The Covenant (121 page)

When the Princess Catherine Rzewuska Radziwill heard of Rhodes’ death she was only forty-four, disgraced, penniless, and facing a two-year sentence in one of Cape Town’s worst prisons. She said of Rhodes: “I wanted only to help this lonely, miserable man. Had he attended to me, he might have been saved.”

In prison, her first demand was for a book of rules, which she mastered with such diligence that she became a notorious “jailhouse lawyer,” arguing for the rights of all prisoners. Long before her sentence was completed, the warden petitioned the court that she be set free: “Whenever I see her coming at me with that book of rules, I am threatened with twitches.”

The conniving princess would not accept freedom unless the government provided her with first-class steamship passage to London, and enough cash to allow her to live in a respectable London hotel for half a year. Since the senior authorities were also developing twitches, they bowed to her demands, then requisitioned a tug to ensure that she got aboard. To the Afrikaner lawyer who had enthusiastically defended her against the Colossus, they said, “Do not give her a penny of the money. Hand it in a sealed envelope to the captain of the ship, to be delivered only when the vessel is far out to sea.”

She wrote more books, thirty in all; she lectured; when Prince
Radziwill, her husband, finally died, she quickly married a Swedish gentleman whom no one ever saw; she was condemned by Russia to perpetual exile; and by some bizarre set of accidents she landed in New York, which she loved. As Princess Radziwill, she became the darling of royalty-hungry Americans and lived off them in various ingenious ways. Never once during her long stay in that country did anyone uncover the fact that she had spent nearly two years in a South African prison as an embezzler.

Finally she wrote her autobiography, not one chapter of which was true; she enchanted new generations of New York society; and in 1941, at the age of eighty-three, she sat propped up in bed writing long letters to the rulers of Europe advising them how best to prosecute World War II. She signed her pronouncements: Princess Catherine Radziwill—and when she died she was surrounded by three American ladies-in-waiting.

F
ROM THE THROATS OF A HUNDRED
B
OERS
,
YOUNG AND OLD
, fair-faced and weather-beaten, came a merry song that carried far beyond the great barn at Vrymeer in which they were celebrating. The melody was that of an American Civil War song, “Just Before the Battle, Mother,” but the Afrikaner version, popular in the eighties, had to do with love, not war:

The grizzled warrior Paulus de Groot could not remember when last he had seen so many happy couples. “Tonight, Jakob,” he shouted to the owner of the barn, “there’s many a heart will be lost under the stars of Vrymeer.” Van Doorn grinned back through a haze of smoke and dust.

General de Groot, as all thought of him, was guest of honor at the party, and with good reason, for in this very week back in February 1881 he had stormed Majuba Hill to thrash the English. And now, from fifty miles away and farther, as if it were Nachtmaal, Boers had packed their wagons and gathered up their families for a ride to Vrymeer.

The Van Doorn women, with Ouma Sybilla de Groot enthroned at their kitchen table, had prepared enough food for a commando. An ox was roasted on a spit opposite the barn; nearby were tables of bredies, vegetables, sweet dishes: tarts, koekies, pumpkin fritters, konfyts, and Jakob’s contribution, the crock of bread pudding sensibly flanked by two bucketfuls of the same. Of course, there was a determined group who praised the pudding but passed it by in favor of the barrel of peach brandy.

It was a day the people of Vrymeer would not forget, and children bounded through the paradise like a troop of frisky baboons. Nothing was more exciting for a dozen robust little Boers than their encounter with the offspring of the Nxumalo family. Together they explored the secrets of Vrymeer, running screaming from the barn to the cave where the Bushmen’s rhinoceros galloped. After a shouting circuit, they ran to the lake, tossed aside their clothes, and jumped in.

At nightfall the tallow candles along the walls of the barn were lit, the ant-hill floor gleamed, and a noisy trio of guitar, violin and concertina went to work. Even Ouma Sybilla managed, just once, to step out and do a few turns, not with her husband, who was tending the peach brandy, but with a young man who had his eye on Johanna van Doorn and thought courtesy to the old queen-buffalo would improve his chances.

The dancing was really for the young couples, and the floor was continuously crowded, for if the violin grew tired, the guitar and concertina kept going; and sometimes the squash-box performed alone. Johanna had agonized for some days over what to wear, and her efforts had proved most successful: she had donned a long skirt whose bottom hem was filled with kernels of corn to give it weight and make it flare out when she pirouetted.

“Watch your millstone, young fellow!” De Groot roared suddenly. “You’re grinding too rough.” He meant that the partner swinging Johanna had her dress so nearly parallel to the floor that bits of grain were flying loose.

It was past midnight and the concertina played a little more slowly
as groups talked quietly or hummed old songs and Jakob mentioned the one sober question of this festive day: “How long have our families lived here, Paulus?”

The general reflected: “Fifty-eight years.”

“We should be grateful.”

“What for?” the old warrior asked.

“Many things, Paulus. Mostly we’ve been able to hold on to our ways … keep the Englishmen from changing us. But with so many Uitlanders moving in …”

“Oom Paul—it’s his job to watch the English. If he wants to see you, like the telegram said, it must be important.”

“Ja, my Generaal!”

Earlier that week Jakob had been summoned to meet with President Kruger in Pretoria; he would take the train Monday morning, for he knew that something serious was brewing.

Jakob found the great man on the stoep, deep wrinkles in his face, a black top hat perched on his head and a tightly buttoned coat covering his enormous belly. He did not rise to greet one of his most trusted burghers but showed his pleasure at the visit.

“Jakob, there are troubles, there are dangers we must face,” he said, indicating a chair.

“The English, Oom Paul?”

“Always the English. They mean to steal our republics, them and the Uitlanders.”

“Not while this Van Doorn has a breath. We’ll never allow that.”

