The Covenant (122 page)

“He’s facing down the English, and he better, or you’ll all be losing your freedoms.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with more freedom if I had it,” one of the farmers said.

“I mean freedom to worship as you wish. Have Dutch taught to your children.”

“We have that now.”

Another broke in: “You say your name’s Van Doorn? One of our Van Doorns?”

“The same.”

“You’re not going to talk to them about joining Kruger’s ridiculous war?”

“It’s the duty of every good Afrikaner to support Oom Paul.”

“Agreed,” the three men said at once. And one added, “I liked it when he took the strap and belted those lords of Johannesburg and their cheeky Uitlanders. But war … against England … With her navy? And her empire? Your people can’t be serious about that?”

“Aren’t you?” Jakob asked.

“Good heavens, no.”

There was the phrase again, spoken in accented English, betraying the corruption that had overtaken these good people; they lived
so far from the heartland of the Volk, where great decisions were being made, that they could not comprehend the problems facing them. He rose to leave this depressing assembly, but as he walked away one of the farmers warned him: “Don’t go talking rebellion to the ones at Trianon. They sell their wine to London.”

The warning was perceptive, for next morning when he hired a cart to carry him west to the winery, he could see that its vineyards were so substantial and so ancient that whoever owned them must perforce be a cautious man; but when the driver swung about in a large circle to approach the house from the west, and Jakob saw for the first time that magnificent entrance, with the white arms reaching out in welcome and the great house standing in pristine loveliness, he gasped.

“These are the Van Doorns of Trianon,” he whispered respectfully. The place was like some palace he might have seen in a children’s book, all green grass and blue hills, white walls of an older society. When the car approached the big house the driver blew a small whistle, which brought the occupants to the stoep.

“It’s Jakob come from up north!” the master of the house shouted to his children, whereupon he leaped off the stoep, rushed to the cart, and embraced this almost-forgotten cousin.

“I am Coenraad van Doorn,” he said, pushing Jakob back so he could see him better. “And this is my wife, Florrie. The two boys are Dirk and Gerrit and the baby is Clara. Now come in.”

With real enthusiasm the young master of the vineyards, only thirty years old, led Jakob through the front door and into the spacious line of rooms which comprised the forward leg of the H. In the center of this line stood the reception hall; to the left, a lofty-ceilinged room for meetings; to the right, the guest bedroom in which Jakob would stay. But once his bags were deposited, he was led back through the crossbar of the H and into the warm, lively room where meals were served, off which the family bedrooms ranged. What was so very pleasing about the arrangement of this house was that gardens proliferated in both squares, so that all rooms were surrounded by flowers. The place had an air of elegance that almost overwhelmed Jakob.

Young Coenraad showed himself to be an able fellow: “My father died too soon, and someone had to take command. I feel quite submerged. I’ve never been to Europe, you know, and most of our accounts are there. I must trust the opinions of others.”

“Does the business prosper?”

“Famously. But I’m worried. If this war talk continues …”

“I don’t think it will stop. Up north many people believe that war with England is inevitable.”

“Wrong decisions, Jakob, are never inevitable. A wise man can always turn back from a precipice.”

“Are you telling me—you, a Van Doorn—that we Boers must not fight when an enemy wants to steal our lands and oppress us?”

“What oppression?” He almost laughed as he spoke.

Jakob had no opportunity to pursue the matter, because young Coenraad saw his cousin’s visit as an opportunity to unravel the mysteries of the Van Doorns in South Africa, and before Jakob knew what was happening, a large sheet of white paper was laid down before him, with names and lines indicating the various members of the family: “Willem and Marthinus in the 1600s I have. It’s the next generation that confuses us, isn’t that right, Florrie?” His wife came to sit with the two men, explaining from the chart how the two sons of Marthinus had separated, one to father the Trianon wine-makers, the other to go out into the veld to form the Vrymeer line. “But what was your ancestor’s name?” Coenraad asked.

