The Covenant (79 page)

The ostracism worried him not at all. As he told his wife, “We’re in an age of change, and it’s going to take time.” That it would require two hundred years or more would have stunned him, for he moved about the ship unconcerned with the present, assured that the future would see a better balance between the races. With anyone who would speak with him, he talked quietly of mission life, explained the various regions of South Africa, and shared his vision of the future:

He was so persuasive in his quiet way that toward the end of the voyage certain passengers approached the captain and said that they would like to recommend Reverend Saltwood as minister for one of the last Sundays, but this was dismissed abruptly: “Passengers wouldn’t hear of it.” To which the men replied, “We’re passengers, and we think the others would accept.” The appeal was denied.

However, little Emma had been active among the children, telling them outrageous accounts of lions and leopards, of hippos in the
river and rhinos crashing through the forest. Strangely, what interested the children most was her depiction of the Karroo:

When Blesbok number one returned to his parents, they wanted to know what in the world had happened to him, and he said, “I’m a blesbok, on the Great Karroo.” This started inquiries and several parents discovered that Mrs. Saltwood had been entertaining their children for some time, and when they discussed this with their boys and girls, they found further that she had become something of an idol: “She can sing, and make games with string, and she tells us about ostriches and meerkats.”

So now certain women joined their husbands in an appeal to the captain, but he was adamant against allowing Saltwood to conduct services, on the very good grounds that whereas a few families may have come to accept the missionary, those that really counted were still against it; he knew from past experience that to irritate the rabble signified nothing, but to infringe in the slightest upon the prejudices of the ruling families meant that letters would be written to management and black marks cast. He’d have none of that on his ship.

On the second to last Sunday those families who still wanted to hear Reverend Saltwood preach arranged an alfresco worship on the afterdeck, and to it came most of the children, hoping to hear the missionary’s wife tell one of her stories about ostriches, or perhaps even to sing. She did the latter. When her husband called for one of the Church of England hymns, and there was no organ to set the tune, her voice rose in unwavering volume, a beautiful voice that seemed to fill that part of the ship. Then her husband spoke briefly of Christ’s mission in Africa. He raised no difficult points, ruffled no sensibilities, and when the service ended with another hymn, many of the families congratulated him on an excellent performance. “We’re
so glad you sailed with us,” one man said at the exact moment when the captain, in something of a rage, demanded to know who had authorized the service on the afterdeck.

“It just happened,” a junior officer said.

“Don’t let it happen again,” the captain said. Several passengers had already protested that such a service was a mockery, since the real service was being held in the salon.

At Salisbury there was confusion. Emily had expected her son Richard to appear; she was not prepared for Hilary, and certainly not for his black wife. Had she wanted them to come, she would have sent for them, but when they arrived she simply could not behave poorly. She was glad to see Hilary again, even though he did look older than she, and she was respectful of his choice of a wife.

In the second week she confided to her friend Mrs. Lambton: “Thank God, I behaved myself. That Emma’s a treasure.”

“Can you stomach the blackness?”

“I’m happy if my son’s happy. You must feel the same way about Vera, married to the wagon builder. Emma tells me your daughter is quite content, with two—or was it three?—lovely children.”

“To tell you frankly, Emily, long ago, before you talked with me, I dreamed that about this time Vera would be coming back to Salisbury with Hilary—that he’d be taking up his duties at the cathedral …” Suddenly she burst into uncontrollable tears, and after they were stanched she said bitterly, “Damn! Damn! How dreadfully wrong things happen. How can you stand having that blackamoor in your house?”

Emily wanted to weep, too, not for the black woman in her house, but for her son David, lost God knows where in Indiana, for Richard with his illiterate stable girl, and most of all for Hilary, that sad, mixed-up man about whose head such ugly rumors flew.

“You know what they’re saying in London?” Mrs. Lambton said after her sniffles were brought under control. “Dr. Keer himself said to a small gathering … Our Cousin Alice was there and heard him. He says that poor Hilary is an outcast, that he’s made a perfect ass of himself, with English and Dutch alike.”

“I suppose it’s true,” Emily said. “But I wonder if it matters. In God’s eyes, I mean. The other day I received a letter from London. Someone who’d been on the ship with Hilary. They said his sermon
on the voyage was like Christ Himself walking among men and restating His principles. He said he thought I’d like to know.”

At this Mrs. Lambton dissolved completely, and after a series of racking sobs, mumbled, “I had so wanted them to marry. Vera could have saved your son, Emily. She’d have made him strong and proper. He’d have been dean over there, mark my words. He’d have been dean.”

“The rest of the letter,” Emily continued, “said that Hilary had been denied use of the proper chapel aboard ship. The salon, I think they call it. He had to preach in the open. I think Jesus often preached in the open. I don’t think even Vera could have gained permission for my son to preach inside. I think he was ordained to—” Against her will she broke into fearful sobs: He was so gaunt. He looked so sickly. The house they lived in on the desert, it sounded like a peat-gatherer’s hut. He looked so very tired. And his poor wife had to make all the decisions.

With an unexpected thrust of her hand, she took hold of Mrs. Lambton’s arm and cried, “Laura, why do these things happen? I’ll never see Richard or David again in this life. You’ll never see Vera or the children. We sit here like two old spiders in a web, with the flies far, far away. Karroo! Karroo! Who gives a damn about Karroo? Or Indiana, either? Life is here, and we’ve let it slip away. We have a cathedral, the loveliest in England, but the choristers have fled. I feel such grief for that poor black woman in my garden. Laura, I could die of grief.”

