The Covenant by James A. Michener
The journey north was as pleasing as any he would ever know, a revelation of what a young woman could be. She was neither flirtatious nor coy; whenever an interesting topic arose, her expressive face revealed pretty much what she was thinking; and she sought out people for animated discussion. In the dining car, on the first evening, she invited an older couple to join them. With charming frankness she explained that she was not married to Frank, then went on to say that he was an important part of the diamond industry. From them she elicited the fact that they had a nephew working the gold fields and that he believed there was need, in the new town of Johannesburg, for a tailor. Normally they could not have afforded first-class accommodations on the train, but he had sent so much money that they had decided to splurge.
‘Are you Jewish?’ Maud asked abruptly.
‘Yes. From Germany, our fathers, years ago.’
‘Would you ever consider returning to Germany?’
‘No. That happens to other people, not us.’
‘Do you think Germany will try to take South Africa from us?’
‘Germany will try to take everything,’ they said.
On the second day she invited an Australian couple to dine with them, and again she explained that she was not married to Frank, whereupon the wife asked, ‘Isn’t it a mite risky? I mean, traveling with a young man?’
‘Not if he’s a nice young man, like Frank.’ But as she patted his hand she added, ‘Of course, he’s not so young, really. How old are you, Frank?’
‘Past thirty,’ he said.
‘Time to be taking the plunge,’ the man said, at which Frank blushed uncontrollably.
‘He’ll do the right thing at the right time,’ Maud said.
‘With you?’ the Australian woman asked.
‘Goodness, we hardly know each other.’ And by the time the train reached Kimberley, all the passengers knew that this fine-looking young woman was traveling with a young man she scarcely knew.
Mr. Rhodes took one look at the couple and realized that young Saltwood had better be dispatched at once, or he was going to fall into irreversible error, so once the introductions were made, he said, ‘Saltwood, your conveyances are waiting. You’d better be off … this afternoon.’
‘I shall leave day after tomorrow,’ Frank said with some force, and that was the beginning of the estrangement, for Mr. Rhodes realized with dismay that one of his young gentlemen had got himself seriously mixed up with a woman.
In the time he had stolen for himself, Frank demonstrated attractively his deep feelings for Miss Turner. He deposited her trunks at the local hotel, then escorted her about the town, showing her the mighty hole in the earth where he had worked, and the donkey engines which kept the water out. He took her into the countryside and to the local church, and as the second day ended he asked, ‘Are you promised to anyone?’ When she said, ‘I am not,’ he asked, ‘Would you keep yourself free till I return from Zimbabwe?’
‘And where’s that?’ she parried. When he told her, she wanted to accompany him on the safari, but this suggestion he rejected forcibly. ‘I understand,’ she teased. ‘Mr. Rhodes wouldn’t like it.’
‘Conditions are far too rough, Maud.’
‘I understand. Mr. Rhodes lays down very strict conditions for his employees. No women.’ She expected him to say something, and when he didn’t, she said boldly, ‘But if I did wait, wouldn’t Mr. Rhodes discharge you?’
‘Yes. So when I married you, I’d have to find other employment.’
‘Could you do so?’
‘I’m a young man. I can work. I know diamonds and gold.’
Very quietly she said, ‘I shall cancel my steamship.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I am going on an elephant shoot.’
‘With whom?’ he asked in amazement.
‘With three gentlemen at the hotel.’
‘My God, Maud!’
‘I said I would wait, Frank. I didn’t say I was going to sit on my hands.’
‘But … but, three men from the hotel!’
‘My uncle sent letters to two of them.’ And then she kissed him, not a peck on the cheek, but the full passionate kiss of a liberated young woman who had found the kind of man she was willing to wait for.
From Pretoria, Frank took the new train leading down to Lourenço Marques on Delagoa Bay, but after a full day’s journey he disembarked at the small station of Waterval-Boven, where a wagon awaited him. It was a fifteen-mile drive south, with a black man who gave his name as Micah Nxumalo. The first part came from the Bible, he explained in broken English, the second part from his grandfather, who had come here from Zululand in the time of troubles.
‘Did Mr. van Doorn own the land then?’
‘No. It was our land.’
‘But how did Mr. van Doorn acquire it?’ The word was too big for Micah and he asked what it meant. ‘Get. How did he get the land?’
A puzzled look came over the black man’s face and he said, ‘At first it was ours, then after a while it was his.’
When they reached the town of Venloo, Frank expected to be dropped at a lodging place before visiting Vrymeer, but Micah informed him that he was to room at the lake. ‘With whom?’ Saltwood asked. ‘The De Groots or the Van Doorns?’
‘Nobody stays with the De Groots,’ Micah explained. ‘They have only a very small place.’ And when the horses climbed to the top of the rise that separated Venloo from the lake, Frank understood, for to the north stood a mean collection of wattle-and-daub structures in the center of unkempt fields, while to the east unfolded a substantial farm with an interesting mixture of barns for animals, kraals for holding areas, a rambling white-washed farmhouse with a corrugated iron roof, and at some distance a handsome collection of rondavels for the Nxumalos and the other blacks who worked the land.
