing that the pulverised rock shown in the picture was mixed in those days with water to produce a slime which was passed over copper plates coated with mercury. The particles of gold in the slime amalgamated with the mercury which was then removed from the plates and refined, the mercury being discarded. Less than 70 per cent of the gold had been recovered in those days. It was 90 per cent now, he would think with satisfaction, downing his beer, but he was careful always not to drink the dregs.

Each evening in the bar began in this way and then he would buy another drink before joining the others to bet on how many flies would land on a piece of meat, or how many men would walk through the door in the next thirty seconds but never on which dog could kill the most rats in the pit behind the building or on the cocks which fought and died because there was too much blood and he could never laugh and call as the others did.

He sighed now in the dark as Kim jerked, startled by a dassie which ran across their path. Yes, there had been hard work in the day and hard play at night but always, too, there had been Hannah’s letters and his irritation at her endless questions, her endless accusations.

What did he know of the natives, she would write. Could he not see that it was wrong to exploit them? And on and on she would go and he would drink more, smiling at Frank but silently cursing his sister because she disturbed his enjoyment of his acceptance by the other men, his enjoyment at being in a circle again, his enjoyment of friendship as he had enjoyed it at school.

Anyway, what did he know of the natives beyond the fact that they were there, like the ore or the diamonds? They had steady jobs, hadn’t they? South Africa was beginning to be industrialised, wasn’t it? With the coming of the mines it had made sense to use the labour force available. The natives were South Africa’s raw material, just as the gold was. These were the facts of life out here, he had kept on telling himself as the beer soured his throat. After all, as Frank had said, equal rights for people who were inherently unequal was absurd. To think anything else was sheer sentimentality and Harry had nodded, looking back at the charcoal picture because after all, he had thought, this is a business world. But he had not written this to Hannah because he knew she would not understand. How could anyone who was not out here, in amongst it all, understand? It worked and that was all that anyone needed to think about, wasn’t it? He had begun to drink more and more, it made him feel better, and he had not heard the noise from the compounds quite so clearly.

At Christmas he had written to her and said that he had never heard a native complain and that, as well as jobs, kaffirs had homes provided. But again he did not tell her of the compounds he had seen which were two acres or more with twenty-five kaffirs to a thirty-foot by twenty-five-foot room and perhaps 2000 to a compound. He did not tell her of the ten-foot corrugated iron fences surrounding the compounds and the passes which all the natives had to carry. She would not have agreed that it could be looked on as a way of disciplining the workforce as well as preventing pilfering and, as Frank had said, it kept them out of the town and the bars. After all, he had laughed, who wants to sit and drink next to an animal? No, he had not told Hannah much about South Africa over that year and had screwed up her harping letters and thrown them away when he had drunk enough to blur her memory.

He had written also to Esther and kept her replies, reading them every night but this had not stopped him from watching the girls who served in the bar. They had come up from the Cape eager for work, any sort of work. They would climb the stairs with you ‘if you so wished’, they would say with lips parted, and he had done so more than once, even though he had promised himself that he would not. At night, lying in bed, he would tell himself that men were different, that they needed a release which women did not, knowing that he still loved Esther more than life itself and missed her each hour of each day and finally he would sleep.

Harry shook his head now as he eased the reins between his hands. Would he have gone on and on in this way had it not been for that surveying ride with Baralong at the start of the second year while the summer heat still lay deep on the ground and in the air? It was a question he would never be able to answer, for he had indeed ridden across the barren land and he had indeed never been the same again.

He recaptured the stifling morning when Frank had pointed out the kaffir mate he had picked for him. As he sat astride this warm horse it was all as clear to him as the moment it had happened. Frank had stood shading his eyes against the sun, flicking his stick towards a kaffir. The shadows of the mine buildings had been sharp behind him. It’s your turn to have a few days away. Go and survey the ridge and take that boy as your guide, then keep him on as your mate, Frank had said, nodding at Harry. He’s a good worker and knows his job. Harry had looked towards a kaffir who stood outside the site office. He had not been able to see the kaffir’s face because his hat had been pulled so low that the brim shaded his features. His rough hessian jacket had hung loose and his trousers were tied with rope. This was Baralong but he hadn’t known that, not at this stage. He had merely nodded at Frank, wiping his face which was sweating again from the heat.