Without having the family Bible at hand, Jakob could not trace his line so far back: “My great-grandfather was a trekboer called Mal Adriaan. There’s something they say … he discovered Vrymeer. His father may have been the one who left Trianon, but I don’t recall his name.”

“That must have been Hendrik. Who was your grandfather?”

“A famous fighter. They called him Lodevicus the Hammer. He had two or three wives. One was a Wilhelmina, I believe. My mother died only last year. Aletta, eighty-one years old; I think her maiden name was Probenius.”

Carefully Coenraad drew in the lines, making estimates to account for the lost generations. It was a spotty genealogy they constructed, detailed in the case of the Trianon Van Doorns, inaccurate regarding the trekkers.

“But we are cousins,” Coenraad said expansively. “That much we know.” When Jakob tried again to bring up the question of volunteering during the forthcoming war, the wine-maker laughed easily and cut him off: “No one at Trianon wants war. We have no quarrel with the English.” And when Jakob started to argue that no Afrikaner would ever be spiritually free till the English were subdued,
Coenraad drew his children to his side of the table so that they could inspect the diagram of their family, and said firmly, “That’ll be your war, Jakob, not ours.” And he would permit no further discussion.

In September 1899 England began moving troops up to the Orange River and ordering home regiments and units from other colonies to reinforce the Cape and Natal garrisons. The two Boer republics loaded their arsenals also, importing Mausers from Krupp’s and long-range guns for the State Artillery, their only regular military organization. Late in the month the word went out to the commandos: “Opsaal, burghers!” And when the Boers were told to saddle up, they knew that danger was at hand.

One of the first to respond at Vrymeer was Micah Nxumalo: “Baas, the Kaffirs at Groenkop, they got ponies. You want me to see if they’re any good?”

Jakob nodded. “What will those Kaffirs do in the war?”

“Nothing, Baas. Sit in their kraals and talk.”

The Groenkop blacks were a small group who occupied a valley far to the north; some of their people worked for Boers, but they had never entirely surrendered their tribal roots the way Nxumalo had done. They were, of course, part of the Boer republics, but no one took much notice of these pockets of blacks so long as they “behaved” themselves. This would not be their war.

“Will your older boy be riding with us?” Van Doorn asked.

“No. He stay with his mother. I go with you, Baas.”

It never occurred to Micah that he had an option in this matter; if war came, he would naturally ride with the Venloo Commando. His affection for Van Doorn and his respect for the old general would dictate that.

Next morning Paulus de Groot came over to Vrymeer; he and Sybilla had left their miserable house and would stay with the Van Doorns until decisions were reached. His only concern was whether the Venloo men would keep him as leader of their commando, and when Jakob said, “Of course they will. You were a general at Majuba,” he replied with some anxiety, “With a commando, you never know. The burghers of Venloo will make up their own minds.”

In each district a new commandant was elected every five years, and because of his heroics at Majuba, De Groot had won the post every time, but save for a few Kaffir raids and the rout of Dr. Jameson’s
invaders, there had been eighteen years of peace, and there were a dozen young men claiming that they would be better at fighting the English.

De Groot and Van Doorn rode in to Venloo to meet with two hundred and sixty-seven other men who comprised the commando. They were a tough lot, burghers mostly in their thirties, but anywhere between sixteen and sixty, with De Groot the oldest, ignoring his seven years past normal retirement. They met at the church, but not in it, for they were many and each wanted his say. Under the big trees, in the shade, these men of the Boer nation discussed the looming war.

“We beat them at Majuba,” De Groot said, eager to establish his credentials early, “and we’ll donder them again. With these!” And he held up a Mauser. A wagonload of guns had arrived from Pretoria, and they were handed out.

The new weapons caused much excitement, and there was so much free firing that the war almost ended for three burghers who got in the way of the fusillades. But the problem of who would lead remained unsettled, and this was of grave importance for a commando. Tonight it had two hundred and sixty-nine members; tomorrow it might have four hundred or, if things went poorly, it could relapse into a veldkornetcy with less than a hundred fighters. It all depended upon how the war was progressing, conditions in Venloo, and what the burghers thought of their leader.