The farm was obviously prosperous and looked inviting, but what captured Saltwood’s eye was the inconsequential little stream that debouched from the hills, ran among the farm buildings and broadened out to a beautiful lake on which ducks abounded and flamingos. What Saltwood could not see, approaching by this road, were the two rounded mountains that gave the site distinction; as they came slowly into view, Micah pointed them out and said, ‘Sannie’s Tits.’
‘Who’s Sannie?’
‘Girl that used to live here. My father’s time. She loved a young man. He died. She died.’
The little northern dwellings were occupied by General de Groot, the big farm by the Van Doorns, and it was to the latter that Micah led the horses. ‘Hello, there!’ a rough voice called from the barn. ‘You that Mr. Rhodes’ man?’ The English words came uneasily and with heavy accent.
‘Yes. Frank Saltwood.’
‘We don’t hold much with that Mr. Rhodes. He’s a bad one. But you’re welcome.’
The farmer held out a big hand and said, ‘Jakob van Doorn. Mama!’
From the house emerged not an older woman but three of the prettiest little girls Frank had ever seen. With a bang they burst onto the edge of the stoep—and then behaved quite differently. The oldest girl, about fifteen, stopped shyly when she saw the strange man and stood by a pillar, her blond pigtails reflecting the light. The two younger ones, who seemed to be about the same age, seven or eight, were not abashed by the stranger; they came rushing right down into the yard to embrace him, their pigtails flying.
‘The twins!’ Jakob said proudly. ‘Anna and Sannah, but which is which you’ll never know.’
The girls did not try to be cute or tease about their names. They simply took Frank by the hand and led him toward the stoep, where through the front door appeared Mevrou van Doorn, in her late thirties, holding an infant on her hip. ‘This is my wife, Sara, and the ruler of our roost, little Detlev.’
With delighted tugging, the twins carried their baby brother about the stoep. ‘Come in,’ Mevrou van Doorn said. ‘We wondered about your telegram.’
‘Yes, I came to see the general. I understand he went
‘He was there. But only as a little boy.’
‘Will he remember?’
‘The general remembers everything,’ Mevrou van Doorn replied.
‘My father was there, too,’ Van Doorn said. ‘He led a party north of the Limpopo. Tsetse fly drove them back.’
‘Will I run into the tsetse up there?’
‘You will.’ The Van Doorns took him into their house and showed him where he would sleep. As the twins helped him unpack, their mother made coffee and rusks, and then Jakob opened a bottle of witblits (white lightning), a fiery homemade brandy. ‘We drink to your coming. Do you speak Dutch?’
‘Alas, not much. I was brought up in the Grahamstown area, you know, where there were few Boers.’ And before they could respond, he added, ‘Our family bought De Kraal, you know.’
‘You did!’ Mevrou van Doorn cried. Vaguely the family had known that trustworthy English settlers had purchased the farm, but their name had been lost.
‘Are you the family that collected the money from London for my father’s slaves?’ Van Doorn asked.
‘Yes. I’ve heard that story.’ Frank shook his head in disgust. ‘What a bad thing the London government did to you people on the slave deal.’
‘What do you mean, deal?’ Van Doorn asked.
‘The cheap way the slaves were paid for. Or not paid for.’
‘That was a bad time,’ Van Doorn said, but then he added brightly, ‘You’ll want to see the general right away, I suppose?’ When Frank nodded, he cried, ‘Come along, children,’ and led a procession around the end of the lake.
Saltwood was totally unprepared for the primitive conditions in which this great general, a hero of the Boer republics, lived. But when De Groot came forward to extend a rough welcome, any thought of meanness or privation vanished. The man was a giant, but hunched over like some mountain denizen in a German fairy story. When he gripped Saltwood by the shoulder, his fingers were like steel.
Then he laughed heartily and said, ‘I want you to meet my wife,’ and from the rude hut came a handsome woman in her sixties, erect, white-haired, blue-eyed. As a girl she must have been beautiful, and even now her dignity was striking. ‘This is Mevrou de Groot,’ the general said, and as he spoke he took her hand, and they stood facing their visitor.
But then they saw the three Van Doorn girls, and Sybilla de Groot bent down to embrace the twins while the general bowed gallantly to Johanna. At this point Jakob said, ‘This is Frank Saltwood. It was his grandfather who got us the payment for our slaves. He took our warrants, sent them to London, and got us every penny to which we were entitled. Not all that we should have had, but all that was allowed us.’
With a great slap of his hand on Frank’s leg, De Groot said, ‘I remember the day at Thaba Nchu. A smous came up from Graaff-Reinet with two packets. One for Van Doorn, one for my father. But my father had been killed by Mzilikazi. So the packet was given to me, and I can remember tearing it open and seeing the new bills, English bills, and I didn’t like them. And do you know what I did with that money, young man?’
Frank said, ‘I can’t guess,’ and the old general said, ‘I saved it. Year after year I saved it, and in 1881, when we fought the English at Majuba, I spent it all to outfit my own commando. English money fighting English soldiers. I liked that.’
‘Was the fighting hard—at Majuba?’
‘Fighting is always hard, especially against you English. Your officers are stupid but your men are heroic.’
‘Were you in command of the Boer forces?’ Before the old man could respond, Frank added, ‘I mean, they speak of you as one of the heroes of Majuba.’
With a big forefinger De Groot poked at his guest. ‘No one is ever in command of Boers. Each man is his own general.’
‘But everyone speaks of you as the general.’
‘Yes. I raised the commando. And at night I asked if this or that approach might not be best. But if I ever gave an order, someone would have asked, “And who in hell are you?” And that,’ he said, punctuating his remarks with his finger, ‘would be a very …’ He fumbled for a word and asked Van Doorn for help, using Dutch.
‘Relevant,’ Van Doorn suggested.
‘Yes, that would be a relevant question. “Who in hell are you to give orders?” ’
‘How did you fight the battle?’
‘Our Bible tells us that one Boer can defeat one thousand Canaanites. So we did it, that’s how.’
‘I don’t remember any mention of Boers in my Bible,’ Frank said, to which De Groot replied, ‘That’s your Bible.’
For nine days Frank studied these two families, and as he watched them in action he concluded that people like these would never conform to Mr. Rhodes’ plans for them. When his departure neared, the Van Doorns announced that the De Groots would come over for a farewell supper with a surprise at the end, and Frank was perched on the stoep, trying to guess which little girl was Anna and which Sannah, when they suddenly cried, ‘Here comes Ouma!’ and Frank looked across the lake to see the De Groots approaching.
They came in an old cart pulled by one tired horse. General Paulus sat in front, the great bearded patriarch usurping the entire seat, while Sybilla sat deferentially behind, a big woman crammed into a little space. She sat not on a seat, but in the well of the cart on a pile of animal skins, and Saltwood had to suppress a grin, for she resembled a Queen Victoria of the veld, regal and rugged and triumphant.
When he went to the cart, this impression was reinforced, for she said quietly, ‘How pleased we are to be with you again,’ and he would have helped her down except that General de Groot calmly intruded, extending his hands as if it was his privilege, and his alone, to help this woman.
It was a substantial supper, one of Mevrou van Doorn’s massive offerings of lamb stew, and as it ended, each of the four children, and the old people, too, began to show excitement, which reached a peak when Jakob went into the kitchen, reappearing with a brown-gold pot over whose rim showed a crusty pudding marked with citron, cherries and raisins. ‘Bread pudding, style of Van Doorn,’ Johanna cried, and when Frank tasted it he complimented Mevrou van Doorn.
‘Not me! My man!’ And she nodded at her husband, reverently touching the old ceramic pot as she did.
‘Yes, in our family the men make the pudding,’ Jakob said. ‘This pot, 1680 maybe. Made in China, no doubt. Came over the mountains. Two farms were burned with it on the shelf. You ever hear of Blaauwkrantz? Well, it went through fire there, too.’
‘We’re an old people,’ General de Groot said. ‘We’ve been here a long time.’
After the meal the family grew quiet, and Van Doorn produced a Bible even older than the crock. ‘Amsterdam, I think. Maybe 1630. The first pages were burned away.’ And he prayed with his hand on the book.
Frank, who was paying close attention, began to suspect that these two families were trying to warn him about something, and his feeling was confirmed when the old general spoke: ‘We were here more than a hundred and fifty years before you came, Saltwood. More than two hundred before Rhodes. We would not like interruptions.’ Combing his heavy beard with his fingers, he stared right at the young Englishman, never for a moment conceding that Frank might be just as much a part of Africa as he.
On the last day Frank asked Jakob for a free space at the table, and there, with the twins looking over his shoulder, he wrote a long report to his employer, the crucial paragraph being this:
One cannot talk with these men without becoming convinced that they would again take up arms in a minute if they thought their freedom was endangered. Van Doorn is probably in his fifties, but he would ride forth tomorrow if called upon. The general is well into his sixties, and I suppose he would not actually go into battle, but I am sure he would lend every support. One night we rode into the little town of Venloo, where we met with another forty Boers who said specifically they were at all times ready to mount a commando on one hour’s notice. I must therefore ca
I am off to Zimbabwe. General de Groot was there more than fifty years ago, but he says he can still see every wall, every edifice. I wish he were on our side.
By the accidents of history, Frank Saltwood was about to traverse in 1895 the route that young Nxumalo had taken in 1457. He left Vrymeer and headed for the Limpopo, near whose banks the copper mine still flourished. Once more high water impeded the crossing, and when the north bank was reached, the baobab trees exerted their magic. ‘I was quite unprepared for them,’ he wrote his mother. ‘Trees which seemed to be planted upside down by some mysterious force, their uplifted roots filled with birds. On two occasions we have slept inside the trees.’
Like Nxumalo, he came upon the great slabs of granite, their layers exfoliated into perfect building blocks, but unlike him, he did not have to carry samples to the king. In proper time he reached the hills from which the ancient city became visible, and there he paused to see for himself, without distraction of any kind, physical or historical, just what it was this strange, lost city represented. Lacking all prejudice, he studied the ruins from afar and saw that they were long overgrown with trees and climbing vines, that they must once have been imposing but were now in poor condition, and that nothing in their sad, majestic profile betrayed their origin.