I could do with a break, he had said, beckoning to the kaffir, pointing to the horse which was tied to the post near the office. Bring that over, boy, he had said, and the one across the gap too, you’ll ride that. I’ll need a guide today. His tone had been curt and Frank had nodded, smiling into the sun and drawing on his cigarette.

You’re doing all right out here, Harry, old chap. Just the sort we want, he had murmured, and Harry remembered how pleased he had felt as he smiled, but how, strangely, he could not look in the direction of the black man whom he had just treated as he would one of Arthur’s hounds. After more than a year of managing native teams totally impersonally he suddenly found it different dealing with just one black man and he had been unable to understand himself.

He had walked towards the horse. It was the heat and that damnable Cape brandy. They’d stayed too long in the bar last night and there was a foul taste in his mouth. The glaring sun hurt his eyes and he had one of his headaches even though the height of the summer had passed and it was cooler than it had been last week.

He thought how good it would be to leave the office and the mine, travel easily and let this throbbing head die down but he had then looked at the long line of kaffirs trailing from the compounds to the mines, their shoulders bowed, their heads hung down and his headache had worsened, stabbing hard behind his eyes. He felt angry, impatient to be off, away from buildings, noise, people and letters, for there had been another one from Hannah that morning. He had walked quickly over to his horse. He would not think of her words, but he had determined, as he swung up into the saddle, that he must insist that she stop writing him these letters. It was too bloody much when he was out here trying to do a job, for God’s sake. That was all he was trying to do, just work at a bloody job and make something of himself. And was it a crime if he tried to enjoy the experience? Damn women, he had cursed, and had heard Frank laugh as he spurred his horse from the mine, out on to the ridge. He knew his friend thought he had meant the whore in the pub last night who had taken a visitor to bed instead of him and he was happy to leave it like that, it was safer.

The ridge was over forty miles long and sufficient provisions had been packed in the saddle-bags to camp out for several nights. He remembered the heat as it had struck up from the ground, the dust as it had filled his mouth and nose, the silence between the two men, one black, one white, as they rode throughout the day across the arid terrain with the veld below and the mines in the distance. He had fought to regain the impersonal attitude he had always held towards the natives but somehow he had been unable to do so. He could see this kaffir’s face and there were just the two of them out here.

With nightfall they had stopped and Harry had stood awkwardly as his new mate heated a kettle over an open fire. The coals glowed and the smoke smelt good drifting on the air, and then there was the aroma of mutton and that was good too. The kaffir handed Harry the cooked salt mutton, still in silence, before moving away from the flames which lit his black face now that his hat was tilted back. Harry saw that he was older than he had thought, at least thirty, and he was thin, but he did not want to look too closely because he might see a person where he had been told there was only a creature.

The enamel plate was hot from the meat so Harry took it by the edge and sat down on the ground, his back against his saddle. He took the tea which the kaffir then brought, wedging the mug into the crumbling earth beside his knee. The earth was losing its daytime heat.

Thank you, he had said, and the kaffir stopped as he turned away and the black eyes looked at him, then he moved on past the fire towards the horses, taking no food with him, no drink. Harry wondered why he had thanked the kaffir. He did not usually acknowledge them in any way. He had shaken his head, his headache was still there and he felt anger again. Damn Hannah.

Harry had cut at the tough salt meat, tearing it with his fingers when the knife fell to the ground. He was hungry and thirsty. It was cooler but not cold. He looked across the fire at his kaffir. The insects were sounding now, out there in the dark. Did kaffirs not feel hunger and thirst? He wiped his hands on his handkerchief but they still felt greasy and he could not spare water for washing, not until they had refilled their flasks at least. Christ, he could do with a drink. He took a quick nip of brandy from his flask, then shoved it back into his inside pocket before changing his mind and drinking from it again then settling into his blanket. It would protect him against the night chill, he told himself.