“Nice words, Jakob. Nice words.” He spat over the edge of the stoep. “I have a task for you, broeder. You have family at the Cape, not so? Van Doorns of Trianon. I want you to visit them. Hear what they have to say. What’s on their minds if the English take up arms.”

“There’s been talk of rebellion down there. Against the English government.”

“Ja, ja. But what do the people really think?” He rocked back and forth. “Talk isn’t enough. Where will the Van Doorns, the Du Preez, the Hofmeyrs stand the day we have to fight for our lives?”

“We’ll need them all,” Jakob said.

“You are visiting family down there. Understand? You’re not Oom Paul’s official. Talk with anyone you like, but keep from government people. We have enough troubles with them already.”

“I understand, Oom Paul.”

“Ja, now that’s good, Jakob. Let’s have some coffee while you tell me about Paulus de Groot. How’s the old devil these days?”

Jakob was fifty-five years old that February, a man of medium height, heavy build and deliberate movement. He was delighted at the prospect of traveling to the Cape in a first-class carriage and at government expense, for he had never seen the Trianon of his ancestors and looked forward to meeting its occupants.

He conducted his interviews in Cape Town first, and was pleased to find that the wealthy Du Preez had not forgotten their links with his family. They were most congenial when recalling those days when the first De Prés shared the Trianon vineyards with the Van Doorns. “We’ve both moved a long way.” But when he discovered their attitude toward participation in a possible war, he was unhappy to learn that they had no interest whatever in taking arms to defend the Boers.

“Don’t misunderstand us, Van Doorn. We have much sympathy for the republics, but not for war. Look at what we have here. It’s all come since the English arrived. I realize you might not like the Uitlanders as neighbors, but damnit, man, you Boers wouldn’t know how to handle gold. Not even with all the Hollanders and Germans you bring in to run your government.”

Jakob tried to argue that the freedom not only of the northern Boer but of the southern Afrikaner, too, would hang in the balance: “That is, if war comes. You Cape Afrikaners would certainly—” They cut him off: “We have all the freedom we need here in the Cape. More than you seem to have up north. You may not believe this, but we like it here. We won’t march in your armies.”

A schoolteacher named Carolus Marais invited Jakob to walk with him to see various Afrikaner establishments in the area: schools, big churches, solid homes built on the slopes of Table Mountain. “Our forefathers never did so well under Dutch rule. We elect our people to Parliament, protect ourselves from the Englishmen. We don’t want war.”

“Neither do we!” Jakob exploded. “But suppose the English force it on us. Surely, if you have any decency or courage, you’ll support the republics.”

“Would you ride out in some silly war, at your age?”

“Of course. And the other burghers at Venloo, we’d ride with our commando if they call us. We’d lose everything if we didn’t.”

“Then you’d be very foolish. You and I can gain everything we
want from the English without firing a shot. They have laws, Van Doorn. They’re a great people for putting everything down in laws. And when they do, they obey them.”

“But always on their own terms.”

“Jakob, be sensible! We Cape Afrikaners are fighting our own war, not with German guns and Boer commandos. With the laws the Englishmen give us. Go listen to our clever politicians in the House and you’ll learn how to keep the English rulers on the run.”

After eight days of this, it dawned on Jakob that Pretoria’s hopes of a Cape Afrikaner uprising were pointless. These sturdy people with their schools and coffeehouses and politics were not interested in supporting a rebellion.

“Wait a moment!” Du Preez protested when Jakob voiced his disappointment. “At first you asked, ‘Will you support the republics?’ Of course we’ll support them. We’ll argue your case in Parliament. We’ll speak out for you in every meeting. We’ll back you up with letters in our newspapers.”

“But will you support us with arms?”

“Good heavens, no!”

He did locate three young Afrikaners who offered to volunteer, but when he asked around about them he learned they were a bunch of ruffians unable to hold a job with any respectable English firm. The schoolteacher, Mr. Marais, said, “I was unlucky enough to have two of them in my school. They’re wild, like old Rooi van Valck.”

“Maybe that’s what we need.”

“Good heavens, no! There are plenty of decent Afrikaners here who’d want to help you keep your independence. Some may even want to join your fight. Perhaps the Boers near your borders. But don’t count on it. And the three rascals you have found won’t help your army much.”

“We have no army. Only commandos.”

“Then you’ll lose the war. Because the English surely will have an army, and that makes a difference.”

Jakob was glad to be rid of Cape Town. The Afrikaners there seemed more interested in playing political games than in fighting for their freedoms. Little things had irritated him, too, like Du Preez and Carolus Marais saying “Good heavens!” as if they were proper Englishmen. He saw other manifestations of this pervasive English influence, all making him think that the local Afrikaners were corrupted by their long severance from the Boers of the north. It was impossible
to imagine Paulus de Groot in the Cape setting, or his own vibrant father, Tjaart. There were apparently two groups of Afrikaners now, and the southern had fallen into the hands of the enemy.

The train puffed across the Cape flats to Stellenbosch, out beyond the broken hedge of bitter almond: it passed suburban backyards, small settlements and numerous farms. He had left Cape Town with no promises, but he felt confident that when he got among his own people at Trianon his reception would be different, for these Afrikaners lived outside the debilitating influences of the city, and he would be able to talk with them in specifics.

When he saw the lovely tree-lined streets of Stellenbosch and the low white buildings, he felt that he had come to a town that had always been his. He stopped at a small, very clean whitewashed inn, where he had a room overlooking the central square and better food than he had enjoyed in some time. Three other travelers shared his table, men in from farms near Swellendam, and they wanted to know his business. When he told them that he was a farmer, too, but from Venloo in the Zuid-Afrikaansche Republiek, they all leaned forward: “What’s Oom Paul doing up there?”