Stones for My Father (3 page)

I heaved the bundle under one arm and tried to sound cheery. “Never mind — things are getting better.
Soon, the Transvaal and the Free State will be just that: free. You’ll see.” I grabbed Sipho’s hand and tugged him out the door. “
Totsiens
, Lindy.”

The pigeon lofts were on Tant Minna’s land, near the edge of the Lowveld where the herds grazed in winter. As Sipho and I followed the trickling stream that divided the Highveld from the foothills, I could tell that my friend’s mind was elsewhere.

“Things aren’t getting better,” he said solemnly. “The commandos are outnumbered.”

“Don’t say that,” I snapped. “We won at Colenso, didn’t we? And at Spion Kop. You could hear the pom-poms firing from the ridge.” I strode on ahead, irritated by my friend’s silence. “Pa used to say, ‘There’s no better horseman or marksman in the world than a Boer’ — and he was right, too. My uncles blew up two telegraph sites last month, and your pa was there when they raided the storage depot —”

“That was in the spring. It’s different now.”

I kicked at a stone in stride and shifted the bundle of food from one arm to the other. “That’s not what the generals say. De Wet isn’t giving up.” I turned around and prodded my companion in the ribs. “
Our great General Christiaan de Wet
/
Is still too small for the khaki net
. Remember that, Sipho?”

Sipho only grunted.

As we rounded the bluffs overlooking Tant Minna’s farm, I felt Sipho’s fingers snap to my shoulder. “Listen,”
he said. “Do you hear that?” He began to kneel slowly, reaching for a sharp-edged stone by my feet, his gaze trained straight ahead.

“Is it kudu?” Sipho may have been a crack-shot with a rifle, but I couldn’t imagine him felling a large animal with a rock.

“Get down.”

Sipho had never spoken to me like that before, and at first I was too affronted to do anything. Then I saw the fear in his eyes, the way his brown irises seemed to tremble in their yellow-white sea, and I too sank to the ground.

“There,” whispered Sipho. “Do you see?”

From where we crouched, I could just make out one of the slatted pigeon lofts. Wildflowers and weeds sprouted brazenly around the hut, bending in the breeze that whisked sprays of sand against its walls. The corrugated metal roof glinted in the sun.

“What?”

Sipho yanked me closer, forced my head at an angle. “Look.”

The door to the loft was open, creaking on a rusty hinge.

Before either of us could say anything more, two figures appeared from the open loft, shoulders hunched, heads craned forward through the low doorway. They wore cream trousers that were loose from the hip to the knee, but from knee to ankle the fabric was wrapped tightly with beige puttees. Brass buttons gleamed on
starched jackets; laced boots had been buffed to a high shine. One of the men carried a domed helmet in the crook of his arm.

Khakis.

I glanced at Sipho, who was turning the rock between his fingers. I could tell that he was thinking of throwing it to create a distraction. If the English soldiers discovered the supplies that we had been hiding for our commandos, they would raze every Boer house for miles around.

Then, just as he was beginning to raise his arm, Sipho froze. We had both noticed the same thing: the package of clothes that we’d left beneath one of the beams in a dark corner of the loft, covered with straw, now lay piled on the open ground behind the house. They had already discovered the hiding place.

“Come,
kleinnooi
— we can’t stay,” hissed Sipho.

“Wait.” I wanted to see these men, to know their faces. I had never been this close to a British soldier before. One of the men was young, with bowlegs and a shock of red hair. The older one was taller, more solidly built, with black hair combed to the side and a neat black mustache. They were talking, but even if we understood English it would have been difficult to make out the words.

Sipho had already begun his silent retreat. I gathered the bundle of food together and wondered where we might leave it in case there were hungry commandos waiting nearby. The pigeon lofts would be off limits
even after the British soldiers had left. The khakis would interrogate Tant Minna and see to it that all the outbuildings were destroyed …

“Please,
kleinnooi
. Come!”

Stealing one last glance at the soldiers, I followed Sipho into the long grass.

I
arrived home to find my mother shelling peas outside the house, her face obscured by a peaked cap. The days were now so hot that even raindrops would sizzle as they hit the dry earth. Ma must have been stewing under her gingham dress — but if any woman was going to preserve decorum in that terrible heat, she would. My brothers, both in states of undress, crouched at her feet: Gert was showing Hansie the bushman arrow that now hung from a leather cord around his neck.

It was almost a happy scene, and I was about to ruin it.

“Where have you been?” demanded my mother as she tipped the pea shells from her apron into a shallow bowl.

“Sipho and I saw khakis at Tant Minna’s,” I blurted. “Coming out of the pigeon lofts.”

I’d sent Sipho back to his mother with the bundle of food. At least until the khakis had gone, it seemed best not to risk drawing attention to ourselves. If there were any commandos waiting in the bush, they’d have to go hungry for another day.

“Minna’s?” The lines in my mother’s forehead seemed to deepen, and what little color there was in her face quickly drained from her cheeks, turning her gray as a stone. “If this is another story, Corlie Roux —”

“You can ask Sipho. They found the clothes we’d left for the men.”

“How many were there?”

“Just two.”

“And Minna?”

“We didn’t see her.” They’d be setting fire to the house by now, herding my aunt and my cousins onto cattle wagons …

“Andries? Danie?”

I shook my head.

“Did they see you?”

“No, Ma.”

We’d heard the stories of women and children who had been dragged from their houses even as they begged the British for mercy. If they were lucky, they would be given a few minutes to remove any valuables before the entire farm was set alight.
Scorched earth
, the British called it: destroying everything of their enemies — livestock, crops, food stores — so that there was no way they could sustain commandos in the bush. Then, the British
poisoned the wells and salted the fields so that the
Boere
would not be able to begin again.

My mother was silent. She considered the fields, studded with prickly pear, and then she turned and stared up at our house. Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, she turned toward the fields again. For a long time, she seemed torn between two unspeakable thoughts. Then, with an almost violent assurance that made it seem as if there had never been any doubt in her mind, she grabbed each of my brothers by the arm and pushed them inside.

“We’ll join the
laager
,” she said to me. “We won’t wait for them to come to us.”

“But the
laager’s
miles away,” I protested. Weeks ago, we had been asked if we wanted to join the company of families that were going to live in wagons on the veld, moving every few days to keep out of the enemy’s sights. “We’ll never find them –”

“I’m not staying here to see everything destroyed,” hissed my mother. I recognized the growing hysteria in her voice and clamped my mouth shut. “Put on everything you can wear, and then go and tell Lindy to bring the children.”

“Yes, Ma.”

In our bedroom, Gert watched me roll on three pairs of stockings until I could barely squeeze my feet into my boots. I reached for a pair of socks that was draped over the back of a chair and pointed to the heavy leather shoes in the corner.

“Put those on, Gertie,” I said, trying to control the tremor in my voice.

“I don’t want to wear shoes,” he said softly.

“Put them on,” I told him. “We’ll have to walk a long way.” He continued to stand there, wide-eyed, and so I paused from helping Hansie to give Gertie a shove. “And find a shirt. A jacket, too. Roll up the blankets.”

My brother did as he was told, then disappeared into the other room for a few moments before returning with my father’s hat. It was far too large for Gertie; trying it on, his face disappeared beneath the wide, floppy brim.

“I want Pa to come.”

“Pa can’t come. Don’t be
dom
.”

“I’m going to bring his hat, then. I don’t want the khakis burning his hat.”

I stopped trying to stuff Hansie’s chubby legs into his breeches and looked up at my brother. He was fingering the arrowhead absently, twisting the leather cord as far as it would go before starting to turn it in the opposite direction.

“Do you know where Pa’s coat is?”

“Ja
, with the hat.”

“Bring it here.”

For once, he did not argue but came straight back with my father’s calfskin coat. The leather was as soft as felt, and it smelled of sweet grass. I pulled it on and rolled up the sleeves. The pockets reached down past my knees.

“Goed.”
I glanced about our room, taking in all the little details that had never seemed terribly important: a washstand with china jug and basin, my unfinished embroidery sampler, a plant pot decoupaged with images of the cathedral in Ghent, the skittles that Oom Jakob had carved for my brother. “Fetch as many rusks as you can fit in your pockets. Biltong, too. Fruit will only spoil —”

“Are you still here?” My mother had appeared in the doorway, Pa’s rifle slung over one shoulder. “It’s time you fetched Lindy and the children — Gert can help me with Hansie.”

“Yes, Ma.”

When Sipho saw me — dwarfed by my father’s coat, wool stockings bunching out of my boots, twin petticoats rustling under my smock — he made no attempt to hide his surprise.

“Playing dress up,
kleinnooi?
Haven’t you told your ma about the khakis?”

“We’re going to join the
laager
, Sipho. You must get your sisters ready quickly — we’re leaving as soon as we can.”

My friend looked as if he might say something, but then he seemed to think better of it. We had known this day would come, sooner or later: either we would have to join the
laager
, or watch our farm go up in flames. There wasn’t time to be afraid. After all, this was what Boer women and children had been prepared for since the war started; this is what made us strong — my father had said so himself. I wasn’t about to let him down.

Sipho bolted into the hut. Seconds later, Lindiwe emerged, supporting Nelisiwe on one hip and Nosipho on the other.

“What’s this,
kleinnooi?
”

“Ma doesn’t want to be here when the khakis come. They’ll be searching all the houses in the area —”

“
Aiyoh
 …” Lindiwe handed Nelisiwe to Sipho. “There’s mealie
pap
in the pot, and
morogo
from last night. Can we take the chickens?”

I shook my head, not daring to meet her in the eye. Lindy doted on her chickens as if they were her own children. Her favorite was Mbaba Mwana, a silky hen with full feather pantaloons and a cat’s purr.

“Not even the goat? Nothing?”

“There will be animals at the
laager
,” I said lamely. “We can leave some corn out for Mbaba Mwana …”

But Lindy had already steeled herself, was busily retying her headscarf: a sure sign that there was work to be done. “Don’t worry about Mbaba Mwana,
kleinnooi
. She’s only a chicken. We must get you all away from here. That’s the important thing …”

Sipho and I were put in charge of essentials: filling the paraffin lamp, pouring milk into skin sacks, secreting what food we could into the folds of our clothes. Duly laden with provisions, we returned to the house to collect my mother and brothers. As we waited in the kitchen, considering all the things that we would have to leave behind, I noticed Sipho staring at the knife my mother used for gutting fish.

“For protection,
kleinnooi
.” He picked it up, ran one finger along the mean edge.

“But we have the rifle.”

“A rifle is only useful as long as we have bullets.” Sipho reached for the muslin cloth that Ma used for steaming puddings and began to wrap it around the blade, a makeshift sheath. “Just in case. No need to worry,
kleinnooi
.” His gaze drifted around the kitchen, and for the first time I saw the room through his eyes: the uselessness of my mother’s lace curtains, the crocheted tablecloth, the decorative milk glass plates.

“
Aanjaag
,” I said. “Let’s go.”

The sky was streaked yellow and pink as we guided the carriage off the main road and into the bush. Our mule’s sides heaved like bellows as I urged her on, slapping my bonnet against her bony haunches while Ma tugged at the reins with clenched fists. My brothers and Lindiwe’s little girls balanced atop our piled belongings, wide-eyed and silent, while Lindiwe and Sipho pushed from behind. No one spoke.

As we walked, I thought about the soldier with the black mustache — the way he had nudged the pile of clothes with one toe, hands on hips, shaking his head as if he’d just discovered the dead body of a beloved dog. Watching him, I hadn’t been frightened. And yet here I was now, trying to read my mother’s expression as she chewed grimly on her pipe, my heart drumming
a tattoo through my chest. We had left everything — the sheep, the goat, the chickens — and we were walking into darkness. I pulled my father’s coat more tightly around my shoulders, and gave the donkey another whop with my bonnet.