Things improved not at all when Sir Peter came down from Parliament, well aware of what an embarrassment Hilary’s visit was causing. Several London newspapers had run cartoons showing an elongated missionary accompanied by his fat dwarfish wife with bare breast and grass tutu, entitled “The Bishop and His Hottentot Venus” or other amusing jests, and the ridicule was beginning to have wide effect. Lady Janice was both mortified and apprehensive, fearing that it would be hurtful to the good work her husband was trying to accomplish, and she came to Salisbury intending to take stern measures and insist that her brother-in-law and his wife leave immediately.

But when Sir Peter saw his younger brother and was reminded of that emotional moment at Old Sarum when he had invited his brothers always to come back to Sentinels, he relaxed, and pleaded with his wife to do the same, so although he could not express any warmth
over this reunion, he did extend courtesies. Even Lady Janice was reasonably decent to her black sister-in-law.

In long discussions on the benches under the oak trees, Sir Peter sought guidance from his brother as to how England ought to conduct itself in this new colony: “You know, Hilary, that I’m rather the leader in the House on these matters. Yes, government’s given me free reign to work something out. Close touch with the Colonial Office, and all that. And you create such a different impression from what Simon Keer’s been telling me that I wonder if we shouldn’t call him down here for some serious consultation.”

“That would be capital,” Hilary said, not the least vengeful over Keer’s treatment of him at Grahamstown. So the fiery leader of the Africa philanthropists was sent for, and in the meantime Emma Saltwood was exploring Salisbury. Each morning she helped serve breakfast, then donned a little white cap, took an umbrella, more as a stick for walking than for rain, and crossed over the Roman bridge into the village, where she spoke softly with anyone who wished to ask her about Africa and nodded deferentially to those who did not. She frequented all the shops, marveling at their intricacies, purchasing one small gift after another for her children.

Her reception was uneven. Women of good family who enthusiastically supported Dr. Keer’s philanthropic movement loved the blacks in Africa, which they proved by their generous contributions, but were uneasy when a specific black took residence in their village and looked askance when Emma passed their way. It was the clerks in the shops and the housewives marketing who came to regard the missionary’s wife as one of themselves, greeting her warmly when they met. They began to talk with her about lions and mealies and meerkats and the tanning of hides. But mostly they marveled at her clear voice when she sang at services, and one man who knew music said, “I cannot believe so much voice can emit from such a small frame.” He asked if she would sing for him in his study, and there, with the assistance of two pupils, he tested the range and power of her voice. She liked the experiment, took deep breaths, and sang a chain of wonderful notes.

Now cartoons appeared entitled “The Hottentot Nightingale,” and she was asked to sing at various affairs and even to travel to Winchester to sing in the cathedral there. Always she maintained her smile, her willingness to work and talk with others. England at this period had an insatiable interest in her colonies and the strange peoples
they contained, and many persons like Emma had been imported to serve as nine-day wonders, but only a few reached the provinces. In Wiltshire, Emma Saltwood was a sensation.

Therefore, when Dr. Keer arrived in town he could no longer ignore the little Hottentot, as everyone called her. Remembering that she was Sir Peter’s sister-in-law, he had to treat her decently, and insofar as he could unbend to an inferior, he did.

Hilary, who could bear no animosity toward anyone, was actually pleased to see the dynamic little agitator, although, as he told Emma, “He doesn’t seem so little now. Success and moving with important people have made him taller.”

“It’s a game with him,” Emma said shrewdly. “The pieces on the board are no longer plain checkers. Now they’re knights and parliaments.”

“But don’t forget. It was this man who taught me to love Jesus,” Hilary said.

“Don’t you forget!” Emma laughed. “He taught me, too. He was like thunder and lightning.”

They speculated on what could have caused the profound change, and reached no conclusion, but when the three men sat beside the River Avon, admiring the swans that moved through the rippled reflections of the cathedral, Hilary was willing to concede that Keer was motivated by one ambition: to end slavery. Everything else was secondary; he had moved from the veld onto a world stage: “The pressing task no longer concerns the Cape Colony. It focuses solely on Parliament. We must pass the anti-slavery measure. We must force the colonial secretary to issue the ordinances I’ve drafted. We must press forward, always forward.” It was obvious that he had little concern with Boers, Kaffirs or Englishmen as human beings, but only with a rationalized system, and confessed this: “In the government of nations, the time often comes when the establishment of a principle ensures freedom for centuries to come. We’re at such a marking point.”

“You don’t agree?” Sir Peter asked his brother.

“Oh, but I do. Dr. Keer’s right. We are at a turning point. But I believe it involves specific human beings and not abstract principles. Peter, in whatever you do, you must ask how this will affect the Boer farmer, for he is white South Africa. And how it will affect the Xhosa—”

“You mean the Kaffirs?”

“I never use that word. They’re individual tribesmen. The Xhosa,
the Pondo, the Tembu, the Fingo, the Zizi. And one day they’ll be Africa. So be careful what you do to them. And finally you ought to ask yourself, ‘How will this affect the Englishman?’ Because I assume we’ll govern the place for generations to come, and we must do so with justice.”

“Can’t we protect both Dr. Keer’s general interest and your specific ones?”

“I’m afraid not. I think that when governments regulate in general, they stifle the individual, and then he festers and grows revolutionary and upsets everything. Start with individual justice and you’ll guide the general.”

“Quite wrong,” Keer said with some force. “Unless the principles are laid down, nothing good can follow.”

Sir Peter addressed his brother: “How about the abolition of slavery? Surely Dr. Keer is right on that.”