The law said that every male citizen had to serve when summoned, unless officially excused. The commandant-general, his assistant-generals and the combat commanders laid the regulations, but the Boers had lost none of their independent Voortrekker spirit, nor their disregard for meddlesome authority. They might be ordered to serve in a commando, and Oom Paul might have a law which said they would be thrown in jail if they refused, but once they were in the saddle, they would recognize their leader only as chief among equals.

If he made one serious mistake, half his troops might ride off in disgust, and even if he were continuously brilliant, his burghers still might go home if they grew sick of the war or apprehensive about its outcome. Also, every fighting man considered himself free to quit the commando he was in and transfer to another, if he liked its fighting style better or considered its leader more apt to win his battles.

It was crucial, therefore, to select the right man at the beginning, and one burgher said, “Naturally, we would want you to carry on as
commandant, De Groot, a former general and all. But you’re an old man now, and I doubt you could stand the chases.”

“He can ride better than me,” Jakob said.

“We need someone who can think quickly,” another said. “You know, the English are going to throw their best generals into this fight.” It was uncertain whether this speaker was for old Paulus or against him, but before he could clarify his statement, another said warmly, “If De Groot did so well at Majuba, and when the Uitlander raiders came …”

“I think he’s too old.”

Without a vote having been taken, it seemed that sentiment ran something like 180–89 in favor of the old man, but one of the complainants said with some force, “This won’t be Majuba or untrained Uitlanders. We need someone young, with strength in the saddle.”

The commando decided not to vote that night, but to think some more about the touchy problem; each burgher was convinced that war with England was only days away, that it would be demanding, and that they must have the best leader possible.

Some of the men wished to consult with Jakob, since he had been to both Cape Town and Pretoria: “How does it look with the Boers at the Cape?”

“I found three boys who’ll be cleaning their rifles tonight. But we can forget about real help from the south. They will not fight. Say they’ll win their war on the floor of their Parliament, and that we’re wasting our time with commandos.”

“Verdomp! We’ll show them. God alone knows, we’ll show the whole damn world, too.”

“Tell me, Van Doorn,” a thoughtful burgher asked. “Who do you want as commandant?”

“We already have one—Paulus. He’s a true leader.”

They left it at that, and De Groot slept that night at the Van Dooms’; before going to bed he said fervently, “I would like to serve, Jakob. I have ideas about how to handle the English.”

“We’ll have to wait and see. A lot of them think you’re too old.”

“I am,” De Groot conceded quickly. “But I’m the one with ideas.”

Next morning the burghers resumed discussion, and sentiment swung strongly to a vigorous young man who farmed east of Vrymeer, but someone pointed out that he was always talking about how clever the Hollanders in Pretoria were and how the Boers could learn some culture from them. That finished him, for while most Boers
supported Oom Paul in anything he did, they distrusted the Amsterdam clique around him, the hundreds who had been imported to serve in the Boer government. Some Venloo men said, “The damned Hollanders are almost as bad as the Uitlanders.”

The vote was taken that afternoon, and old Paulus de Groot was retained as commandant, 201–68, grudgingly by some, who mumbled, “We wanted someone younger. But we’ll give you a chance.” All he said was “Get your saddles ready.”

At Vrymeer the old man gathered everyone in the farmhouse kitchen, and with his hands resting on the ancient Van Doorn Bible, he said, “When God chooses a people to do His work, He places on that people many demands, but in our response He watches over us and always brings us victory. Sybilla, are you ready?” The old woman, her hair drawn tight across her head, nodded. “Sara, will you guard the farm and the children?” The younger woman nodded, bringing her young son closer to her side. “Girls, will you defend this home against the Englishmen, if they come?”

“We will,” the twins said gravely, but Johanna, the older girl, merely nodded.

“Then your father and I can go to war with easy hearts. Let us pray,” and in the farmhouse, so far removed from conflict, the eight farm people bowed their heads and clasped their hands: