THE SOUND OF THUNDER

 Wilbur Smith

 Four years of travel in the road less wilderness had battered the wagons.

 Many of the wheel-spokes and disselboonu had been replaced with raw

 native timber; the canopies were patched until little of the original

 canvas was visible; the teams were reduced from eighteen to ten oxen

 each, for there had been predators and sickness to weed them out. But

 this exhausted little caravan carried the teeth of five hundred elephant;

 ten -tons of ivory; the harvest of Sean Courtneys rifle; ivory that he

 would convert into nearly fifteen thousand gold sovereigns once he

 reached Pretoria.

 Once more Sean was a rich man. His clothing was stained and baggy,

 crudely mended; his boots were worn almost through the uppers and

 clumsily resoled with raw buffalo hide; a great untrimmed beard covered

 half his chest and a mane of black hair curled down his neck to where

 it had been hacked away with blunt scissors above the collar of his

 coat. But despite his appearance he was rich in ivory, also in gold

 held for him in the vaults of the Volkskaas Bank in Pretoria.

 On a rise of ground beside the road he sat his horse and watched the

 leisurely plodding approach of his wagons. It is time now for the

 farm, he thought with satisfaction. Thirty-seven years old, no longer

 a young man, and it was time to buy the farm. He knew the one he

 wanted and he knew exactly where he would build the homestead-site it

 close to the lip of the escarpment so that in the evenings he could sit

 on the wide stoep look out across the plain to the Tugela River in the

 blue distance.

 "Tomorrow early we will reach Pretoria. " The voice beside him

 interrupted his dreaming, and Sean moved in the saddle and looked down

 at the Zulu who squatted beside his horse.

 "It has been a good hunt, Mbejane. " "Nkosi, we have killed many

 elephant." Mbejane nodded and Sean noticed for the first time the

 strands of silver in the wooly cap of his hair. No longer a young man

 either.

 "And made many marches," Sean went on and Mbejane inclined his head

 again in grave agreement.

 "A man grows weary of the trek, " Sean mused aloud. "There is a time

 when he longs to sleep two nights at the same place. " "And to hear

 the singing of his wives as they work the fields. " Mbejane carried it

 further. "And to watch his cattle come into the kraal at dusk with his

 sons driving them. " "That time has come for both of us, my friend. We

 are going home to Ladyburg. " The spears rattled against Ins raw-hide

 shield as MbeJane stood up, muscles moved beneath the black velvet of

 his skin and he lifted his head to Sean and smiled.

 It was a thing of white teeth and radiance, that smile. Sean had to

 return it and they grinned at each other like two small boys in a

 successful bit of mischief.

 "If we push the oxen hard this last day we can reach Pretoria tonight,

 Nkosi. " "Let us make the attempt. " Sean encouraged him and walked

 his horse down the slope to intercept the caravan.

 As it toiled slowly towards them through the flat white glare of the

 African morning a commotion started at its rear and spread quickly

 along the line, the dogs clamoured and the servants shouted

 encouragement to the rider who raced past them towards the head of the

 caravan. He lay forward in the saddle, driving the pony with elbows

 and heels, hat hanging from the leather thong about his neck and black

 hair ruffled with the speed of his run.

 "That cub roars louder than the lion that sired him," grunted Mbejane,

 but there was a fondness in his expression as he watched the rider

 reach the leading wagon and drag the pony from full run down on to his

 haunches.

 "Also he spoils the mouth of every horse he rides." Sean's voice was

 as harsh as Mbejane's, but there was the same fond expression in his

 eyes as he watched his son cut loose the brown body of a springbok from

 the pommel of his saddle and let it drop into the road beside the

 wagon. Two of the wagon drivers hurried to retrieve it, and Dirk

 Courtney kicked his pony and galloped down to where Sean and Mbejane

 waited beside the road.

 "Only one?" Sean asked as Dirk checked the pony and circled back to

 fall in beside him.

 "Oh, no. I got three-three with three shots. The gun boys are

 bringing the others. " Offhanded, taking as natural that at nine years

 of age he should be providing meat for the whole company, Dirk slouched

 down comfortably in the saddle, holding the reins in one hand and the

 other resting negligently on his hip in faithful imitation of his

 father.

 Scowling a little to cover the strength of his pride and his love, Sean

 examined him surreptitiously. The beauty of this boy's face was almost

 indecent, the innocence of the eyes and faultless skin should have

 belonged to a girl. The sun struck ruby sparks from the mass of dark

 curls, his eyes spaced wide apart were framed with long black lashes

 and over scored by the delicate lines of the brow. His eyes were

 emerald and his skin was gold and there were rubies in his hair-a face

 fashioned by a jewel smith Then Sean looked at the mouth and

 experienced a twinge of uneasiness. The mouth was too big, the lips

 too wide and soft. The shape of it was wrong-as though it were about

 to sulk or whine.

 "We are making a full day's trek today, Dirk. No out span until we

 reach Pretoria. Ride back and tell the drivers.

 "Send MbeJane. He's doing nothing. " "I told you to go. " "Hell,

 Dad! I've done enough today. " "Go, damn you!" Sean roared with

 unnecessary violence.

 "I've only just come back, it's not fair that-" Dirk started, but Sean

 did not let him finish.

 "Every time I ask you to do something I get a mouthful of argument. Now

 do what I tell you. " They held each other's eyes; Sean glaring and

 Dirk resentful, sulky. Sean recognized that expression with dismay.

 This was going to be another of those tests of will that were becoming

 more frequent between them.

 Would this end as most of the others had? Must he admit defeat and use

 the sjambok again? When was the last time-two weeks ago-when Sean had

 reprimanded Dirk on some trivial point concerning the care of his pony.

 Dirk had stood sullenly until Sean was finished, and then he had walked

 away among the wagons. Dropping the subject from his mind, Sean was

 chatting with MbeJane when suddenly there was a squeal of pain from the

 laager and Sean ran towards it.

 In the centre of the ring of wagons stood Dirk. His face was OR darkly

 flushed with temper, and at his feet the tiny body of one of the

 unweaned puppies flopped and whimpered with its ribs stoved in from

 Dirk's kick.

 In anger Sean had beaten Dirk, but even in his anger he had used a

 length of rope and not the viciously tapered sjantbok of hippo hide.

 Then he had ordered Dirk to his living-wagon.

 At noon he had sent for him and demanded an apology-and Dirk, un crying

 with lips and jaw set grimly, had refused it.

 Sean beat him again, with the rope, but this time coldly-not for the

 sake of retribution. Dirk did not break.

 Finally, in desperation Sean took the sJambok to him. For ten hissing

 strokes, each of which ended with a wicked snap across his buttocks,

 Dirk lay silently under the whip. His body convulsed slightly at each

 lash but he would not speak, and Sean beat him with a sickness in his

 own stomach, and the sweat of shame and guilt running into his eyes,

 swinging the sjambok mechanically with Ins fingers clawed around the

 butt of it, and his mouth full of the shiny saliva of self-hatred.

 When at last Dirk screamed, Sean dropped the sjambok, reeled back

 against the side of the wagon and leaned there gasping, fighting down

 the nausea which flooded acid-tasting up his throat.

 Dirk screamed again and again, and Sean caught him up and held him to

 his chest.

 "I'm sorry, Pa! I'm sorry. I'll never do it again, I promise you. I

 love you, I love you best of all-and I'll never do it again,"

 screamed Dirk, and they clung to each other.

 For days thereafter not one of the servants had smiled at Sean nor

 spoken to him other than to acknowledge an order. For there was not

 one of them, including Mbejane, who would not steal and cheat and lie

 to ensure that Dirk Courtney had whatever he desired at the exact

 moment he desired it. They could hate anyone, including Sean, who

 denied it to him.

 That was two weeks ago. And now, thought Sean watching that ugly

 mouth, do we do it all again?

 Then suddenly Dirk smiled. It was one of those changes of mood that

 left Sean slightly bewildered, for when Dirk smiled his mouth came

 right. It was irresistible.

 "I'll go, Dad." Cheerfully, as though he were volunteering, he prodded

 the pony and trotted back towards the wagons.

 "Cheeky little bugger " gruffed Sean for Mbejane's benefit, but

 silently he queried Ins share of the blame. He had raised the boy with

 a wagon as his home and the veld as his schoolroom, grown men his

 companions and authority over them as his undisputed right of birth.

 Since his mother had died five years before he had not known the

 gentling influence of a woman. No wonder he was a wild one.

 Sean shied away from the memory of Dirk's mother. There was guilt

 there also, guilt that had taken him many years to reconcile. She was

 dead now. There was no profit in torturing himself. He pushed away

 the gloom that was swamping the happiness of a few minutes before,

 slapped the loose end of the reins against his horse's neck and urged

 it out on to the road south towards the low line of hills upon the

 horizon, south towards Pretoria.

 He's a wild one. But once we reach Ladyburg he'll be all right, Sean

 assured himself. They'll knock the nonsense out of him at school, and

 I'll knock manners into him at home. No, he'll be all right.

 That evening, the third of December, 1899, Sean led his wagons down the

 hills and laagered them beside the Apies River.

 After they had eaten, Sean sent Dirk to his cot in the living wagon

 Then he climbed alone to the crest of the hills and looked back across

 the land to the north. It was silver-grey in the moonlight, stretching

 away silent and immeasurable. That was the old life and abruptly he

 turned his back upon it and walked down towards the lights of the city

 which beckoned to him from the valley below.

 There had been a little unpleasantness when he had ordered Dirk to stay

 with the wagons; in consequence Sean was in an evil mood as he crossed

 the bridge on the Apies and rode into the city the following morning.

 Beside him Mbejane ran to keep pace with his horse.

 Deep in his own thoughts Sean turned into Church Street before he

 noticed the unusual activity about him. A column of horsemen forced

 him to rein his horse to the side of the road.

 As they passed Sean examined them with interest.

 Burghers in a motley of homespun and store clothes, riding in a

 formation wich might imaginatively have been called a column of

 fours.

 But what excited Sean's curiosity was their numbers-By God! there must

 be two thousand of them at least, from lads to grey beards each of them

 was festooned with bandoliers of ammunition and beside each left knee

 the butt of a bolt-action Mauser rifle stuck up from its scabbard.

 Blanketrolls tied to the saddles, canteens and cooking-pots clattering,

 they filed past. There was no doubting it. This was a war commando.

 From the sidewalk women and a few men called comment at them.

 " Geluk hoor! Shoot straight.

 "Spoedige terugkonts. " And the commandos laughed and shouted back.

 Sean stooped to a pretty girl who stood beside his horse. She was

 waving a red scarf and suddenly Sean saw that though she smiled her

 eyelashes were loaded with tears like dew on a blade of grass.

 "Where are they going?" Sean raised his voice above the uproar.

 She lifted her head and the movement loosed a tear; it dropped down her

 cheek, slid from her chin and left a tiny damp spot on her blouse.

 "To the train, of course."

 "The train? Which train?"

 "Look, here come the guns."

 In consternation Sean looked up as the guns rumbled past, two of them.

 Uniformed gunners in blue, frogged with gold, sitting stiffly to

 attention on the carriages, the horses leaning forward against the

 immense weight of the guns. Tall wheels shod with steel, bronze

 glittering on the breeches in contrast to the sombre grey of the

 barrels.

 "My God!" breathed Sean. Then turning back to the girl he grasped her

 shoulder and shook it in his agitation. "Where are they going? "Tell

 me quickly-where? " "Menheer!" She bridled at his touch and wriggled

 away from it.

 "Please. I'm sorry-you must tell me." Sean called after her as she

 disappeared into the crowd.

 A minute longer Sean sat stupefied, then Ins brain began to work

 again.

 It was war, then. But where and against whom?

 Surely no tribal rising would call out this array of strength.

 Those guns were the most modern weapons Sean could conceive.

 No, this was a white man's war.

 Against the Orange Republic? Impossible, they were brothers.

 Against the British, then? The idea appalled him. And yet and yet

 five years ago there had been rumours. It had happened before. He

 remembered 1895, and the Jameson Raid. Anything could have happened

 during the years he had been cut off from civilization-and now he had

 stumbled innocently into the midst Of it.

 Quickly he considered his own position. He was British. born in Natal

 under the Union Jack. He looked like a burgher, spoke like one, rode

 like one, he was born in Africa and had never left it-but technically

 he was just as much an Englishman as if he had been born within sound

 of Bow bells.

 Just supposing it was war between the Republic and Britain, and just

 supposing the Boers caught him-what would they do with him?

 Confiscate his wagons and his ivory certainly, throw him into prison

 perhaps, shoot him as a spy possibly!

 "I've got to get to hell out of here, he mumbled, and then to

 Mbejane,

 "Come on. Back to the wagons, quickly." Before they reached the

 bridge he changed his mind. He had to learn with certainty what was

 happening. There was one person he could go to, and he must take the

 risk.

 "Mbejane, go back to the camp. Find Nkosizana Dirk and keep him

 there-even if you have to tie him. Speak to no man and, as you value

 your life, let Dirk speak with no man. It is understood? " "It is

 understood, Nkosi.

 And Sean, to all appearances another burgher among thousands of

 burghers, worked his way slowly through the crowds and the press of

 wagons towards a general dealer's store at the top end of the town near

 the railway station.

 Since Sean had last seen it the sign above the entrance had been

 freshly painted in red and gold. "I. Goldberg. Importer & Exporter,

 Dealing in Mining Machinery, Merchant & Whole Purchasing Agent: gold,

 precious stones, hides and skins, saler ivory and natural produce.

 Despite this war, or because of it, Mr. Goldberg's emporium was doing

 good business. It was crowded and Sean drifted unnoticed among the

 customers, searching quietly for the proprietor.

 He found him selling a bag of coffee beans to a gentleman who was

 plainly sceptical of its quality. The discussion of the merits of Mr.

 Goldberg's coffee beans as opposed to those of his competitor across

 the street was becoming involved and technical.

 Sean leaned against a shelf full of merchandise, packed his pipe, lit

 it and while he waited he watched Mr. Goldberg in action. The man

 should have been a barrister, his argument was strong enough to

 convince first Sean and finally the customer.

 The latter paid, slung the bag over his shoulder and grumbled his way

 out of the shop, leaving Mr. Goldberg glowing pink and perspiring in

 the flush of achievement.

 "You haven't lost any weight, Izzy, " Sean greeted him.

 Goldberg peered at him uncertainly over his gold-framed spectacles,

 beginning to smile until suddenly he recognized Sean. He blinked with

 shock, jerked his head in a gesture of invitation so his jowls wobbled,

 and disappeared into the back office. Sean followed him.

 "Are you mad, Mr. Courtney?" Goldberg was waiting for him, quivering

 with agitation. "If they catch you. " "Listen Izzy. I arrived last

 night. I haven't spoken to a white man in four years.

 What the hell is going on here?"

 "You haven't heard?"

 "No, damn it, I haven't."

 "It's war, Mr. Courtney.

 "I can see that. But where? Against whom?"

 "On all the borders-Natal, the Cape."

 "Against?"

 "The British Empire." Goldberg shook his head as though he did not

 believe his own statement. "We've taken on the whole British Empire. "

 "We?" Sean asked sharply.

 "The Transvaal Republic and the Orange Free State. Already we have won

 great victories, Ladysmith is besieged, Kimberley, Mafeking-" YOU,

 personally?" "I was born here in Pretoria. I am a burgher.

 "Are you going to turn me in?"

 "No, of course not. You've been a good customer of mine for years.

 "Thanks, Izzy. Look, I've got to get out of here as fast as I can. "It

 would be wise."

 "What about my money at the Volkskaas-can I get it out?

 Izzy shook his head sadly. "They've frozen all enemy accounts.

 "Damn it, God damn it! " Sean swore bitterly, and then,

 "IIzzy, I've got twenty wagons and ten tons of ivory parked out there

 on the edge of town-are you interested?"

 "How much?"

 "Ten thousand for the lot; oxen, wagons, ivory-the lot."

 "It would not be patriotic, Mr. Courtney," Goldberg decided

 reluctantly. "Trading with the enemy-besides I have only your word

 that it's ten tons. " "Hell, Izzy, I'm not the British Army-that lot

 is worth twenty thousand quid. " "You want me to buy sight unseen-no

 questions asked? All right. I'll give you four thousand-gold.

 "Seven." "Four and a half," countered Izzy.

 "You bastard. " "Four and a half.

 "No, damn you. Five!" growled Sean.

 "Five?

 "Five!

 "All right, five.

 "Thanks, IZZy. " "Pleasure, Mr. Courtney."

 Sean described the location of his laager hurriedly.

 "You can send someone out to pick it up. I am going to run for the

 Natal border as soon as it's dark.

 "Keep off the roads and well clear of the railway. Joubert has thirty

 thousand men in Northern Natal, massed around Ladysmith and along the

 Tugela heights. " Goldberg went to the safe and fetched five small

 canvas bags from it. "Do you want to check?"

 "I'll trust you as you trusted me. Good-bye, Izzy." Sean dropped the

 heavy bags down the front of his shirt and settled them under his

 belt.

 "Good luck, Mr. Courtney."

 There were two hours of daylight left when Sean finished paying his

 servants. He pushed the tiny pile of sovereigns across the tailboard

 of the wagon towards the last man and went with him through the

 complicated ritual of farewell, the hand-clapping and clasping, the

 repetition of the formal phrases-then he stood up from his chair and

 looked around the circle. They squatted patiently, watching him with

 wooden black faces-but reflected back from them he could sense Ins own

 sorrow at this parting.

 Men with whom he had lived and worked and shared a hundred hardships.

 It was not easy to leave them now.

 "It is finished," he said.

 " Yebho, it is finished." They agreed in chorus and no one moved.

 "Go, damn YOU! Slowly one of them stood and gathered the bundle of his

 possessions, a kaross (or skin blanket), two spears, a cast-off shirt

 that Sean had given him. He balanced the bundle on his head and looked

 at Sean.

 -Nkosi! " he said and lifted a clenched fist in salute.

 "Nonga," Sean replied. The man turned away and trudged out of the

 laager.

 "nosi!"

 "Hlubi.

 "Nkosi!"

 "Lim.

 A roll call of loyalty-Sean spoke their names for the last time, and

 singly they left the laager. Sean stood and watched them walk away in

 the dusk. Not one of them looked back and no two men walked together.

 It was finished.

 Wearily Sean turned back to the laager. The horses were ready.

 Three with saddles, two carrying packs.

 "We will eat first, Mbejane. " "It is ready, Nkosi. Hlubi cooked

 before he went."

 "Come on, Dirk. Dinner."

 Dirk was the only one who spoke during the meal. He chattered gaily,

 wrought up with excitement by this new adventure, while Sean and

 MbeJane shovelled fat Hlubi's stew and hardly tasted it.

 Out in the gathering darkness a jackal yelped, a lonely sound on the

 evening wind, fitting the mood of a man who had lost friends and

 fortune.

 "It is time." Sean shrugged into his sheepskin jacket and buttoned it

 as he stood to kick out the fire, but suddenly he froze and stood with

 his head cocked as he listened. There was a new sound on the wind.

 "Horses!" Mbejane confirmed it.

 "Quickly, Mbejane, my rifle." The Zulu leapt up, ran to the horses and

 slipped Sean's rifle from its scabbard.

 "Get out of the light and keep your mouth shut," Sean ordered as he

 hustled Dirk into the shadows between the wagons.

 He grabbed the rifle from MbeJane and levered a cartridge into the

 breech and the three of them crouched and waited.

 The click and roll of pebbles under hooves, the soft sound of a branch

 brushed aside.

 "One only," whispered Mbejane. A pack-horse whickered softly and was

 answered immediately from the dari mess Then silence, a long silence

 broken at last by the jingle of a bridle as the rider dismounted.

 Sean saw him then, a slim figure emerging slowly out of the night and

 he swung the rifle to cover his approach. There was something unusual

 in the way the stranger moved, gracefully but with a sway from the

 hips, long-legged like a colt and Sean knew that he was young, very

 young to judge by his height.

 With relief Sean straightened up from his crouch and examined him as he

 stopped uncertainly beside the fire and peered into the shadows.

 The lad wore a peaked cloth cap pulled down over Ins ears and his

 jacket was an expensive, honey-coloured chamois. His riding breeches

 were beautiffilly tailored and hugged his buttocks snugly. Sean

 decided that his backside was too big and out of proportion to the

 small feet clad in polished English hunting boots. A regular dandy,

 and the scorn was in Sean's tone as he called out.

 "Stay where you are, friend, and state your business!"

 The effect of Sean's challenge was unexpected. The lad jumped, the

 soles of his glossy boots cleared the ground by at least six inches,

 and when he landed again he was facing Sean.

 "Talk up. I haven't got all night.

 The lad opened his mouth, closed it again, licked his lips and spoke.

 "I was told you were going to Natal. " The voice was low and husky.

 "Who told you that?" demanded Sean.

 "MY uncle. " "Who is your uncle?

 "Isaac Goldberg. " Sean digested this intelligence and while he did so

 he examined the face before him. Cleanshaven, pale, big dark eyes and

 a laughing kind of mouth that was now pursed with night.

 "And if I am?" Sean demanded.

 "I want to go with you. " "Forget it. Get back on your horse and go

 home.

 "I'll pay you-I'll pay you well. " Was it the voice or the posture of

 the lad, Sean pondered, there was something very odd about him. He

 stood with a flat leather pouch held in both hands across the front of

 his hip sing an attitude of defence, as though he were protecting,

 protecting what? And suddenly Sean knew what it was.

 "Take off your cap," he ordered.

 "No. " "Take it off.

 A second longer the lad hesitated, then in a gesture that was almost

 defiance he jerked off the cap and two thick black braids of hair,

 shiny in the firelight, dropped and hung down almost to his waist and

 transformed him instantly from gawky masculinity into stunning

 womanhood.

 Although he had guessed it, Sean was unprepared for the shock of this

 revelation. It was not so much her beauty, but her attire that caused

 the shock. Never in his life had Sean seen a woman in breeches, and

 now he gasped. Breeches, by God, she might as well be naked from the

 waist down-even that would be less indecent.

 "Two hundred pounds-" She was coming towards him now, offering the

 pouch. At each step the cloth of the breeches tightened across her

 thighs and Sean dragged his eyes guiltily back to her face.

 "Keep your money, lady. " Her eyes were grey, smoky grey.

 "Two hundred on account, and as much again when we reach Natal. " "I'm

 not interested." But he was, those soft lips starting to quiver.

 "How much then? Name your price.

 "Look, lady. I'm not heading a procession. There are three of us

 already-one a child. There is hard riding ahead, plenty of it, and an

 army of Boers in between. Our chances are slim enough as it is.

 Another member to the party, and a woman at that, will make them

 prohibitive. I don't want your money, all I want is to get my son to

 safety. Go home and sit this war out it won't last long. " "I'm going

 to Natal."

 "Good.  You go then-but not with us. Sean could not trust himself

 longer to resist the appeal of those grey eyes and he turned to

 Mbejane. "Horses," he snapped and walked away from her. She stood

 watching him quietly as they mounted up, making no protest. She seemed

 very small and alone as Sean looked down at her from the saddle.

 "I am sorry," he growled. "Go home now like a good girl," and quickly

 he wheeled away and trotted out into the night.

 All night they rode, east through the open moonlit land. Once they

 passed a darkened homestead and a dog barked, but they sheered away and

 then turned east again and held the great crucifix of the Southern

 Cross at their right-hand. When Dirk fell asleep in the saddle and

 slipped sideways, Sean caught him before he hit the ground, pulled him

 across into his lap and held him there for the rest of the night.

 Before dawn they found a clump of bush on the bank of a stream, hobbled

 the horses and made camp. Mbejane had the billy can boiling over a

 small well-screened fire and Sean had rolled Dirk unconscious into his

 blankets when the girl rode into camp and jumped down from her horse.

 "I nearly lost you twice. She laughed and pulled off the cap.

 "Gave me a horrible night. " She shook down the shiny braids.

 "Coffee! Oh good, I'm famished."

 Menacingly Sean climbed to his feet and with clenched fists he glared

 at her, but undismayed she hobbled her horse and turned it loose before

 acknowledging him again.

 "Don't stand on ceremony, please be seated. " And she grinned at him

 with such devilment in her grey eyes, aping so faithfully his stance

 with hands on those indecent hips, that Sean suddenly found himself

 smiling. He tried to stop it for he knew it was an admission of

 surrender, but his effort was so unsuccessful that she burst into

 delighted laughter.

 "How's your cooking? " he demanded.

 "So SO." "You'd better brush up on it because from now on you're

 working your passage. " Later, when he had sampled it for the first

 time, he admitted grudgingly,

 "Not bad-in the circumstances," and wiped the plate with a crust of

 bread.

 "You are too kind, sir." She thanked him and lugged her blanket-roll

 into the shade, spread it, pulled off her boots, wriggled her toes and

 lay back with a sigh.

 Sean positioned his own bedroll with care so that, when he opened his

 eyes, without turning his head he could watch her from under the brim

 of the hat that covered his face.

 He woke at midday and saw that she slept with one cheek in her open

 hand, the lashes of her eyes meshed together and a few loose strands of

 dark hair across a face that was damp and flushed in the drowsy heat.

 He watched her for a long time before silently rising and crossing to

 his saddle-bags. When he went down to the stream he took with him his

 flat canvas toilet-bag, the remaining pair of breeches that were

 neither patched nor too badly stained and a clean silk shirt.

 Sitting on a rock beside the water, naked and freshly scrubbed, he

 regarded his face in the polished steel mirror.

 "A big job. " He sighed and started snipping at the great bush of

 beard which had not felt the scissors in dime years.

 At dusk, selfconscious as a girl in her first party dress, Sean walked

 back into the camp. They were all awake. Dirk and the girl sat

 together on her blanket in such earnest conversation that neither of

 them noticed his arrival. Mbejane was busy at the fire; he rocked back

 on his heels and examined Sean without change of expression.

 "We'd better eat and get going."

 Dirk and the girl looked up. Her eyes narrowed and then widened

 thoughtfully.

 Dirk gaped at him, and then, "your beard's all funny-" he announced,

 and the girl tried desperately to quell her laughter.

 "Get your blankets rolled up, boy."

 Sean tried to break Dirk's grip on the subject, but like a bulldog Dirk

 held on relentlessly.

 -and why are you wearing your best clothes, Dad?"

 They rode three abreast in the darkness, Dirk between them and Mbejane

 trailing behind with the packhorses. The land rose and fell beneath

 them like the swells of an endless sea and the way in which the grass

 moved with the night wind heightened the illusion of waves.

 Islands in the sea were the dark bulks of the kopJes they passed, and

 the yelp of a jackal was the voice of a seabird.

 "Aren't we holding too far east?" The girl broke the silence and her

 voice blended with the soft sound of the wind.

 "Intentionally," Sean answered. "I want to cross the tail of the

 Drakensberg well clear of the Boer concentrations around Ladysmith and

 the line of rail, " and he looked over Dirk's head at her. She rode

 with her face lifted to the sky.

 -You know the stars?" he asked.

 "A little."

 "So do I. I know them all."  Dirk accepted the challenge and swivelled

 towards the south. "That's the Cross with the pointers, and that's

 Orion with his sword on his belt, and that's the Milky Way."

 "Tell me some others," the girl invited.

 "The others are just ordinary ones-they don't count. They haven't even

 got names.

 "Oh, but they have and most of them have got a story.

 "There was a pause. Dirk was now in an invidious position.

 either he had to admit ignorance, and Dirk's pride was too large to

 swallow with ease, or else he would forgo what promised to be a choice

 series of stories. Large as was his pride, his appetite for stories

 was even larger.

 "Tell me some," he conceded.

 "You see that little clump there underneath the big bright one?

 They are called the Seven Sisters. Well, once upon a time-" Within

 minutes Dirk was completely absorbed. These were even better than

 MbeJane's stories-probably because they were new, while Dirk could

 recite from memory MbeJane's entire repertoire. He fell upon any

 weakness in the plot like a prosecuting attorney.

 "But why didn't they just shoot the old witch?"

 "They didn't have guns in those days.

 "They coulda used a bow and arrow. " "You can't kill a witch with a

 bow and arrow. The arrow just goes-psst-straight through her without

 hurting her. " "Hangs teeth! " That was really impressive, but before

 accepting it Dirk found it necessary to corroborate with expert

 opinion. He checked with Mbejane, translating the problem to the

 Zulu.

 When Mbejane supported the girl Dirk was convinced for Mbejane was a

 celebrated authority on the supernatural.

 That night Dirk did not fall asleep in the saddle and when they camped

 before dawn the girl's voice was hoarse with overwork, but her conquest

 of Dirk was complete and that of Sean was well advanced.

 All night while he listened to her voice and the husky bursts of

 laughter that punctuated it Sean had felt the seed that was planted at

 their first meeting sinking its roots down into his lower belly and

 loins, spreading its tendrils up through his chest.

 He wanted this woman so violently that in her presence his wits failed

 him. Many times during the night he had attempted to join the

 discussions, but each time Dirk had brushed his efforts aside with

 contempt and turned avidly back to the girl. By morning he had made

 the disturbing discovery that he was jealous of his own son-jealous of

 the attention Dirk was getting, and for which he hungered so

 strongly.

 While they drank coffee after the morning meal lying on their blankets

 beneath a grove of syringa trees, Sean remarked: "You haven't told us

 your name yet." And of course it was Dirk that answered.

 "She told me. Your name's Ruth-isn't it?"

 -That's right, Dirk."

 With an effort Sean clamped down on the senseless anger that boiled up

 through him, but when he spoke his voice carried traces of it.

 "We've heard enough from you for one night, my boy. Now get your head

 down, close your eyes and your mouth and keep,

 "I'm not sleepy, Dad."

 "Do what I tell you. " Sean jumped up and strode out of the camp.

 He climbed the small kopJe above them. By now it was full daylight and

 he searched the veld to the horizon on all sides.

 There was no trace of habitation or human. He climbed down again and

 fussed with the hobbles of the horses before returning to the grove of

 syringas.

 Despite his protestations Dirk was curled like a sleeping puppy and,

 near the fire from a large bundle of blankets issued the unmistakable

 snoring of Mbejane. Ruth lay a little apart from them, a blanket

 thrown over her legs, her eyes closed and the front of her shirt rising

 and falling in a manner that gave Sean two good reasons for not

 sleeping. He lay propped on one elbow and fed Ins eyes and his

 imagination on her.

 These four years past he had not seen a white woman, four years without

 the sound of a woman's voice or the comfort of her body. In the

 beginning it had worried him-the restlessness, the undirected fits of

 depression, and sudden bursts of temper.

 But gradually in the long days of hunting and riding, in the endless

 struggle with drought and storm, with beasts and the elements, he had

 brought his body under control. Women had faded into unreality, vague

 phantoms that plagued him only in the night so he twisted and sweated

 and cried out in his sleep until nature gave him release and the

 phantoms dispersed for a while to gather strength for their next

 visitation.

 But this was no phantom that lay beside him now. By stretching out a

 hand he could stroke the faint down on her cheek and feel the

 blood-warm silk of her skin.

 She opened her eyes, they were milky grey with sleep, slowly focusing

 until they levelled with his and returned his scrutiny.

 Because of what she read there, she lifted her left hand from the

 blanket and held it out towards him. Her riding gloves were off. For

 the first time he noticed the slender gold ring that ench-cled her

 third finger.

 "I see, " he muttered dully, and then in protest: "But you are too

 young-you're too young to be married. " "I'm twenty-one years old, "

 she told him softly.

 "Your husband-where is he?" Perhaps the bastard was dead, his one last

 hope.

 "I am going to him now. When war seemed inevitable he went to Natal,

 to Durban, to find a job and a home for us there.

 I was to follow him-but the war came earlier than we expected.

 I was stranded."

 "I see." I am taking you to another man, he thought with bitterness,

 and put it in different words. " So he is sitting in Durban waiting

 for you to make your own way through the lines. " "He is with the army

 of Natal. A week ago he got a message through to me.

 He wanted me to stay on in Johannesburg and wait until the British

 capture the city. He says that with so great a force they will be in

 Johannesburg within three months.

 "Why didn't you wait, then?"

 She shrugged. "Patience is not one of my virtues, " and then the

 devilment was in her eyes again. "Besides, I thought it would be fun

 to run away-it was so terribly dull in Johannesburg. " "Do you love

 him?" he demanded suddenly. The question startled her and the smile

 died on her lips.

 "He's my husband."

 "That doesn't answer my question."

 "It was a question you had no right to ask." She was angry now.

 "You have to tell me.

 "Do you love your wife?" she snapped at him.

 "I did. She's been dead five years. " And her anger flickered out as

 swiftly as it had blazed.

 "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

 "Forget it. Forget I ever asked. " "Yes, that's best. We are getting

 into an awful tangle." Her hand with the ring upon it was still held

 out towards him, lying between them on the soft carpet of fallen

 leaves. He reached out and lifted it. It was a small hand.

 "Mr. Courtney," "Sean," it's best if we must," "think we better sleep

 now. " And she withdrew the hand and rolled away from him.

 The wind woke them in the middle of the afternoon, it roared in from

 the east, flattening the grass on the hills and thrashing the branches

 above their heads.

 Sean looked up at the sky with the wind fluttering his shirt and

 ruffling his beard. He leaned forward against it, towering over Ruth

 so that suddenly she realized how big he was. He looked like a god of

 the storm, with long powerful legs braced apart and the muscles of his

 chest and arms standing out proudly beneath the white silk of his

 shirt.

 "Clouds building up," Sean shouted above the rush of the wind.

 "No moon tonight."

 She stood up quickly and a sudden violent gust threw her off balance.

 She staggered against him and his arms closed about her. For a moment

 she was pressed to his chest, could feel the lean, rubbery resilience

 of his body and smell the man smell of it. it was a shock for both of

 them, this unexpectedly intimate contact and when she broke away her

 eyes were wide and grey with fear of the thing she had felt stir within

 her.

 "I'm sorry," she whispered. "That was an accident." And the wind

 caught her hair and streamed it across her face in a dancing, snapping

 black tangle.

 "We'll up saddle and ride with the daylight that is left, " Sean

 decided. "We won't be able to move tonight."

 The clouds rolled in on the wind, spreading upon themselves, changing

 shape and dropping closer to the earth. Clouds the colour of smoke and

 bruises, heavy with the rain they carried.

 The night came early, but still the wind roared and buffeted them in

 the gloom.

 "It will drop in an hour or so, then we'll get the rain. We'll try and

 find shelter while there's still light enough to see. " On the reverse

 slope of a kopJe they found an overhang of rock and offloaded the packs

 beneath it. While Sean pegged the horses out on their head ropes to

 prevent them walking away before the storm, Mbejane cut grass and piled

 it into a mattress on the rock floor beneath the overhang.

 Huddled in their oilskins they ate biltong and cold mealie bread and

 afterwards Mbejane withdrew discreetly to the far end of the shelter

 and disappeared under his blankets. He had that animal knack of being

 able to sleep instantly and completely even under the most adverse

 conditions.

 "All right, boy. Get into your blankets.

 I

 "Can't I just . . . II Dirk began his nightly protest.

 "No, YOU can't." "I'll sing for you," Ruth offered.

 "What for?" Dirk was puzzled.

 "A sleepy-time song-haven't you ever had a lullaby?"

 "No." But Dirk was intrigued. "What you going to sing?"

 "Into your blankets first. " Sitting beside Sean in the darkness, very

 conscious of his bulk and the touch of his shoulder against hers, the

 muted roar of the wind as her accompaniment-Ruth sang.

 First the old Dutch folksongs,

 "Nooi, Nooi- and

 "Jannie met die Hoepel been," then other old favourites like

 "Frere Jacques. " Her voice meant something to each of them.

 Mbejane woke to the sound of it and it made him remember the wind on

 the hills of Zululand and the singing of the young girls in the fields

 at harvest-time. It made him glad he was going home.

 To Dirk it was the voice of the mother he had hardly known.

 A safe sound-and soon he slept.

 "Don't stop," whispered Sean.

 So she sang for him alone. A love-song from two thousand years ago,

 filled with all the suffering of her people, but with joy in it also.

 The wind died away while she sang and her voice died away with it into

 the vast silence of the night.

 The storm broke. The first thunder crashed and the lightning forked

 jagged-blue through the clouds. Dirk whimpered a little but slept

 on.

 In the stark, blue light Sean saw that Ruth's cheeks were wet with

 tears and when the darkness closed around them again she started to

 tremble against him. He reached out for her and she clung to him,

 small and warm against his chest, and he could taste the salt of her

 tears on his lips.

 "Sean, we mustn't."

 But he lifted her and held her across his chest as he walked out into

 the night. The lightning blazed again and lit the land with startling

 brilliance so he could see the horses huddling heads down, and the

 crisp outline of the kopJe above them.

 The first raindrops splashed against his shoulders and into his face.

 The rain was warm and he walked on carrying Ruth. Then the air was

 filled with rain, an encompassing pearly mist of it in the next flash

 of lightning, and the night was filled with the odour of rain on dry

 earth-a clean warm smell.

 In a still morning, washed so clean by the rain that they could see the

 mountains, blue and sharp on the southern horizon, they stood together

 on the crest of the kopJe.

 "That's the tail of the Drakensberg, we've cleared it by twenty miles.

 There's very little chance of a Boer patrol this far out.

 We can ride by day now. Soon we'll be able to work in again and meet

 the railway beyond the battle lines. " Because of the beauty of the

 morning, of the land that dripped away into the great, grassy bowl that

 was Natal, and of the woman that stood beside him, Sean was gay.

 Because of the promise of an end to the journey and the promise of a

 new one with this woman as his companion, he was content.

 When he spoke she turned slowly to look at him, her chin lifting in

 acknowledgement of his superior height. For the first time Sean

 realized that his own mood was not reflected in her eyes.

 "You are very lovely," he said, and still she remained silent, but now

 he could recognize the shadows in her eyes as sorrow or something even

 stronger.

 "Ruth, you'll come with me?"

 "No. " She shook her head slowly, regretfully. The fat black python

 of hair rolled across her shoulder and hung down against the honey

 chamois leather of her jacket.

 "You must.

 "I cannot. " "But, last night."

 "Last night was madness . . . the storm.

 "It was right. You know that."

 "No. It was the storm." She looked away from him towards the sky.

 "And now the storm is ended. " "It was more than that. You know it.

 It was from the first moment of our meeting. " "It was a madness based

 upon deceit. Something that I will have to cover with lies-the way we

 had to cover it with darkness at the time. " "Ruth. My God, don't

 talk about it like that."

 "Very well, I won't. I won't talk about it again, ever."

 "We can't leave it now. You know we can't. " And in answer she held

 up her left hand so that the gold upon it caught the sun.

 "We'll say good-bye here on a mountain in the sunlight, Though we'll

 ride together a little further-it's here we'll say good-bye. " "Ruth

 .

 he started, but she placed the hand across his mouth and he felt the

 metal of the ring on his lips and it seemed to him that the ring was as

 cold as his dread of the loss she was about to inflict upon him.

 "No," she whispered. "Kiss me once more and then let me go.

 Mbejane saw it first and spoke quietly to Sean, perhaps two miles out

 on their flank, like a smudge of brown smoke rising beyond the fold of

 the nearest ridge, so faint that Sean had to search a moment before he

 found it. Then he swivelled away from it and hunted frantically for

 cover. The nearest was an outcrop of red stone half a mile away, much

 too far.

 "What is it, Sean?" Ruth noticed his agitation.

 "Dust, he told her. "Horsemen. Coming this way.

 "Boers?"

 "Probably. " "What are we going to do?"

 "Nothing. " "Nothing?"

 "When they show on the ridge I'll ride to meet them. Try to bluff our

 way through. " He turned to Mbejane and spoke in Zulu. "I will go to

 them. Watch me carefully, but keep moving away. If I lift my arm let

 the pack-horses go and ride. I will hold them as long as I can, but

 when I lift my arm then it is finished. " Quickly he unbuckled the

 saddle-bag which held the gold and handed it to the Zulu. "With a good

 start you should be able to hold them off until nightfall. Take the

 Nkosikazi where she wishes to go and then with Dirk return to my mother

 at Ladyburg. " He looked again at the ridge just in time to see two

 horsemen appear upon it. Sean lifted the binoculars from his chest; in

 the round field of the glasses the two riders stood broadside, their

 faces turned towards him so he could make out the shape of their

 helmets. He saw the burnished sparkle of their accoutrements, the size

 of their mounts and their distinctive saddlery and he yelled with

 relief.

 "Soldiers!"

 As if in confirmation a squadron of cavalry in two neat ranks broke

 over the skyline with the pennants fluttering gaily on the forest of

 their lances.

 Dirk hooting with excitement, Ruth laughing beside him and Mbejane

 dragging the pack-horses after them, Sean galloped standing in the

 stirrups and waving his hat above his head to meet them.

 Unaffected by the enthusiasm of the welcome the lancers sat stolidly

 and watched them come and the subaltern at their head greeted Sean

 suspiciously as he arrived.

 "Who are you, sir? " But he seemed less interested in Sean's reply

 than in Ruth's breeches and what they contained. During the

 explanations that followed Sean conceived for the man a growing

 dislike. Although the smooth, sun-reddened skin and the fluffy, yellow

 moustache aggravated this feeling, the central cause was the pair of

 pale blue eyes. Perhaps they always popped out that way, but Sean

 doubted it. They focused steadily on Sean only during the short period

 when Sean reported that he had made no contact with the Boer, then they

 swivelled back to Ruth.

 "We'll not detain you longer, Lieutenant," Sean grunted and gathered

 his reins to turn away.

 "You are still ten miles from the Tugela River, Mr. Courtney.

 Theoretically this area is held by the Boers and although we are well

 out on the flank of their main army it would be much safer if you

 entered the British lines under our protection. " "Thank you, no. I

 want to avoid both armies and reach Pietermaritzburg as soon as

 possible." The subaltern shrugged.

 "The choice is yours. But if it were my wife and child . . . " He did

 not finish, but turned in the saddle to signal the column forward.

 "Come on, Ruth. " Sean caught her eye, but she did not move.

 "I'm not going with you." There was a flat quality in her voice and

 she looked away from him.

 "Don't be silly. " It shocked him and gave his reply a harshness that

 lit sparks of anger in her eyes.

 "May I travel with you?" she demanded of the subaltern.

 "Well, ma'am." He hesitated, glancing quickly at Sean before he went

 on. "If your husband . . . " "He's not my husband. I hardly know

 him." She cut in and ignored the exclamation of protest from Sean. "My

 husband is with your army. I want you to take me with you, please. "

 "Well, now ... That's a horse of another colour," the officer drawled,

 but the lazy arrogance of his tone barely concealed his pleasure at the

 prospect of Ruth's company. "I'd be delighted to escort you, ma'am.

 With her knees Ruth backed her mount and fell in beside the subaltern.

 This small manoeuvre placed her directly facing Sean-as though she were

 on the far side of a barrier.

 "Ruth, please. Let me talk to you about this. Just a few minutes. "

 "No. " There was no expression in her voice, not in her face.

 "Just to say good-bye," he pleaded.

 "We've said good-bye." She glanced from Sean to Dirk and then away.

 The subaltern raised his clenched fist high and lifted his voice.

 "Column! Column, Forward!" and as his big, glossy hunter started he

 grinned maliciously at Sean and touched the brim of his helmet in

 ironical salute.

 "Ruth!"

 But she was no longer looking at Sean. Her eyes were fixed ahead and

 as she swept away at the head of the column her chin was up, that

 smiling type of mouth was drawn into two straight lips and the thick

 braid of hair thumped against her back with each thrust of the horse

 beneath her.

 "Rough luck, matey!" called a trooper from the rear rank and then they

 were past.

 Hunched in the saddle Sean stared after them.

 "Is she coming back, Pa? " Dirk inquired.

 "No, she's not coming back."

 "Why not?"

 Sean did not hear the question. He was watching, waiting for Ruth to

 look back at him. But he waited in vain, for suddenly she was gone

 over and beyond the next fold in the land and a few seconds later the

 column had followed her. Afterwards there was only the vast emptiness

 within him.

 Sean rode ahead. Ten yards behind they followed, Mbejane restraining

 Dirk from a closer approach for he understood that Sean must now be

 left alone. Many times in the years they had been together Mbejane and

 Sean had travelled in this formation-Sean riding ahead with his sorrow

 or his shame and Mbejane trailing him patiently, waiting for Sean's

 shoulders to straighten and his chin to lift from where it drooped

 forward on his chest.

 There was no coherence in Sean's thoughts, the only pattern was the

 rise and swoop of alternate anger and despair.

 Anger at the woman, anger almost becoming hatred before the plunge of

 despair as he remembered she was gone. Then anger building up towards

 madness, this time directed at himself for letting her go.

 Again the sickening drop as he realized that there was no means by

 which he could have held her. What could he have offered her?

 Himself? Two hundred pounds of muscle and bones and scars supporting a

 face like a granite cliff? Poor value! His worldly goods? A small

 sack of sovereigns and another woman's child-by God, that was all he

 had. After thirty-seven years that was all he had to show! Once more

 his anger flared. A week ago he had been rich-and his anger found a

 new target. There was at least somewhere he could seek vengeance,

 there was a tangible enemy to strike, to kill. The Boer.

 The Boer had robbed him of Ins wagons and his gold, had sent him

 scurrying for safety; because of them the woman had come into his life

 and because of them she had been snatched away from him.

 So be it, he thought angrily, this then is the promise of the future.

 War!

 He straightened in the saddle, his shoulders seemed to fill out wide

 and square. He lifted Ins head and saw the shiny snake of a river in

 the valley below. They had reached the Tugela. Without pause Sean

 pushed his horse over the lip of the escarpment.

 On its haunches, loose rock rolling and slithering beneath its hooves,

 they began the descent.

 Impatiently Sean followed the river downstream, searching for a drift.

 But between the sheer banks it ran smooth and swift and deep, twenty

 yards wide and still discoloured with mud from the storm.

 At the first place where the far bank flattened sufficiently to promise

 an easy exit from the water, Sean checked his horse and spoke

 brusquely.

 "We'll swim. " In reply Mbejane glanced significantly at Dirk.

 "He's done this before," Sean answered him as he dismounted and began

 to shed his clothing, then to the boy,

 "Come on, Dirk. Get undressed.

 They drove the pack-horses in first, forcing them to jump from the

 steep bank and watched anxiously until their heads reappeared above the

 surface and they struck out for the far bank.

 Then all three of them naked, their clothing wrapped in oilskins and

 lashed to the saddles, they remounted.

 "You first, MbeJane. " A splash that rose above the bank.

 "Off you go, Dirk. Remember to hang on to the saddle."

 Another high splash, and Sean flogged his mount as it baulked and

 danced sideways along the bank. A sudden lunge outwards and the long

 drop before the water closed over them.

 Snorting water, they surfaced and with relief Sean saw Dirk's head

 bobbing beside that of his horse, and heard his shouted excitement.

 Moments later they stood on the far bank, water streaming from their

 naked bodies, and laughed together at the fun of it.

 Abruptly the laughter was strangled to death in Sean's throat.

 Lining the bank above them, grinning with the infection of merriment

 but with Mauser rifles held ready, stood a dozen men.

 Big men, bearded, festooned with bandoliers of ammunition, dressed in

 rough clothing and a selection of hats that included a brown derby and

 a tall beaver.

 In imitation of Sean, both Mbejane and Dirk stopped laughing and stared

 up at the frieze of armed men along the bank. A complete silence fell

 on the gathering.

 It was broken at last by the man in the brown derby as he pointed at

 Sean with the barrel of his Mauser.

 "Magtig! But you'd need a sharp axe to cut through that branch.

 " "Don't anger him," warned the gentleman in the beaver. "If he hits

 you over the head with it, it will crack your skull! " and they all

 laughed.

 It was hard for Sean to decide which was the more discomforting; the

 intimate discussion of his nudity, or the fact that the discussion was

 conducted in the Taal (or Cape Dutch). In his impatience he had

 walked, or rather swum, into the arms of a Boer patrol. There was just

 a forlorn hope that he might be able to bluff his way through, and he

 opened his mouth to make the attempt. But Dirk forestalled him.

 "Who are they, Pa, and why are they laughing? " he asked in clear

 piping English, and Sean's hope died as abruptly as did the Boer

 laughter when they heard that hated language.

 "Oh! So!" growled the man in the beaver, and gestured eloquently with

 his Mauser. "Hands up please, my friend."

 "Will you allow me to put my trousers on first?" Sean asked

 politely.

 "Where are they taking us?" For once Dirk was subdued and there was a

 quiver in his voice that touched Beaver, who rode beside him. He

 answered for Sean.

 "Now, don't you worry, you're going to see a general. A real live

 general. " Beaver's English was intelligible and Dirk studied him with

 interest.

 "will he have medals and things?"

 ,-Nee, man. we don't use such rubbish." And Dirk lost interest.

 He turned back to Sean.

 "Pa, I'm hungry."

 Again Beaver intervened. He pulled a long black stick of biltong,

 dried meat, from his pocket and offered it to Dirk.

 ,

 "Sharpen your teeth on that, Kerel. " With his mouth full Dirk was

 taken care of and Sean could concentrate on the other Boers. They were

 convinced they had caught a spy, and were discussing the impending

 execution. In a friendly manner Sean was admitted to the argument, and

 they listened with respectful attention to his defence. This was

 interrupted while they forded the lbgela and climbed the escarpment

 once more, but Sean continued it while they rode in a bunch along the

 crest. Finally, he convinced them of his innocence which they accepted

 with relief, as none of them were really looking forward to shooting

 him.

 Thereafter the talk turned to more pleasant topics. It was a glorious

 day, sunshine lit the valley in gold and green. Below them the river

 twisted and sparided, world rig its devious way down from the smoky

 blue wall of the Drakensberg that stood along the far horizon. A few

 fat clouds dawdled across the sky, and a light breeze took the edge off

 the heat.

 "The youngsters in the party listened avidly as Sean spoke Of elephant

 beyond the Limpopo, and of the wide land that waited for men to claim

 it.

 "After the war . they said, and laughed in the sun. Then a change in

 the wind and a freak lie of the hills brought a faint but ugly sound

 down to them and the laughter died.

 "The guns," said one of them.

 "Ladysmith. " Now it was sean's turn to ask the questions. They told

 him how the commandos had raced down to the town of Ladysmith and

 rolled up the force that stood to oppose them. Bitterly they

 remembered how old Joubert had held his horsemen and watched while the

 broken English army streamed back into the town.

 "Almighty! Had he loosed us on them then! We would sweep them into

 the sea.

 "If Oom Paul had commanded instead of old Joubert, the war would be

 finished already-but instead we sit and wait."

 Gradually Sean filled in the picture of the war in Natal.

 Ladysmith was invested. General George White's army was bottled and

 corked within the town. Half the Boer army had moved forward along the

 railway and taken up a defensive line straddling the Escarpment,

 overlooking the river and the tiny village of Colenso.

 Below them on the great plain of the Tugela, General Buller was massing

 his army for the breakthrough to relieve Ladysmith.

 "But let him try-Oom Paul is waiting for him."

 "Who is Oorn Paul-Surely not Kruger?" Sean was puzzled.

 Oom Paul was the affectionate nickname of the President of the South

 African Republic.

 "Nee, man! This is another Oom Paul. This one is VechtGeneral Jan

 Paulus Leroux of the Wynberg commando." And Sean caught his breath.

 "Is he a big man with red hair and a temper to go with it?"

 Laughter, and then. "Ja! that's the one. Do you know him?

 "Yes. I know him."

 So my brother-in-law is now a general, Sean grinned to himself, and

 then asked: "Is this the general we are going to visit?"

 "If we can find him."

 Young Dirk will meet his uncle at last-and Sean found himself

 anticipating the reunion with a tingle of pleasure.

 The canvas of the tent did little to moderate the volume of the voice

 within. It carried clearly to where Sean waited with his escort.

 "Must I drink coffee and shake hands with every rooinek we catch?

 Have I not already enough work for ten men, but you must bring me

 more?

 Send him to one of the Field-Comets!

 Send him to Pretoria and let them lock him up! Do whatever you like

 with him if he is a spy-but, in the name of a merciful providence,

 don't bring him to me. " Sean smiled happily. Jan Paulus certainly

 hadn't lost his voice.

 There was an interval of comparative quiet while Beaver's voice mumbled

 within the tent. Then again the muted bellow.

 "No! I will not! Take him away."

 Sean filled his lungs, cupped his hands about his mouth and shouted at

 the tent.

 "Hey, you bloody Dutchman! Are you afraid to meet me again? You think

 I'll knock your teeth out like I did last time. " A few minutes of

 appalling stillness, then the clattering of an overturned stool and the

 flap of the tent was thrown open. Into the ma light blinking in the

 glare, but scowling, the red hair that fringed his bald pate burning

 like a bush-fire, and Ins shoulders hunched aggressively, came Jan

 Paulus. His face turned from side to side as he searched for the

 source of the insult.

 "Here," called Sean, and Jan Paulus stopped dead. Uncertainly he

 peered at Sean.

 "You!" He took a pace forward and then,

 "It is you, isn't it.

 Sean! And he began to laugh. His right hand that had been clenched

 into a huge fist unfolded and was thrust forward.

 "Sean! Hell, man! Sean!"

 They gripped hands and grinned at each other.

 "Come into the tent. Come on in, man."

 Once they were inside, Jan Paulus's first question was: "Where's

 Katrina? Where is my little sister?" and immediately the smile was

 gone from Sean's face. He sat down heavily on the reinWje stool and

 took off his hat before he answered.

 "She's dead, Paulus. She's been dead these last four years."

 Slowly the expression on Jan Paulus's face changed until it was bleak

 and hard.

 "How?" he asked.

 And what can I answer him, thought Sean. Can I tell him she killed

 herself for some reason that no one will ever know.

 "Fever," he said. "Blackwater fever."

 "You did not send word to us. " "I did not know where to find you.

 Your parents?" "They too are dead," Jan Paulus interrupted brusquely

 and turned away from Sean to stare at the white canvas wall of the

 tent. There was silence between them then as they remembered the dead

 in sorrow, made more poignant by its utter helplessness. At last Sean

 stood up and went to the entrance of the tent.

  

  

 "Dirk. Come here."

 Mbejane pushed him forward and he crossed to Sean and took his hand.

 Sean led him into the tent.

 "Katrina's son," he said and Jan Paulus looked down at him.

 "Come here, boy." Hesitantly Dirk went to him. Suddenly Jan Paulus

 dropped into a squat so that his eyes were on a level with those of the

 child. He took Dirk's face between the palm of his hands and studied

 it carefully.

 "Yes," he said. "This is the type of son she would breed.

 The eyes-" His voice stumbled and stopped. A second longer he looked

 into Dirk's eyes. Then he spoke again.

 "Be proud," he said and stood up. Sean motioned at the flap of the

 tent, and thankfully Dirk scampered out to where Mbejane waited.

 "And now?" Jan Paulus asked.

 "I want passage through the lines."

 "You are going over to the English?"

 am English, " said Sean. Frowning a little, Jan Paulus considered this

 before he asked: " You will give me your word not to take up arms with

 them?

 "No," answered Sean and Jan Paulus nodded, it was the answer he had

 expected.

 "There is a debt between us," he decided. "I have not forgotten the

 time of the elephant. This is full payment of that debt." He crossed

 to the portable desk and dipped a pen. Still standing he wrote

 rapidly, fanned the paper dry and proffered it to Sean.

 "Go," he said. "And I hope we do not meet again, for the next time I

 will kill you."

 "Or I you," Sean answered him.

 That afternoon Sean led his parry across the steel railway bridge over

 the Tugela, on through the deserted village of Colenso and out again

 across the plain. Far ahead, sown on the grass plain like a field of

 white daisies, were the tents of the great British encampment at

 Chievely Siding. But long before he reached it Sean came to a guard

 post manned by a sergeant and four men of an illustrious Yorkshire

 regiment.

 "And where the hell do you think you're off to?"

 "I am a British subject," Sean informed them. The sergeant ran an eye

 over Sean's beard and patched coat. He glanced at the shaggy pony he

 rode, and then considered the direction from which Sean had

 approached.

 "Say that again," he invited.

 "I am a British subject," Sean repeated obligingly in an accent that

 fell heavily on the Yorkshire man's ear.

 "And I'm a ruddy Japanese, " agreed the sergeant cheerfully.

 "Let's have your rifle, mate. " Two days Sean languished in the

 barbed-wire prison compound while the Intelligence Department cabled

 the Registrar of Births at Ladyburg and waited for his reply. TWo long

 days during which Sean brooded incessantly, not on the indignities

 which had been inflicted on him, but on the woman he had found and

 loved and lost again so quickly. These two days of enforced reactivity

 came at precisely the worst moment. By repeating over and over in his

 imagination each word that had passed between them, by feeling again

 each contact of their hands and bodies, by forming her face in his

 mind's eye and gloating over every detail of it-Sean burned her memory

 so deeply into himself that it was there for all time. Although he did

 not even know her surname, he would never forget her.

 By the time he was released with apologies and given back his horses,

 rifle, moneybag and packs-Sean had driven himself into a mood of such

 overpowering depression that it could only be alleviated by liquor or

 physical violence.

 The village of Frere, which was the first station south on the line to

 the coast, promised both of these.

 -nkeep Dirk with you," instructed Sean, "beyond the town find a camp

 beside the road and make a big fire, so I can find you in the dark.

 "What will you do, Nkosi?

 Sean started towards the dingy little canteen that catered for the

 thirsty of Frere.

 "I'm going there," he answered.

 "Come, Nkosizana. " As he and Dirk continued on down the street

 MbeJane was deciding how long he should give Sean before coming to

 fetch him. It was many years since the Nkosi had headed for a bar in

 such a determined fashion, but then there had been much to distress him

 these last few days. He will need until midnight, Mbejane decided,

 then he will be in a condition conducive to sleep.

 From the door Sean surveyed the interior of the canteen. A single

 large room with a trestle bar counter along the back wall, and the room

 was comfortably MI of warmth and men and the smell of liquor and

 cigars. Still standing in the entrance, Sean slipped his hand into the

 pocket of his trousers and surreptitiously counted his money, ten

 sovereigns he had allowed himself, more than sufficient for the

 purchase of the liquor he intended to consume.

 As he worked his way through the crowd towards the bar, he looked at

 the men about him. Soldiers mostly, from a dozen different regiments.

 Colonials and Imperial troops, other ranks predominating, although a

 party of junior officers sat at a table against the far wall. Then

 there were a few civilians whom he judged to be transport drivers,

 contractors and business men, two women with the officers whose

 profession was never in doubt, and a dozen black waiters.

 "What will it be, ducks?" the large woman behind the counter asked as

 he reached it and Sean regarded her moustache and her term of address

 with disfavour.

 "Brandy." He was in no mood for the niceties.

 "You want the bottle, ducks?" She had recognized his need.

 "That will do for a start," he agreed.

 He drank large brandies, and with a fianit dismay know that they were

 having no effect-apart from sharpening his imagination to the point

 where he could clearly see Ruth's face before his eyes, complete in

 every detail down to the little black beauty spot high on her cheek and

 the way the corners of her eyes slanted upwards as she smiled. He

 would have to make a more active approach to forgetfulness.

 Leaning back with both elbows on the counter and the glass clutched in

 his right hand, he studied the men about him once more.

 Evaluating each of them as a source of distraction and then discarding

 and moving his attention on, he was finally left with the small group

 around the gaming-table.

 Seven players, the game draw poker, and from what he could see the

 stakes were modest. He picked up his bottle, crossed the room to join

 the circle of spectators and took up his position behind a sergeant of

 yeomanry who was receiving a battering from the cards. A few hands

 later the sergeant drew one to fill his flush, missed and pushed the

 bluff-raising twice until he was called by two pairs across the

 table.

 He threw his hand "in and blew through his lips in disgust.

 "That cleans me out. " He gathered the few coins left on the table in

 front of him and stood up.

 "Rough luck, Jack. Anyone care to take his place?" The winner looked

 around the circle of spectators. "Nice friendly little game, table

 stakes. " "Deal me in." Sean sat down, placed his glass and bottle

 strategically at his right hand and stacked five gold sovereigns in

 front of him.

 "The man's got gold! Welcome."

 Sean ducked the first hand, lost two pounds to three queens on the

 next, and won five pounds on the third. The pattern of his luck was

 set, he played with cold single-mindedness-and when he wanted cards it

 seemed he had only to wish for them.

 What was the old adage?--Unlucky in love, and the cards turn hot."

 Sean grinned without amusement and filled a small straight with the

 five of hearts, beat down the three sevens that came against him and

 drew the pot towards him to swell the pile of Ins winnings. Up about

 thirty or forty pounds. He was enjoying himself now.

 "A small school, gentlemen. " Three players had dropped out in the

 last hour leaving four of them at the table. "How about giving the

 losers a chance to recoup?"

 "You want to raise the stakes?" Sean asked the speaker. He was the

 only other winner, a big man with a red hice and the smell of horses

 about him. Tkansport rider, probably.

 "Yes, if everyone agrees. Make the minimum bet five pounds. " "Suits

 me, " grunted Sean, and there was a murmur of agreement round the

 table. With heavy money out an air of caution prevailed at first, but

 slowly the game opened up. Sean's luck cooled a little, but an hour

 later he had built up his kitty on a series of small wins to a total of

 seventy-five pounds. Then Sean dealt a strange hand.

 The first caller on Sean's left raised before the draw, and was raised

 in turn by the gentleman with the horsy smell, number three called and

 Sean fanned his cards open.

 With a gentle elation he found the seven, eight, nine and ten of

 Clubs-with a Diamond six. A pretty little straight dealt pat.

 "Call your twenty, and raise it twenty, " he offered, and there was a

 small stir of excitement among the onlookers.

 "Call." Number one was short of cash.

 "Call," echoed Horse Odour and his gold clinked into the pot'I'm

 dropping. " Number dime closed his cards and pushed them away. Sean

 turned back to number one.

 "How many cards?"

 "I'll play with these." Sean felt the first premonition of disaster.

 "And you?" he asked Horse Odour.

 "I'm also happy with what I have. " TWo pat hands against his small

 straight; and from the suit distribution, Sean's four Clubs, one of

 them would certainly be a flush. With a queasy feeling in his stomach

 Sean knew he was in trouble, knew his hand to be a loser.

 Break the straight and go for the other Club, still not a certain

 winner, but the only thing worth trying.

 "I'll draw one. " He tossed the six of Diamonds into the welter of

 discards, and dealt to himself from the top of the pack.

 "My bet." Number one's face was glowing with confidence.

 "I'll raise the maximum-another forty. Cost you eighty pounds to look

 at me, boys. Let's see the colour of your money.

 "I'd like to push you-but that's the limit. I'll call. " Horse

 Odour's expression was completely neutral but he was sweating in a

 light sheen across his forehead.

 "Let me go to the books." Sean picked up his cards and, from behind

 the other four, pressed out the corner of the card he had drawn.

 It was black, he opened it a little more-a black six. Slowly he felt

 the pressure build up within him like a freshly fired boiler. He drew

 a long breath and opened the card fully.

 "I'll call also. " He spoke on a gusty outgoing breath.

 "Full house," shouted number one. "Queen's full-beat that, you

 bastards! " Horse Odour slapped his cards down viciously, his red face

 crumbling in disappointment. "Goddam it-of all the filthy luck.

 I had an ace-high flush. " Number one giggled with excitement and

 reached for the money.

 "Wait for it, friend," Sean advised him, and spread his cards face up

 upon the table.

 "It's a flush. My full house beats you," protested number one.

 "Count the pips-" Sean touched each card as he named them, "six, seven,

 eight, nine and the ten-all Clubs. Straight flush! You come second by

 a day's march." He lifted number one's hands off the money, pulled it

 towards him and began stacking it in columns of twenty.

 "Pretty hot run of luck you're having," Horse Odour gave his opinion,

 his face still twisted with disappointment.

 "Yes," agreed Sean. Two hundred and sixty-eight pounds.

 Very pretty' Funny how it comes to you on the big hands," Horse Odour

 went on. "And especially, when you're dealing. What did you say your

 profession was?"

 Without looking up Sean began transferring the stacks of sovereigns to

 his pockets. He was smiling a little. The end to a perfect evening,

 he decided.

 Satisfied that the money was secure Sean looked up at Horse Odour and

 turned that smile full upon him.

 "Come along then, laddie," he said.

 "It will be a pleasure." Horse Odour shoved his chair back and stood

 up.

 "It will indeed," agreed Sean.

 Horse Odour led down the back-stairs into the yard, followed by Sean

 and the entire clientele of the canteen. At the bottom he paused,

 judging Sean's footstep on the wooden stairs behind him-then he spun

 and hit, swinging his body into the punch.

 Sean rolled his head, but it caught him on the temple and he went over

 backwards into the crowd behind him. As he fell he saw Horse Odour

 jerk back the tail of his jacket and bring out the knife. It shone

 dull silver in the light from the canteen windows skinning knife,

 curved, eight inches of blade.

 The crowd scattered leaving Sean lying on the stairs, and Horse Odour

 came in to kill him, making an ugly sound, bringing the knife arching

 down from overhead, a clumsy, unprofessional blow.

 Only slightly stunned, Sean followed the silver sweep of the knife with

 ease and the. man's wrist slapped loudly into Sean's open left hand.

 For a long moment the man lay on top of Sean, his knife-arm helpless in

 Sean's grip, while Sean assessed his strength-and with regret realized

 it was no match. Horse Odour was big enough, but the belly pressed

 against Sean's was flabby and large, and the wrist in Sean's hands was

 bony without the hard rubbery give of sinew and muscle.

 Horse Odour started to struggle, trying to wrestle his knife arm free,

 the sweat de wed on his face and then began to drip it had an oily,

 unpleasant smell like rancid butter that blended poorly with the odour

 of the horses.

 Sean tightened his grip on the man's wrist, at first using only the

 strength of his forearm.

 "Aah! " Horse Odour stopped struggling. Sean brought in the power of

 his whole arm, so he could feel his shoulder muscles bunching and

 writhing.

 "Jesus Christ! " Shrieking, as bone cracked in his wrist, Horse

 Odour's fingers sprang open and the knife thumped on to the wooden

 stairs.

 Still holding him, Sean sat up, then came slowly to his feet.

 "Leave us, friend." Sean flung him backwards into the dust of the

 yard. He was breathing easily, still feeling cold and detached as he

 looked down and watched Horse Odour scrabbling to his knees, nursing

 his broken wrist.

 Perhaps it was the man's first movement towards flight that triggered

 Sean-or perhaps it was the liquor he had drunk that twisted his

 emotions, aggravated his sense of loss and frustration and channelled

 it into this insane outburst of hatred.

 Suddenly it seemed to Sean that here before him on the ground was the

 source of all his ills-this was the man who had taken Ruth from him.

 "You bastard!" he growled. The man sensed the change in Sean and

 scrambled to his feet, his face turning desperately from side to side

 as he sought an avenue of escape.

 "You filthy bastard! " Sean's voice rose, shrill with the strength of

 this new emotion. For the first time in his life Sean craved to kill.

 He advanced upon the man slowly, his fists opening and closing, his

 face contorted and the words that spilled from his mouth no longer

 making sense.

 A great stillness had fallen upon the yard. In the shadows the

 watchers stood, chilled with the dreadful fascination of it. The man

 was frozen also, only his head moved and no sound came from his open

 lips-and Sean closed in with the weaving motion of a cobra in

 erection.

 At the last moment the man tried to run, but his legs were slack and

 heavy with fear-and Sean hit him in the chest with a sound like an axe

 swung against a tree-trunk.

 As he fell Sean went in after him, straddling his chest, roaring

 incoherently with only a single word recognizable-the name of the woman

 he loved. In his madness he felt the man's face breaking up under his

 fists, felt the warm spatter of blood thrown into his own face and on

 to his arms, and heard the shouts of the crowd.

 "He'll kill him!"

 "Get him off " "For Chrissake give me a hand-he's as strong as a bloody

 OX. Their hands upon him, an arm locked around his throat from behind,

 the shock as someone hit him with a bottle, the press of their bodies

 as they swarmed over him.

 With men clinging to him, two of them riding his back and a dozen

 others on his arms and legs, Sean came to his feet.

 " Pull his legs out from under him. " "Get him down, man. Get him

 down.

 With a convulsive heave Sean swung the men on his arms into violent

 collision with each other. They released him.

 He kicked his right leg free, and those on his other leg let go and

 scattered. Reaching over his shoulders he plucked the men off his back

 and stood alone, his chest swelling and subsiding as he breathed, the

 blood from the bottle gash in his scalp trickling down his face and

 soaking into his beard.

 "Get a gun!" someone shouted.

 "There's a shotgun under the bar." But no one left the circle that

 ringed him in, and Sean glared around at them his eyes staring wildly

 from the plane of glistening blood that was his face.

 "You've killed him!" a voice accused him. And the words reached Sean

 through the madness, his body relaxed slightly and he tried to wipe

 away the blood with the open palm of his hand. They saw the change in

 him.

 "Cool down, mate. Fun's fun but the hell with murder.

 "Easy, now. Let's have a look what you've done to him.

 Sean looked down on the body, and he was confused and then suddenly

 afraid. The man was dead-he was certain of it.

 "Oh, my God!" he whispered, backing away, wiping at his eyes

 ineffectually and smearing blood.

 "He pulled a knife. Don't worry, mate, you've got witnesses. " The

 temper of the crowd had changed.

 "No," Sean mumbled; they didn't understand. For the first time in his

 life he had abused his strength, had used it to kill without purpose.

 To kill for the pleasure of it, to kill in the manner in which a

 leopard kills.

 Then the man moved slightly, he rolled his head and one of his legs

 flexed and straightened. Sean felt hope leap within him.

 "He's alive! " I

 "Get a doctor.

 Fearfully Sean approached and knelt beside the man, he un knotted the

 scarf from around his own throat and cleaned the bloody mouth and

 nostrils.

 "He'll be all right-leave him to the Doc.

 The doctor came, a lean and laconic man chewing tobacco.

 In the yellow light of a hurricane lamp he examined and prodded while

 they crowded close about him craning to see over his shoulders.

 At last the doctor stood up.

 "All right. He can be moved. Carry him up to my surgery."

 Then he looked at Sean. "Did you do it?"

 Sean nodded.

 "Remind me not to annoy you."

 "I didn't mean to-it just sort of happened.

 "Is that so? " The doctor shot a stream of yellow tobacco juice into

 the dust of the yard. "Let's have a look at your head. " He pulled

 Sean's head down to his own level and parted the sodden black hair.

 "Nicked a vein. Doesn't need a stitch. Wash it and a little iodine. "

 "How much, Doc, for the other fellow?" Sean asked.

 "You paying?" The doctor looked at him quizzically.

 "Yes."

 "Broken jaw, broken collar-bone, about two dozen stitches and a few

 days in bed for concussion," he mused, adding it up.

 "Say two guineas."

 Sean gave him five. "Look after him, Doc."

 "That's my job." And he followed the men who were carrying Horse Odour

 out of the yard.

 "Guess you need a drink, mister. I'll buy you one," someone offered.

 The whole world loves a winner.

 "Yes," agreed Sean. "I need a drink."

 Sean had more than one drink. When MbeJane came to fetch him at

 midnight he had a deal of difficulty getting Sean up on to the back of

 the horse. Half-way to the camp Sean slid off and subsided into the

 mud, so Mbeiane loaded him sideways-head and arms hanging over to port

 and legs dangling starboard.

 "It is possible that tomorrow you will regret this," Mbejane told him

 primly as he unloaded him beside the fire and rolled him still booted

 and bloody into his blanket.

 He was correct.

 In the dawn as Sean cleaned his face with a cloth dipped in a mug of

 hot water, regarding its reflection in the small metal mirror, the only

 fact that gave him the faintest satisfaction was the two hundred-odd

 sovereigns he had salvaged from the night's debauch.

 "Are you sick, Pa?" Dirk's ghoulish interest in Sean's condition added

 substantially to Ins evil temper.

 "Eat your breakfast. " Sean's tone was calculated by its sheer

 malevolence to dry up further questioning.

 "There is no food." Mbenjane fell into the fkmiliar role of

 protector.

 "Why not?" Sean focused his bloodshot eyes upon him.

 "There is one among us who considers the purrhase of strong drink, and

 other things, more important than food for his son. " From the pocket

 of his jacket Sean drew a handful of sovereigns. "Go!" he ordered.

 "Buy food and fresh horses. Go quickly so that in my grave illness I

 may not be afflicted with the wisdom of your counsel. Take Dirk with

 you.

 Mbejane examined the money, and grinned.

 ""The night was not wasted.

 When they had gone back to Frerr, Dirk trotting beside the huge

 half-naked Zulu and his voice only fading at a distance of a hundred

 yards, Sean poured himself another mug of coffiee and cupping it in his

 hands he sat staring into the ash and pink coals of the fire. He could

 trust Mbejane to use the money with care, he had the bargaining

 patience peculiar to his race that could if necessary devote two days

 to the purchase of a single ox. These things did not concern Sean

 now.

 Instead he went over the events of the previous night. Still sickened

 by his display of murderous rage, he tried to justify it.

 Taking into account the loss of nearly all he owned, the accumulation

 of years of hard work that had been stripped from him in a single day;

 the hardship and uncertainty that had followed. And finally he had

 reached the flash point when liquor and poker-tensed nerves had snapped

 the last reserve in him and translated it all into that violent

 outburst.

 But that was not all, he knew he had avoided the main issue.

 Ruth. As he came back to her a wave of hopeless longing overwhelmed

 him, a tender despair such as he had never experienced before. He

 groaned aloud, and lifted his eyes to the morning star which was fading

 on the pink horizon as the sun came up behind.

 For a while longer he wallowed in the softness of his love, remembering

 the way she walked, the dark serenity of her eyes and her mouth when

 she smiled and her voice when she sang until it threatened to smother

 him in its softness.

 Then he sprang to his feet and paced restlessly in the grass beside the

 fire. We must leave this place, ride away from it-go quickly. I must

 find something to do, some way to keep from thinking of it, something

 to fill my hands which ache now from the need to hold her.

 Along the road, going north to Colenso, a long column of infantry filed

 past him in the dawn. He stopped his pacing and watched them.

 Each man leaned forward against his pack and the rifles stood up behind

 their shoulders.

 Yes, he thought, I will go with them. Perhaps at the place to which

 they march I can find what I could not find last night. We will go

 home to Ladyburg, riding hard on fresh horses. I will leave Dirk with

 my mother, then come back to this war.

 He began to pace again impatiently. Where the hell was Mbejane?

 From the heights above, Sean looked down on Ladyburg. The village

 spread in a neat circle around the spire of the church. He remembered

 the spite as beacon-bright in its cladding of new copper, but nineteen

 years of weather had dulled it to a mellow brown.

 Nineteen years. It did not seem that long. There were goods yards

 around the station now, a new concrete bridge over the Baboon Stroom,

 the blue gums in the plantation beyond the school were taller, and the

 flamboyants that had lined the main street were gone.

 With a strange reluctance Sean turned his head and looked out to the

 right, across the Baboon Stroom, close in against the escarpment, to

 where he had left the sprawling Dutch gabled homestead of Theumskraal

 with its roof of combed yellow thatch and the shutters of yellow-wood

 across the windows.

 It was there, but not as he remembered it. Even at this distance he

 could see the walls were flaking and mottled with patches of dampness;

 the thatch was shaggy as the coat of an aftedale; one of the shutters

 tilted slightly from a broken hinge; the lawns were brown and ragged

 where the bare earth showed through. The dairy behind the house had

 crumbled, its roof gone and the remains of its walls jutted forlornly

 upwards to the height of a man's shoulder.

 "Damn the little bastard!" Sean's anger flared abruptly as he saw the

 neglect with which his twin brother had treated the lovely old house.

 "He's so lazy he wouldn't get out of a bed he'd peed in. " To Sean it

 was not just a house. It was the place his father had built, which had

 sheltered Sean on the day of his birth and through the years of his

 childhood. When his father died under the Zulu spears at Isandlawana,

 half the farm and the house had belonged to Sean; he had sat in the

 study at nights with the logs burning in the stone fireplace and the

 mounted buffalo head above it throwing distorted, moving shadows up on

 to the plaster ceiling. Although he had given his share away-yet it

 was still his home. Garry, his brother, had no right to let it decay

 and fall apart this way.

 "Damn him!" Sean voiced his thoughts out loud-then almost immediately

 his conscience rebuked him. Garry was a cripple, his lower leg shot

 away by the blast of a careless shotgun. And Sean had fired that

 shotgun. Will I never be free of that guilt, how long must my penance

 continue?  He protested at the goad of his conscience.

 That is not your only trespass against your brother, his conscience

 reminded him. Who sired the child he calls his son?

 Whose loins sowed the seed that became man-child in the belly of Anna,

 your brother's wife?

 "It has been a long time, Nkosi.- Mbejane had seen the expression on

 his face as Sean looked towards Theuniskraal and remembered those

 things from the past that were better forgotten.

 "Yes. " Sean roused himself, and straightened in the saddle.

 "A long road and many years. But now we are home again."

 He looked back towards the village, searching the quarter beyond the

 main street and the hotel for the roof of that little cottage on Protea

 Street. As he found it, showing through the tall, fluffy blue gum

 bees, there was a lift in his mood, a new excitement. Did she live

 there still? How would she look-a little grey surely; had her fifty

 years marked her deeply, or had they treated her with the same

 consideration which she showed all those with whom she came in

 contact?

 Had she forgiven him for leaving without a farewells Had she forgiven

 Ins long years of silence since then? Did she understand the reasons

 why he had never written-no word or message, except that anonymous gift

 of ten thousand pounds he had transferred to her bank account. Ten

 thousand miserable little pounds, which he had hardly noticed among all

 the millions he had won and lost in those days long ago when he was one

 of the lords of the Witwatersrand gold fields

 Again the sense of guilt closed in upon him. As he knew with utter

 certainty that she had understood, that she had forgiven.

 For that was Ada, the woman who was his stepmother-and whom he loved

 beyond the natural love one owes their own full blooded mother.

 "Let's go down," he said and kicked his horse to a canter.

 "Is this home, Pa?" Dirk shouted as he rode beside him.

 "Yes, my boy. This is home."

 "Will Granma be here?"

 "I hope so," Sean answered, and then softly,

 "Beyond all other things, I hope that she will.

 Over the bridge above the Baboon Stroom, past the cattle pens along the

 fine of rail, past the old wood and iron station buildings with the

 sign, white and black faded to grey,

 "Ladyburg. Altitude 2,256 it.

 above sea level, " swinging left into the dusty main street which was

 wide enough to turn a full span of oxen, and down to Protea Street rode

 Sean and Dirk, with Mbejane and the pack-mule trailing far behind.

 At the corner Sean checked his mount to a walk, drawing out the last

 few minutes of anticipation until they stopped outside the wicket fence

 of white that encompassed the cottage.

 The garden was neat and green, gay with beds of Barberton daisies and

 blue rhododendrons. The cottage had been enlarged, a new room built on

 the far side, and it was crisp-looking in a coat of new whitewash. A

 sign at the gate said in gold letters on a green ground, "Maison Ada.

 High-class Costumier" Sean grinned. "The old girl's gone all French,

 by God.

 Then to Dirk,

 "Stay here!"

 He swung down from his horse, handed the reins to Dirk and went through

 the gate. At the door he paused self-consciously and adjusted his

 cravat. He glanced down at the severe dark broadcloth suit and new

 boots which he had purchased in Pietermaritzburg, slapped the dust from

 his breeches, stroked his newly trimmed beard into place, gave his

 moustache a twirl and knocked on the door.

 It was opened at last by a young lady. Sean did not recognize her. But

 the girl reacted immediately, flushing slightly, attempting to pat her

 hair into place without drawing attention to its disarray, tying to

 dispose of the sewing in her hands, and exhibiting all the signs of

 confusion peculiar to the unmarried female who finds herself suddenly

 and unexpectedly in the presence of a large, well-dressed and

 attractive male. But Sean felt a twinge of pity as he looked at her

 scarred face, ugly with the purple cicatrice of acne.

 Sean lifted his hat. "Is Mrs. Courtney here?

 "She's in the workroom, sir. Who shall I tell her is calling?

 "Don't tell her anything-it's a surprise. " Sean smiled at her, and

 she lifted her hands self-consciously in an attempt to mask the ruin of

 her face.

 "Won't you come in, sir? " She turned her head aside, shyly as though

 to hide it.

 "Who is it, Mary? " Sean started at the voice from the depths of the

 cottage, it hadn't changed at all-and the years dropped away.

 "It's a gentleman, Aunt Ada. He wants to see you.

 "I'm coming. Ask him to sit down, and please bring us coffee, Mary.

 "Mary escaped thankfully and left Sean standing alone in the small

 sitting-room, twisting his hat in big brown hands, staring up at the

 daguerreotype print of Waite Courtney above the mantel. Although he

 did not recognize the fact, the face of his father in the picture was

 almost his own-the same eyes under heavy black brows, the same

 arrogance about the mouth, even the identical thrust of stubbornness in

 the jaw beneath the thick spade-shaped beard-and the big, hooked

 Courtney nose.

 The door from the work-room opened and Sean swung quickly to face it.

 Ada Courtney came through it smiling, until she saw him, then she

 stopped and the smile died on her lips and she paled. Uncertainly her

 hand lifted to her throat and she made a small choking sound.

 "Dear God," she whispered.

 "Ma." Sean fidgeted his feet awkwardly. "Hello, Ma. It's good to see

 you. " "Sean." The colour flooded back in her cheeks. "For a moment

 I thought-you're grown so much like your father. Oh, Sean! " And she

 ran to him. He tossed his hat on to the sofa and caught her around the

 waist as she came.

 "I've waited for you. I knew you'd come."

 Sean scooped her up and kissed her into a concision of joy and

 laughter, swinging her while he did it, laughing himself.

 "Put me down," Ada gasped at last, and when he did she clung to him.

 "I knew you'd come back. At first there were bits in the newspaper

 about you, and the people told me things-but these last years there has

 been nothing, nothing at all.

 "I'm sorry. " Sean sobered.

 "You're a bad boy. " She was sparkling with excitement, her hair had

 escaped from its bun and a wisp of it hung down her cheek. "But it's

 so good to have you back-" and suddenly she was crying.

 "Don't, Ma. Please don't. " He had never seen her cry before.

 "It's just that ... It's the surprise. " She brushed impatiently at

 her tears. "It's nothing. " Desperately Sean sought something to

 distract her. "Hey!"

 he exclaimed with relief,

 "I've another surprise for you.

 "Later, " she protested. "One at a time."

 "This won't wait." He led her to the door and out on to the front

 stoep with his arm around her shoulders.

 "Dirk," he shouted. "Come here."

 He felt her standing very still as they watched Dirk coming up the

 garden walk.

 "This is your Gran'a. " He introduced them.

 "Why is she crying? " Dirk eyed her with frank curiosity.

 Later they sat at the table in the kitchen while Ada and Mary plied

 them with food. Ada Courtney believed that the first thing to do with

 a man was feed him.

 Mary was almost as excited as Ada, she had taken full advantage of the

 few minutes she had been alone, and now her hair was freshly brushed

 and she wore a gay new apron, but the powder with which she had tried

 to cover the terrible disfiguration of the skin served only to call

 attention to it. In sympathy Sean refrained from looking at her, and

 Mary noticed. Shyly she devoted herself to winning Dirk's attention.

 She fussed over him quietly-and Dirk accepted this as the natural order

 of things.

 While they ate Sean filled in the missing years for Ada with a brief

 outline of his activities, glossing over the death of Dirk's mother,

 and other things of which he had no reason to be proud.

 He came to the end of it.

 "And so here we are.

 "Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the

 hill." Dirk, don't put so much in your mouth and keep it closed when

 YOU chew.

 "How long will you stay? Mary, see if there are any cream puffs in the

 jar-Dirk is still hungry," said Ada.

 "You'll make him sick. I don't know; not long though-there's a war on.

 " "You're going to join?"

 "Yes. " "Oh, Sean. Must you?" Knowing that he must. While he

 selected a cheroot from his case Sean studied her closely for the first

 time. There was grey now as he had known there would be, almost as

 much grey as black; long streaks of it across her temples and the

 texture of her skin had altered, losing the moisture of youth, drying

 out so that it creased around the eyes and stretched tight across her

 hands to show the knuckles more prominently and the blueness of veins

 beneath it. She was plumper also, her bosom was full and round, each

 breast having lost its separate identity in the whole.

 Yet the other qualities whose memories he had treasured so long ago

 still persisted, seemed indeed to have grown stronger; the composure

 which showed in the stiffness of her hands and body, yet was given the

 he by the humour that hovered around her lips; the eyes whose depths

 held compassion and a sure understanding of those things they looked

 upon. But mostly it was the indefinable aura of goodness about

 her-looking at her, he sensed again that behind those eyes no

 destructive thought could live for long.

 Sean lit a cheroot and spoke while the smoke masked his face.

 "Yes, Ma. I must go."

 And Ada, whose husband had ridden to war also, and not ridden home,

 could not prevent the sadness showing for an instant in her eyes.

 "Yes, I suppose you must. Garry has gone already-and Michael has been

 agitating to follow him.

 "Michael?" Sean fired the question.

 "Garry's son-he was born a short while after-after you left Ladyburg.

 He will be eighteen this winter."

 "What's he look like?" Sean's voice was too eager. Michael-so that is

 what my son is named. My first-born. By God, my firstborn, and I

 didn't even know his name until he was almost grown. Ada was looking

 at him with her own question unasked in her eyes.

 "Mary, take Dirk through to the bathroom please. Try and get a little

 of that food from around his mouth. " When they had gone she answered

 Sean's question.

 "He's a tall boy, tall and lean. Dark like his mother, but a serious

 lad. He doesn't laugh much. Always top of his class. I like him very

 much. He comes here often." She was silent for a moment, then,

 "Sean. . . " Quickly Sean cut in. "And how is Garry?" He sensed what

 she was going to ask.

 "Garry has not changed very much. He has had a run of bad luck Poor

 Garry, things have been bad on the farm. The rinderpest ravaged his

 herds, he had to borrow money from the bank. She hesitated an instant.

 "And he is drinking a lot these days. I can't be sure of it-he never

 visits the hotel and I have never seen him take a drink.

 But it must be that.

 "I'll find out where he is when I go up to Colenso.

 "You'll have no difficulty finding him. Garry is a lieutenant-colonel

 on the General's staff. He was given promotion from major last week,

 and he has been awarded the Distinguished Service Order to go with his

 Victoria Cross. He is in charge of liaison between the Imperial and

 the Colonial troops.

 "Good God!" Sean was stunned. "Garry a colonel!"

 "General Buller ads very highly of him. "The General is also a holder

 of the Victoria Cross.

 "But," Sean protested. "You know how Garry got that decoration.

 It was a mistake. If Garry is on the General's staff then Lord have

 mercy on the British Army! " "Sean, you mustn't talk about your

 brother that way.

 "Colonel Garrick Courtney. " Sean laughed out loud.

 "I don't know what there is between you and Garry. But it's something

 very nasty-and I don't want any of it in this house.

 Ada's tone was fierce and Sean stopped laughing.

 "I'M sorry."

 "Before we close the subject, I want to warn you. Please be very

 careful how you handle Garry. Whatever happened between you two-and I

 don't want to know what it is-Garry still hates you. Once or twice he

 started talking about you but I stopped him. Yet I know it from

 Michael,-the boy has picked it up from his father. It's almost an

 obsession with him. Be careful of Garry.

 Ada stood up. "And now about Dirk. What a lovely child he is, Sean.

 But I'm afraid you've spoiled him a little.

 "He's a tiger," Sean admitted.

 "What schooling has he been given?"

 "Well, he can read a little-" "You'll leave him here with me.

 I'll enrol him when the school term begins."

 "I was going to ask. I'll leave money with you.

 "Ten years ago there was a very large and mysterious deposit to my bank

 account. It wasn't mine-so I placed it out at interest. " She smiled

 at him and Sean looked guilty. "We can use that. " "No," he said.

 "Yes," she contradicted. "And now tell me when you are leaving.

 "Soon."

 "How soon?"

 "Tomorrow.

 Since climbing the World's View road out of Pietermaritzburg, Sean and

 Mbejane had travelled in sunshine and in companionship. The feelings

 between them were solid, compacted by time and the pressure of trouble

 and shared laughter into a shield of affection-so that now they were

 happy as only men can be together. The jokes were old jokes, and the

 responses almost automatic-but the excitement between them was new, in

 the same way that each day's sun is new. For they were riding to war,

 to another meeting with death, so that everything else lost

 significance. Sean felt free, the thoughts and relationships with

 other people which had weighed him down over the past months slipped

 away. Like a ship clear for action he hurried with a new lightness to

 meet his chance.

 At the same time he could stand aside from himself and grin tolerantly

 at his own immaturity. By God, we're like a couple of kids sneaking

 out of school. Then, following the thought further-he was suddenly

 thankful. Thankful that this was so; thankful that there was still

 this capacity to forget everything else and approach the moment in

 childlike anticipation. For a while this new habit of self-appraisal

 asserted itself, I am no longer young and I have learned much, gathered

 it brick by brick along the way and, trimmed each brick and cemented it

 into the wall. The fortress of my manhood is not yet completed, but

 what I have built so far is strong, Yet the purpose of a fortress is to

 protect and hold safely those things the are precious; if, during the

 building, a man loses and expends those things which he wishes to

 protect, then the finished fortress is a mockery. I have not lost it

 all, a little I have used in barter. I have traded a little faith for

 the knowledge of evil; exchanged a little laughter for the

 understanding of death; a measure of freedom for two sons (and this was

 a good trade)-but I know there is still something left.

 At his side Mbejane noticed the change of Sean's mood, and he moved in

 front of it to turn it once more into sunshine.

 "Nkosi, we must hurry if you wish to reach your drinking place at

 Frere. " With an effort Sean thrust his thoughts aside, and laughed.

 They rode on into the north, and on the third day they reached

 Chievely.

 Sean remembered his innocent amazement when, as a youth, he had joined

 Lord Chelmsford's column at Rorke's Drift at the beginning of the Zulu

 War. He had believed then no greater accumulation of men was possible.

 Now he looked out across the encampment of the British Army before

 Colenso and smiled; Chelmsford's little force would have been lost in

 the artillery and ordnance park, yet beyond that the tents stretched

 away for two miles. Row upon row of white canvas cones with the horse

 lines in between-and to the rear the orderly acres of import vehicles,

 thousands of them, with the draught animals scattered grazing across

 the veld almost to the range of the eye.

 it was an impressive sight not only in its immensity but also in its

 neat and businesslike layout; so was the military precision of the

 blocks of men at drill, the massed glitter of their bayonets as they

 turned and marched and counter marched

 When Sean wandered into the camp and read the names of the regiments at

 the head of each row of tents he recognized them as the sound of glory.

 But the new khaki uniforms and Pith helmets had reduced them all to a

 homogeneous mass. Only the cavalry retained a little of the magic in

 the pennants that fluttered gaily at their lance-tips. A squadron

 trotted past him and Sean eyed their mounts with envy. Great shiny

 beasts, as arrogant as the men upon their backs. Horse and rider given

 an air of inhuman cruelty by the slender bright-tipped lance they

 carried.

 A dozen times Sean asked his question,

 "Where can I find the Guides" and though the answer was given in the

 dialects of Manchester and Lancashire, in the barely intelligible

 accents of Scotland and Ireland, each had a common factor-they were all

 singularly unhelpful.

 Once he stopped to watch a group training with one of the new Maxim

 mach me-guns. Clumsy, he decided, no match against a rifle.

 Later he would remember this judgement and feel a little foolish.

 All morning he trudged through the camp, with MbeJane trailing him, and

 at noon he was tired and dusty and bad tempered The Natal Corps of

 Guides appeared to be a mythical unit. He stood on the edge of the

 camp and looked out across the open veld, pondering his next move in

 the search.

 Half a mile out on the grassy plain a thin drift of blue smoke caught

 his eye. It issued from a line of bush that obviously marked the

 course of a stream. Whoever had picked that spot to camp certainly

 knew how to make himself comfortable in the veld. Compared to the

 bleak surroundings of the main encampment it would be paradise;

 protected from the wind, close to firewood and water, well away from

 the attention of senior officers. That was his answer. Sean grinned

 and set out across the plain.

 His guess was proved correct by the swarm of black servants among the

 trees. These could only be Colonial troops, each with a personal

 retainer. Also, the wagons were drawn up in the circular formation of

 the laager. With a feeling of homecoming Sean approached the first

 white man he saw.

 In an enamel hip bath beneath the shade of a mimosa tree this gentleman

 sat, waist deep, while a servant added hot water from a large black

 kettle.

 "Hello," Sean greeted him. The man looked up from his book, removed

 the cheroot from his mouth and returned Sean's greeting.

 "I'm looking for the Guides."

 "Your search is ended, my friend. Sit down." Then to the servant,

 "Bring the Nkosi a cup of coffee."

 Thankful, Sean sank into the rezMe chair near the bath and stretched

 his legs out before him. His host laid aside the book and began to

 lather his hairy chest and armpits while he studied Sean with frank

 appraisal.

 "Who's in charge here?" Sean asked.

 "You want to see him?

 "Yes. " The bather opened his mouth and yelled.

 "Hey! Tim!"

 "What you want?" The reply came from the nearest wagon.

 "Fellow here to see you."

 "What's he want?"

 -says he wants to talk to you about his daughter-" There was a long

 silence while the man in the wagon digested this, then: "What's he look

 like?

 "Big broke, with a shotgun."

 "You're joking!"

 "The hell I am! Says if you don't come out he's coming in to get

 YOU,

 "The canvas of the wagon canopy was lifted cautiously and an eye showed

 behind the slit. The ferocious bellow that followed startled Sean to

 his feet. The canvas was thrown aside and out of the wagon vaulted the

 Commanding Officer of the Guides.

 He moved in on Sean with his arms like a wrestler. For a moment Sean

 stared at him, then he answered the bellow and dropped into a defensive

 crouch.

 " Yaah! " The man charged and Sean met him chest to chest, locking his

 arms around him as they closed.

 "Tim Curtis, you miserable bastard," he roared in laughter and in pain

 as Tim tried to pull his beard out by the roots.

 "Sean Courtney, you evil son of a bitch," breathless as the air was

 forced from his lungs by Sean's hug.

 "Let's have a drink." Sean punched him.

 "Let's have a bottle." Tim caught his ears and twisted.

 At last they broke apart and stood laughing incoherently in the

 pleasure of meeting again.

 The servant returned with Sean's coffee and Tim waved him away

 disgustedly. "None of that slop! Get a bottle of brandy out of my

 chest."

 "You two know each other, I presume." The man in the bath interrupted

 them.

 Know each other! Jesus, I worked five years for him!"

 snorted Tim

 "Digging his dirty gold out of the ground. worst boss I ever had.

 "Well, now's your chance," Sean grinned, "because I've come to work for

 you. " "You hear that, Saul? The idiot wants to join.

 "Mazeltav. " The bather dunked the tip of his cheroot in his bath

 water, flicked it away and stood up. He offered Sean a soapy hand.

 "Welcome to the legion of the lost. My name's Saul Friedman. I gather

 yours is Sean Courtney. Now where's that bottle and we'll celebrate

 your arrival. " The commotion had summoned the others from their

 wagons and Sean was introduced to each of them. It seemed the uniform

 of the Guides was a khaki tunic without insignia or badges of rank,

 slouch hats and riding breeches. There were ten of them.

 A touhh-looking bunch and Sean found their company to his liking.

 Naked except for a towel draped round his waist, Saul did duty as

 barman, then they all settled down in the shade to a bout of

 drinking.

 Tim Curtis entertained them for the first twenty minutes with a

 biographical and biological account of Sean's career, to which Saul

 contributed comments that were met with roars of laughter. It was

 obvious that Saul was the Company wit, a function which he performed

 with distinction. He was the youngest of them all, perhaps twenty-five

 years old, and physically the smallest. His body was thin and hairy,

 and in a pleasant sort of way he was extremely ugly. Sean liked him.

 An hour later when the brandy had taken them to the stage of

 seriousness which precedes wild and undirected hilarity, Sean asked,

 "Captain Curtis .

 "Lieutenant, and don't for-get it," Tim corrected him.

 "Lieutenant, then. What is our job, and when do we do it?"

 Tim scowled at his empty glass, then looked across at Saul.

 "Tell him," he instructed.

 "As mentioned earlier, we are the legion of the lost. People look on

 us with pity and a mild embarrassment. They pass us by on the far side

 of the street, making the sign of the Cross and murmuring a spell to

 avert the evil eye. We live here in our own little leper colony.

 "Why? "Well, first of all, we belong to the most miserable little runt

 in the entire army of Natal. An officer, who, despite a formidable

 array of medals, would not inspire confidence in a young ladies" choir.

 He is chief liaison officer for the Coloni troops on the general staff.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney, VC." D.S.O."

 Saul paused and his expression changed. "No relation of yours, I

 trust?"

 "No," lied Sean without hesitation.

 "Thank God," Saul continued. "Anyway, this is why people pity us.

 The embarrassment arises from the fact that nobody recognizes our

 official existence. Even the drawing of rations must be preceded by a

 comic opera dialogue between Tim and the Quartermaster. But because we

 are called

 "Guides" everybody expects us to get out there and start doing a bit of

 guiding.

 So in some weird fashion the failure of General Buller to advance even

 one hundred yards in three months is laid at our door." Saul filled

 his glass. "Anyway, we haven't ran out of brandy yet. " "You mean we

 don't do anything?" Sean asked incredulously.

 "We eat, we sleep and we drink."

 "Occasionally we go visiting, " Tim added. "Now is as good a time as

 any. " "Who do we visit?"

 "There is a most interesting woman in the area, not five miles distant.

 She owns a travelling circus-forty wagons and forty girls.

 They follow along behind the main army to comfort and encourage it.

 Let's go and get some comfort and encouragement. if we start now we'll

 get to the head of the line-first come, first served."

 "I'll leave you to it," Saul stood up and drifted away.

 "He's a good kid," Tim observed as he watched him leave.

 "Is it against his religion?"

 "No. But he's married and takes it seriously. How about YOU?

 "I'm not married.

 "Let's go then."

 Much later they rode home together in the moonlight, both pleasantly

 melancholy with love and liquor. The girl who had taken Sean to her

 wagon was a friendly lass with a pair of fat maternal bosoms.

 "I like you, mister," she told him afterwards.

 "I like YOU also," he replied truffiftilly.

 Although Sean experienced no more shame or guilt than after satisfying

 any of his other bodily needs, yet he knew that half an hour with a

 stranger in a wagon bed was a very poor substitute.

 He began to hum the tune that Ruth had sung on the night of the

 storm.

 Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney removed his uniform jacket and hung

 it carefully on the dumb-valet beside his desk.

 The way a house proud wife straightens a picture, on her wall, he

 touched the purple watered silk on which was suspended the heavy,

 bronze cross, until it hung to his satisfaction. His lips moving, he

 read the inscription again, For valour", and smiled.

 The champagne he had drunk during lunch made his brain feel like a

 great brilliant diamond set in his skull, sharp and hard and clear.

 He sat down, swivelled the chair sideways to the desk, and stretched

 his legs out in front of him.

 "Send him in, Orderly!" he shouted, and dropped his eyes to his boots.

 You couldn't tell the difference, he decided. No one could tell by

 looking at them which one was flesh and bone beneath the polished

 leather-or which leg was carved wood with a cunningly articulated

 ankle.

 "Sir." The voice startled him and he pulled his legs in guiltily,

 hiding them beneath his chair.

 "Curtis!" He looked up at the man who stood before his desk. Tim

 stood rigidly to attention, staring stolidly over Garry's head, and

 Garry let him stand. He felt satisfaction that this hulking bastard

 must use those two powerful legs to pay respect to Garrick Courtney.

 Let him stand. He waited, watching him, and at last Tim fidgeted

 slightly and cleared his throat.

 "At ease! " There was no doubt now as to who held the power.

 Garry picked up the paper-knife from Ins desk and turned it in his

 hands as he spoke.

 "You're wondering why I sent for you." He smiled expansively.

 "Well, the reason is that I have a job for you at last. I lunched with

 General Buller today." He paused to let that absorb. "We discussed

 the Offensive. He wanted my views on certain plans he has in mind. "

 Garry caught himself. "Anyway, that is beside the point. I want you

 and your men to reconnoitre the river on both sides of Colenso. See

 here. " Garry spread a map on the desk in front of him.

 "There are fords marked here and here." He jabbed at the map with the

 paper-knife. "Find them and mark them well. Check the bridges-both

 the railway and the road bridge, make certain they are intact. Do it

 tonight.

 I want your full report in the morning. You can go.

 "Yes, Sir.

 "Oh, Curtis-" Garry stopped him as he stooped in the entrance of the

 tent. "Find those fords." The canvas flap dropped closed behind the

 American, and Garry opened the drawer of his desk and took out a silver

 flask set with camelians. He unscrewed it and sniffed the contents

 before he drank.

 With the dawn, in bedraggled pairs the Guides dribbled into camp.

 Sean and Saul were the last to return. They dismounted, turned their

 horses over to the servants and joined the group around the fire.

 "Yes?" Tim looked up from where he squatted with a mug of coffee

 cupped in his hands. His clothing was soaked and steam lifted off it

 as it dried in the heat of the flames. "They've blown the rail

 bridge-but the road bridge is still intact.

 "You're sure?"

 "We walked across."

 "That's something anyway," grunted Tim, and Sean raised a sceptical

 eyebrow.

 "You think so. Hasn't it occurred to you that they've left the bridge

 because that is where they want us to cross?

 No one replied and Sean went on wearily: "When we checked the bridges,

 Saul and I did a bit of exploring on the far side. Just beyond the

 railway bridge there is a series of little kopJes. We crawled around

 the bottom of them.

 "And?"

 "There are more Boers sitting on those kopJes than there are quills on

 a porcupine's back. Whoever tries to cross those bridges in daylight

 is going to get the Bejesus shot out of him."

 "Lovely thought!" growled Tim.

 "Charming, isn't it? Further contemplation of it will make me puke.

 What did you find?"

 "We found plenty of water. " Tim glanced down at his sodden clothing.

 "Deep water."

 "No ford," Sean anticipated gloomily.

 "None. But we found a ferryboat on the bank with the bottom knocked

 out of it. That could be the excuse for marking a ford on the map. "

 "So now you can go and tell your beloved Colonel the glad tidings."

 Saul grinned. "But one gets you five that it has no effect.

 My guess is that Buller will attack Colenso within the next two days.

 He might just be able to get a couple of thousand men across that

 bridge, then we'd have a chance. " Tim regarded him balefully. "And

 the Guides will be the first across. All very well for you. The Rabbi

 has reduced your target area considerably-but what about us?

 "But it's marked on the map," protested Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick

 Courtney. His head bowed so that Tim could see the Pink scalp through

 the furrows the comb had left in his sandy brown hair.

 "I've seen dragons and sea monsters marked on maps, Sir, Tim answered,

 and Garry looked up at him coldly with pale blue eyes.

 "You're not paid to be a comedian, Curtis." "I beg your pardon, Sir,"

 and Garry frowned. Curtis could make the

 "Sir" sound like an insult.

 "Who did you send?" he demanded.

 "I went myself, Sir. " "You could have missed it in the dark.

 "If there is a ford there, it would have a road or at least a path

 leading down to it. I wouldn't have missed that, Sir.

 "But in the darkness you could have been mistaken," insisted Garry.

 "You might have missed something that would be obvious in daylight."

 "Well, Sir ... "Good. " Briskly Garry went on. "Now, the bridges. You

 say these are still intact.

 "Only the road bridge, but. .

 "But what?"

 -The men I sent report that the hills beyond the river are heavily

 defended. Almost as though the bridge has been preserved to bait a

 trap."

 -Curtis." Deliberately Garry laid his paper-knife upon the map before

 him. His nose was too large for the space between his eyes and when he

 pursed his lips this way he looked, Tim thought, like a bird-a sparrow,

 a little brown sparrow.

 -Curtis", Garry repeated softly. "It seems to me you have very little

 enthusiasm for this business. I send you out to do a job and you come

 back with a long list of excuses. I don't think you realize how

 important this is."

 chirp, chirp-iittie sparrow. Tim smiled secretly and Garry flushed.

 "For instance. Who did you send to reconnoitre these bridges-reliable

 men, I hope?

 "They are, sir.

 "Who?"

 "Friedman.

 "oh! The little Jewish lawyer. A wise choice, Curtis, a commendably

 wise choice. Garry sniffed and picked up the paperknife.

 my God! Curtis marvelled. He's a Jew-baiter as well, this little

 sparrow has all the virtues.

 "Who else did you send?"

 "A new recruit."

 "A new recruit? A new recruit!" Garry dropped the knife and lifted

 his hands in appeal.

 "I hhappen to have worked for him before the war. I know him well,

 sir. He's a first-class man, I'd trust him before anyone else you

 could name. In fact, I was going to ask you to approve his promotion

 to sergeant. "And what is the name of this paragon?"

 Funnily enough its the same as yours, sir. Although he tells me you're

 not related. His name is Courtney. Sean Courtney, Slowly, very

 slowly, the expression of Garry's face altered. It became smooth,

 neutral. Pale also, the lifeless, translucent paleness of a corpse's

 face. All life died in his eyes as well-theY were looking inwards,

 back into the secret places of long ago.

 The dark places. They saw a small boy climbing a hill He was climbing

 up through thick brush, young legs strong beneath him.

 Climbing in deep shade, with the smell of leaf mould and the soft

 murmur of insects, sweating in the heat of a Natal summer's morning,

 eyes straining ahead through the dense green foliage for a glimpse of

 the bush buck they were hunting, the dog leaning eagerly against the

 leash and the same eagerness pumping in his own chest.

 The dog barked once, and immediately the brush and stir of a big body

 moving ahead of them, the click of a hoof against rock, then the rush

 of its run.

 The shot, a blunt burst of sound, and the buck bleating wounded as it

 thrashed through the grass, and Sean's voice high and unbroken: "I got

 him. I got him first shot! Gary. Gary! I got him, I got him! "

 Into the sunlight, the dog dragging him. Sean wild with excitement,

 running down the slope towards him with the shotgun.

 Sean falling, the gun flung from his hands, the roar of the second shot

 and the blow that knocked Garry's leg out from under him.

 Sitting now in the grass and staring at the leg. The little white

 splinters of bone in the pulped flesh and the blood pumping dark and

 strong and thick as custard.

 "I didn't mean it ... Oh God, Garry, I didn't mean it. I slipped.

 Honest, I slipped. " Garry shuddered, a violent almost sensual spasm

 of his whole body, and the leg beneath the desk twitched in sympathy.

 "Are you all right, sir?" There was an edge of concern on Tim's

 voice.

 "I am perfectly well, thank you, Curtis." Garry smoothed back the hair

 from his temples. There were deep bays of baldness there and his

 hairline was frayed and irregular. "Please continue. " "Well, I was

 saying-it looks like a trap. They've left those bridges because . .

 .

 " "It is your duty to collect information, Curtis. It is the duty of

 the general staff to evaluate it. I think that completes your

 report?

 Good, then you may leave. " He must have a drink now, already his hand

 was on the handle of the drawer.

 "Oh, Curtis." His voice croaked with the terrible dryness in his

 throat, but he spoke on through it. "That promotion you spoke of is

 approved. Make the man a sergeant."

 "Very well, sir.

 "Of course, in the event of a frontal assault on the bridges he will

 act as guide for the first attack.

 "Sir?"

 "You see the need for it, don't you?" Tim had never heard this

 wheedling tone from him before. It was almost as though he wanted

 Tim's approval. As though he were trying to justify his decision. "I

 mean, he knows the bridges. He's been over them. He's the one who

 knows them, isn't he?"

 "Yes, Sir."

 "And after all, he's a sergeant. I mean, we should send someone with

 rank-we can't just send anybody."

 "I could go, Sir. " I

 "No. No. We'll need you at the ford.

 "As YOU wish. "You won't forget, will you? You will send him, won't

 YOU?

 Almost pleading now.

 "I'll send him," agreed Tim and stooped out of the tent.

 Garry jerked open the drawer and his fingernails scrabbled on the rough

 wood in their haste to find the flask.

 To General Sir Redvers Buller, V. C. Officer Commanding, British

 Expeditionary Army of Natal At Chievely December 19the 1899 Sir, I have

 the honour to report that in accordance with orders received a

 reconnaissance was carried out by officers and men of the Natal Corps

 of Guides on the night of December 18th.

 The results of which are set out below: Ford marked

 "A " on attached Map: Although the ford promises passage for a large

 body of men, it is difficult to locate in darkness and a night crossing

 is not recommended.

 Bridge marked -B " on attached map: This is a road bridge of metal

 construction. At present it is undamaged, probably due to its sturdy

 construction resisting demolition by the enemy.

 Bridge marked

 "C " on attached Map: This is a railway bridge also constructed of

 metal, but has been demolished by the enemy.

 General: Limited penetration of area beyond the Tugela River by

 elements of the NCG revealed the presence of the enemy on the hills

 marked

 "D" and

 "E." However, no evidence of artillery or excessive force was noted.

 Courtney G." Lieutenant-Colonel Officer Commanding NCG, In the

 Field.

 EXTRACT MADE FROM THE BATTLE ORDERS OF GENERAL SIR RED VERS BULLER

 VC. MADE AND SIGNED ON THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 19TH 1899.

 The force commanded by Brigadier Lyttleton will advance on and capture

 the village of Colenso. Thereafter it will seize and cross the metal

 bridge, and drive the enemy from the kopjes on the far bank.

 (See attached Map. They lay in the grass, side by side, and the dew

 had soaked through the backs of their tunics. The night was still and

 silent.

 No clouds above and the fat stars were very bright. Ahead Of them the

 silver smear of the Milky Way threw the silhouette of the Tugela

 heights into bold relief, gave it an aspect of brooding menace.

 Saul yawned loudly, and immediately Sean was forced to do the same.

 Though they had not slept that night, it was not the weariness-but the

 symptom of nerves wound tight at the prospect of going in against the

 Boer guns . . .

 "Another hour and a half until dawn," Saul whispered, and Sean grunted.

 There was no profit in counting the hours. At forty-seven minutes past

 six the sun would rise, and from behind them the British Army would

 move forward across the brown grass plain.

 Once more Sean rose to his knees and swept the ground before them with

 his eyes, letting them move slowly along the bank of the TUgela,

 picking up the loom of the steel road bridge a hundred paces ahead of

 them, accounting for each bush on this bank, that they had not

 multiplied or moved. Then satisfied, he sank down again. 7,

 "My God, it's cold! " He could feel Saul shivering beside him.

 "It will warm up quite soon." Sean grinned in the darkness as he

 answered. The clear night sky had allowed yesterday's warmth to

 escape, the grass and their clodung were wet, even the steel of the

 rifles was painfully cold to touch-but Sean had long ago learned to

 ignore physical discomfort. He could, when necessary, lie completely

 motionless while tsetse flies settled on his neck and sank their

 red-hot needles into the soft skin behind his ears. Nevertheless, it

 was a relief when the false dawn showed and it was time to move.

 "I'll go in now," he whispered.

 "Good luck! I'll have breakfast ready when you come back.

 This was a job for one man. A job that Sean did not relish.

 They had made certain that there were no enemy on this side of the

 river, now at the last minute when it was too late for the Boers to

 alter their dispositions-someone had to cross and find out in what

 strength they were holding the bridge. A couple of Boer Maxims sited

 to command the bridge at short range, or even demolition charges set

 ready to blow, would mean that the chances of success instead of being

 slim would be non-existent.

 Sean slung his rifle across his back and began crawling forward through

 the grass. TWice he stopped to listen briefly, but there was little

 time-true dawn in an hour. He reached the bridge and lay in its heavy

 shadow, staring across at the far bank.

 Nothing moved. In the twilight the kopjes loomed like the backs of

 dark whales in the grassy sea. He waited five minutes-long enough for

 a restless sentry to fidget-still nothing.

 "Here we go," he whispered aloud, and suddenly he was afraid. For an

 instant he did not recognize the sensation, for he had experienced it

 only three or four times in his life, but never with so little cause.

 He crouched beside the steel girders of the bridge, with the weakness

 in his legs and his belly full of the oiliness. It was only when he

 caught the taste of it at the back of his throat, a taste a little like

 that of fish oil mixed with the effluence of something long dead, that

 he knew what it was.

 I'm afraid. His first reaction was of surprise, which changed quickly

 to alarm.

 This was how it happened. He knew it happened to other men. He had

 heard them talk of it around the camp fires, remembered the words and

 the pity underlying them.

 "Ja, his gun boy led him back to camp. He was shaking like a man with

 fever, and he was crying. I thought he was hurt.

 "Daniel, I said,

 "Daniel, what is wrong?" " "It broke," he said with the tears running

 into his beard. "It broke there in my head, I heard it break. I threw

 the gun away and I ran. " "Did he charge, Daniel?"I asked.

 "No, man. I didn't even see him, just heard him feeding close by in

 the cat bush Then it broke in my head and I was running. " "He was no

 coward. I had hunted with him many times, seen him kill an elephant

 from a charge so that it fell close enough to touch with the

 gun-barrel.

 He was good, but he had lived too close to it. Then suddenly it broke

 in his head. He hasn't hunted again. " I have accumulated fear the

 way an old ship collects barnacles and weed below the water-line, now

 it is ready to break in me also-Sean knew. Knew also that if he ran

 now, as the old hunter had run, he would never hunt again.

 Crouching in the darkness, sweating in the cold of dawn with the

 iciness of his fear, Sean wanted to vomit. He was physically sick,

 breathing heavily through his open mouth, the warm oiliness in his

 belly coming close to venting itself, so weak with it that his legs

 began to tremble and he caught at one of the iron girders of the bridge

 for support.

 A minute that seemed like an eternity, he stood like that. Then he

 began to fight it, bearing down on it, stiffening his legs and forcing

 them to move forward. Consciously he checked the relaxation of his

 sphincter muscle-that close he had come to the ultimate degradation.

 He knew then that the old joke about cowards was true. And that it

 applied to him also.

 He went up on to the bridge; picking up each foot deliberately,

 swinging it forward, laying it down and moving the weight of his body

 over it. His breathing was deliberate, each breath taken and expelled

 at the command of his brain. He couldn't trust his body now to perform

 even the simplest task-not after it had betrayed him so monstrously.

 Had they been waiting at the bridge, the Boers would have killed him

 that morning. Without caution he paced slowly down the centre of it,

 big and heavily moving in the starlight and his footsteps rang on the

 metal.

 Under his feet the metal gave way to gravel. He was across.

 He kept walking, down the middle of the road, following the gentle

 curve towards the dark hills.

 He walked on with his terror and the sound of it roared in his head

 like the sound of the sea. The sling of his rifle slipped from his

 shoulder and the weapon clattered into the road.  He stood for a full

 minute before he could gather himself to stoop and pick it up.

 Then he turned and went back. Pacing slowly, counting his footsteps,

 measuring them out-one each second-timing them carefully to prevent

 himself from running.

 Because if he ran he knew it was finished. He too would never hunt

 again.

 "You all right?" Saul was waiting.

 "Yes." Sean sank down beside him.

 "See anything?

 "No." Saul was staring at him. "Are you sure you're all right?

 Sean sighed. Once before he had been afraid. Fear had come to him in

 a caved-in mine-shaft, later he had gone back and left his fear in the

 same mine-shaft, and had walked away from it alone. In the same way,

 he had hoped to leave it now beyond the river, but this time it had

 followed him back. With a certainty he knew that it would never leave

 him from now onwards. It would always be near.

 I will have to tame it, he thought. I will have to break it to the

 halter and the curb.

 "Yes, I'm all right," he answered Saul. "What's the time?"

 "Half-past five. " "I'll send Mbejane back now."

 Sean stood up and went to where Mbejane waited with their horses.

 He handed Mbejane the small square of green cloth which was the

 prearranged signal that neither the bridge nor the town was defended in

 force. The red square he replaced in his breast-pocket.

 "I will come back," Mbejane told him.

 "No." Sean shook his head. "There is nothing for you here."

 Mbejane untied the horses. "Stay in peace."

 "Go in peace." Sean was thankful that Mbejane would not be there as

 witness, should he break under his new-found fear.

 But I must not break, he decided grimly. Today will be the test.

 If I can la stout this day, then perhaps I will have tamed it.

 He went back to where Saul waited in the darkness, and together they

 lay and watched the dawn come on.

 The darkness drew back, each minute enlarging the circle of their

 vision. Now the upper works of the bridge stood out, a neat

 geometrical pattern against the dark bulk of the heights.

 Then he could see the patterns of dark bush against pale grass and

 rock.

 The new light distorted distance, made the high ground seem remote and

 no longer hostile. A flight of egrets flew in long formation above the

 course of the river, high enough to catch the sun so that they were

 birds of bright, glowing gold in a world of shadow. And the dawn

 brought with it a small cold wind whose voice in the grass blended with

 the murmur of the river.

 Then the sun hit the heights as though to bless the army of the

 Republic. The mist in the gullies writhed in agony at its warmth,

 lifted into the wind and smeared away.

 The rim of the sun pushed up over the edge of the land, and the day

 came bright and clean with dew.

 Through his glasses Sean studied the crest of the high ground.

 At a hundred paces there were traces of smoke as the Boer Army brewed

 coffee.

 "You think they'll spot us?" asked Saul.

 Sean shook his head without lowering his glasses. Two small.

 bushes and the thin screen of grass they had constructed during the

 night hid them effectively.

 "Are you sure you are all right?" Saul asked once more.

 From the set of his face Sean seemed to be in pain.

 -Stomach gripes," Sean grunted. Let it start soon, please let It

 start. The waiting is the worst.

 Then the ground trembled under his chest, the faintest vibration, and

 Sean felt relief flood through him. "Here come the guns," he said, and

 using the cover of one of the bushes, he stood up and looked behind

 him.

 In a single column, following each other at strictly spaced intervals,

 the guns were moving into action. They were coming in fast, still tiny

 with distance but growing as the gunners astride the lead horses of

 each team urged them on. Closer now so that Sean could see the whip

 arms rising and falling, he heard the rumble and rattle of the

 carriages and faintly the shouts of the outriders.

 Sixteen guns, one hundred and fifty horses to drag them, and a hundred

 men to serve them. But in the vastness of the great plain before

 Colenso the column seemed small and insignificant. Sean looked beyond

 them and saw the foot soldiers following them, line upon line, like the

 poles of a fence, thousands of them creeping forward across the plain.

 Sean felt the old wild elation begin. He knew the army was cent red up

 on the line of markers which he and Saul had laid early the previous

 night, and that the two of them would be the first across the bridge

 the first of all those thousands.

 But it was elation of a different quality to anything he had

 experienced before. It was sharper and more poignant, seasoned by the

 red pepper of his fear. So that for the first time in his life Sean

 learned that fear can be a pleasurable sensation.

 He watched the patterns of men and guns evolve upon the brown

 gaming-table-counters thrown down at chance, to be won or irretrievably

 lost at the fall of the dice of war. Knowing also that he was one of

 the counters, afraid and strangely jubilant in this knowledge.

 The guns were close now. He could make sense of the shouting, see the

 features of the men and even recognize his own feelings in their

 faces.

 Close, perhaps too close. Uneasily Sean glanced back at the forbidding

 heights beyond the river and gauged the range. Two thousand yards

 perhaps, long rifle shot. And still the guns came on.

 "Jesus Christ! Are they mad?" Sean asked aloud.

 "They must engage now. " Saul also saw the danger. "They can't come

 closer. " And still the guns came on. The sound of their charge was

 low thunder; dust from the dew-damp earth rose reluctantly behind them;

 horses with wide mouths ffuming froth as they drove against the

 traces.

 "They're in range now. They must stop, they must! " groaned Sean.

 Then at last the column splayed open, alternate guns wheeling left and

 right still at full gallop. Swinging broadside to the waiting Boer

 rifles.

 "My God! My God!" Sean mouthed the blasphemy in agony as he watched.

 "They'll be massacred. " Gunners rising in the stirrups, leaning back

 to check the car rages The Gun-Captains jumping from their mounts,

 letting them gallop free as they ran to begin the unhitching and the

 pointing. In this helpless moment while men swarmed over the guns,

 man-handling them to train upon the heights; while the horses still

 reared and whinnied in hysterical excitement; before the shells could

 be unloaded and stacked beside their pieces-in that moment the Boer

 rifles opened together. It was a sound that lacked violence, strangely

 un warlike muted by distance to the popping of a hundred strings of

 fireworks, and at first there was no effect. The grass was thick

 enough to hide the strike of the bullets, the dust too lazy with dew to

 jump and mark their fall.

 Then a horse was hit and fell kicking, dragging its mate on to its

 knees also. TWo men ran to cut it loose, but one of them never reached

 it. He sat down suddenly in the grass with his head bowed. Two more

 horses dropped, another red and pawed wildly at the air with one front

 leg flapping loosely where a bullet had broken the bone above the

 knee.

 -Get out!" roared Sean. "Pull back while there's still time,"

 but his voice did not carry to the gun crews, could not carry above the

 shouting and the screaming of wounded horses There was a new sound now

 which Sean could not identify, a sound like hail on a tin roof,

 isolated at first then more frequent until it was a hundred hammers

 clanging together in broken rhythm-and he knew it was the sound of

 bullets striking the metal of the guns.

 He saw: A gunner fall forward and jam the breech of the piece until he

 was dragged clear, A loader drop the shell he was carrying and stumble

 on with his legs fbi ding until he subsided and lay still; One of the

 horses break loose and gallop away across the plain dragging a tangle

 of torn traces behind it; A covey of wild pheasant rise together out of

 the grass near the batteries and curve away along the river before

 dropping on stiff wings back into cover; And behind the guns the

 infantry in neat lines advancing placidly towards the huddle of

 deserted cottages that was Colenso.

 Then, with a crash that made the earth jump, and with sixteen long

 spurts of blue smoke, the guns came into action.

 Sean focused his glasses on the ridge in time to see the first shells

 burst along the crest. The evil blossoms of greenish-yellow lyddite

 fumes bloomed quickly in the sunlight, then drifted oily thick on the

 wind.

 Again the guns crashed, and again---each salvo more ragged -than the

 last until it became a continuous stuttering, hammering roar.

 Until the stark outline of the ridge was blurred and indefinite in the

 dust and lyddite fumes. There was smoke also, a fine greyish mist of

 it banked along the heights-the smoke of thousands of rifles.

 Quickly Sean set the rear sight of his Lee-Metford at a thousand yards,

 wriggled forward on his elbows, hunched down over his rifle and began

 shooting blindly into the smoke on the heights. Beside him Saul was

 firing also.

 TWice Sean emptied his magazine before looking back at the guns.

 The tempo of their fire had slackened. Most of the horses were down in

 the grass. Dead men were dragged across the gun carriages, others

 badly wounded crouched for cover behind the mountings, and where six

 men had served each piece before, now four or only three carried shell

 and loaded and fired.

 "The fools, the bloody fools," Sean whispered, and began to shoot

 again, concentrating his whole attention on the routine of jerking the

 bolt back, sliding it forward in the same motion, sighting up into the

 mist of gun smoke, and firing. He did not count the shots and each

 time the weapon clicked empty he groped for another clip from his

 bandolier and re-loaded. He was starting to sweat now, could feel it

 trickling down his armpits, his ears buzzed from the concussion of the

 rifle and his shoulder was beginning to throb.

 Gradually a sense of unreality induced by the clamour of the guns and

 the smell of burnt powder came over him. It seemed that all he would

 ever do was lie and shoot at nothing, shoot at smoke. Then reality

 faded further so that all of existence was the vee and dot of a rifle

 sight, standing solid in mist. And the mist had no shape. In his ears

 was the vast buzzing silence that drowned all the other sounds of

 battle. He was alone and tranquil, heavy and dulled by the hypnotic

 drift of smoke and the repetitive act of loading and firing.

 Abruptly the mood was broken. Over them passed a rustle like giant

 wings, then a crack as though Satan had slammed the door of hell.

 Startled he looked up and saw a ball of shimmering white smoke standing

 in the air above the guns, spinning and spreading, growing in the sky

 like a flower.

 "What the .

 "Shrapnel," grunted Saul. "Now they're finished."

 Then crack and crack again as the Boer Nordenfeldts planted their

 cotton flowers of smoke above the plain, flailing the guns and the men

 who still worked them with a buzzing, hissing storm of steel.

 Then there were voices. Confused and dazed by the gunfire, it took

 Sean a minute to place them. He had forgotten the infantry1 4close UP

 there."

 "close up on the right. Keep the line!"

 "Don't run. Steady, men. Don't run. " Long lines of men, lines that

 bulged and lagged and straightened again at the urging of their

 officers, Evenly spaced, plodding quietly with their rifles held across

 their chests, they passed the guns. Behind them they left khaki

 bundles lying on the plain, some of the bundles lay still but others

 writhed and screamed.

 As the gaps appeared in the lines they were quickly filled at the chant

 of

 "Close up. Close up there on the flank."

 -They are heading for the railway bridge. " Sean felt the first

 premonition of disaster. "Don't they know that it's been destroyed? "

 - we, have to stop them. Saul scrambled to his feet beside Sean.

 "Why didn't the fools follow our markers?" Angrily Sean shouted the

 question that had no answer. He did it to gain time, to postpone the

 moment when he must leave the flimsy cover of the grass shelter and go

 out into the open where the shrapnel and the Mausers swept the ground.

 Sean's fear came back on him strongly. He didn't want to go out

 there.

 "Come on, Sean. We must stop them." And Saul started to run. He

 looked like a skinny little monkey, capering out towards the, advancing

 waves of foot soldiers. Sean sucked in his breath and held it a moment

 before he followed.

 twenty yards ahead of the leading rank of infantry, carrying a naked

 sword in one hand and stepping out briskly on long legs, came an

 officer.

 "Hey, you! " Sean shouted at him, waving his hat to catch his

 attention. He succeeded. The officer fixed him with bright blue eyes

 like a pair of bayonets and the waxed points of his grey moustache

 twitched. He strode on towards Sean and Saul.

 "You're heading for the wrong bridge," Sean yelled at him, his voice

 high-pitched with agitation. "They've blown the rail bridge, you'll

 never get across there. " The officer reached them and checked his

 stride.

 "And who the hell are you, if it's not a rude question?"

 "We're the ground scouts . . ." Sean started, then leapt in the air

 as a Mauser bullet flicked. into the ground between his legs.

 "And put that bloody sword away-you'll have every Boer on the Tugela

 competing for you. " The officer, a colonel by the crowns on his

 shoulders, frowned at Sean.

 "The correct form of address, Sergeant .

 "The hell with that!" Sean roared at him. "Swing your advance on to

 the road bridge. " He pointed with agitation at the metal

 superstructure of the bridge that showed on the left through the thorn

 trees. "If you continue as you're going they'll cut you to pieces. "

 A moment longer the Colonel fixed Sean with his bayonet eyes, then he

 lifted a silver whistle to his lips and blew a piercing blast.

 "Take cover," he shouted. "Take cover!"

 And immediately the first rank dropped into the grass. Behind them the

 other ranks lost their rigidity, as men hesitated.

 "Get into the town," a voice shouted. "Take cover in the buildings."

 And they broke and ran, a thousand men, jostling each other racing for

 the security of the cottages of Colenso.

 Pouring into the single street, diving into doorways and windows.

 Within thirty seconds they had all gone to ground.

 "Now, what's this all about? " demanded the Colonel, turning back to

 Sean. Impatiently Sean repeated himself, standing out in the open and

 uncomfortably aware that for absence of other targets the Boers were

 beginning to take a very active interest in them.

 "I,&

 "Are you sure?"

 "Dammit! Of course, I'm sure. The bridge is destroyed and they have

 torn up all the barbed wire fences and thrown them into the river.

 You'll never get across there. " "Come along. " The Colonel set off

 towards the nearest cottage and Sean walked beside him. Afterwards he

 was never certain how he had managed to cover that hundred yards

 without running.

 "For God's sake, put that sword away," he growled at the colonel as

 they walked with the flit, spang, flit, spang of bullets around them.

 "Nervous, Sergeant?" And for the first time the Colonel grinned.

 "You're damn right, I am."

 "So am I. But it would never do to let the men see that, would it?", He

 steadied the scabbard on his hips and ran the sword back into it.

 "What's your name, Sergeant?"

 "Sean Courtney, Natal Corps of Guides. What's yours?"

 Sean ducked instinctively as a bullet cracked Past his head, and the

 Colonel smiled again at the familiarity.

 "Acheson. John Acheson. 2nd Battalion, Scots Fusiliers.

 And they reached the cottage. No longer able to restrain himself, Sean

 dived thankfully through the kitchen door and found Saul already there.

 He handed Sean a cheroot and held a match for him.

 "These crazy Souties! " he observed. "And you're as bad as he

 strolling around in the middle of a battle.

 "Right, Courtney. " Acheson followed him into the kitchen.

 "Let's go over the situation."

 He listened quietly while Sean explained in detail. He had to shout to

 lift his voice above the whistle and crack of the Boer artillery and

 the roar of a thousand Lee-Metford rifles as they replied from the

 windows and doorways of the village. Around them the kitchen was being

 used as a dressing-station and the moan and whimper of wounded men

 added to the hubbub Of battle.

 When Sean had finished Acheson turned away and strode to the window. He

 looked out across the railway tracks, to where the guns stood. They

 were drawn up in precise parade-ground formation. But now they were

 silent. Dribbling back towards the shelter of a deep don ga-or

 gully-in the rear, the surviving gunners dragged their wounded with

 them.

 "The poor bastards," Sean whispered, as he saw one of the retreating

 gunners killed, shot in the head so that his helmet was thrown spinning

 upwards in a brief pink cloud of blood.

 The sight seemed to rouse Acheson also.

 "All right," he said. "We'll advance on the road bridge.

 Come on, Courtney. " Behind him someone cried out, and Sean heard him

 fall. But he did not look round. He watched the bridge ahead of

 him.

 Although his legs moved mechanically under him it seemed to come no

 nearer. The thorn trees were thicker here beside the river and they

 gave a little cover from the merciless marksmen on the far bank. Yet

 men were falling steadily, and the shrapnel raged and cracked above

 them.

 "Let's get across. Get the best seats on the other side, " Saul

 shouted beside him.

 "Come on, then," agreed Sean and they ran together. They were first on

 to the bridge, with Acheson just behind them.

 Bullets left bright scars on the grey painted metal, and then suddenly,

 miraculously, they were across. They had crossed the Tugela.

 A drainage ditch beside the road and they dived into it, both of them

 panting. Sean looked back. Over the bridge poured a mass of khaki,

 all semblance of order gone as they crowded into the bottleneck and the

 fire from the Boers churned into them.

 Once across, the leaders fanned out along the river, crouching below

 the dip of the bank, while behind them the slaughter on the bridge

 continued. A struggling mass of cursing, running angry, frightened and

 dying men.

 "It's a bloody abattoir." Sean was appalled as he watched it.

 Dead and wounded men were falling over the low guard rail, splashing

 into the brown waters of the Tugela to sink or strike out clumsily for

 the banks. But a steady stream of men was coming across and going to

 ground in the two-deep drainage ditches, and beneath the angle of the

 river bank.

 It was clear to Sean that the attack was losing its impetus. As the

 men jumped down into the ditches he saw in their faces and in the way

 they flattened themselves into shelter that they had lost all stomach

 for the attack. The ordeal of the bridge had destroyed the discipline

 that had held their steady advance into those neatly controlled ranks;

 officers and men were inextricably mixed into a tired and badly

 frightened rabble. There was no contact between the different groups

 in the drainage trenches and those lying in the lee of the river

 banks-and already there was little cover for the men who were still

 coming across. The fire from the Boer positions never faltered, and

 now the bridge was blocked with the bodies of the fallen, so that each

 new wave had to climb over them, stepping on dead and wounded alike,

 while the storm of Boer rifle-fire lashed them like wind-driven rain.

 Rivulets of fresh bright blood dribbled down the supports of the bridge

 in ghastly contrast to the grey paint, and the surface of the river was

 stained by a chocolate-brown cloud of it spreading slowly downstream.

 Here and there a desperate rallying voice was lifted in the hubbub of

 incoherent shouts and groans.

 "Here the 21st. Form on me the 21st. " "Independent fire. On the

 heights. Ten rounds rapid."

 "Stretcher-bearer! " "Bill. Where are you, Bill?"

 "Jesus Christ! Jesus sobbing Christ!"

 "Up, you men! Get up!"

 "Come on the 21st. Fix bayonets."

 Some of them were head and shoulders out of the ditch returning the

 Boer fire, a few were drinking from their water bottles already. A

 sergeant struggled with a jammed rifle and swore softly without looking

 up, while beside him a man sat with his back against the wall of the

 ditch, his legs sprawled open, and watched while the blood pumped from

 the wound in his belly.

 Sean stood and felt the wind of a bullet slap against his cheek, while

 low in his stomach the slimy reptile of fear coiled itself tighter.

 Then he scrambled up the side of the ditch.

 "Come on!" he roared and started running towards the hills.

 It was open here, like a meadow, and ahead of him an old barbed wire

 fence sagged on rotten poles. He reached it, lifted his foot and

 kicked with his heel. The fence pole snapped level with the ground,

 the wire collapsed. He jumped over it.

 "They're not coming," Saul shouted beside him, and Sean stopped.

 The two of them were alone in the middle of the field and the Boer

 rifles were seeking them eagerly.

 "Run, Saul!" Sean shouted and snatched off his hat. "Come on, you

 bastards. " He waved at the men behind him.

 A bullet missed him so narrowly that he staggered in the wind of its

 passage.

 "This way! Follow us! Come on!" Saul had not left him. He was

 dancing with excitement, and flapping his arms.

 "Come back." Acheson's voice floated across to them. He stood in the

 drainage ditch, showing clear from the waist up.

 "Comeback, Courtney!

 The attack was finished. Sean knew it in that instant, and saw the

 wisdom of Acheson's decision. Further advance over the open meadowland

 below the heights was suicide. The resolve that had carried him this

 far collapsed, and his terror snapped the leash he had held upon it. He

 ran back blindly, sobbing, leaning forward, his elbows pumping in time

 to his fear-driven feet.

 Then suddenly Saul was hit beside him. It took him in the head, threw

 him forward, his rifle spinning from his hands, squawking hoarsely with

 pain and surprise as he went down skidding on his belly.

 And Sean ran on.

 "Sean!" Saul's voice left behind him.

 "Sean!" A cry of dreadful need, and Sean closed his mind against it

 and ran on towards the safety of the ditch.

 "Sean. Please!" and he checked and stood uncertain with the Mausers

 barking above and the bullets clipping the grass around him.

 Leave him, shrieked Sean's terror. Leave him. Run! Run!

 Saul crawled towards him, blood on his face and his eyes fastened on

 Sean's face.

 "Sean!"

 Leave Turn. Leave him But there was hope in that pitiful blood-smeared

 face, and the fingers of Saul's hands clawed among the coarse grass

 roots as he dragged himself forward.

 It was beyond all reason. But Sean went back to him.

 Beneath the spurs of his terror Sean found the strength to lift him and

 run with him.

 Hating him as he had never hated before, Sean blundered towards the

 drainage ditch carrying Saul. The acceleration of his brain slowed

 down the passage of time so that he seemed to run for ever.

 "Damn you!" he mouthed at Saul, hating him.

 "Damn you to hell! " The words came easily from his mouth, an

 inarticulate expression of his terror.

 Then the ground gave way beneath his feet and he fell. Together they

 dropped into the drainage ditch and Sean rolled away from him. He lay

 on his stomach and pressed his face into the earth and shook as a man

 shakes in high fever.

 Slowly he came back from that far place where fear had driven him, and

 he lifted his head.

 Saul sat against the bank of the ditch. His face was streaked with a

 mixture of blood and dirt.

  

 "How are we doing?" Sean croaked and Saul looked at him dully.

 It was bright and very hot here in the sun. Sean unscrewed the stopper

 of his water-bottle and held it to Saul's lips. Saul swallowed

 painfully and water spilled from the corner of his mouth down his chin

 and on to his tunic.

 Then Sean drank and finished panting with pleasure.

 " Let's have a look at your head. " He lifted Saul's hat from his

 head, and the blood that had accumulated around the sweat band poured

 in a fresh flood down Saul's neck. Parting the sodden black hair Sean

 found the groove in the flesh of his scalp.

 "Grazed you," he grunted and groped for the field dressing in the

 pocket of Saul's tunic. While he bound an untidy turban round Saul's

 head he noticed that a strange stillness had fallen on the field, a

 stillness accentuated rather than broken by the murmur of voices from

 the men around him and the occasional report of a rifle from the

 heights above.

 The battle was over. At least we got across the river, he thought

 bitterly. The only problem that now remains is getting back again.

 "How's that feel?" He had wet his handkerchief and wiped some of the

 blood and dust from Saul's face. "Thank you, Sean. " Suddenly Sean

 realized that Saul's eyes were full of wan and it embarrassed him.

 He looked away from them.

 "Thank you for . for coming back to get me.

 or get it."

 'll never forget. Never as long as I live.

 "You'd have done the same. " "No, I don't think so. I wouldn't have

 been able to. I was so scared, so afraid, Sean. You'd never know.

 You'll never know what it's like to be that afraid.

 "For-get it, Saul. Leave it alone."

 "I've got to tell you. I owe it to you-from now on I owe you .

 If you hadn't come back I'd be . . . I'd still be out there. I owe

 you."

 "Shut up, damn you! " He saw that Saul's eyes were different, the

 pupils had shrunk to tiny black specks and he was shaking his head in a

 meaningless idiotic fashion. The bullet had con cussed him. But this

 could not prevent Sean's anger. "Shut UP, he snarled. "You think I

 don't know about fear. I was so scared out there-I hated you. Do you

 hear that? I hated you!

 And then Sean's voice softened. He had to explain to Saul and himself.

 He had to tell him about it, to justify it and place it securely in the

 scheme of things.

 Suddenly he felt very old and wise. In his hands he held the key to

 the whole mystery of life. It was all so clear, for the first time he

 understood and he could explain it.

 They sat close together in the sun, isolated from the men around them,

 and Sean's voice sank to an urgent whisper as he tried to make Saul

 understand, tried to pass on to him this knowledge that embraced all

 truth.

 Beside them lay a corporal of the Fusiliers. He lay on his back, dead,

 and the flies swarmed over his eyes and laid their eggs. They looked

 like tiny grains of rice clustered in the lashes around his dead open

 eyes.

 Saul leaned heavily against Sean's shoulder, now and then he shook his

 head in confusion as he listened to Sean. Listened to Sean's voice

 tripping and stumbling then starting to hurry as his ideas broke up and

 crumpled, heard the desperation in it as Sean strove to retain just a

 few grains of all that knowledge which had been his a few moments

 before. Heard it peter out into silence and sorrow as he found that it

 was gone.

 "I don't know," Sean admitted at last.

 Then Saul spoke, his voice was dull and his eyes would not focus

 properly as he peered at Sean from beneath the bloodstained turban of

 bandages.

 "Ruth," he said. "You speak like Ruth does. Sometimes in the night

 when she cannot sleep she tries to tell me. Almost I understand,

 almost she finds it and then she stops. "I don't know," she says at

 last. "I just don't know. "Sean jerked away from him, and stared into

 his face. "Ruth?"

 he asked quietly.

 "Ruth-my wife. You'd like her, Sean-she'd like you. So brave-she came

 to me through the Boer lines. All the way from Pretoria-riding alone.

 She came to me. I couldn't believe it.

 All that way. She just walked into camp one day and said,

 "Hello, Saul. I'm here!" just like that! You'll like her when you

 meet her, Sean. She's so beautiful, so serene .

 In October when the big winds blow they come for the first time on a

 still day. It has been hot and dry for perhaps a month, then you hear

 them from far away, roaring softly. The roar mounts quickly, the dust

 races brown on the wind and the trees lean away from it, threshing and

 churning their branches. You see it coming but all your preparations

 are nothing when it hits.

 The vast roaring and the dust envelope you and you are numbed and

 blinded by the violence of it.

 In the same way Sean saw it coming, he recognized it as the murderous

 rage which before had nearly killed a man, but still he could not

 prepare himself And then it was upon him and the roaring filled his

 head and narrowed his vision so that all he could see was the face of

 Saul Friedman. The face was in profile for Saul was sat ring back

 across the plain of Colenso towards the English lines.

 Sean lifted the dead corporal's rifle and laid it across his lap.

 With his thumb he dipped off the safety-catch, but Saul did not notice

 the movement.

 "She's in Pietermaritzburg, I had a letter from her last week, he

 murmured, and Sean shifted the rifle in his lap so that the muzzle

 aimed into the side of Saul's chest below the armpit.

 "I sent her down to Pietermaritzburg. She's staying with her uncle

 there. " Saul lifted his hand and touched his head. Sean curled his

 finger on the trigger. "I wish you could meet her, Sean. She'd like

 you." Now he looked into Sean's face, and there was such pathetic

 trust in his eyes.  "When I write I am going to tell her about

 today-about what you did. " Sean took up the slack in the trigger

 until he could feel the final resistance.

 "We both owe you-" Saul stopped and smiled shyly. "I just want you to

 know that I'll never forget it. " Kill him, roared Sean's head.

 Kill him now-kill him quickly.

 Don't let him talk.

 It was the first conscious command his instinct had issued.

 Now! Do it now! But his trigger-finger relaxed.

 This is all that stands between you and Ruth. Do it, do it now.

 The roaring in his head abated. The big wind had passed by and he

 could hear it receding. He lifted the rifle and slowly pushed the

 safety-catch across.

 In the stillness after the wind he knew suddenly that from now on Saul

 Friedman was his special charge. Because he had come so close to

 taking it from him, Saul's life had become a debt of honour.

 He laid the rifle aside and closed his eyes wearily.

 "We'd better think about getting out of here, " he said quietly.

 "Otherwise I might never get around to meeting this beauty of yours.

 "Hart has got himself into a mess out there!" General Sir Redvers

 Buller's voice matched the pompous jut of his belly and he leaned back

 against the weight of the telescope he held to his eye. "What do you

 think, Courtney?

 "Well, he certainly hasn't reached the drift, sir. It looks to me as

 though he's been pinned down in the loop of the river, Garry agreed.

 "Damn the man! My orders were clear," growled Buller.

 "What can you make of the guns-can you see anything there?"

 Every telescope in the party of officers swivelled back to the centre,

 to where the corrugated iron roofs of Colenso showed above the thorn

 trees, dimly through the dust and the smoke.

 "I can't . . . " Garry started, then jumped uncontrollably as the

 naval 4.7 bellowed from its emplacement beside them. Every time that

 morning it had fired, Garry had jumped. If only I knew when it was

 going to, he thought and jumped again as it bellowed.

 "They are not being served," one of the other staff officers interposed

 and Garry envied him his composure and his calmness of voice. His own

 hands were trembling so that he must grip hard with both hands to keep

 his binoculars focused on the town. Each time the naval gun fired the

 dust of its recoil drifted over them, also the sun was fierce and he

 was thirsty. He thought of the flask in his saddle-bags and the next

 bellow of the gun caught him completely off guard. This time both his

 feet left the ground" . . . Do you agree, Courtney? " Buller's voice,

 he had not heard the beginning of the question.

 "I do indeed, sir.

 "Good." The General turned to his ADC. "Send a rider to Hart.

 Tell him to pull out of there before he gets badly mauled.

 Quick as you can, Clery.

 At that moment Garry made a remarkable discovery. Behind the

 inscrutable mask of his face with its magnificent silver moustache,

 behind the bulging expressionless eyes-General Sir Redvers Buller was

 every bit as agitated and uncertain as was Garry Courtney. His

 continual appeals to Garry for support confirmed this. Of course,

 Garry did not consider that another reason why Buller addressed his

 appeals to him, rather than the regular officers of his staff, was

 because this was the one quarter from which Buller could rely on

 unquestioning support.

 "That takes care of the left flank. " Buller was clearly relieved at

 his decision as he searched out towards the right, fixing the low round

 bulk of Hlangwane KopJe in the field of his telescope.

 "Dundonald seems to be keeping his end up. " Earlier, there had been

 desultory rifle and pompom fire from the right flank.

 Now it was silent.

 "But the centre As though he had been delaying the moment, Buller at

 last turned his attention on the holocaust of dust and flame and

 shrapnel that enveloped Colenso.

 "Come along. " He snapped his telescope closed. "We'd better have a

 closer look at what they've accomplished there. " And he led his staff

 back to the horses. Careful that no one should usurp his place at the

 General's right hand, Garry limped along beside him.

 At the headquarters of Lyttelton's Brigade, established in a deep don

 ga half a mile before the first scattered buildings of the town, it

 took Buller half a minute to find out what had been accomplished. It

 appalled him.

 "We hold the town, sir. And three companies have advanced to the road

 bridge and seized it. But we cannot hope to hold it.

 I have sent a runner ordering them to withdraw on the town. " "But why

 aren't the guns firing? What's happened to Colonel Long?

 "The guns have been silenced. Long is badly wounded."

 While Buller sat his horse, slowly absorbing this, a sergeant of the

 Transvaal Staats Artillerie jerked the lanyard of his quick firing

 Nordenfelt and fired the shell which changed a British reverse into a

 resounding defeat that would echo around the world. From out of the

 broken and rocky complex of hills on the north bank the shell arched

 upwards; over the river with its surface churned to brown by shrapnel

 and short shell and blood; high over the deserted guns manned only by

 corpses; shrieking over the heads of the surviving gunners as they

 crouched in the rear with their wounded, forcing them to duck as they

 had ducked a thousand times before; plunging in its descent over the

 town of Colenso where weary men waited; down across thorn tree and

 mimosa and brown grass veld littered with dead men; falling at last in

 a tall jump of dust and smoke in the midst of General Buller's staff.

 Beneath him Garry's horse dropped, killed instantly, pinning his leg so

 that had it been flesh and bone, not carved oak, it would have been

 crushed. He felt the blood soaking through his tunic and splattered in

 his face and mouth.

 "I've been hit. Help me, God help me, I'm wounded." And he writhed

 and struggled in the grass, wiping the blood on his face.

 Rough hands freed his leg and dragged him clear of his horse.

 "Not your blood. You're all right. Not your blood, it's his. " On

 his hands and knees Garry stared in horror at the Surgeon-Major who had

 stood beside him and who had shielded him from the blast. Shrapnel had

 cut his head away, and the blood still spouted from his neck as though

 it were a severed hose.

 Around him men fought their panic-stricken horses as they reared and

 whinnied. Buller was doubled up in the saddle, clutching the side of

 his chest.

 "Sir, sir. Are you all right?" An ADC had the reins and was bringing

 Buller's horse under control. TWo officers ran to Buller and helped

 him down. He stood between them, his face contorted with pain, and his

 voice when he spoke was shaky, but hoarse.

 "Disengage, Lyttelton! Disengage on your whole front!"

 "Sir," protested the Brigadier. "We hold the town. Let me cover the

 guns until nightfall when we can retrieve them at our . . . " .

 "Damn you, Lyttelton. You heard me. Pull your brigade back

 immediately. The attack has failed. " Buller's breathing wheezed in

 his throat and he still clutched the side of his chest with both

 hands.

 "To withdraw now will mean accepting heavier losses than we have

 suffered already. The enemy artillery is accurately ranged

 "Pull them out, do you hear me!" Buller's voice rose to a shout.

 "The guns . Lyttelton tried again, but Buller had already turned to

 his ADC.

 "Send riders to Lord Dundonald's Brigade. He must retire immediately.

 I give him no latitude of discretion, he is to disengage his force at

 once and withdraw. Tell him ... tell him the attack has failed on left

 and centre, tell him the guns are lost and he is in danger of being

 surrounded. Go. Ride fast. " There was a murmur among them,

 horrified as they listened to these orders. Miserably every eye turned

 to Lyttelton, silently they pleaded with him, for he was the senior

 officer present.

 "General Buller. " He spoke softly, but with an urgency that caught

 even Buller's shell-shocked attention. "At least, let me try to

 recover the guns. We cannot abandon them. Let me call for

 volunteers.

 . " "I'll go, sir. Please let me try. " A young subaltern elbowed

 Garry aside in his eagerness. Garry knew who he was, all of them did,

 for apart from being one of the most promising and popular youngsters

 in Buller's command-he was also the only son of the legendary Lord

 Roberts.

 Assisted by his ADC, Buller moved to the shade of a mimosa tree and

 sank down heavily with his back against the rough bark of the trunk. He

 looked up at young Roberts, dully, without apparent interest.

 "All right, Bobbie, Lyttelton will give you men. Off you go then.

 " He pronounced the sentence of death upon him, and Roberts laughed

 excitedly, gaily, and ran to his horse.

 "I think we are all in need of refreshment. Will you join me in a

 sandwich and a glass of champagne, gentlemen? " Buller nodded to his

 ADC, who hurried to bring food and drink from the saddle-bags. A stray

 shell burst twenty yards away, scattering clods of earth over them.

 Stolidly Buller brushed a piece of dry grass from his whiskers and

 selected a smoked salmon sandwich.

 Sean crawled down the drainage ditch towards the bank of the river. A

 shell burst on the edge of the ditch and scattered clods of earth over

 his back. He paused to brush a tangle of grass roots out of his

 whiskers and then crawled on to where Colonel Acheson squatted on his

 haunches in earnest conversation with a captain of the Fusiliers.

 "Hey, Colonel Acheson. I doubt you'll need me again, will you?"

 The Captain looked shocked at Sean's term of address, but Acheson

 grinned briefly.

 "A runner just got through. We have been ordered to with(]raw. I

 "What a pity!" Sean grunted sarcastically. "Just when we were

 knocking the daylights out of old brother Boer," and all three of them

 ducked as a machine-gun hammered lumps of dirt out of the bank above

 their heads. Then Sean took up from where he had been interrupted.

 "Well, in that case-I'll be leaving you.

 "Where are you going? " the Captain demanded suspiciously.

 "Not across that bridge." Sean removed the stub of his cheroot from

 his mouth and pointed with it at the grey structure with its gruesome

 streaks of new paint. "I've got a wounded man with me. He'll never

 make it. Have you got a match?

 Automatically the Captain produced a box of wax matches from his

 breast-pocket. "Thanks. I'm going to swim him downstream and find a

 better place to cross. " Sean re-lit his cheroot, blew a cloud of

 smoke and returned the Captain's matches.

 "A pleasure meeting you, Colonel Acheson. " "You have permission to

 fall out, Courtney. " A second longer they looked into each other's

 eyes, and Sean experienced a powerful desire to shake this man's hand

 but instead he started crawling back along the ditch.

 "Courtney!" Sean paused and glanced over his shoulder.

 "What's the name of the other Guide?"

 "Friedman. Saul Friedman."

 Acheson scribbled briefly in his notebook, then returned it to his

 pocket.

 "You'll hear more about today-good luck."

 "And to you, sir.

 From a tree that hung out over the brown water of the Tugela, Sean

 hacked a bushy green branch with his bayonet.

 "Come on," and Saul slid down the greasy clay of the bank, waist-deep

 into the river beside Sean.

 "Leave your rifle. " Obediently Saul dropped it into the river.

 "What's the bush for?"

 "To cover our heads."

 "Why are we waiting?"

 "For Acheson to create a diversion when he tries to get back across the

 bridge. " At that moment a whistle shrilled on the bank above them.

 Immediately a fierce covering fire blared out and a party of khaki-clad

 figures stampeded out on to the bridge.

 "Now," grunted Sean. They sank together into the blood warm water with

 only their heads, wreathed in leaves, above the surface. Sean pushed

 out gently and the current caught them.

 Neither of them looked back at the shrieking carnage on the bridge as

 they drifted away.

 TWenty minutes later and a half-mile downstream, Sean edged across the

 current towards the remains of the railway bridge that hung like a

 broken drawbridge into the river. It offered a perfect access to the

 south and the embankment of the railway would cover them in their

 retreat across the plain.

 Sean's feet touched mud bottom, then they were under the sagging bridge

 like chickens under the wing of a hen. He let the branch float away

 and dragged Saul to the bank between the metal girders.

 "Five minutes" rest," he told him and squatted beside him to rewind the

 bandage that had come down over Saul's ears. Muddy water streamed from

 sodden uniforms, and Sean mourned the cheroots in his tunic pocket.

 There was another drainage ditch running beside the high gravel

 embankment of the railway. Along it, walking in a crouch, Sean prodded

 Saul ahead of him, yelling at him every time he attempted to straighten

 up and relieve Ins aching back. Once a sniper on the kopJes behind

 them thumped a bullet into the gravel near Sean's head, and Sean swore

 wearily and almost touched his knees with his nose. But Saul did not

 notice it. With his legs sloppy under him he staggered along in front

 of Sean, until finally he fell and lay in a sprawling, untidy heap in

 the bottom of the ditch.

 Sean kicked him.

 "Get up, damn you!"

 "No, Ruth. Don't wake me up yet. It's Sunday. I don't have to work

 today. " Speaking quite clearly in a reasonable persuasive tone Saul

 looked up at Sean, but his eyes were matt and the pupils shrunken to

 black points.

 "Get up.  Get up!" The use of Ruth's name inflamed Sean.

 He caught Saul's shoulder and shook him. Saul's head jerked crazily

 and fresh blood seeped through his bandage. Instantly contrite, Sean

 laid him back gently.

 "Saul, please. You must try. Just a little farther."

 "Glossless," whispered Saul. "There is no gloss on it. I don't want

 it. " And he closed his eyes, his lips bulged open and his breath

 snored through them in tiny bubbles of spittle.

 A suffocating despair dropped down over Sean as he studied Saul's face.

 The eyes had receded into dark plum-coloured cavities, leaving the skin

 stretched tight across his cheeks and across the gaunt bony nose.

 Not because I nearly killed him, not because I owe it to him.

 But because-but because? How can you define your feelings for another

 man. All you can say is-because he is my friend.

 Then, because he is my friend I cannot leave him here.

 Sinking down beside him, Sean lifted his slack body into a sitting

 position, draped one of Saul's arms around his shoulder and stood up.

 Saul hung beside him, his head lolled forward on his chest, and Sean

 looked ahead. He could see the survivors from the bridge struggling

 back through the village, dragging their wounded with them.

 Across the whole breadth of the plain, singly and in twos and threes,

 harried by shrapnel, beaten, broken, Buller's mighty army was in

 retreat. And there, not a hundred yards from where Sean crouched in

 the railway ditch, drawn up neatly in the grass, deserted, forlorn,

 stood the field guns.

 Quickly Sean averted his eyes from them and began plodding away from

 the river. Over his shoulder he held Saul's wrist, his free arm was

 wrapped around Saul's waist.

 "Then slowly he was aware that the Boer fire was crescendoing once

 more. Shell that had fallen haphazard among the retreating men began

 to concentrate on an area directly ahead of Sean.

 Behind him the rifle-fire that had popped spasmodically on the heights

 now swelled into a fierce, sustained crackle like a bush fire in green

 forest.

 Leaning against the side of the ditch Sean peered ahead through the

 mimosa trees and the storm of dust and bursting shell. He saw horses,

 two teams in harness, men with them racing in through the thorn trees,

 lifting pale dust in a cloud to mingle with the dust of the shells. Far

 ahead of them, brandishing his cane, leading them in towards the

 abandoned guns, galloped a figure on a big shiny bay.

 "He's laughing. " In wonder, Sean watched the leading rider disappear

 behind a column of dust and high explosive, only to emerge again as he

 swerved his mount like a polo player. His mouth was open and Sean saw

 the glint of white teeth. "The fool is laughing his head off!"

 And suddenly Sean was cheering wildly.

 man, ride!" he shouted and his voice was lost in the shriek and crash

 of the bombardment.

 "They've come to fetch the guns," howled Sean. "Saul, they've come for

 the guns. " Without knowin how he had done it, mad with the excitement

 of it, Sean found himself out of the ditch, running with new strength,

 running with Saul's unconscious weight slung over his shoulder, running

 through the grass towards the guns.

 By the time he reached the battery the first team was already there.

 The men were down struggling to back the horses up to the trail of the

 Number One gun. Sean slid the inert body from his shoulder and dropped

 it in the grass. Two of them were trying to lift the trail of the

 field gun, but this task required four men.

 "Get out of the way!" Sean shouted at them and straddled the long

 wedge-shaped trail of steel. He locked his hands into the grips and

 heaved upwards, lifting it clear and high.

 "Get the carriage." Quickly they rolled the detachable axle and wheels

 in under the trail and locked them into position.

 Sean stepped back panting.

 "Well done!" The young officer leaned forward in his saddle as he

 shouted at Sean. "Get up on the carriage.

 But Sean turned and ran to Saul, he picked him up and stumbled with him

 to the carriage.

 "Grab him! " he grunted at the two soldiers who were already aboard.

 Between them they dragged Saul up on to the carriage seat.

 "No room for you, cock. Why don't you take Taffy's place on the

 right-hand wheeler?" one of them shouted down, and Sean saw he was

 correct. The drivers were mounting up, but one saddle was empty.

 "Look after him," he told the man who held Saul.

 "Don't worry, I've got him," the gunner assured him, and then

 urgently,

 "You'd best grab a seat-we're pulling out."

 "Look after him," Sean repeated and started forward.

 In that moment the luck which had protected him all morning ran out. A

 shell burst beside him. He felt no pain but his right leg gave under

 him and he went down on his knees.

 He tried to stand but his body would not obey.

 "Forward! " shouted the subaltern, and the gun carriage trundled away,

 gathering speed, beginning to jolt and bounce as the drivers lashed the

 horses. Sean saw the gunner who held Saul staring back at him from the

 carriage, his face was contorted with helplessness.

 "Look after him! " Sean shouted. "Promise me you'll look after him. "

 The gunner opened his mouth to reply, but another shell burst between

 them, throwing up a curtain of dust that hid the carnage. This time

 Sean felt the shrapnel tear into his flesh. It stung like the cut of a

 razor and he sagged sideways. As he went down he saw that the

 subaltern had been hit as well. Saw him throw up his arms and fall

 backwards over the rump of his horse, rolling from the saddle, hitting

 the ground with his shoulder, one foot caught in the stirrup so that he

 dragged over the rough ground until the stirrup leather snapped and

 left him lying. His horse galloped away in pursuit of the careering

 gun carriage.

 Sean dragged himself after it. "Look after him," he shouted.

 "For God's sake, look after Saul. " But nobody heard that shout for

 they were gone away amongst the trees, gone away in the dust with the

 shellfire escorting them like a troop of brown demons.

 Still Sean crawled after them, using one hand to reach ahead and claw

 into the earth and inch his whole body belly down through the grass.

 His other arm dragged at his side, and he could feel his right leg

 slithering after him, until it caught and tethered him. He struggled

 against it, but his toe had hooked in a tuft of coarse grass and he

 could not free it. He wriggled on to [us side and doubled up with his

 broken arm beneath him to look back at his leg.

 There was much blood, a wet, slippery drag mark of it across the

 flattened grass, and still it welled up out of his body. But there was

 no pain, only a dizziness and a weariness in his head.

 His leg twisted at a ridiculous angle from his trunk, and the spur on

 his boot stood up jauntily. He wanted to laugh at the leg, but somehow

 the effort was too great and he closed his eyes against the glare of

 the sun.

 Near him he heard somebody groaning and for a while he thought it must

 be Saul. Then he remembered that Saul was safe, and it was the young

 subaltern. With his eyes closed Sean lay and listened to him die. It

 was an ugly sound.

 Battle-General Jan Paulus Leroux stood upon the heights above the

 Tugela and removed his Terai hat. His head was bald with a fringe of

 ginger hair above the ears and thick around the back.

 The skin of his pate was smooth and creamy white where the hat had

 protected it from the sun, but his face had been weathered and

 sculptured by the elements until it looked like a cliff of red-stone.

 "Bring my pony, Hennie." He spoke to the lad who stood beside him.

 "Ja, Oorn Paul." And he hurried away down the reverse slope to the

 pony laager.

 From the firing trench at Jan Paulus's feet one of his burghers looked

 up at him.

 "God has heard our prayers, Oom Paul. He has given us a great victory.

 " Jan Paulus nodded heavily, and his voice as he replied was low and

 humble, without any trace of jubilation.

 "Ja, Fredevik. In God's name, a great victory.

 But not as great as I had planned it, he thought.

 Out of cannon shot, almost out of range of the naked eye, the last

 tattered remnants of the British were dwindling into the brown

 distance.

 If only they could have waited, he thought with bitterness. So clearly

 I explained it to them, and they did not heed me.

 His whole strategy had revolved upon the bridge. If only his burghers

 on the kopJe below the heights had held their fire and let them cross.

 Then God would have delivered the enemy to them in thousands instead of

 hundreds. Caught in the amphitheatre of the heights with the river at

 their backs none of them would have escaped when his artillery

 destroyed the bridge behind them. Sadly he looked down upon the trap

 he had laid with such infinite care. From above he could see the

 trenches, each of them, masked and cunningly overlapped so that an

 unbearable fire could sweep the grassy bowl into which he had hoped to

 lure the British centre. The trap that would never be sprung, for he

 knew they would not come again.

 Herime climbed back to him, leading his pony, and Jan Paulus mounted

 quickly.

 "Come, let us go down.

 At forty-two years of age, Jan Paulus Leroux was very young for the

 command he held. There had been opposition in Pretoria to his

 appointment when old Joubert refired, but President Kruger had ridden

 rough-shod over it and formed the Volkraad to accept. Ten minutes

 before, Jan Paulus had sent him a telegraphed message, which had

 justified this confidence.

 With long stirrup leathers, his massive body loose and relaxed in the

 saddle, his sjambok willing from his wrist and the wide brimmed hat

 shading his face, Jan Paulus went down to gather the harvest of war.

 As he reached the kopJes and rode in among them, his burghers rose from

 their trenches on the slopes and cheered him.

 Their voices blended in a savage roar that echoed from the heights like

 the jubilation of lions on a new kill. Impassively Jan Paulus examined

 their faces as he passed. They were coated with red dust and burned

 powder, and sweat had run in dark lines through the grime. One man

 used his rifle as a crutch to balance himself against his wound, and

 there were harsh lines of pain around his mouth as he cheered. Jan

 Paulus checked his pony. "Lie down, don't be a fool, man!" The man

 grinned painfully and shook his head.

 "Nee, Oorn Paul. I'm going with you to fetch the guns."

 Brusquely Jan Paulus motioned to the men who stood beside the wounded

 burgher. "Take him away. Take him to the doctors. And he trotted on

 to where Commandant Van Wyk waited for him.

 "I told you to hold your men until they crossed," he greeted him, and

 Van Wyk's grin faded.

 "Ja, Oom Paul. I know. But I could not hold them. The young ones

 started it. When they saw the guns right there under their noses-I

 could not hold them. " Van Wyk turned and pointed across the river.

 "Look how near they were. " Jan Paulus looked across the river. The

 guns were standing in the open, so close and so lightly screened by the

 intervening thorn scrub that he could count the spokes of the wheels

 and see the sparkle of the brass breech fittings.

 "It was too much temptation," Van Wyk ended lamely.

 "So! It is done, and we cannot undo it with words." Grimly Jan Paulus

 determined that this man would never command again. "Come, we will

 fetch them.

 At the road bridge Jan Paulus halted the long column of horsemen behind

 him. Although none of it showed on his face, yet his stomach heaved

 with horror at what he saw.

 "Move them," he ordered, and as the thirty burghers dismounted and went

 forward to clear the bridge he called out after them. "Handle them

 gently, lift them-do not drag them away like mealie sacks. These were

 men.  Brave men." Beside him the boy, Hennie, was crying openly.

 The tears falling on to his patched tweed jacket.

 "Be still, Jong," Jan Paulus murmured gently. Tears are for women."

 And he urged his pony into the narrow passage between the dead. It was

 the dust and the sun and the lyddite fumes which had irritated his own

 eyes, he told himself angrily.

 Quietly, lacking the triumphant bearing of victors, they came to the

 guns and spread out among them. Then a single rifle-shot 1 cracked out

 and a burgher staggered and clutched the wheel of a gun carriage for

 support.

 Whiding his pony, and flattening himself along its neck, Jan Paulus

 charged the don ga beyond the guns from which the shot had come.

 Another shot hissed past his head, but by then Jan Paulus had reached

 the don ga Pulling Ins mount down from full gallop on to its haunches,

 he jumped from the saddle and kicked the rifle out of the British

 private's hands before dragging him to his feet.

 "We have killed too much already, you fool. " Stumbling over the

 English words, his tongue clumsy with rage, he roared into the

 soldier's face. "It is finished. Give up." And then turning on the

 surviving gunners who huddled along the don ga "Give up, give up, all

 of you! " None of them moved for a long minute, then slowly one at a

 time they stood up and shuffled out of the don ga

 While a party of Boers led the prisoners away, and the others went

 about the business of hitching up the guns and the ammunition wagon,

 the British stretcher-bearers began filtering forward through the

 mimosa trees. Soon khaki figures were mingled everywhere with the

 burghers as they searched like bird-dogs for the wounded.

 Two of them, dark-skinned Indians of the Medical Corps, had found a man

 lying out on the left flank. They were having difficulty with him, and

 Jan Paulus handed the reins of Ins pony to Hennie and walked across to

 them.

 In semi-delirium the wounded man was cursing horribly and resisting all

 attempts by the two Indians to fix splints on his leg.

 "Leave me alone, you bastards," and a flying fist knocked one of them

 sprawling. Jan Paulus, recognizing the voice and the punch, started to

 run.

 "You behave yourself, or I'll klop you one," he growled as he reached

 them. Groggily Sean rolled his head and tried to focus on him.

 "Who's that? Who are you? Get the hell away from me.

 Jan Paulus did not answer. He was looking at the wounds and they made

 him want to vomit.

 "Give to me." He took the splints from the shaken bearers and squatted

 down beside Sean.

 "Get away!" Sean screamed at him. "I know what you're going to do.

 You're going to cut it off!" dean " Jan Paulus caught his wrist and

 held it while Sean writhed and swore.

 "I'll kill you, you filthy bastard. I'll kill you if you touch it.

 "Sean! It's me. Look at me!"

 And slowly Sean relaxed, his eyes steadied.

 "It's you? It's really you?" he whispered. "Don't let them ... don't

 let them take my leg. Not like they did to Garry.

  

 "Be still, or I'll break your stupid head, " growled Jan Paulus.

 Like Ins face, his hands were beefy and red, big hands with fingers

 like calloused sausages, but now they worked as gently as those of a

 mother on her child. At last, holding the ankle, he looked at Sean.

 "Hold fast, now. I must straighten it."

 Sean tried to grin, but his face was grey beneath the coating of battle

 filth, and sweat squeezed from his skin like a rash of tiny blisters.

 "Don't talk so much, you bloody Dutchman. Do it!"

 Bone grated on broken bone deep in the torn flesh and Sean gasped.

 Every muscle in Ins body convulsed and then relaxed again as he

 fainted.

 "Ja, " granted Jan Paulus. "That's better," and for the first time the

 set of his features betrayed his compassion. He finished with the

 bandages, and for a few seconds continued to squat beside Sean's

 unconscious body. Then he whispered so low that the two bearers could

 not catch the words.

 "Sleep well, my brother. May God spare you your leg."

 And he stood, all trace of pity and sorrow locked away behind the

 red-stone of his face.

 "Take him away," he ordered, and waited while they lifted the stretcher

 and staggered away with it.

 He went to his pony, and his feet dragged a little through the grass.

 From the saddle he looked once more towards the south but the two

 bearers had disappeared with their burden among the mimosa trees.

 He touched spurs to his pony's flanks and followed the long procession

 of wagons, prisoners and guns back towards the Tugela. The only sound

 was the jingle of harness and the melancholy rumble of wheels.

 Garrick Courtney watched the champagne spilling into the crystal bowl

 of his glass. The bubbles swirled in golden patterns, catching the

 lantern light. The mess corporal lifted the bottle, dexterously caught

 a drop of wine on his napkin and moved behind Garry to fill the glass

 of Brigadier Lyttelton, who sat beside him.

 "No." Lyttelton placed a hand over his empty glass to prevent him

 doing so.

 "Come, come, Lyttelton. " Sir Redvers Buller leaned forward and looked

 down the table. "That's an excellent wine."

 "Thank you, sir, but champagne is for victory-perhaps we should have a

 case sent across the river. " Buller flushed slowly and looked down at

 his own glass. Once more an ugly silence descended on the mess. In an

 effort to break it Garry spoke up.

 "I do think the withdrawal today was made in extremely good order.

 " "Oh, I agree most heartily. " From across the table Lord Dundonald's

 icy sarcasm added to the gaiety. "But in all fairness, Colonel, we

 were travelling very light on our return.

 This oblique reference to the guns sent every eye to Buller's

 face-Dundonald was showing a reckless disregard of that notorious

 temper. But as a peer of the realm he could take the chance. With a

 courteous insolence he met Buller's glare, and held it until the pale

 bulging eyes faded and dropped.

 "Gentlemen." Buller spoke heavily. "We have had a most trying day,

 and for all of us there is still work to do. " He glanced at his ADC.

 "Clery, will you be kind enough to propose the Queen?

 Alone, Garry limped from the huge marquee mess tent. The smaller

 tents, lit internally, were a vast field of luminous cones, and above

 them the night was black satin sown with silver stars.

 The wine that Garry had drunk during dinner hummed in his head so that

 he did not notice the dejected silence that smothered the encampment as

 he picked his way through it.

 As Garry entered his headquarters a man stood up from the camp chair

 beside his desk. In the light of the lantern his features were gaunt,

 and weariness showed in every line of his body.

 "Good evening, sir."

 "You've come to make your report?"

 "I have, sir. For what it's worth.

 "Tell me, Curtis-how many casualties?" There was an eagerness behind

 the question which Tim found ghoulish. Speculatively he examined

 Garry's face before replying.

 "We suffered heavily, out of a strength of twenty we had four dead two

 Missing and five wounded. "Have you made out a list?

 "Not yet."

 "Well, tell me. Who were they?" "Killed were Booth, Amery.

 No longer could Garry hold his impatience, he blurted out suddenly:

 "What about that sergeant?"

 "You mean Courtney?"

 "Yes. Yes." And now with his impatience was mingled a dread that made

 his stomach feel hollow.

 "Wounded, sir.

 And Garry felt a lift of relief so intense that he must close his eyes

 and suck in his breath to ride it up.

 Sean was still alive I Thank God Thank Godfor that

 "Where is he now?"

 "They've got him down at the railhead hospital. He's being sent out

 with the first batch of badly wounded."

 "Badly?" Garry's relief changed quickly to concern, and he demanded

 harshly,

 "How badly? How badly?"

 "That's all they told me. I went down to the hospital but they

 wouldn't allow me to see him.

 Garry sank into his chair and instinctively reached for the drawer

 before he checked himself.

 "Very well, Curtis. You may go."

 "The rest of my report, sir?"

 "Tomorrow. Leave it till tomorrow.

 With the liquor glowing hotly in his belly, Garry set off through the

 night towards the hospital. It did not matter now that he had planned

 and hoped that Sean would die. He no longer reasoned, but hurried

 through the sprawling camp, driven by his desperate need.

 Unrecognized but strong within him was the hope that he might again

 draw comfort and strength from that fountain as he had done so long

 ago. He started to run, stiffly, so the toe of his boot scuffed in the

 dust with each pace.

 Desperately he searched through the hospital. He hurried along the

 rows of stretchers examining the faces of the wounded; he saw pain and

 mutilation and slow creeping death soaking like spilt red ink through

 the white bandages. He heard the moan and murmur and delirious

 laughter, he smelt the taint of agony induced sweat blended with the

 heavy sweetness of corruption and disinfectant-and he hardly noticed

 them. One face, one face only, he wanted. And he did not find it.

 "Courtney. " The medical orderly examined his list, tilting it to

 catch the lamplight. "Ah! Yes. Here it is-let's nnnsee. Yes!

 He's gone already-left on the first train an hour ago ... I can't say,

 sir, probably to Pietermaritzburg. They've established a big new

 hospital there. I can't tell you that either, I'm afraid, but they've

 got him listed here as dangerous ... that's better am critical

 anyway.

 Wearing his loneliness like a cloak, Garry stumbled back to his

 quarters.

 "Good evening, sir. " His servant was waiting for him. Garry always

 made them wait up. A new man this, they changed so fast. Never could

 keep a batman more than a month.

 Garrick pushed past him, and half fell against the camp bed.

 "Steady on, sir. Let's get you on to the bed, sir. " The man's voice

 was insidiously servile, the voice men used towards drunks. The touch

 of his hands infuriated Garry.

 "Leave me." He lashed out with a clenched fist across the man's face,

 throwing him back. "Leave me. Get out and leave me!"

 The servant rubbed his bruised cheek uncertainly, backing away.

 "Get out!" Garry hissed at him.

 "But, sir-" "Get out, damn you. Get out!"

 The man went out and closed the tent flap softly behind him.

 Garry stumbled across to it and laced it closed. Then he stood back.

 Alone. They can't see me now. They can't laugh now.

 They can't. Oh God, Sean!

 He turned from the flap. The dummy leg caught on the rough floor and

 he fell. One of the straps parted and the leg twisted under him.

 On his hands and knees he crawled towards the commode across the tent,

 and the leg jerked and twisted grotesquely behind him.

 Kneeling beside the commode he lifted the china basin from its recess

 and reached into the space below it and he found the bottle.

 His fingers were too clumsy for the cork, he pulled it with his teeth

 and spat it on to the floor. Then he held the bottle to his lips and

 his throat jerked rhythmically as he swallowed.

 A little of the brandy spilled on to his tunic and stained the ribbon

 of the Victoria Cross.

 He lowered the bottle and rested, panting from the sting of the liquor.

 Then he drank again more slowly. The trembling of his hands stilled.

 His breathing smoothed out. He reached up and took the tumbler from

 the top of the commode, filled it, then placed the bottle beside him on

 the floor and wriggled into a more comfortable position against the

 commode.

 In front of him his artificial leg twisted on its broken straps at an

 unnatural angle below the knee. He contemplated it, sipping the brandy

 slowly and feeling it numb the taste-buds of his tongue.

 The leg was the centre of his existence. Insensate, unmoving, still as

 the eye of a great storm upon which the whole turmoil of his life

 revolved. The leg-always the leg. Always and only the leg.

 Now under the lulling spell of the liquor he had drunk, from the

 stillness at the centre where the leg lay, he looked outward at the

 gigantic shadows of the ast, and found them preserved and perfect, not

 distorted or blurred by time, whole and cornI, plete in each detail.

 While they paraded through his mind, the night telescoped "in upon

 itself so that time had no significance. The hours endured for a few

 minutes and were gone while the level in the bottle fell and he sat

 against the commode sipping at the tumbler and watching while the night

 wasted away. In the dawn the final act was played out before him.

 Himself on a horse in the darkness riding in cold soft rain towards

 Theuniskraal. One window showing a yellow oblong of

 A

 lantern light, the rest dark in the greater dark mass of the

 homestead.

 The unaccountable premonition of coming horror closing cold and soft as

 the rain around him, the silence spoiled only by the crunch of his

 horse's hooves in the gravel of the drive. The thunW of his peg leg as

 he climbed the front steps and the chill of the brass doorknob in his

 hand as he turned it and pushed it in upon the silence.

 His own voice slurred with drink and dread. "Hello. Where's

 everybody? Anna! Anna! I'm back! " The blue flare of his match and

 the smell of burnt sulphur and paraffin as he lit the lamp, then the

 urgent echoing thump of his peg leg along the passage.

 "Anna, Anna, where are you?

 Anna, his bride, lay upon the bed in the darkened room, naked, turning

 quickly away from the light, but he had seen the dead-white face with

 swollen and bruised lips.

 The lamp from the table threw bloated shadows on the wall as he stooped

 over and gently drew down the petticoats to cover the whiteness of her

 lower body, then turned her face to him.

 "My darling, oh Anna, my darling. what's happened?" Through the torn

 blouse her breasts were engorged and darkly nippled with pregnancy.

 "Are you hurt? Who? Tell me who did it? " But she covered her face

 and broken lips with her hands.

 "My darling, my poor darling. Who was it-one of the servants ?

 "No.

 "Please tell me, Anna. What happened?

 Suddenly her arms were about his neck and her lips close against his

 ear. "You know, Garry! You know who did it.

 "No, I swear I don't. Please tell me. " Her voice tight and hoarse

 with hatred, uttering that word, that one unbelievable horrible word.

 "Sean!"

 "Sean!" he said aloud in his desolation. "Sean. Oh God!"

 and then savagely,

 "I hate him. I hate him! Let him die-please God, let him die.

 He closed his eyes, losing his grip upon reality, and felt the first

 dizzy swing of vertigo as the liquor took firm hold upon him.

 Too late now to open his eyes and focus them upon the bed across the

 tent, the giddiness had begun-now he would not be able to hold it down.

 The warm, acid-sweet taste of brandy welled up into his throat and

 mouth and nose.

 When his servant found him it was the middle of the morning.

 Garry lay fully dressed but asleep upon the bed with his sparse hair

 ruffled, his uniform stained and grubby, and the leg lying derelict in

 the centre of the floor.

 The servant closed the door softly and studied his master, his nostrils

 flaring at the sour smell of stale brandy and vomit.

 "Had yourself one hell of a bust-up. Hey-Hop, Skip and Jump? " he

 murmured without sympathy. Then he picked up the bottle and examined

 the inch of liquor remaining in it. "Your bloody good health, cock,"

 he saluted Garry and drained the bottle, patted his lips delicately and

 spoke again. "Right! Let's get your sty cleaned up.

 "Leave me alone," Garry groaned.

 "It's eleven o'clock, sir.

 "Leave me. Get out and leave me.

 "Drink this coffee, sir.

 "I don't want it. Leave me.

 "I've got your bath filled, sir, and a clean uniform laid out for

 YGU

 "What time is it?" Garry sat up unsteadily' Eleven o'clock," the man

 repeated patiently.

 "My leg?" Garry felt naked without it.

 "One of the harness makers is stitching the straps, sir. It'll be

 ready by the time you've bathed.

 Even in a position of rest Garry's hands, laid upon the desk in front

 of him trembled slightly, and the runs of his eyelids prickled.

 The skin of his face was stretched like that of a drum over the slow

 pain that throbbed within his skull.

 At last he sighed and picked Lieutenant Curtis's report from the top of

 the thin sheaf of papers that waited for his attention.

 Garry skimmed through it dully, few of the names upon it meant anything

 to him. He saw Sean's name headed the list of wounded, and below him

 was the little Jewish lawyer. At last satisfied that mained nothing to

 the discredit of Colonel Garrick Courtney, he initialled it and laid it

 aside.

 He picked up the next document. A letter addressed to him as Officer

 Commanding the Natal Corps of Guides, from a Colonel John Acheson of

 the Scots-Fusiliers. TWo pages of neat, pointed handwriting. He was

 about to discard it and leave it to his Orderly's attention when the

 name in the body of the text caught his eye. He leaned forward

 attentively and read quickly from the beginning.

 "I have pleasure in bringing to your attention... conduct beyond the

 call of ... under intense enemy fire... once more, initiated an advance

 ... although wounded... disregard of personal danger ... two members of

 your Guides.

 Sergeant Sean Courtney.

 Pte. Saul Friedman.

 earnestly recommend ... Distinguished Conduct Medal great gallantry and

 powers of leadership. "Garry dropped the letter and leaned back in his

 chair, staring at it as though it were his own death warrant. For a

 long while he did not move, while the pain kept beating in his head.

 Then he picked it up once more. Now his hands trembled so violently

 that the paper fluttered like the wing of a wounded bird.

 "Everything of mine, everything I've ever owned-he's taken it from me,"

 and he looked down at the ribbons on his breast.

 "I've never had ... Now this, the one thing. " A drop of moisture fell

 on to the letter, blurring the ink.

 "I hate him, " he whispered and tore the letter across. hope he dies,"

 and he torr again and again, ripping it to shreds and at last screwing

 them into a ball in his clenched fist.

 "No. You'll not get that from me. It's mine-it's the one thing you'll

 never have! " He hurled the crumpled ball against the canvas of the

 tent, and lowered his head on to his arms upon the desk. His shoulders

 shook as he sobbed: "Don't die. Please, Sean, don't die."

 Simply by putting his shoulder against her and shoving her aside, Dirk

 Courtney cleared a small girl from the doorway and was first down the

 steps and out into the sun. Without looking back at the schoolhouse he

 headed for the hole in the back hedge, the others would be following.

 They caught up with him while he was selecting a klei-lat from the

 hedge.

 "Hurry up," Dirk ordered. "We got to get to the river first else

 they'll get the best place.

 They spread out along the hedge, small boys chattering like a troop of

 excited monkeys

 "Lend me your knife, Dirkie . "Hey, look at my lat." Nick Peterson

 brandished the short rod of Port Jackson Willow he had cut and peeled.

 It whipped with a satisfying swish.

 "It's not a lat," Dirk informed him. "It's a Lee-Metford-" He looked

 round at the rest of his team. "You remember now, I'm Lord Kitchener,

 and you got to call me

 "My Lord." " "And I'm General French," announced Nick. This was fair

 enough, after all, he was Dirk's chief lieutenant. It had taken Dirk a

 mere two weeks and five bloody fist-fights to reach his position as

 un-challenged leader.

 -,I'm General Methuen!" one of the lesser members yelped.

 "And I'm General Butler!"

 I

 "And I'm General Gatacre!

 "You can't be all generals." Dirk glared around. "Only Nick and I are

 generals. You are all just Privates and things

 "Gee, man, Dirkie! why you always got to spoil things?" you shut your

 mouth, Brian." Dirk sensed mutiny, and quickly he diverted their

 attention.

 "Come on, let's go and get ammo.

 "Dirk took the long route down the sanitary lane. This way he was

 unlikely to meet adults and have any of his force seconded to serve

 elsewhere at wood chopping or gardening under parental control.

 "Peaches are nearly ripe," Nick commented as they passed the Pye

 orchard.

 "Another week, " Dirk agreed, and crawled through the hedge into the

 Van Essen plantation that spread down to the Baboon Stroom.

 "There they are!" someone shouted as they emerged from the trees.

 "Boers, General!

 Out on the right, busy along the bank of the river was another bunch of

 small figures-sons of the Dutch families in the district.

 "I'll go and talk to them," Dirk said. "You go for ammo.

 They trotted off towards the river and Dirk called after them: "Hey,

 Nick, get me a good dollop of clay.

 "All right, My Lord."

 With all the dignity of a general, officer and a peer of the realm Dirk

 approached the enemy and stopped a short distance from them.

 "Hey, Piet, are you ready yet? " he asked haughtily. Piet Van Essen

 was his second cousin twice removed. A chunky lad but not as tall as

 Dirk.

 "Ja. " "The same rules?" Dirk asked.

 "Ja, the same rules. " No clothes, " Dirk warned him.

 "And no throwing with stones," Piet shot back.

 "How many you got?" Dirk began counting the enemy suspiciously.

 "Fifteen-same as you."

 "All right then," Dirk nodded.

 "All right then!"

 Nick was waiting for him below the bank. Dirk jumped down beside him

 and accepted the large ball of blue clay that Nick handed him' It just

 right, Dirkie, not too wet.

 "Alright let's get ready."

 Quickly Dirk stripped off his clothing, pulled the belt from the loops

 of his pants and buckled it around Ins waist to hold his spare lats.

 "Hide the clothes, Brian," Dirk ordered and surveyed his naked

 warriors. Nearly all of them still retained the almost WOManly shape

 of youth; undeveloped chests, protruding stomachs and fat white

 buttocks.

 "They'll come down the river like they do every time," Dirk said.

 "This time we're going to ambush them. " As he spoke he kneaded a

 handful of clay into a ball and spiked it on to the end of the lat.

 "Me and Nick Ill wait here-the rest of you on top of the bank in those

 bushes back there He was looking for a target to practise on, and found

 it in a water tortoise which was laboriously climbing the far bank

 -watch that old skilpad. " He interrupted himself; stepped forward

 with his right hand holding the lat thrown back, then whipped it

 through in an overhead swing. The ball of clay flew from the end of

 the rod with a vicious hum and smacked on to the shiny black carapace

 with a force that left a white star shaped crack upon the shell. The

 tortoise jerked in its head and limbs and toppled backwards into the

 stream.

 "Good shot!"

 "There he is, let me have a shot.

 That's enough! You'll get plenty shots just now. " Dirk stopped them.

 Now listen to me! When they come me and Nick will hold them here for a

 bit, then we'll run back along the river and they'll chase us. Wait

 until they are right underneath you-then give it to them."

 Dirk and Nick crouched side by side, close in against the bank with the

 water up to their noses. A tuft of reeds hid those Parts of their

 heads still above the surface and within easy reach their loaded

 clay-lats lay on dry land.

 Below water Dirk felt Nick's elbow nudge his ribs, and he nodded

 carefully. He also had heard the whisper of voices around the bend of

 the river, and the roll and plop of loose earth dislodged by a careless

 foot. He turned his head and answered Nick's grin with one just as

 bloodthirsty, then he. peered around the reeds.

 Twenty paces in front of him a head appeared cautiously around the

 angle of the bank and the expression on its face was set and

 nervous-and Dirk moved his own head back behind the bunch of reeds.

 A long silence broken suddenly. "They're not here." The voice was

 squeaky with adolescence and tension. Boetie was a delicate child,

 small for his age, who insisted on joining the rest Of them in games

 beyond his strength.

 Another long silence and then the sound of a wholesale but stealthy

 approach. Dirk reached out and gripped Nick's arm the enemy were

 committed, out in the open-he lifted his mouth above the surface.

 "Now!" he whispered and they reached for their lats. The surprise was

 complete and devastating. As Dirk and Nick rose dripping, with

 throwing arms cocked, the attackers were bunched in such a way that

 they could neither run nor return the fire unhampered.

 The clay pellets flew into them, slapping loudly on bare flesh,

 producing howls of anguish and milling, colliding confusion.

 "Give it to them," shouted Dirk, and threw again without picking his

 man, blindly into the mass of legs and arms and pink backsides.

 Beside him Nick worked in a silent frenzy of load and throw.

 The confusion lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, before the howls of pain

 became shouts of anger.

 "It's only Dirk and Nick."

 "Get them-it's only two of them.

 The first pellet flipped Dirk's ear, the second hit him full in the

 chest.

 "Run!" he gasped through the pain, and floundered to the bank.

 Bent forward to climb from the stream he was frighteningly vulnerable,

 and a pellet thrown at point-blank range took him in that portion of

 his anatomy which he was offering to the enemy. The sting of it

 propelled him from the water and clouded his vision with tears.

 "Chase them!"

 "Mt. them!"

 The pack bayed after them, pellets hissed about them and slapped at

 them as they pelted back along the stream. Before they reached the

 next bend their backs and bottoms were dappled with the angry red spots

 which tomorrow would be bruises.

 Without discretion, hot with the chase, shouting and laughing, the

 attackers poured into the trap and as they rounded the bend it closed

 upon them.

 Dirk and Nick stood poised to meet them, and suddenly the bank above

 their heads was lined with squealing, dancing, naked savages, who

 hurled a steady stream of missiles into them.

 For a minute they stood it, then completely broken they scrambled out

 of the river-bed with pellets flailing them and raced panic-stricken

 for the shelter of the plantation.

 One of them remained below the bank, kneeling in the mud, sobbing

 softly. But according to the unspoken laws that governed them this one

 was exempt from further punishment.

 "It's only Boetie," Nickie shouted. "Leave him. Come on!

 Chase the others! " And he scrambled up the bank and led them after

 the flight. Yelling and shrilling with excitement they streamed away

 through the brown grass to where Piet Van Essen was desperately trying

 to stay the rout on the edge of the plantation, and gather his men to

 meet the charge.

 But another of them remained below the bank-Dirk Courtney.

 There were just two of them now.  Screened by the bank, completely

 alone. Boetie looked up and through his tears saw Dirk coming slowly

 towards him. He saw the latin Dirk's hand and the expression on his

 face. He knew he was alone with Dirk.

 "Please, Dirk," he whispered. "I give up. Please. I give

 UP.

 Dirk grinned. Deliberately he moulded the clay pellet on to his lat.

 "I'll give YOU all my lunch tomorrow, " pleaded Boetie. "Not just the

 sweets, I'll give you all of it."

 Dirk hurled the clay. Boetie's shriek thrilled his whole body.

 He began to tremble with the pleasure of it.

 "I'll give you my new pocket-knife. " Boetie's voice was muffled by

 sobs and his arms which he had crossed over his face.

 Dirk loaded the lat, slowly so he could savour this feeling of power.

 "Please, Dirkie. Please, man, I'll give you anything you-" and Boetie

 shrieked again.

 "Take your hands off your face, Boetie." Dirk's voice was strangled,

 thick with pleasure.

 "No, Dirkie. Please no!"

 "Take your hands away, and I'll stop."

 "You promise, Dirkie. You promise you'll stop.

 "I promise,"

 whispered Dirk.

 Slowly Boetie lowered his arms, they were thin and very white, for he

 always wore long sleeves against the sun.

 "You promised, didn't you. I did what you-" and the clay hit him

 across the bridge of his nose, spreading as it struck, jerking his head

 back. Immediately there was blood from both nostrils.

 Boetie clawed at his face, smearing blood on to his cheeks.

 "YOU promised, " he whimpered.  "You promised, But Dirk was already

 moulding the next pellet.

 Dirkie walked home alone. He walked slowly, singing a little, with

 soft hair falling forward on to his forehead and a smear of blue clay

 on one cheek.

 Mary was waiting for him in the kitchen of the cottage on Protea

 Street. She watched from the window while he slipped through the hedge

 and crossed the yard. As he came towards the door she noticed the

 smile on his face. There was hardly sufficient room in her chest for

 what she felt as she looked at the innocent beauty of his face. She

 opened the door for him.

 "Hello, darling."

 "Hello, Mary, " Dirk greeted her, and his little smile became a thing

 of such radiance that Mary had to reach for him.

 "My goodness, you're covered in mud. Lets get you bathed before your

 granma gets home. " Dirk extricated himself from her embrace and moved

 in on the biscuit-tin.

 "I'm hungry.

 "Just one," Mary agreed, and Dirk took a handful. "Then I've got a

 surprise for you. " "What is it? " Dirk was more interested in the

 biscuits. Mary had a surprise for him every evening and usually it was

 something silly like a new pair of socks she had knitted.

 "I'll tell you when you're in the bath. " "Oh, all right. " Still

 munching Dirk set off for the bathroom.

 He began to disrobe along the passage dropping first his shirt and then

 his pants for Mary to retrieve as she followed.

 "What is the surprise?"

 "Oh Dirk, you've been playing that horrible game again."

 Mary knelt beside the tub and gently passed the soapy flannel down his

 bruised back and buttocks. "Please promise me you'll never play it

 again.

 "All right." It was a very simple matter to extract a promise from

 Dirk, he had made this particular one before.  "Now, what's your

 surprise?

 "Guess." Mary was smiling now, a secret knowing smile which

 immediately caught Dirk's attention. He studied her scarred face, her

 ugly loving face.

 "Sweets?" he hazarded, and she shook her head and caressed his naked

 body with the flannel.

 "Not socks!"

 "No. " She dropped the flannel into the soap-scummed water and clasped

 him to her chest. "No, not socks," she whispered.

 He knew then.

 "Yes, Dirkie, it's about your father."

 Instantly he began to struggle' Where is he, Mary? Where is he?"

 "Into your nightshirt first.

 "Is he here? Has he come home?"

 "No, Dirk. He isn't here yet. He's in Pietermaritzburg. But you're

 going to see him soon. Very soon. Granma has gone now to make

 reservations on the train. You're going to see him tomorrow.

 His hot, wet body began to tremble in her arms, quivering with

 excitement.

 "is it ... ? is it ... "well, you'll see for yourself "In some

 respects, Mrs. Courtney, it was possibly all to the good that we were

 unable to contact you before. " The Surgeon-Major tamped tobacco into

 his pipe, and began methodically searching all his pockets.

 "Your matches are on the desk. " Ada came to his assistance.

 "Oh! Thank you. " He got the pipe drawing, and continued,

 "You see, your son was attached to an irregular unit-there was no

 record of next-of-kin, and when he came to us from Colenso six weeks

 ago he was, shall we say, in no condition to inform us of your address.

 " "Can we see Pa now?" Dirk could no longer contain himself, for the

 past five minutes he had wriggled and fidgeted on the couch beside

 Ada.

 "You'll see your father in a few minutes, young man." And the surgeon

 turned back to Ada. "As it so happens, Mrs. Courtney, you have been

 spared a great deal of anxiety. At first there were grave doubts that

 we would be able to save your son's life, let alone his right leg. Four

 weeks it hung in the balance, so to speak. But now"-and he beamed at

 Ada with justifiable pride' He well?" Quickly, anxiously she asked.

 "What a formidable constitution your son has, all muscle and

 determination." He nodded, still stiff ling "Yes, he's well on the

 road to recovery. There may be a slight limp in the right leg-but when

 you weigh that against what might have been . he spread his hands

 eloquently. "Now the sister will take you through to him."

 "When can he come home?" Ada asked from the doorway.

 Soon-another month, perhaps.

 A deep veranda, cool with shade and the breeze that came in across the

 hospital lawns. A hundred high metal beds along the wall, a hundred

 men in grey flannel nightshirts propped against white pillows.

 Some of them slept, a few were reading, others talked quietly or played

 chess and cards on boards set between the beds. But one lay withdrawn,

 staring at, but not seeing, the pair of fiscal shrikes which squabbled

 raucously over a frog on the lawn.

 The beard was gone, removed while he was too weak to protest on the

 orders of the ward sister who considered it unhygienic, and the result

 was a definite improvement that even Sean secretly admitted.

 Shielded for so long, the skin on the lower half of his face was smooth

 and white like that of a boy; fifteen years had been shaved away with

 that coarse black matt. Now emphasis was placed on the heavy brows

 which, in turn, directed attention to his eyes, dark blue, like cloud

 shadow on mountain lakes. Darker blue at this moment as he considered

 the contents of the letter he held in his right hand.

 The letter was three weeks old, and already the cheap paper was

 splitting along the creases from constant refolding. It was a long

 letter, much of it devoted to detailed description of the clumsy

 sparring along the Tugela laver in which Butler's army was now

 engaged.

 There was one reference to the headaches from which the writer

 periodically suffered as a result of his wound which was now externally

 healed, and many more to the deep gratitude that Saul felt for him.

 These embarrassed Sean to such an extent that when re-reading the

 letter he scowled and skipped each one as he came to it.

 But there was one paragraph to which Sean returned each time, and read

 slowly, whispering it to himself so that he could savour each word: I

 remember telling you about Ruth, my wife. As you know, she escaped

 from Pretoria and is in Pietermaritzburg staying with relatives of

 hers. Yesterday I had a letter from her that contained the most

 wonderful tidings. We have been married four years this coming June,

 and now at last as a result of our brief meeting when she arrived in

 Natal-I am to become a father! Ruth tells me she has determined on a

 daughter (though I am certain it will be a son!) and she has selected a

 name. It is a most unusual name, to be charitable-I can see that it

 will require a great deal of diplomacy on my part to make her change

 her mind. (Among her many virtues is an obstinacy reminiscent of the

 rock of ages.) She wants to name the poor waif -Storm'@-Storm

 Friedman-and the prospect appauls me!

 Although our faiths differ, I have written to Ruth asking her agree to

 your election as

 "Sandek"-which is the equivalent of godfather. I can foresee no

 objection from Ruth (especially in view of the debt which we both owe

 you) and it needs now only your consent.

 Will you give it?

 At the same time I have explained to Ruth your present situation and

 address (co Greys Hospital!) and asked her to visit you there so that

 she can thank you personally. I warn you in advance that she knows as

 much about you as I do-I am not one to hide my enthusiasms!

 Lying with the letter clutched in his hand, Sean stared out across the

 lawns into the sunlight. Beneath the bedclothes, swelling up like a

 pregnant belly, was the wicker basket that cradled his leg. "Storm!"

 he whispered, remembered the lightning, playing blue and blinding white

 upon her body.

 "Why doesn't she come?" Three weeks he had waited for her. "She knows

 that I am here, why doesn't she come to me?"

 "Visitors for you. " The sister paused beside him and straightened the

 bedclothes.

 "Who? " He struggled up on to his good elbow, with the other arm still

 in its sling across his chest.

 "A lady." And he felt it surge through him. "And a small boy. " The

 cold backwash of disappointment, as he realized it was not her.

 Then immediately guilt, Ada and Dirk, how could he hope it was someone

 else?

 Without the beard Dirk did not recognize him until he was ten paces

 away. Then he charged, his cap flew from his head and his dark hair,

 despite the bonds of brilliantine, sprang up into curls as he ran. He

 was squeaking incoherently as he reached the bed, clambered up on to

 Sean's chest to lock both arms around his neck.

 It was some time before Sean could prise him loose and look at him.

 "Well, boy," he said, and then again, "well, my boy." Unable to trust

 himself not to lay Ins love for the child bare for all to see-there

 were a hundred men watching and grinning, Sean sought diversion by

 turning to Ada.

 She waited quietly, as she had spent half her life waiting, but when he

 looked at her the tenderness showed in her smile.

 "Sean." She stooped to kiss him. "What hap penned to your beard?

 You look so young."

 They stayed for an hour, most of which was taken up by a monologue from

 Dirk. In the intervals while he regained his breath Ada and Sean were

 able to exchange all their accumulated news. Finally, Ada stood up

 from the chair beside Sean's bed' The train leaves in half an hour, and

 Dirk has school tomorrow. We'll come up from Ladyburg each week-end

 until you are ready to return home. " Getting Dirk out of the hospital

 was like evicting an unruly drunk from a bar. Alone Ada could not

 manage it and she enlisted a male hospital orderly to the cause.

 Kicking and struggling in tantrum, Dirk was carried down the veranda

 with his screams ringing back to Sean long after he had disappeared

 from view.

 "I want my Dad. I want to stay with my Dad.

 "Benjamin Goldberg was the executor of his brother's estate.

 estate consisted of a forty-per-cent shareholding in Goldberg Bros.

 Ltd." a company which listed among its assets a brewery, four small

 hotels and a very large one situated on the Marine Parade at Durban,

 sixteen butcher shops, and a factory devoted to the manufacture of polo

 ny pork sausages, bacon and smoked ham. The lag products caused

 Benjamin some embarrassment, but their manufacture was too profitable

 to be discontinued. Benjamin was also the Chairman of the Board of

 Goldberg Bros." and a sixty-per-cent shareholder. The presence of an

 army of twenty-five thousand hungry and thirsty men in Natal had

 increased the consumption of beer and bacon in a manner that caused

 Benjamin further embarrassment, for he was a peaceable man. The huge

 profits forced upon him by the hostilities both troubled and delighted

 him.

 These same two emotions were evoked by the presence in his household of

 his niece. Benjamin had four sons and not a single daughter, his

 brother Aaron had left one daughter for whom Benjamin would gladly have

 traded all four of his own sons. Not that the boys weren't doing very

 well, all of them settled into the business very nicely. One of them

 running the Port Natal Hotel, the eldest managing the brewery and the

 two others in the meat section. But-and here Benjamin sighed-but

 Ruth!

 There was a girl for a man's old age. He looked at her across the

 polished stinkwood breakfast table with its encrustation of -H silver

 and exquisite bone china, and he sighed again.

 "Now, Uncle Ben, don't start again. Please. " Ruth buttered her toast

 firmly.

 "So all I'm saying is that we need him here. Is that so bad?

 "Saul is a lawyer."

 "Nu? Is that so bad. He's a lawyer, but we need a lawyer with us. The

 fees I pay out to those other schmo ks " "He doesn't want to come into

 the Company."

 "All right. We know he doesn't want charity. We know he doesn't want

 your money working for him. We know all about his pride-but now he's

 got responsibilities. Already he should be thinking about you-and the

 baby-not so much about what he wants.

 At the mention of the baby, Ruth frowned slightly. Benjamin noticed

 it, there were few things he did not notice. Young people! If only

 you could tell them. He sighed again.

 "All right. We'll leave it until Saul comes back on leave, " he agreed

 heavily.

 Ruth, who had never mentioned her uncle's offers of employment to Saul

 had a momentary vision of living in Pietermaritzburg-close enough to be

 drowned in the tidal waves of affection that emanated from her Uncle

 Benjamin, caught like a tiny insect in the suffocating web of family

 ties and duties. She flashed at him in horror.

 "You even mention it to Saul and I'll never speak to you again.

 Her cheeks flushed wondrously and fire burned in her eyes.

 Even the heavy braid of dark hair seemed to come alive like the tail of

 an angry lioness, clicking as she moved her head.

 Oi Yoi Yoi! Benjamin hid his delight behind hooded lids. What a

 temper! what a woman! She could keep a man young for ever.

 Ruth jumped up from the table. For the first time he noticed that she

 wore riding habit.

 "Where are you going? Ruth, you're not riding again today.

 "Yes I am

 "The baby!

 "Uncle Ben, why did you never learn to mind your own business?"

 And she marched out of the room. Her waist was not yet thickened with

 pregnancy and she moved with a grace that played a wild discord on the

 old man's heart strings.

 "You should not let her treat you that way, Benjamin. " Mildly, the

 way she did everything, his wife spoke from across the table.

 "There's something troubling that girl." Carefully Benjamin wiped egg

 from his moustache, laid the napkin on the table, consulted the gold

 fob watch he drew from his waistcoat, and stood up. "Something big.

 You mark my words."

 It was Friday, strange how Friday had become the pivot on which the

 whole week turned. Ruth urged the chestnut stallion, and he lengthened

 his stride under her, surging forward with such power that she had to

 check him a little and bring him down into an easy canter.

 She was early and waited ten impatient minutes in the Oaklined lane

 behind Greys Hospital before, like a conspirator, the little nurse

 slipped out through the hedge.

 "Have you got it? " Ruth demanded. The girl nodded, around quickly

 and took an envelope out of her grey nursing cloak. Ruth exchanged it

 for a gold sovereign. Clutching the d coin the nurse started back for

 the hedge.

 "Wait. " Ruth stopped her. This was her only physical contact and she

 was reluctant to break it so soon. "How is he?

 "It's all there, ma'am. " "I know-but tell me how he looks. What he

 does and says," Ruth insisted.

 "Oh, he's looking fine now. He's been up and about on his sticks all

 week, with that big black savage helping him, The first day he fell and

 you should have heard him swear. Lordy! " They both laughed

 together.

 "He's a real card, that one. He and sister had another tiff yesterday

 when she wanted to wash him. He called her a shameless strumpet. She

 gave him what for all right. But you could see she was ever so pleased

 and she went around telling everybody about it.

 She bur bled on and Ruth listened enchanted, until: "Then yesterday,

 you know what he did when I was changing his dressing?" She blushed

 coyly. "He gave me a pinch behind!"

 Ruth felt a hot flood of anger wash over her. Suddenly she realized

 that the girl was pretty in an insipid fashion.

 "And he said.

 "Thank you!" Ruth had to restrain the hand that held her riding crop.

 "I have to go now. " Usually the long skirts of her habit hampered her

 in mounting, but this time she found herself in the saddle without

 effort.

 "Next week, ma'am?"

 "Yes," and she hit the stallion across the shoulder. He lunged forward

 so violently that she had to clutch at the pommel of the saddle. She

 rode him as she had never ridden a horse before, driving him with whip

 and spur until dark patches of sweat showed on his flanks and froth

 spattered back along his shoulders, so that by the time she reached a

 secluded spot on the bank of the Umgeni River far out of town her

 jealousy had abated and she felt ashamed of herself. She loosened the

 stallion's girdle and petted him a little before leaving him tethered

 to one of the weeping willows, and picking her way down the bank to her

 favourite log on the water's edge.

 There she settled herself and opened the envelope. If only Sean could

 have known that his temperature chart, progress report, house-doctor's

 recommendations, and the sucrose content of his urine were being so

 avidly studied, he would probably had added a ruptured spleen to his

 other ills.

 At last Ruth folded the pages into their envelope and tucked it away in

 the jacket of her habit. He must look so different without his beard.

 She stared into the pool below her and it seemed as though his face

 formed in the green water and looked back at her. She touched the

 surface with the toe of her riding boot so that the ripples spread and

 shattered the image.

 She was left with only the feeling of loneliness.

 "I must not go to him," she whispered, steeling the resolve which had

 kept her from him these past weeks since she had known he was there. So

 close-so terribly near.

 Determinedly she looked down again into the pool and tried to conjure

 up the face of her husband. all she saw was a yellow fish gliding

 quietly across the sandy bottom with the pattern of its scales showing

 like the teeth of a file along its sides. She dropped a pebble into

 the water and the fish darted away.

 Saul. Merry little Saul with his monkey face, who made her laugh the

 way a mother laughs at her child. I love him, she thought. And it was

 true, she loved him. But love has many shapes, and some are the shapes

 of mountains-tall and jagged and big. While others are the shape of

 clouds-which have no shape, no sharp outline, soft they blow against

 the mountain and change and stream away but the mountain stands

 untouched by them. The mountain stands for ever.

 "My mountain," she murmured, and she saw him again so vividly, standing

 tall above her in the storm.

 "Storm," she whispered and clasped her open hands across her belly that

 was still flat and hard.

 "Storm," she whispered and felt the warmth within her. It spread

 outwards from her womb, the heat rising with it until it was a burning

 madness she could no longer control. With her skirts flying about her

 legs she ran to the stallion, her hand trembled on the straps of the

 girth. - "Just once," she promised herself. "Just this once more.

 Desperately she clawed up into the saddle.

 "Just this once, I swear it! " and then brokenly,

 "I can't help myself. I've tried-oh God, how I've tried!

 An appreciative stirring and hum of comment from the beds along the

 wall followed her as she swept down the hospital veranda. There was

 urgent grace in the way she held her skirts gathered in one hand, in

 the crisp staccato tap of her pointed boots along the cement floor and

 the veiled swing of her hips above. There was unrestrained eagerness

 in the sparkle in her eyes and the forward thrust of her breasts

 beneath the wine coloured jacket. The wild ride which brought her here

 had flushed her cheeks and tumbled her hair glossy black down her

 temple and on to her forehead.

 Those sick and lonely men reacted as though a goddess had passed them

 by, thrilled by her beauty, yet saddened because she was unattainable.

 She did not notice them, she did not feel their hungry eyes upon her

 nor hear the aching whisper of their voices-for she had seen Sean.

 He came slowly across the lawns towards the veranda, using the stick

 awkwardly to balance the drag of his leg. His eyes were downcast and

 he frowned in thought. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw how

 wasted was his body. She had not remembered him so tall with shoulders

 gaunt and wide like the crosstree of a gallows. Never before had she

 seen the bony thrust of his jawline, nor the pale smoothness of his

 skin faintly blue with new-shaved beard. But she remembered the eyes

 heavily over scored with black brows, and his great beaky nose above

 the wide sensuality of his mouth.

 On the edge of the lawn he stopped with feet apart, set the point of

 the cane between them with both hands clasped over the head of it, and

 he lifted his eyes and looked at her.

 For many seconds neither of them moved. He stood balancing on the cane

 with his shoulders hunched and his chin raised as he stared at her. She

 in the shadow of the veranda, her skirts still in one hand-but the

 other at her throat, fingers trying to still the emotions that

 fluttered there.

 Gradually his shoulders straightened until he stood tall. He hurled

 the cane aside and reached both hands open towards her.

 Suddenly she was running over the smooth, green lawn. Into his arms,

 trembling in silent intensity, while he held her.

 With both arms around his waist and her face pressed against his chest

 she could smell the man smell of him and feel the hard muscle of his

 arms as he enfolded her-and she knew she was now safe. As long as she

 stayed like this-nothing, nobody could touch her.

 On the slope of the table-topped mountain that crouches over the town

 of Pietermaritzburg there is a glade among the wattle trees. It is a

 secret place where even the timid little blue buck come out to graze in

 daylight. On a still day you can hear very faintly the pop of the

 wagon whips on the road below, or farther off the steam whistle of a

 train. But that is all that intrudes in this wild place.

 A butterfly crossed the glade in uncertain wobbling flight, it came out

 of the sunlight into the dappled, moving shade along the edge, and

 settled.

 That's good luck," Sean murmured lazily and Ruth lifted her head from

 the plaid rug on which they lay. As the butterfly moved its wings,

 fanning them gently, the iridescent green and yellow markings sparkled

 in the speck of sunlight that pierced the roof of leaves above them and

 fell upon it like a spotlight.

 "It tickles, " she said, and the insect moved like a living jewel

 across the smooth white field of her belly. It reached her navel and

 paused. Then the tiny tendril of its tongue uncurled and dabbed at the

 fine sheen of moisture that their loving had left Upon her skin.

 "He's come to bless the baby."

 The butterfly skirted the deep, delicately chiselled pit and moved on

 downwards.

 "Don't you think he's being just a little forward-he doesn't have to

 bless that as well?" Ruth asked.

 "He certainly seems to know his way around," Sean admitted dubiously.

 The butterfly found its road southwards blocked by a forest of dark

 curls, so laboriously it turned and retraced its steps towards the

 north. once more it detoured round her navel and then headed

 unerringly for the pass between her breasts

 "Keep right on, friend,"

 Sean cautioned, but it turned suddenly and climbed the steep slope

 until at last it sat triumphant on the peak.

 Sean watched it throbbing its wings, blazing in oriental SPlendour upon

 her nipple, and he felt himself stirred once more.

 -Ruth." His voice was husky again. She rolled her head to look into

 his eyes Go away, little butterfly, " and she brushed it from her

 breast.

 Ruth woke him a little Later, after they had slept and they sat facing

 each other on the rug with the open hamper between them.

 While Sean uncorked the wine she worked over the hamper with the

 dedication of a priestess preparing a sacrifice. He watched her split

 the bread rolls and fill them with salty, yellow butter, then open the

 screw-topped jars of soused beans and pickled onions and beetroot. A

 heart of young lettuce rustled crisply as she plucked its leaves into a

 wooden bowl, and poured dressing over them.

 Her hair, released from its braid, broke like a black wave over the

 marble of her shoulders, then rippled and swung with the small

 movements of her body. With the back of her hand she brushed it from

 her forehead, then looked up at him and smiled.

 "Don't stare. It's bad manners. " She took the glass he offered her

 and sipped the cool yellow wine, set it aside and went on to dismember

 the fat-breasted chicken. Pretending to ignore his eyes upon her body,

 she began to sing, softly, the love-song she had sung on the night of

 the storm and shyly her breasts peeped at him through the black curtain

 of her hair.

 She wiped her fingers carefully on a linen napkin, took up the

 wineglass again and with elbows on her knees leaned forward slightly

 and returned his scrutiny with equal frankness.

 "Eat," she said.

 "And you? "In a little while. I want to watch You. Then he was

 hungry.

 "You eat the way you make love-as though tomorrow you die.

 "I'm taking no chances."

 "You're covered with scars, like an Old tOm-Cat who fights too much,"

 and she leaned forward and touched his chest with one finger.

 -What happened there?"

 -Leopard.

 "And there?" She touched his arm.

  

 "Knife.

 "And there?" his wrist.

 "Burst shotgun."

 She dropped her hand and caressed the fresh purple cicatrice that

 twined around his leg like some grotesque parasitic vine.

 "This one I know," she whispered and her eyes were sad as she touched

 it.

 Quickly, to change her mood, he spoke.

 "Now it's my turn to ask the questions." He reached across and laid

 his open hand upon her stomach where the first faint bulge pressed

 warmly into his palm.

 "What happened there?" he demanded, and she giggled before she

 replied. "Burst shotgun-or was it a cannon?"

 When she had repacked the hamper she knelt beside him. He lay flat on

 his back with a long black cheroot between his teeth.

 "Have you had sufficient?" she asked.

 "My God, yes," and he sighed happily.

 "Well, I haven't." She leaned over him, took the cheroot from his

 mouth and flicked it into the brambles.

 With the first faint flush of evening in the sky a small breeze came

 down from the mountain and rustled the leaves above them. The fine

 hairs upon her forearms came erect, each on its tiny pimple of

 gooseflesh, and her nipples stood out dark and hard.

 "You must not be late back to the hospital on the very first day

 they've let you out. " She rolled away from him and reached for her

 clothing. Matron will have me hung, drawn and quartered.

 Sean agreed. they dressed quickly, and she was remote from him.

 All the laughter gone from her voice and her face cold and

 expressionless.

 He stood behind her to lace the whalebone corset. He hated to cage

 that lovely body and was about to say so.

 "Saul is coming tomorrow. A month's leave. Her voice was harsh.

 His hands stilled and they stood without moving. It was the first time

 either of them had referred to Saul since that morning a month ago when

 she had come to him at the hospital.

 "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" His voice also was harsh.

 "I didn't want to spoil today." She had not turned towards him, but

 stood staring out across the glade to the far hills beyond the town.

 "We must decide what we are going to tell him."

 "There is nothing to tell him," she answered flatly.

 "But what are we going to do?" Now his voice was ugly with mingled

 dread and guilt.

 "Do, Sean?" She turned slowly and her face was still cold and

 expressionless. "We are going to do nothing! nothing at all! "But

 you belong to me!" he cried in protest.

 "No," she answered.

 "The child, it mine!"

 At his words her eyes narrowed and the sweet line of her lips hardened

 in anger.

 "No, damn you, it isn't! Not yours-although you sired it.

 She flamed at him. It was the first time she had unleashed her temper

 at him. It startled Sean. "The child belongs to Sauland I belong to

 Saul. We owe you nothing.

 He stared at her. "You don't mean that," and the flames of her anger

 faded. Quickly he tried to press his advantage.

 "We'll go away together."

 "Run away-you mean. Sneak away like a pair of thieves.

 What would we take with us, Sean? The happiness of a man who loves and

 trusts us both-that, and our own guilt. You'd never forgive me, nor I

 you. Even now when we talk of it you cannot meet my eyes.

 Already you are beginning to hate me a little.

 "No! No!"

 "And I would hate you," she whispered.

 please.

 "You don't love him. " The agonized accusal was wrung from him, but it

 was as though he had not spoken. She went on dressing.

 "He'll want to see you. Half of every letter he writes is about

 YOU.

 I've told him that I've visited you at the hospital."

 Call for my horse,

 "I'm going to tell him," Sean shouted. "I'll tell him everything.

 "No, you won't." She answered him calmly.

 "You did not save him at Colenso to destroy him now. You would destroy

 him-and us. Please call for my horse. " Sean whistled and they stood

 together, not touching, not talking, not even looking at each other.

 Until Mbejane emerged from the bush below the glade leading the

 horses.

 Sean lifted her into the saddle.

 "When?" he asked quietly.

 "Perhaps never," she answered and swung the horse away.

 She did not look back so Sean never saw the tears that streamed down

 her face. The muffled drum of hooves drowned her sobs and she held her

 back and her shoulders stiff so that he would not know.

 The War Council ended long after dark and when his commandants had up

 saddled and ridden away to their laagers among the hills, Jan Paulus

 sat alone beside the fire.

 He was tired, as though his brain was the cold, flabby body of an

 octopus and its tentacles spread out to every extremity of his body.

 He was lonely. Now at the head of five thousand men he was alone as he

 had never been in the vast solitude of the open veld.

 Because of the loneliness and because of the companionship she had

 given him these past twenty years his thoughts turned to Henrietta, and

 he smiled in the dari mess and felt the longing blunt the edge of his

 determination.

 I would like to go back to the farm, for a week only. Just to see that

 they are all well. I would like to read to them from the Book and

 watch the faces of the children in the lamplight. I would like to sit

 with my sons on the stoep and hear the voices of Henrietta and the

 girls as they work in the kitchen. I would like . . .

 Abruptly he stood up from beside the fire. Ja, you would like !

 to do this and you would like to do that! Go then!

 Give yourself leave of absence as you refused it to so many others.

 He clenched his jaw, biting into the stem of his pipe. Or else, sit

 here and dream like an old woman while twenty-five thousand English

 pour across the river.

 He Strode out to the laager, and the earth tilted upwards beneath his

 feet as he headed for the ridge Tomorrow, he thought.

 Tomorrow.

 God has been merciful that they did not rush the ridge two days ago

 when I had three hundred men to hold it. But now I have five thousand

 to their twenty-five-so let them come!

 Suddenly, as he reached the crest, the valley of the Tugela lay below

 him. Soft with moonlight so that the river was a black gash in the

 land. He scowled as he saw the field of bivouac fires that straddled

 the drift at Trichardt's farm.

 They have crossed. May God forgive me that I had to let them cross,

 but I could not meet and hold them with three hundred.

 Two days I have waited in agony for my columns to cover the twenty

 miles from Colenso. TWo days while the cannon bogged down in the

 mud.

 Two days while I watched their cavalry, foot soldiers and wagons

 crossing the drift and I could not stop them.

 Now they are ready. Tomorrow they will come up to us. they will come,

 to try at any other place is madness, a stupidity far beyond any they

 have shown before They cannot try the right, for to reach it they must

 march across our front. With little cover and the river fencing them

 in they would expose their flank to us at two thousand yards. No, they

 cannot try the right-not even Buller will try the right.

 Slowly he turned his head and looked out to the left where the tall

 peaks rose sheer out of the heights. The formation of the ground

 resembled the bak of a gigantic fish. Jan Paulus stood upon its head,

 on the relatively smooth slope of Tabanyana. but on his left rose the

 dorsal fin of the fish. This was a series of peaks, Vaalkrans,

 Brakfontein, Twin Peaks, Conical Hill and, the highest and the most

 imposing of all, Spion KOP.

 Once again, he experienced the nagging prickle of doubt.

 Surely no man, not even Buller, would throw any army against that line

 of natural fortresses. It would be senseless as the sea hurling its

 surf at a line of granite cliffs. Yet the doubt remained.

 perhaps Buller, that pedestrian and completely predictable man, Buller

 who seemed eternally committed to the theory of frontal assault,

 perhaps this time he would know that the slopes of Tabanyama were too

 logically the only point at which he could break through. Perhaps he

 would know that the whole of the Boer Army waited for him there with

 all their guns Perhaps he would guess that only twenty burghers guarded

 each of the peaks on the left flank-that Jan Paulus had not dared to

 spread his line so thin, and had risked everything on Tabanyarna.

 Jan Paulus sighed. Now it was past the time for doubt. He had made

 the choice and tomorrow they would know. Tomorrow, van more.

 Heavily he turned away and started down towards the laager.

 The moon was setting behind the black massif of Spion Kop, and its

 shadow hid the path. Loose rock rolled under his feet.

 Jan Paulus stumbled and almost fell.

 "Wies Door? " The challenge from an outcrop of granite beside the

 path.

 "A friend." Jan Paulus saw the man now, he leaned against the rock

 with a Mauser held low across his hips.

 "Tell me-what commando are you with?"

 "The Wynbergers under Leroux.

 "So! Do you know Leroux?" the sentry asked.

 "Yes.

 "What colour is his beard?"

 "Red-red as the flames of hell.

 The sentry laughed.

 "Tell Oom Paul from me I'll tie a knot in it next time I see him.

 "Best you shave before you try-he might do the same for you," Jan

 Paulus warned him.

 "Are you his friend?"

 "And his kinsman too.

 "The hell with you then also." The sentry laughed again.

 "Will you drink coffee with us?

 It was an ideal opportunity for Jan Paulus to mingle with his men and

 gauge their temper for tomorrow. "Dankie. " He accepted the

 invitation.

 "Good." The sentry straightened up and Jan Paulus saw he was a big

 man, made taller by the homburg hat he wore. "Karl, is there any

 coffee left in the pot?" He yelled into the darkness beyond the rocks

 and was answered immediately.

 "in the name of God, must you bellow? This is a battlefield, not a

 political meeting.

 "The English are as loud. I've heard them all night."

 "The English are fools. Must you be the same?"

 "For you, only for you." The sentry dropped his voice to a sepulchral

 whisper, and then roared again suddenly: "But what about that damned

 coffee?"

 This one is not short of stomach, Jan Paulus grinned to himself, as the

 man, still chuckling happily, placed an arm about his shoulder and led

 him to the screened fire among the rocks.

 Three burghers squatted about it with blankets draped over their

 shoulders. They were talking among themselves as the sentry and Jan

 Paulus approached.

 "The moon will be down in half an hour," one of them said.

 "Ja. I will not be happy to see it gone. If the English plan a night

 attack, then they will come in the dark of the moon. " "Who is with

 you?" Karl asked as they came towards the fire.

 "A friend," the sentry replied.

 "From what commando?"

 "The Wynbergers," Jan Paulus answered for himself, and Karl nodded and

 lifted the battered enamel coffee-pot from the fire, you are with Oorn

 Paul. And what does he think of our chances for tomorrow?"

 "That of a man with one bullet left in thick cat bush with a lung shot

 buffalo coming down in full charge."

 "And does it worry him?"

 "Only a madman knows no fear. Oom Paul is afraid. But he tries not to

 show it, for fear spreads among men like the white sore throat

 diphtheria," Jan Paulus replied as he accepted the mug of coffee and

 settled down against a rock out of the firelight so they would not

 recognize his face nor the colour of his beard.

 "Show it or not," grunted the sentry as he filled his mug.

 "But I reckon he'd give one of his eyeballs to be back on his farm at

 Wynberg with his wife beside him in the double bed."

 Jan Paulus felt the glow of anger in his belly and his voice as he

 replied as harsh.

 "You think him a coward!"

 "I think I would rather stand on a hill a mile behind the fighting and

 send other men in to die," the sentry chuckled again, but there was a

 sardonic note in it.

 "I've heard him swear that tomorrow he will be in front wherever the

 fight is fiercest," growled Jan Paulus.

 "Oh, he said so? So that we fight more cheerfully? But when the

 Lee-Metfords rip your belly open-how will you know where Oorn Paul

 is?"

 "I have told you he is my kin. When you insult him you insult me.

 " Anger had closed Jan Paulus's throat so that his voice was hoarse.

 "Good! " The sentry stood up quickly. "Let us settle it now."

 "Be still, you fools." Karl spoke irritably. "Save your anger for the

 English," and then more softly, "all of us are restless, knowing what

 tomorrow will bring. Let your quarrel stand."

 "He is right," Jan Paulus agreed, still choked with anger.

 "But when I meet you again. . . ! " "How will you know me?" the

 sentry demanded.

 "Here!" Jan Paulus jerked the wide-brimmed Terai hat from his head and

 flung it at the man's feet. "Wear that and give me yours in

 exchange.

 "Why?" The sentry stood puzzled.

 "Then if ever a man comes up to me and says,

 "You're wearing my hat," he will be saying,

 "Jan Paulus Leroux is a coward!"

 The man grinned so that his teeth glittered in the firelight, then he

 dropped his own black homburg into Jan Paulus's lap and stooped to pick

 up the Terai. In that instant, faintly on the wind, soft as the

 crackle of dried twigs, they heard the rifle-fire.

 " Mausers! " shouted Karl and he leapt to his feet sending the

 coffee-pot flying.

 "On the left, " moaned Jan Paulus in anguish. "Oh, God help us!

 They've tried the left. " The chorus of rifle-fire rose, swelling

 urgently; and now blending with the crisp crackle of the mausers was

 the deep belling of the Lee-Metfords.

 "Spion Kop! They're on Spion Kop," and Jan Paulus ran, hurling himself

 down the path towards the laager with the black homburg jammed down

 over his ears.

 The mist lay heavily on the peak of Spion Kop that morning, so that the

 dawn was a thing of liquid, pearly light. A soft uncertain thing that

 swirled about them and condensed in tiny drops upon the metal of their

 rifles.

 Colonel John Acheson was breakfasting on ham sandwiches spread thickly

 with Gentleman's Relish. He sat on a boulder with his uniform cloak

 draped over his shoulders and chewed morosely.

 "No sign of the jolly old Boer yet," the captain beside him announced

 cheerfully.

 "that trench is not deep enough. " Acheson glowered at the shallow

 ditch which had been scraped in the stony soil and which was filled to

 capacity with men in all the various attitudes of relaxation.

 "I know, sir. But there's not much we can do about it. We're down to

 bedrock and it would need a wagon-load of dynamite to sink another

 foot. " The captain selected a sandwich and upended the Relish bottle

 over it. "Anyway, all the enemy fire will be from below and the

 parapets will cover that. " Along the front edge of the trench clods

 of earth and loose rock had been piled a height of two feet. Pathetic

 cover for two thousand men.

 "Have you ever been on this mountain before?" Acheson asked

 politely.

 "No, sir. Of course not.

 "Well, what makes you so bloody certain how the land lies.

 You can't see a thing in this mist."

 "Well, sir, we are on the crest, and it is the highest . But Acheson

 interrupted him irritably. "Where are those damned scouts?

 Haven't they come in yet?" He jumped up and with his cloak swirling

 about him strode along the trench. "You men.

 Can't you get that parapet higher there!

 "At his feet a few of them stirred and began halfheartedly lifting

 stone. They were exhausted by the long night climb and the skirmish

 which had driven the Boer garrison from the mountain, and Acheson heard

 them muttering sullenly behind him as he walked on.

 "Acheson!" Out of the mist ahead of him loomed the figure of General

 Woodgate Mowed closely by his staff.

 "Sir!" Acheson hurried to meet him.

 "Are your men entrenched?"

 "As best they can."

 "Good. What of the enemy? Have your scouts reported back yet?

 "No. They're still out there in the mist." And Acheson pointed into

 the smoky billows that limited the range of their vision to fifty

 feet.

 "Well, we should be able to hold until we are reinforced. Let me know

 the moment . . . " A small commotion in the mist behind them, and

 Woodgate paused. "What is it?"

 "My scouts, sir."

 Saul Friedman began delivering his report from a range of twenty feet.

 His face was working with excitement as he scurried out of the mist.

 "False crest! We're on the false crest. The true summit is two

 hundred yards ahead and there's a rise of ground out on our right

 flank, like a little knoll all covered with aloes, that enfilades our

 whole position. There are Boers everywhere. The whole bloody mountain

 is crawling with them."

 "Good God man! Are you certain?"

 "Colonel Acheson," snapped Woodgate, "turn your right flank to face the

 knoll," and as Acheson strode away he added under his breath, "if you

 have time!" and he felt the agitated swirl of the mist as it was swept

 away before the wind Jan Paulus stood beside his pony. The mist had de

 wed in his beard and set it a-sparkle in red-gold. Across both

 shoulders heavy bandoliers of ammunition drooped, and the Mauser rifle

 seemed like a child's toy in his huge hairy hands. His jaw was thrust

 forward in thought as he reviewed his dispositions. All night he had

 flogged his pony from laager to laager, all night he had roared and

 bullied and driven men up the slopes of Spion Kop. And now ground him

 the mountain rustled and murmured with five thousand waiting burghers,

 and in an arc of 120 degrees behind it stood his guns. From Green Hill

 in the northwest to the reverse slopes of the Twin Peaks in the east,

 his gunners crouched beside their creusots and their Nordenfeldts,

 ready to range in upon the crest of Spion Kop.

 All things are ready and now I must earn the right to wear this hat. He

 grinned and settled the homburg more firmly over his ears.

 "Hennie, take, my horse back to the laager.

 The boy led it away and he started up the last slope towards the

 summit. The light strengthened as he climbed and the burghers among

 the rocks recognized the flaming beacon of his beard.

 " Goeie Jag, Oom Paul," and,

 "Kom saam om die Rooi Nekke te ski et " they called. Then two burghers

 ran down to meet him.

 "Oom Paul. We've just been forward to Aloe Knoll. There are no

 English on it!"

 "Are you sure?" It seemed too generous a gift of fortune

 "Ja, man. They are all on the back of the mountain. We heard them

 digging and talking there."

 "What commando are you?" Jan Paulus demanded of the men massed around

 him in the mist.

 "The Carolina commando" voices answered.

 "Come," ordered Jan Paulus. "Come, all of you. We are going to Aloe

 Knoll."

 They followed. Skirting the summit, with the brush, brush, brush of

 hundreds of feet through the grass, hurrying so that their breathing

 steamed in the moist air. Until abruptly ahead of them humped the dark

 mound of Aloe Knoll and they swarmed over it and disappeared among the

 rocks and crevices like a column of ants returning to their nest.

 Lying on his belly Jan Paulus lit his pipe and tamped down on the

 glowing tobacco with a fire-calloused thumb, sucked the smoke into his

 mouth and peered into the solid white curtain of mist. In the eerie

 silence that had fallen upon the mountain his stomach rumbled loudly

 and he remembered that he had not eaten since the previous noon. There

 was a stick of biltong in his coat pocket.

 A lion hunts best on an empty stomach, he thought and drew again on his

 pipe.

 "Here comes the wind," a voice whispered near him, and he heard the

 rising sibilance of it through the aloes above his head.

 The aloes stood tall as a man, multi-headed, green candelabra tipped in

 crimson and gold, nodding slightly in the morning wind.

 "Ja. " Jan Paulus felt it stirring deep in his chest, that blend of

 fear and exhilaration that drowned his fatigue. "Here it comes."

 He knocked out his pipe, stuffed it still hot into his pocket and

 lifted his rifle from the rock in front of him.

 Dramatically, as though unveiling a monument, the wind stripped the

 mists away. Beneath a sky of cobalt blue, soft golden brown in the

 early sunshine, lay the rounded peak of Spion Kop.

 A long uneven scar of red earth five hundred yards long was slashed

 across it.

 "Alinagtig! " Jan Paulus gasped. "Now we have them."

 Above the crude parapet of the trench, like birds on a fence rail, so

 close that he could see the chin straps and the button on each crown,

 the light khaki helmets contrasted clearly with the darker earth and

 grass. While beyond the trench, completely exposed from boots to

 helmets, standing in the open or moving leisurely forward with

 ammunition and water canteens, were hundreds of English soldiers.

 For long seconds the silence persisted, as though the burghers who

 stared over their rifles at this unbelievable target could not bring

 themselves to press the triggers on which their fingers rested. The

 English were too close, too vulnerable. A universal reluctance held

 the mausers silent.

 "Shoot!" roared Jan Paulus. "Skiet, Kerels, Skiet, " and his voice

 carried to the English behind the trenches. He saw all movement among

 them suddenly paralysed, white faces turn to stare in his direction-and

 he sighted carefully into the chest of one of them. The rifle jumped

 against his shoulder, and the man went down into the grass.

 That single shot broke the spell. Gunfire crackled in hysterical

 unison and the frieze of khaki figures along the trench exploded into

 violent movement as the bullets, thudded amongst them. At that range

 most of Jan Paulus's burghers could be trusted to knock down four

 running springbok with five shots. In the few seconds that it took the

 English to dive into the trench, at least fifty of them went down, dead

 or wounded, and lay sprawled against the red earth.

 Now there were only the helmets and heads above the parapet to shoot at

 and these were never still. They ducked and weaved and bobbed as

 Woodgate's men fired and reloaded, and seventeen hundred Lee-Metford

 rifles added their voices to the pandemonium

 Then the first shell, lobbed from a field gun on the reverse slope of

 Conical Hill, shrieked over the heads of the burghers and burst in a

 leap of smoke and red dust fifty feet in front of the English trench.

 A lull while Jan Paulus's heliograph team below the crest signalled the

 range correction to the battery, then the next shell burst beyond the

 trench; another lull and the third fell full upon the trench. A human

 body was thrown high, legs and arms spinning like the spokes of a wagon

 wheel. When the dust cleared there was a gap in the parapet and half a

 dozen men frantically trying to plug it with loose rock.

 Together all the Boer guns opened. The constant shriek of big shells

 was punctuated by the @icious whine of the quick-firing pompoms.

 And once again a mist covered the peak, this time a thin sluggish mist

 of dust and lyddite fume which diluted the sunlight and clogged the

 nostrils and eyes and mouths of men for whom a long, long day had

 begun.

 Lieutenant-Colonel Garrick Courtney was damnably uncomfortable.

 It was hot in the sun. Sweat trickled down under his tunic and

 moistened his stump so that already it was chafed. His field-glasses

 magnified the glare as he looked out across the Tugela River to the

 great hump of the mountain four miles away.

 The glare aggravated the ache behind his eyes, which was a memorial to

 last night's drinking.

 "Woodgate seems to be holding very well. His reinforcements should be

 up to him soon enough.

 Sir Redvers, Buller appeared to be satisfied, and none of his staff had

 any comment to add. Stolidly they stood and stared through their

 glasses at the peak which was now faintly blurred with the dust and

 smoke of battle.

 Garrick was puzzling once more the devious lines of authority which

 Buller had established for the attack on Spion Kop. Comanding the

 actual assault was General Woodgate, who was now "holding very well" on

 the peak, yet Woodgate was responsible not to Buller but to General

 Charles Warren, who had his headquarters beyond Trichardt's Drift where

 the column had crossed. Warren was in turn responsible to Buller, who

 was well back behind the river, standing on a pleasant little hill

 called Mount Alice.

 Everyone on the staff was aware that Buller hated Warren.

 Garrick was certain that Warren had been given command of an operation

 which Buller considered very risky, so that in the event it failed

 Warren would be discredited and goaded into resigning.

 Of course, if he succeeded, Sir Redvers Buller was still supreme

 Commander and the credit would therefore ac rue to him.

 It was a line of reasoning Garrick found easy to follow, in fact, had

 he been in Buller's position he would have done exactly the same.

 This secret knowledge gave gary a deal of satisfaction, standing beside

 Buller on the dope of Mount Alice he felt very much in tune with him.

 He found himself hoping that Spion Kop would soon be a bloody

 slaughter-house, and that Warren would retreat across the river in

 disgrace. He remembered the occasion in the mess when Sir Charles had

 referred to him as an "irregular, and a damned colonial irregular-at

 that! " Garry's fingers tightened on his field-glasses and he glared

 out at the mountain He was so deep in his resentment that he hardly

 noticed the signaller who came running from the mule wagon that housed

 the field telegraph which connected Buller's headquarters with those of

 Warren beyond the river.

 "Sir! Sir! A message from General Warren. " The urgency of the man's

 tone caught all their attentions. As one man the entire general staff

 lowered their glasses and turned to him.

 "Let's have it then, my man!" Buller snatched the sheet of notepaper

 and read it slowly. Then he looked up at Garry and there was something

 in those pale, bulging eyes, a pleasure, a conspiratory gleam that made

 Garry almost grin.

 "What do you make of that, Courtney? " He handed the sheet across and

 waited while Garry read it.

 "Message from Colonel Crofton on the Spion Kop. Reinforce at once or

 all is lost. General Woodgate dead What do you suggest. Warren. "

 "It seems to me, sir," Garry spoke slowly, trying to mask the fierce

 jubilation he felt, "that Sir Charles Warren is on the verge of

 panic.

 " "Yes, that's the way it looks." Buller was openly gloating now.

 "I would suggest sending him a message that will stiffen him, sir.

 "Yes, I agree." Buller turned to the signaller and began to dictate.

 "The mountain must be held at all costs. No withdrawal. I repeat no

 withdrawal. Reinforce with Middlesex and Dorset regiments."

 Then he hesitated and looked around his staff. "What do you know of

 this fellow Crofton? Is he the right man to command on the peak?"

 There were non-committal sounds of negation from them until A'Court,

 Buller's ADC, spoke up.

 "Sir. There is one excellent man up there-Acheson-Colonel John

 Acheson. You remember his showing at Colenso? " Buller nodded

 thoughtfully and turning back to the signaller he went on with his

 dictation. "You must put some really good hard fighting man in command

 on the peak. Suggest you promote Acheson to Major-General.

 In front of the trench the grass was flattened by the repeated

 counter-attacks that had swept across it, stained by the blood of those

 who had dragged themselves back from the Boer positions along the

 crest, and littered with the twisted corpses of those who had not.

 Every few seconds a shell exploded along the British line, so there was

 a continual moving forest of bursts and the shrapnel hissed like the

 flails of threshing giants.

 John Acheson forced himself to his feet and climbed on to the parapet

 and shouted,

 "Come on, lads. This time they'll not stop us!"

 In the trench below him the dead and the wounded lay upon each other

 two and three deep, all of them coated with a layer of red dust. The

 same red dust coated the faces that looked up at him as he shouted

 again.

 "Bugler, sound the charge. Come, lads, forward. Take the bayonet to

 them. " The bugle started to sing, brassy and urgent. Acheson hopped

 like a gaunt, old stork from the parapet and flapped his sword.

 Behind him he heard laughter from a dozen throats, not the laughter of

 ordinary men, but the chilling discord of insanity.

 "Follow me, Follow me!" His voice rose to a shriek and they scrambled

 from the trench behind him. Dusty spectres with bloodshot eyes,

 smeared with dust and their own sweat. Their laughter and their curses

 blended with the babbling of the wounded, outstripped it and climbed

 into a chorus of wild cheers. Without form, spreading like spilled

 oil, the charge flowed out towards the crest. Four hundred men,

 staggering through the dust-storm of shell-fire and the tempest of the

 Mausers.

 Acheson stumbled over a corpse and fell. His ankle twisted with a

 shock of pain that jolted his dulled senses. He recovered his sword,

 dragged himself up and limped grimly on towards the rampart of boulders

 that marked the crest. But this time they did not reach it to be

 thrown back as they had before. This time the charge withered before

 it had covered half the distance. In vain Acheson waved them forward,

 yelling until his voice was a hoarse croak. They slowed and wavered,

 then at last they broke and streamed back down the open bullet-swept

 slope to the trench. lbars of frustrated anger streaking his dusty

 cheeks, Acheson hobbled after them. He fell over the parapet and lay

 face down on the corpses that lined the trench.

 A hand shaking his shoulder roused him and he sat up quickly and tried

 to control the breathing that shuddered up his throat.

 Dimly he recognized the man who crouched beside him.

 "What is it, Friedman?" he gasped. But the reply was drowned in the

 arrival of another shell, and the delirious shrieks of a man wounded in

 the belly in the trench beside them.

 "Speak up, maul" "Heliograph message from Sir Charles Warren,"

 shouted Saul. "You have been promoted General. You are in command of

 the peak. " And then with a dusty sweat-streaked grin he added: "Well

 done, sir.

 Acheson stared at him aghast. "What about General Woodgate? " "He was

 shot through the head two hours ago

 "I didn't know. " Since morning Acheson had known nothing that was

 happening outside his own small section of the line.

 His whole existence had closed down to a hundred yards of shrapnel- and

 bullet-swept earth. Now he peered out at the holocaust around him and

 whispered,

 "In command! No man commands here! The devil is directing this

 battle."

 "Sir Charles is sending up three more battalions to reinforce us,"

 Saul shouted into his ear.

 "We can well use them," Acheson grunted, and then,

 "Friedman, I've sprained my ankle. I want you to lace up my boot as

 tight as you can-I'm going to need this foot again before the day is

 done. " Saul knelt without argument and began working over his foot.

 One of the riflemen at the parapet beside him was thrown sideways.

 He fell across Acheson's lap, and from the wound in his temple the

 contents of his skull splattered them both. With an exclamation of

 surprise and disgust Saul pulled back and wiped his face, then he

 reached forward to drag the body from Acheson's legs.

 "Leave him. " Acheson prevented him sharply. "See to that boot.

 " While Saul obeyed, Acheson unwound the silk scarf from around his own

 neck and covered the mutilated head. It was a wound he had seen

 repeated a hundred times that day, all of them shot through the right

 side of the head.

 "Aloe Knoll," he whispered fiercely. "If only we'd taken Aloe Knoll. "

 Then his tone dulled. "My poor lads. And gently he eased the

 shattered head from his lap.

 "They are ripe now, let us pluck them!" With five hundred of his

 burghers Jan Paulus had left the shelter of Aloe Knoll and worked his

 way forward, crawling belly down through the jumble of rocks, until now

 they were crouched in a line along a fold of dead ground below the

 false crest. TWenty yards ahead of them was the right-hand extremity

 of the English trench. They could not see it, but clearly they heard

 the incoherent cries of the wounded; the shouts of

 "Stretcher-bearer!

 Stretcher-bearer! " and

 "Ammunition boys, here!" and above the splutter of musketry, the

 continuous metallic rattle of breech bolts reloading.

 "You must signal to the guns, Oom Paul," the burgher next to him

 reminded him.

 "Ja, " Jan Paulus removed the homburg from his head and waved with it

 at the fat mound at Aloe Knoll behind them. He saw his signal briefly

 acknowledged and knew that the order to cease fire was being flashed by

 heliograph to the batteries.

 They waited, tensed to charge, a long line of men. Jan Paulus glanced

 along them and saw that each man stared ahead fixedly.

 Most of their faces masked by beards of fifty different hues, but here

 and there a lad too young for this work, too young to hide his fear.

 Thank God my eldest is not yet twelve, or he would be here.

 He stopped that train of thought guiltily, and concentrated his whole

 attention on the volume of shell-fire that raged just ahead of them.

 Abruptly it ceased, and in the comparative silence the rifle-fire

 sounded strangely subdued. Jan Paulus let the slow seconds pass,

 counting silently to ten, before he filled his lungs and roared:

 Vrystaat! Come on the Free Staters!"

 Echoing his cry, yelling wildly, his burghers surged forward over the

 crest on to the English flank. They came from so close in, seeming to

 appear as a solid wall from under the English parapet, that the

 momentum of their charge carried them instantly into the depleted line

 of shell-shocked, thirst-tormented and dazed Lancashires. Hardly a

 shot was fired, and though a few individual scuffles rippled the smooth

 onward flow of the charge-most of the English responded immediately to

 the shouts of

 "Hands Op! Hands Op! " by throwing down their rifles and climbing

 wearily to their feet with hands held high. They were surrounded by

 jubilant burghers and hustled over the parapet and down the slope

 towards Aloe Knoll. A great milling throng of burghers, and soldiers

 spread over fifty yards of the trench.

 "Quickly!" Jan Paulus shouted above the hubbub. "Catch them and take

 them away." He was well aware that this was only a very localized

 victory, involving perhaps a tenth of the enemy.

 Already cries of

 "The Lanes are giving in!" "Where are the officers?"" "Back, you men,"

 were spreading along the English line. He had planted the gerni of

 defeat among them, now he must spread it through them before he could

 carry the entire position. Frantically he signalled for reinforcements

 from the Boer positions along the crest, hundreds of his burghers were

 already running forward from Aloe Knoll.

 Another five minutes and complete victory would emerge from the

 confusion.

 "Damn you, sir! What do you think you're doing!" The voice behind him

 was impregnated with authority, unmistakably that of a high-ranking

 officer. Jan Paulus wheeled to face a tall and enraged old gentleman,

 whose pointed grey whiskers quivered with fury. The apoplectic crimson

 of his countenance clashed horribly with its coating of red dust.

 "I am taking your men hands-up away. " Jan Paulus struggled gumnally

 with the foreign words.

 "I'll be damned if you are, sir." Leaning heavily on the shoulder of a

 skinny little dark-haired man who supported him, the officer reached

 forward and shook a finger in Jan Paulus's face. "There will be no

 surrender on this hill. Kindly remove your rabble from my trench!

 "Rabble, is it!" roared Jan Paulus. Around them the Boers and the

 British had ceased all activity and were watching with interest.

 Jan Paulus turned to the nearest burghers: Vat hulle weg! Take them

 away! " His gesture that accompanied the order was unmistakable.

 "We'll have none of that, sir! " Acheson glared at him before issuing

 his own order. "You men, come back and re-form on the Devonshires.

 Hurry it up, now. Come along. Come along."

 "Hey!" Jan Paulus held up his hand. "These are my .

 He groped for the word. "My captures.

 "Sir."  Acheson released his grip on Saul's shoulder, drew himself up

 to his full height and glared up into Jan Paulus's face.

 "I will give you five minutes to vacate this trench-otherwise you will

 become my prisoner. Good day to you. " And he hobbled away through

 the grass. Jan Paulus stared in disbelief when fifty paces away

 Acheson turned, folded his arms across his chest, and waited grimly for

 the expiry of the five minutes.

 About him he had gathered a handful of battle-stained soldiers and it

 was clearly his intention to implement his duty with this pitiful

 little band. Jan Paulus wanted to laugh with frustration the skinny

 old goat. But he realized with dismay that most of his prisoners were

 filtering away and hurrying to join Acheson.

 He must do something but what? The whole position was deteriorating

 into a farce.

 "Stop them! " he shouted at his burghers. "Hold those men they went

 hands-up. They cannot change their minds now. " Then abruptly the

 whole position altered. Over the skyline behind Acheson and his tiny

 party poured a solid phalanx of fresh khaki-clad figures. The dime

 battalions of reinforcements sent up from the foot of the mountain by

 Sir Charles Wan-en had at last arrived. Acheson glanced over his

 shoulder and saw them swarming forward. The brown parchment of his

 face tore laterally in a wide and wicked grin.

 "Fix bayonets!" he shrieked, and drew his sword. "Buglers sound the

 charge. Charge, men! Charge!

 Hopping and stumbling like a stork with a broken leg, he led them.

 Behind him, the glittering crest of a wave, a line of bayonets raced

 down on the trench. Jan Paulus's burghers hated naked steel.

 There were five hundred of them against two hundred.

 They broke and blew away like smoke on a high wind.

 Their prisoners ran with them.

 Jan Paulus reached the crest and dropped behind a boulder that already

 sheltered three men.

 "Stop them! Here they come!" he panted.

 While the British wave slowed and expended itself against the reef of

 hidden Mousers, while they fell back with the shrapnel scourging them

 once more-Jan Paulus knew that he would not stand in the British trench

 again that day.

 He could sense the despondency among his burghers. He knew that

 already the faint-hearted were slipping away to where their ponies

 waited at the foot of the mountain. He knew with sickened acceptance

 that he had lost Spion Kop. Oh! The English had paid a heavy price

 all right, there must be fifteen hundred of their dead and wounded

 strewn upon the peak, but they had torn a gap in his line. He had lost

 Spion Kop and through this breach would pour twenty-five thousand men

 to relieve Ladysmith, and to drive his burghers out of Natal and into

 the Transvaal. They had lost. It was finished.

 John Acheson tried desperately to ignore the agony of his bloated foot,

 he tried to shut out the shrill chorus of the wounded pleading for

 water. There was no water on the peak. He turned his gaze away from

 the trench where men, drugged with exhaustion, oblivious to the thunder

 of bombardment that still raged about them, lay in sleep upon the

 bodies of their dead and dying comrades.

 He looked instead at the sun, that great, bloody orb lightly screened

 with long streamers of cloud. In an hour it would be dark-and he knew

 he had lost. The message he held in his hands admitted it, the

 grotesque piles of dead men that clogged the trench proved it. He

 re-read the message with difficulty for his vision jerked and swam

 giddily.

 "If you cannot hold until tomorrow, retire at Your discretion.

 Buller. " "Tomorrow. What would tomorrow bring, if not a repetition

 of today's horror? 'rhey had lost. They were going down from this

 mountain. They had lost.

 He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rough stone of the

 parapet. A nerve in his eyelid began to twitch insistently, he could

 not stop it.

 How many are there left? Half perhaps. I do not know. Half my men

 gone, all night I heard their ponies galloping away, and the crack and

 rumble of their wagons, and I could not hold them.

 Jan Paulus stared up at the mountain in the dawn.

 "Spion Kop." He mouthed the name with loathing, but its outline was

 blurred for his eyes could not focus. They were rimmed with angry red

 and in each corner was a lump of yellow mucus. His body seemed to have

 shrunk, dried out like that of an ancient mummy. He slumped wearily in

 the saddle, every muscle and nerve in his body screamed for rest. To

 sleep for a while. Oh God, to sleep.

 With a dozen of his loyal commandants he had tried all night to staunch

 the dribble of deserters that was bleeding his army to death.

 He had ridden from laager to laager, blustering, pleading, trying to

 shame them. With many he had succeeded, but with many he had not-and

 once he had himself been shamed. He remembered the old man with the

 long white beard straggling from his yellow, wizened face, his eyes

 glistening with tears in the firelight.

 "Three sons I have given you today, Jan Paulus Leroux. My brothers

 have gone up your accursed mountain to beg for their bodies from the

 English. Three sons! Three fine sons! What more do you want from

 me?" From where he sat against the wheel of his wagon the old man

 struggled to his feet hugging the blanket around his shoulders,

 "You call me coward, Leroux. You say I am afraid. " He stopped and

 struggled with his breathing, and when he went on his voice was a

 croak. "I am seventy eight years old and you are the first man to ever

 call me that if God is merciful you'll be the last." He stopped

 again.

 "Seventy-eight years. Seventy-eight! and you call me that!

 Look, Leroux. Look well!" He let the blanket fall away and Jan Paulus

 stiffened in the saddle as he saw the bloody mess of bandages that

 swathed the old man's chest. "Tomorrow morning I will be with my

 sons.

 I wait for them now. Write on our grave, L@roux!

 Write

 "Cowards' on our grave!" And through the old lips burst a froth of

 pink bubbles.

 Now with red eyes Jan Paulus stared up at the mountain. The lines of

 fatigue and shame and defeat were etched deep beside his nostrils and

 around his mouth. When the mists cleared they would see the English on

 the crest and with half his men he would go back. He touched the pony

 with his spurs and started him up the slope.

 The sun gilded the mountain mist, it swirled golden and began to

 dissipate.

 Faintly on the morning wind he heard the cheering and he frowned.

 The English cheer too soon, he thought. Do they think we will not come

 again? He urged his pony upward, but as it scrambled over loose rock

 and scree he reeled drunkenly in the saddle and was forced to cling to

 the pommel.

 The volume of cheering mounted, and he peered uncomprehendingly at the

 crest above him. The skyline was dotted with figures who danced and

 waved their hats, and suddenly there were voices all around him.

 "They've gone."

 "The mountain is ours."

 "We've won! Praise God, we've won. The English have gone. " Men

 crowded about his pony, and dragged him from the saddle. He felt his

 legs buckle under him, but rough hands were there to support him, and

 half dragging, half carrying him, they bore him up towards the peak.

 Jan Paulus sat upon a boulder and watched them harvest the rich crop of

 battle. He could not sleep yet, not until this was done. He had

 allowed the English stretcher-bearers to come up his mountain and they

 were at work along the trench while his own burghers gleaned their dead

 from along the crest.

 Four of them approached Jan Paulus, each holding the domer of a gray

 woollen blanket as though it were a hammock. They staggered under the

 load, until they reached the neat line of corpses already laid out on

 the grass.

 "Who knows this man?" one of them called, but there was no reply from

 the group of silent men who waited with Jan Paulus.

 They lifted the body out of the blanket and laid it with the others.

 One of the burghers who had carried him removed from his clutching,

 dead fingers a wide Terai hat and placed it over his face.

 Then he straightened and asked: "Who claims him?" Unless a friend or a

 kinsman claimed the corpse it would be buried in a communal grave.

 Jan Paulus stood up and walked across to stand over the body.

 He lifted the hat and replaced it with the homburg from his own head.

 "Ja. I claim him," he said heavily.

 "Is he kin or friend, Oom Paul?"

 "He is a friend."

 "What is his name?"

 "I do not know his name. He is just a friend.

 Saul Friedman fidgeted impatiently. In his eagerness he had arrived

 half an hour before visiting-time began and for this he was doing

 penance in the bleak little waiting-room of Greys Hospital. He sat

 forward on the straight-backed chair, twisted his helmet between his

 fingers and stared at the large sign on the opposite wall.

 "Gentlemen are requested Not to smoke."

 He had asked Ruth to come with him, but she had pleaded a headache. In

 a sneaking fashion Saul was glad. He knew that her presence would

 inhibit his reunion with Sean Courtney. He didn't want polite

 conversation about the weather and how was he feeling now, and he must

 come round to dinner some evening. It would have been difficult not to

 be able to swear if they wanted-it would have been even more difficult

 in view of Ruths attitude.

 Yesterday, the first day of his leave, he had spoken of Sean with

 enthusiasm. How many times had she visited him? How was he? Did he

 Did he limp badly? Didn't Ruth think he was a wonderful person? Twice

 she replied and, well, no not badly, yes he was very nice. Just about

 then Saul perceived the truth. Ruth did not like Sean. At first he

 could hardly believe it. He tried to continue the conversation. But

 each of her monosyllabic replies confirmed his first suspicion. Of

 course, she had not said so, but it was so obvious. For some reason

 she had taken a dislike to Sean which was close to loathing.

 Now Saul sat and pondered the reason. He discounted the possibility

 that Sean had offended her. If that were the case Sean would have

 received as good as he gave and afterwards Ruth would have related the

 whole tale with glee and relish.

 No, Saul decided, it was something else. Like a swimmer about to dive

 into icy water, Saul drew a metaphorical deep breath and plunged into

 the uncharted sea of feminine thought processes. Was Sean's

 masculinity so overpowering as to be offensive? Had his attention to

 her been below average (Ruth was accustomed to extravagant reactions to

 her beauty)? Could it be that. . . ? Or, on the other hand, did

 Sean. . . ? Saul was floundering heavily when suddenly, as a

 shipwrecked victim surfacing for the last time finds a tall ship close

 alongside with lifeboats being lowered from every derrick, the solution

 came to him.

 Ruth was jealous!

 Saul leaned back in the chair, astounded at the depth of his own

 perception.

 His lovely, hot-tempered wife was jealous of the friendship between

 Sean and himself!

 Chuckling tenderly, Saul laid plans to appease Ruth. He'd have to be

 less fulsome in his praises of Sean. He must get them together and in

 Sean's presence pay special attention to Ruth.

 He must . . .

 Then his thoughts ricocheted off in another direction and he began to

 think about Ruth. As always when he thought too intensely about her,

 he experienced a feeling of bemusement similar to what a poor man feels

 on winning a large lottery.

 He had met her at the Johannesburg Turf Club during the big Summer

 Meeting, and he had fallen in love at a range of fifty paces, so that

 when he was presented to her, his usually nimble tongue lay like a

 lutrip of heavy metal in his mouth and he squirmed and was silent. The

 friendly smile she bestowed upon him licked across his face like a blow

 torch, heating it until he felt the skin would blister.

 That night, alone in his lodging, he planned his campaign. To its

 conduct he allocated the sum of five hundred guineas, which was exactly

 half his savings. The following morning he began his intelligence

 work, and a week later he had collected a massive volume of

 information.

 She was eighteen years old and was on a visit to relations in

 Johannesburg, a visit scheduled to last a further six weeks. She came

 from a rich Natal family of brewers and hotel-keepers, but she was an

 orphan and a ward of her uncle. While in Johannesburg she rode every

 day, visited the theatre or danced every night with an assortment of

 escorts, except Fridays when she attended the Old Synagogue in Jeppe

 Street.

 His opening manceuvre was the hire of a horse and he waylaid her as she

 rode out with her cousin. She did not remember him and would have

 ridden on, but at last his tongue, which was sharpened by three years

 of practice at the Johannesburg Bar, came to life. Within two minutes

 she was laughing and an hour later she invited him back to tea with her

 relatives.

 The following evening he called for her in a splendid carriage and they

 dined at Candy's Hotel and went on to the Ballet in company with a

 party of Saul's friend.

 Two nights later she went with him to the Bar Association Ball and

 found that he was a superb dancer. Resplendent in brand-new evening

 dress, with an ugly yet mobile and expressive face, an inch taller than

 her five feet six, with wit and intelligence that had earned him a wide

 circle of friends-he was the perfect foil for her own beauty. When he

 returned her home Ruth had a thoughtful but dreamy look in her eye.

 The following day she attended Court and listened to him successfully

 defend a gentleman accused of assault with intent to do grievous bodily

 harm. She was impressed by his display and decided that in time he

 would reach the heights of his profession.

 A week later Saul again proved his command of the spoken word in an

 impassioned declaration of love. His suit was judged and found worthy,

 and after that it was merely a case of informing the families and

 sending out the invitations.

 Now, at last, four year later they were to have their first child.

 Saul grinned happily as he thought about it. Tomorrow he would begin

 his attempt to discourage the adoption of the name Storm. " It would

 be a difficult case to win, one worthy of his talents. In the

 preceding four years Saul had learned that once Ruth set her small

 white teeth into something she had a bulldog grip. A great deal of

 finesse was needed to loosen that grip without invoking her wrath.

 Saul had an awesome respect for his wife's wrath.

 "It's four o'clock." The little blonde nurse poked her head around the

 waiting-room door and smiled at him. "You may go in now.

 You'll find him out on the veranda. " Saul's eagerness returned in

 full flood and he had to restrain himself from bouncing too

 boisterously down the veranda.

 He recognized Sean's bulk, clad in uniform khaki, reclining elegantly

 in a cane-backed chair and chatting to the men in the row of beds in

 front of him. He came up behind the chair.

 "Don't stand up, Sergeant. Just toss me a salute from where YOU are. "

 "Saul! " Lugging himself out of the chair and pivoting easily on his

 game leg, Sean gripped both Saul's shoulders in the old show of

 affection. The pleasure that fired Sean's expression was genuine and

 that was enough for Saul.

 "Good to see you, you old bastard." He returned Sean's grip, grinning

 happily. He did not notice how swiftly Sean's pleasure faded, and was

 replaced by a shifty, nervous smile.

 "Have a drink." They were the first words that came into Sean's mind.

 He must have time to feel his way. Had Ruth said anything to Saul, had

 he guessed?

 "Water? " Saul grimaced.

 "Gin," whispered Sean, guilt making him garrulous and he went on in a

 clumsy attempt at humour. "Water carafe is full Of gin. For God's

 sake don't tell Matron. I smuggle it in. Argue with the nurse

 whenever she tries to change it-she says

 "Water stale, must change!" I say,

 "Like stale water, raised on stale water, stale water stroongly

 indicated in all cases of leg injury!

 "Give me stale water too," laughed Saul.

 While he poured Sean introduced Saul to the gentleman in the next bed,

 a Scotsman who agreed with them that stale water was a sovereign

 therapeutic for shrapnel wound in the chest-a complaint from which he

 was currently suffering. The three of them settled down to a course of

 intensive treatment.

 At Sean's prodding Saul embarked on a long account of the battle of

 Spion Kop. He made it seem very funny. Then he went on to describe

 the final break through at I-Dangwane, Buller's eventual relief of

 Ladysmith, and his cautious pursuit of Leroux Is army which was now in

 full retreat into the Transvaal.

 They discussed Lord Roberts's offensive that had driven up from the

 Cape, relieved Kimberley, swept on to take Bloemfontein and was now

 poised for the final thrust up through the belly of the Transvaal to

 Pretoria which was the heart.

 "It will all be over in three months. " The Scotsman gave his

 opinion.

 "You think so?" Sean sneered at him a little, and succeeded in

 provoking an argument whose flames were fed with gin.

 As the level in the carafe fell the time for sober and serious

 discussion passed and they became sentimental. Tenderly Saul inquired

 after their injuries.

 The Scotsman was being shipped home across the sea, and at the thought

 of parting they became sad.

 Sean was returning the following day to Ladyburg for convalescent

 leave. At the end of which, if the doctors were satisfied that the

 pieces of shrapnel in his leg were satisfactorily encysted (two words

 which Sean had difficulty enunciating) he would be returned to duty.

 The word "duty" aroused their patriotism and Sean and Saul with arms

 around each other's shoulders swore a mighty oath that together,

 comrades in arms, brothers in blood, they would see this war out.

 Never counting the cost in hardship and danger, together they would

 ride against the foe.

 Suitable music was needed for their mood, and the Scotsman gave them

 "The Wild Colonial Boy. " His eyes were moist and his voice quavered

 with emotion.

 Deeply touching, but not entirely appropriate to the occasion, Sean and

 Saul did

 "Hearts of Oak" as a duet, then all three launched into a lively

 rendition of

 "Are you awake, Johnny Cope?"

 The Matron arrived in the middle of the third chorus, by which time

 Johnny Cope and anybody else within a hundred yards could not possibly

 have been sleeping.

 "Gentlemen, visiting hour ended at five o'clock." She was a fearsome

 woman with a voice like a cavalry charge, but Saul who had pleaded

 before hanging judges rose undaunted to the defence.

 "Madam." He opened his address with a bow. "These men may, let me

 speak with truth-these heroes have made great sacrifice in the name of

 freedom. Their blood has flowed like gin in defence of that glorious

 ideal-Freedom! All I ask is that a little of that precious stuff be

 granted unto them. Madam. In the name of honour, of fairness, and of

 gratitude I appeal to you." He ended with one fist clenched above his

 heart and his head tragically bowed.

 "Hoots, mon!

 "Oh good! Very good!

 The two heroes burst into spontaneous and heartwarming applause, but

 over the Matron's features descended a frosty veil of suspicion.

 She elevated her nose a little and sniffed.

 "You're drunk!" she accused grimly.

 "Oh, foul libel! Oh, monstrous untruth." Saul backed hurriedly out of

 range.

 "All right, Sergeant." She turned grimly on Sean. "Where is it?

 "What Sean was all helpless innocence.

 "The bottle! " She lifted the bedclothes and began her search.

 Saul picked up his helmet, saluted them behind her back and tiptoed

 down the veranda.

 Sean's leave in Ladyburg passed quickly, much too quickly.

 MbeJane had disappeared on a mysterious errand into Zululand.

 Sean guessed that it related to the two wives and their offspring that

 Mbejane had cheerfully sent to the kraals of their parents when Sean

 had left Ladyburg so many years before.

 Dirk was incarcerated each morning in the schoolhouse, and so Sean was

 free to roam alone upon the hills and over the veld that surrounded the

 town. Most of his time he spent coveting the huge derelict ranch

 called Lion Kop which spread above the escarpment.

 After it month he knew the course of every strcani and each fold and

 slope of the land. His leg strengthened with the exercise. It no

 longer pained him and the scar lost its purple shine and dulled down to

 a closer match with his skin colour.

 But as his strength returned and flesh filled out his shoulders and

 padded the gaunt bones of his face, so restlessness came back to him.

 His daily pilgrimage to Lion Kop Ranch became an obsession. He

 wandered through the bare rooms of the old homestead and saw them as

 they could be with the thatched roof replaced to keep out the rain and

 the flaking plaster renewed and freshly painted. He stood before the

 empty, smoke-blackened fireplace and imagined the glow and the warmth

 it could give. Stamping across the dusty floors he judged the

 yellow-wood planking as sound as the massive beams that supported the

 roof. Then he wandered out across the land, stooping now and then to

 take up a handful of earth and feel its rich loamy texture.

 In the May of 1900 he went to the Deeds Registry at the Magistrate's

 office and surreptitiously inspected the title. He found that the

 fifteen thousand acres of Lion Kop Ranch had been purchased from the

 estate of the late Stephanus Johannes Erasmus by the Ladyburg Banking &

 Trust Co Ltd. Transfer had been signed by Ronald Pye, Esq in his

 capacity as Chairman of the Bank. Sean grinned. Ronny Pye was his

 most cherished childhood enemy. This could be very amusing.

 Sean settled himself in the deep, soft nest of polished leather formed

 by the armchair and glanced curiously around the panelled office.

 "A few changes since you were last here. Hey, Sean? " Ronny Pye

 interpreted his thoughts accurately.

 "A few. " The Ladyburg Banking & Trust Co was doing very prettily,

 judging by the furnishings. Some of its prosperity showed on the

 figure of its Chairman. Plenty of flesh under the solid gold

 watch-chain, dark but expensive jacket to offset the extravagant

 waistcoat, fifteen-guinea handmade boots. Very nice until you looked

 at the face; pale so that the freckles showed like irregular gold

 coins, greedy eyes, ears like the handles of a shaving-mug-that much

 hadn't changed. But although Ronny was Just two years Sean's senior,

 there was plenty of grey in his ginger sideburns and little wrinkles of

 worry around his eyes.

 "Been out to Theuniskraal to visit your sister-in-law yet?"

 There was a sly expression in Ronny's face as he asked.

 "No.

 of course you wouldn't," Ronny nodded understandingly and managed to

 convey that the scandal, though old, was by no means dead.

 Sean felt a repugnance that made him shift in his chair. The little

 ginger moustache heightened Ronny's resemblance to a bush rat.

 Now Sean wanted to end the business and get out into the fresh air

 again.

 "Listen, Ronny. I've searched title on Lion Kop. You own it," he

 began abruptly.

 "Lion Kop? " The previous morning the clerk from the Registry had

 hurried down to Mr. Pye with the news that earned him a sovereign.

 There had been many others calling with the news that Sean had visited

 the ranch every day for a month. But now Ronny had to search his

 memory to place the name. "Lion Kop? Ah, yes! The old Erasmus

 place.

 Yes, I do believe we picked it up from the estate. Paid too much for

 it, I'm afraid. " Here he sighed with resignation. "But we can hold

 on to it for another ten years or so and get our money back. No hurry

 to sell.

 "I want it. " Sean cut short the preliminaries and Ronny laughed

 easily.

 "You're in good company. Half the farmers in Natal want it but not

 enough to meet our price.

 "How much?

 The established price of grazing land in the Ladyburg area was one

 shilling and sixpence an acre. minutes before Ronny had set himself to

 ask two shillings. But now he was looking into Sean's eyes and

 remembering a fist crushing his nose and the taste of his own blood.

 He heard again Sean's arrogant laughter rejecting his overtures of

 friendship. No, he thought with hatred. No, you big cocky bastard,

 now you pay for those.

 "Three shillings," he said.

 Sean nodded thoughtfully. He understood. Then suddenly he grinned.

 "My God, Ronny, I heard you were a pretty sharp business man.

 But I must have heard wrong. If you paid three shillings for Lion Kop

 they really caught you with your skirts up. " And Ronny flushed.

 Sean had probed deep into his pride.

 "I paid nine-pence, " he snapped. "I'm selling for three shillings.

 "Make out the deed of sale for 2,250. pounds. I'll take it.

 Damn it! Damn it to hell! Ronny swore silently. He would have paid

 five.

 "That's for the land only. An extra 1,000 pounds for the

 improvements.

 "Anything else?" Sean enquired.

 "No. " Sean calculated quickly, with transfer tax he could meet the

 price with a few hundred spare.

 "I'll still take it. " Ronny stared at him while his brain wriggled

 like a snake. I didn't realize he wanted it that badly-I could have

 had his soul.

 "Of course, my Board will have to approve the sale. It depends on them

 really. " Ronny's Board of Directors consisted of himself, his little

 sister Audrey, and her husband Dennis Petersen. Ronny held eighty per

 cent of the shares, and Sean knew this. He had examined the Company's

 Articles that were lodged with the Registrar.

 "Listen to me, dear friend of my youth. " Sean leaned forward across

 the stinkwood desk and picked up a heavy silver cigar-box. "You made

 an offer. I accepted it. I'll be here at four o'clock this afternoon

 with the money. Please have the documents ready. " Sean lifted the

 cigar-box in one fist and started to squeeze. The muscles in his

 forearm writhed like mating pythons and the box crumpled and burst open

 at the seams. Sean placed the distorted lump of metal on the blotter

 in front of Ronny.

 "Don't misunderstand me, Sean. " Ronny grinned nervously and dragged

 his eyes away from the box. "I'm certain I'll be able to convince my

 Board.

 The following day was a Saturday. No school for Dirk. and Sean took

 him along on the daily ride out to the ranch. Almost beside himself

 with joy at being alone with his god, Dirkie raced his pony ahead and

 then circled at full gallop to fall in beside Sean once more.

 Laughing with excitement, chattering ecstatically for a while, then he

 could no longer contain his high spirits and he galloped ahead.

 Before Sean reached the cross-roads below the escarpment he met a small

 caravan of travellers coming in the opposite direction.

 Sean greeted the leader solemnly. "I see you, Mbejane."

 Mbejane had the jaded and slightly sheepish look of a tomcat returning

 from a busy night out. "I see you also, Nkosi.There was a long,

 embarrassed silence while Mbejane took a pinch of snuff and stared

 fixedly at the sky above Sean's head.

 Sean was studying MbeJane's travelling companions. There were two in

 their middle age, which is about thirty-five years old for a Zulu

 woman. Both of them wore the tall head-dress of clay which denotes

 matron hood Though they retained the proud, erect carriage, their

 breasts were pendulous and empty and the skin of their bellies above

 the brief aprons was wrinkled with the marks of child-bearing. There

 were also two girls just beyond puberty, moon-faced skins glowing with

 youth, straight and well-muscled, buttocks like ripe melons and firm,

 round breasts. They hung their heads and giggled shyly.

 "Perhaps it will rain tonight," MbeJane remarked.

 "Perhaps. " "It will be good for the grazing," Mbejane ploughed on

 doggedly.

 "Who the hell are these women?" Sean could contain his curiosity no

 longer and Mbejane frowned at his breach of etiquette. Observations on

 the weather and the grazing should have continued another five

 minutes.

 "Nkosi, these two are my wives." He gestured at the matrons.

 "The other two your daughters?"

 "No." Mbejane paused, then went on gravely: "It is not fitting that a

 man of my years should have but two women who are old for work and the

 bearing of children. I have purchased two younger wives."

 "I see," said Sean, and kept the grin off his face. Mbejane had

 invested a large percentage of his capital. "And what do YOU propose

 doing with all your wives, you know we must soon return again to

 fight?"

 "When the time comes they will go to the kraals of their fathers and

 wait for me there. " Mbejane hesitated delicately. "I bring them with

 me until I am certain that I have trodden on the moon of each of them.

 " Treading on a woman's moon was the Zulu expression for interrupting

 her menstrual cycle. Mbejane was making sure his investment bore

 interest.

 "There is a farm upon the hills up there." Sean seemed to be changing

 the subject.

 "Many times, Nkosi, you and I have spoken of it. " But Mbejane

 understood and there was an anticipatory gleam in his eyes.

 "It is a good farm? " Sean held him a little longer in suspense.

 "It is truly an excellent and beautiful farm. The water is sweeter

 than the juice of the sugar-cane, the earth is richer than the flesh of

 a young ox, the grass upon it as thick and as full of promise as the

 hair on a woman's pudendum. " Now Mbejane's eyes were shining with

 happiness. In his book a farm was a place where a man sat in the sun

 with a pot of millet beer beside him and listened to his wives singing

 in the fields. It meant cattle, the only true wealth, and many small

 sons to herd them.

 It meant the end of a long weary road.

 "Take your wives with you and select the place where you wish to build

 your kraal. " "Nkosi. " There is no Zulu equivalent of thank you. He

 could say I praise you, but that was not what Mbejane felt.

 At last he found the word. "Bayete! Nkosi, Bayete! " The salute to a

 King.

 Dirk's pony was tethered to the hitching-post in front of the

 homestead. Using a charred stick Dirk was writing his name in crude

 capitals on the wall of the front veranda.

 Although the entire house would be replastered and painted Sean found

 himself quivering with anger. He jumped from his horse roaring and

 brandishing his sjambok and Dirk disappeared round the corner of the

 house. By the time Sean had regained self-control and was sitting on

 the veranda wall revelling in the pride of ownership, Mbejane

 arrived.

 They chatted a while and then Mbejane led his women away. Sean could

 trust him to build the beehive huts of his kraal on the richest earth

 of Lion Kop.

 The last girl in the line was Mbejane's youngest and prettiest wife.

 Balancing the large bundle on her head, her back straight, her buttocks

 bare except for the strip of cloth that covered the cleft, she walked

 away with such unconsciously regal grace that Sean was instantly and

 forcibly reminded of Ruth.

 His elation subsided. He stood up and walked away from the old

 building. Without Ruth in it, this house would not be a home.

 He sat alone on the slope of the hills. Again he was reminded of Ruth.

 This place was so much like their secret glade. Except, of course,

 there were no wattle trees here.

 "Wattle!" exclaimed Ronny Pye and glared at his sister and his

 brother-in-law. "He's planting wattle."

 "What for? " Dennis Petersen asked.

 "For the bark, man. The bark! There's a fortune in it. Twenty pounds

 a ton!"

 "What do they use it for?"

 "The extract, is used in tanning leather."

 "If it's so good why haven't other people-" Dennis began, but Ronny

 brushed him aside impatiently.

 "I've gone into it thoroughly. Lion Kop is ideal wattle ground, high

 and misty. The only other really good ground in the district is

 Mahobo's Kloof Ranch and Theuniskraal. Thank God you own Mahobo's

 Kloofl Because that's where we're going to plant our own wattle. He

 looked at Dennis but without seeing him as he went on. "I've spoken to

 Jackson at Natal Wattle Company. He'll sell us the saplings on the

 same terms as he's supplying that bastard Courtney, and he'll buy our

 bark-every scrap of it at a guaranteed twenty pounds a ton. I've hired

 two men to supervise the planting. Labour will be our big problem,

 Sean has grabbed every native within twenty miles. He's got an army of

 them up there." Suddenly Ronny stopped. He had seen the expression on

 Dennis's face. "What's wrong with you?"

 "Mahobo's lGoof!" Dennis moaned. "Oh God! Oh my God.

 "What do you mean?"

 "He came to see me last week. Sean ... He wanted an option to

 purchase. A five years" option. " "You didn't give it to him!" Ronny

 screamed.

 "He offered three shillings an acre-that's six times as much as I paid

 for it. How could I refuse. " "You fool! You blathering bloody

 idiot! In five years that land will be worth . Ronny gulped,

 "It will be worth at least ten pounds! " "But nobody told me! "

 Dennis wailed the age-old cry of the might-have-been, the lament of

 those that never quite succeed,

 "Nobody told Sean either." Audrey spoke softly for the first time and

 there was that in her voice that made Ronny turn &avagely on his

 handsome sister.

 "All right-we all know about you and Sean. But he didn't stay around

 long enough for you to get your hooks into him, did he?" Ronny stopped

 himself and glanced guiltily at Dennis. It was years before Audrey had

 abandoned all hope of Sean's return to Ladyburg and succumbed to

 Dennis's gentle but persistent courtship. Now Dennis coughed awkwardly

 and looked at his hands on the desk in front of him.

 "Well, anyway," he murmured,

 "Sean's got it and there's nothing we can do about it. "To hell! "

 Ronny pulled a notebook towards him and opened it. "This is how I see

 it. He's borrowed that ten thousand from his mother-you know the money

 we tried to get her to invest in the Burley deal. " They all

 remembered the Burley deal and looked a little ashamed. Ronny hurried

 on. "And he's borrowed another five thousand from Natal Wattle-Jackson

 let it slip out. " Ronny went on with his calculations. When he

 finished he was smiling again. "Mr. Sean Courtney is stretched about

 as thin as he can get without breaking.

 Just one slip, one little slip and-Pow! " He made a chopping motion

 with his open hand. "We can wait!

 He selected a cigar from the leather box which had replaced the silver

 one and lit it before he spoke again. "By the way did you know he

 hasn't been discharged from the army yet? The way the war is going

 they certainly need good fighting men.

 That leg of his looks all right to me. Perhaps a word in the right

 ear-a little pressure somewhere." Ronny was positively grinning now.

 His cigar tasted delicious.

 The doctors at Greys Hospital had given Sean his final examination a

 week before Christmas. They had judged his disability as roughly one

 per cent, a slight limp when he was physically fired. This

 disqualified him from war wound pension and had made him available for

 immediate return to duty.

 A week after New Year's Day of 1901 the first letter from the army

 arrived. He was to report immediately to the Officer Commanding the

 Natal Mounted Rifles-the regiment which had " now swallowed up the old

 Natal Corps of Guides.

 The war in South Africa had entered a new phase. Throughout the

 Transvaal and Orange Free State the Boers had begun a campaign of

 guerilla warfare alarming in its magnitude. The war was far from over

 and Sean's presence was urgently required to swell the army of a

 quarter of a million British troops already in the field.

 He had written begging for an extension of his leave, and had received

 in reply a threat to treat him as a deserter if he wasn't in

 Johannesburg by February first.

 The last two weeks had been filled with frantic activity. He had

 managed to finish the planting of ten thousand acres of wattle begun

 the previous May. He had arranged a further large loan from Natal

 Wattle to pay for the tending of his trees. The repairs and renovation

 of the Homestead on Lion Kop were completed and Ada had moved from the

 cottage in Protea Street to act as caretaker and manager of the estate

 during his absence Now, as he rode alone over his land in a gesture of

 farewell, he had an opportimity to think of other things. The main one

 of these was his daughter. His first and only daughter. She was two

 months old now. Her name was Storm and he had never seen her. Saul

 Friedman had written a long, joyous letter from the front where Sean

 was soon to join him. Sean had sent hearty congratulations and then

 tried once again to contact Ruth. He had written her without result

 and, finally, had abandoned his work on Lion Kop and gone up to

 Pietermaritzburg. Four days he waited, calling morning and afternoon

 at the Goldberg mansion-and each time Ruth was either out or

 indisposed. He had left a bitter little note for her and gone home.

 Deep in gloom he rode through his plantations. Great blocks of young

 trees, row upon endless row, covered the hills of Lion Kop. The older

 wattle planted ten months before had started to come away.

 Already it was waist high with fluffy green tops. It was an

 achievement of almost superhuman proportion, ten months of ceaseless

 gruelling labour by two thousand native labourers. Now it was done.

 He had retained a gang of fifty Zulus, who would work under Ada's

 supervision, clearing the undergrowth between the rows and guarding

 against fire. That was all there was to it; four years of waiting

 until the trees reached maturity and were ready for stripping.

 But now he was so completely absorbed in thought that he passed over

 the boundary of Lion Kop without noticing, and rode on along the foot

 of the escarpment. He crossed the road and the railway line.

 From ahead the murmur of the White Falls blended with the wind whisper

 in the grass, and he glimpsed the flash of water cascading down from

 the high rock in the sunshine. The acacia trees were in bloom, covered

 with the golden mist of their flowers above, gloomy with shadows

 beneath.

 He crossed the river below the pool of the falls. The escarpment rose

 steeply above him, striped with dark dense bush in the gulleys, a

 thousand feet high so it blocked out the sunlight.

 The pool was a place of fern and green moss, and the rocks were black

 and slippery with the spray. A cold place, out of the sun-and the

 water roared as it fell in a white, moving veil like smoke.

 Sean shivered and rode on, ambling up the slope of the escarpment.

 Then he knew that instinct had directed him. In his distress he had

 come back to the first home he had ever known.

 This was Courtney land beneath his feet, and spreading down and out

 towards the Tugela. The nostalgia came upon him more strongly as he

 climbed, until at last he reached the rim and stood looking down upon

 the whole of Theuniskraal.

 He picked out the landmarks below him; the homestead with the stables

 and the servants" quarters behind it; the paddocks with the horses

 grazing heads down and tails swinging; the dip tanks among the

 trees-and each of them had some special memory attached to it.

 Sean dismounted and sat down in the grass. He lit a cheroot, while his

 mind went back and picked over the scrap-heap of the past.

 An hour, and then another, passed before he came back to the present,

 pulled his watch from the front pocket of his waistcoat and checked the

 time.

 "After one!" he exclaimed, and stood to dust the seat of his pants

 and. settle his hat on to his head before beginning the descent of the

 escarpment. Instead of crossing the river at the pool, he stayed on

 Theuniskraal and keeping to higher ground aimed to intersect the mad on

 this side of the bridge. Occasionally he found cattle feeding together

 in herds of less than a dozen; they were all in condition, fat on the

 new grass, for the land was not carrying nearly its full capacity. As

 he passed they lifted their heads and watched him with vacant, bovine

 expressions of un surprise

 forest thickened, then abruptly ended and before him lay one of the

 small swampy depressions that bellied out from the river. From his

 look-out on the escarpment this area had been screened by trees, so now

 for the first time Sean noticed the saddled horse tethered on the far

 edge of the swamp. Quickly Sean searched for its rider, and found him

 in the swamp-only his head visible above the bright poisonous green

 field of papyrus grass. The man's head disappeared again and there was

 a commotion in the grass; a wild thrashing and the sudden panic ridden

 bellow of a beast.

 Sean worked his way quickly round the edge of the swamp until he

 reached the horse. The head and shoulders of the man in the swamp

 reappeared and Sean could see that he was splattered with mud.

 "What's the trouble?" Sean shouted, and the head turned towards him.

 "There's a beast bogged down here.

 "Hold on, I'll give you a hand." Sean stripped his jacket, waistcoat

 and shirt and hung them with his hat on a branch before going in.

 Ploughing knee-deep through ooze that bubbled and belched gas as he

 disturbed it, using both arms to part the coarse tangle of reeds and

 marsh grass, Sean finally reached them.

 The beast was an old black cow; her hindquarters completely submerged

 in a mudhole and her front legs twisted helplessly under her chest.

 "She's just about finished," said the man. Sean looked at him and saw

 he was not a man but a youth. Tall for his age, but lightly built.

 Dark hair, cropped short and the big nose to show he was a Courtney.

 with an unnatural tightness in his gut and a shortening of his Sean

 knew that he was looking at his son.

 breath,

 "Don't just stand there," snapped the boy. He was covered from the

 chest down in a glistening evil-smelling coat of mud, sweat pouring

 down his face and dissolving the spots of mud on his forehead and

 cheeks, breathing heavily through open Mouth, crouching over the animal

 to hold its head above the surface.

 "Have to roll her," said Sean. "Keep her head, up. " He waded to the

 hindquarters and the mud bubbled greasily up around his waist. He

 thrust his arms down through it-groping for the trapped legs.

 Scans hands could only just encompass the thick bone and sinew of the

 hock. He settled his grip and leaned back against it, straining

 upwards, gradually bringing the fulll strength of his body into the

 pull until he knew that something in his belly was on the point of

 tearing. He held like that, his whole face contorted, mouth wide open

 so that his breathing rattled hoarsely up his throat, the great muscles

 of his chest and arms locked in an iron convulsion.

 A minute, two minutes, he held the stance while the boy watched him

 with a mingled expression of alarm and wonder.

 Then suddenly there was a squelching popping escape of swamp gas around

 Sean's chest, and the beast began to move. Slowly at first,

 reluctantly up through the ooze showed the swell of its rump-then

 faster, as the mud lost its hold, until, with a final belch and sigh,

 it yielded and Sean came to his feet holding the legs above the

 surface-the cow lying exhausted on her side.

 "Hell's teeth!" breathed the boy in open admiration. For a moment the

 beast lay quiescent, then realizing that its legs were free, it began

 to struggle, thrashing wildly to regain them.

 "Hold the head," shouted Sean, and blundered sideways until he could

 grab its tail and prevent it from attempting to stand.

 When the animal was quiet again he began to drag it, moving backwards,

 towards the firm ground. Like a bob sleigh the carcass slid easily

 over the carpet of mud and flattened reeds until it grounded.

 Then Sean jumped clear while she struggled up, stood a moment and then

 lumbered unsteadily away into the trees.

 Sean and his son stood together, gasping, covered with filth, still

 ankle-deep in mud, watching the cow disappear.

 "Thanks. I'd never have done it on my own, sir." The form of address

 and the boy's tone touched something deep in Sean.

 "It needed two of us," he agreed. "What's your name?"

 "Courtney, sir. Michael Courtney." He held out his hand towards

 Sean.

 "Nice to meet you, Mike." Sean took the hand.

 "I know you, don't I, sir? I am sure I've seen you before-it's been

 worrying me."

 "I don't think so." With an effort Sean kept his feelings from showing

 in his voice and face.

 "I'd ... I'd count it an honour to know your name." As Michael spoke a

 shyness came upon them both.

 What can I tell him? thought Sean. For I must not he-and yet I cannot

 tell him the truth.

 "My God, what a bloody mess," he laughed instead. "We stink like we've

 been dead ten days.

 Michael seemed to notice their condition for the first time.

 "Ma will have a hernia when she sees me," he laughed also, then, "Come

 up to the house. It's not far from here. Have lunch with us and you

 can clean up-the servants will wash your clothes for YOU.

 "No. Sean shook his head. "I must get back to Ladyburg.

 "Please. I'd like you to meet my mother. My father's not here-he's at

 the war. But, please come home with me.

 He really wants me to. As Sean looked into his son's eyes the warm

 feeling that he had been struggling to suppress flooded up from his

 chest and he felt his face flush with the pleasure of it.

 "Mike," he spoke slowly, groping for the right words.

 "Things are a bit difficult right now. I can't take you up on the

 invitation. But I'd like to see you again and I'll be through this way

 one day. Shall we leave it until then? " "Oh! " Michael made no

 attempt to hide his disappointment.

 "Anyway, I'll ride with you as far as the bridge."

 "Good. " Sean picked up his shirt and wiped off the surplus mud, while

 Michael unhitched their horses.

 They rode slowly, in silence at first with the shyness Still] on them.

 Then they started to talk, and quickly the barriers between them

 crumbled. With a feeling of pride that was ridiculous in the

 circumstances, Sean became aware of the quickness of Michael's brain,

 the ease of expression unusual in one so young, and the maturity of his

 views.

 They spoke of Theuniskraal.

 "It's a good farm." There was pride in Michael's voice. "My family

 has owned it since 1867. " "You're not running much stock,"

 Sean grunted.

 "Pa has had a run of bad luck. The rinderpest hit us but we'll build

 it up again-you wait and see. " He was silent a moment, then, "Pa's

 not really a cattleman, instead of putting money into stock he spends

 it on horses-like Beauty here. " He patted the neck of his magnificent

 golden mare. "I've tried to argue with him, but-" Then he realized

 that he was steering close to the lee shore of disloyalty, and he

 checked himself then went on hurriedly: "Don't misunderstand me, my

 father is an unusual man. Right now he's on the army staff-a colonel,

 and one of General Buller's right-hand men. He is a holder of the

 Victoria Cross for bravery, and he has been awarded the D.S.O. for the

 job he is doing now.

 Yes, thought Sean, I have defended Garry also; many times, as often as

 you will by the time you reach my age. In understanding he changed the

 direction of the conversation.

 They spoke of the future: "So you want to be a farmer, then?"

 "I love this place. I was born here. To me it is not just a piece of

 land and a house. It is part of a tradition to which I belong built by

 men of whom I am proud. After Pa, I will be the only one left to

 continue it. I won't fail that trust. But .

 They had reached the rise above the road, and Michael stopped and

 looked at Sean as though trying to make up his mind how much he should

 tell this stranger.

 "But?" Sean prompted him gently. For a moment longer Michael stared

 at him, trying to account for his certainty in this man-for the

 conviction he had that he could trust him beyond all other men on

 earth. He felt that he had known him all his life, and between them

 was something so strong-so good and strong as to be almost tangible.

 "But," he jerked himself back to their conversation, "that is not all.

 I want something beyond just land and cattle. It's so difficult to

 explain. My grandfather was a big man; he worked with people as well

 as animals. He had ... you do understand me, don't you?

 "I drink so," Sean nodded. "You feel you'd like to make a place for

 yourself in the scheme of things. " "Yes, that's it. I'd like to make

 decisions other than when to cull and when to brand, or where to build

 a new dip-tank.

 "What are you going to do about it then? " "Well, I'm at Cape Town

 University. This is my third year, I'll have my degree by Christmas.

 "Then what?

 "I don't know, but I'll find something. " Then Michael smiled.

 "There's a lot to learn first. Sometimes when I realize how much it

 frightens me a little. " They walked their horses down towards the

 road, so completely absorbed in each other that neither of them noticed

 the buggy coming towards them from the direction of Ladyburg; until it

 was almost on them, Then Michael glanced up. "Hey! Here comes my

 mother.

 Now you can meet her.

 With a sense of dread numbing him, Sean realized he was trapped.

 There was no escape-the buggy was less than fifty yards away, and he

 could see Anna sitting up behind the coloured driver staring at them.

 Michael shouted,

 "Hello, Ma!" "Michael! Whatever have you been doing? Look at you!"

 There was a shrewishness in her voice now. The years had treated Anna

 in the manner she deserved, had sharpened her features and exaggerated

 the catlike set of her eyes. She turned those eyes on Sean and she

 frowned. The frown cut deep grooves in her forehead and showed the

 heavy lines of flesh beneath her chin.

 "Who's that with you?" she asked Michael.

 "A friend. He helped me free a bogged animal. You should have seen

 him, Ma. He lifted it clean out of the mud."

 Sean saw that she was expensively dressed, ostentatiously so for a

 farmer's wife on a working day. Velvet and ostrich feathers-those

 pearls must have cost Garry a small fortune. The rig was new, polished

 black lacquer picked out with scarlet, and brass fittings-another few

 hundred pounds" worth. Sean ran his eyes over the horses, matched

 bays, blood stock-Jesus! be thollo.

 Anna was still frowning at him, recognition and doubt mixed in her

 expression. She was starting to flush, her lips trembling.

 "Hello, Anna."

 "Sean!" She spat the word.

 "It's been a long time. How are you?"

 Her eyes slanted venomously. She hardly moved her lips as she snapped

 at Michael,

 "Get away from that man!"

 "But . . . " The bewildered look on Michael's face hurt Sean like a

 spear thrust.

 "Do as your mother says, Michael," Sean told him.

 "Are you ... are you my Uncle Sean?

 "Yes."

 "Get away from him, " shrilled Anna. "Don't you ever speak to him

 again. Do you hear me, Michael? He's evil-evil! Don't ever let him

 near you. He'll destroy you. " Anna was panting, shaking with rage

 and hatred, babbling like a mad-woman. "Get off our land, Sean

 Courtney. Get off Theuniskraal and don't come on again."

 "Very well, Anna. I'm going."

 "Michael. Get on your horse!" she screamed at him. I

 "Hurry.

 Come away from him."

 Michael swung up into the saddle.

 "Drive on. Drive quickly," she ordered the coloured coachman. At the

 touch of the whip the big bays jumped forward and Anna was thrown back

 against the padded seat. "Come on, Michael. Come home immediately."

 Michael looked across at Sean. He was bewildered, uncertain. "I don't

 ... I don't believe that you .

 "We'll talk again some other time, Mike.

 And suddenly Michael's expression changed, the corners of his mouth

 drooped and his eyes were dark with regret at having found, and lost,

 so soon.

 "No," he said, lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell, and wheeled

 his horse. Crouched forward on its neck he drove in savage pursuit of

 the buggy.

 "Michael," Sean called after him, but he did not seem to hear.

 And so Sean went back to war. The farewell was an ordeal. Ada was so

 brave about it that Sean wanted to shake her and shout,

 "Cry, damn you! Get it over with! " Dirk threw one of his more

 spectacular fits. He clung to Sean and yelled until he almost

 suffocated himself.

 By the time the train pulled out Sean was in a towering rage that

 lasted until they reached Pietermaritzburg four hours later.

 He took his anger into the saloon on the station and sedated it with

 half a dozen brandies. Then, with Mbejane carrying his luggage, he

 worked his way through the crowd on the platform, searching for an

 empty compartment on the northbound express. As traffic was on

 military permit only, his fellow travellers were exclusively clad in

 khaki. A vast, drab throng speckled with gay spots of colour, women

 who were sending men to war and not very happy about it. The sound of

 weeping blended with the roar of loud voices, men's laughter and the

 occasional squeal of a child. Suddenly, above it all Sean heard his

 name called. He peered about and saw an arm waving frantically above

 the heads of the crowd.

 "Sean! Hey, Sean!" Saul's head bobbed into view and then disappeared

 as he hopped up and down. Sean fought his way through to him and they

 shook hands delightedly.

 "What the hell are you doing here?" Saul demanded.

 "Heading back to duty-and you? "A week's leave just ended.

 Came down to see the baby. My God, what luck I spotted you!"

 "Is Ruth here?" Sean could not contain the question.

 "She's waiting in the carriage outside.

 "I'd like to have a look at this infant.

 "Of course. Let's find a couple of seats first and dump our luggage,

 then we've got twenty minutes before the train leaves.

 Sean saw her as they came out on to the front steps of the station

 building. She sat in an open carriage while a coloured coach boy held

 a parasol over her. She was dressed in dove-grey with big

 leg-o'-mutton sleeves slashed with pink and a huge hat Piled with pink

 roses. Her face was in profile as she leaned forward over the bundle

 of white lace on her lap. Sean felt the leap in his chest as he looked

 at the calm lines of her face. He stopped and whispered,

 "My God, she's lovely,"

 and beside him Saul laughed with pleasure.

 "Wait until you meet my daughter!

 She did not see them approach the carriage, she was too intent on her

 child.

 "Ruth, I've a surprise for you, " bubbled Saul. She looked up and Sean

 was watching her. She went rigid with shock, staring at him while all

 colour drained away from her face.

 "Hello, Ruth. She did not reply immediately. Sean saw her mask her

 face with a pale impassivity.

 "Hello, Sean. You startled me."

 Saul had missed the interplay of their emotions. He was climbing up

 into the carriage beside her.

 "Come, have a look." Now he was opening the lace shawl, leaning over

 the infant, his face alight with pride.

 Silently Sean climbed up into the carriage and sat opposite them.

 "Let Sean hold her, Ruth." Saul laughed. "Let him get a good look at

 the loveliest girl in the world." And he did not notice the way in

 which Ruth froze again and hugged the child to her protectively.

 "Take her, Sean. I promise she'll not wet you too badly, though she

 might sick up a little, " Saul went on happily.

 Sean held out his hands for the infant, watching Ruth's face.

 It was defiant, but afraid.

 " The colour of her eyes seemed to change a darker bluer grey. The

 hard lines around her mouth dissolved and her lips quivered pink and

 moist. She leaned forward and placed her daughter in his arms.

 It was a long, slow journey up to Johannesburg-a journey broken by

 interminable halts. At every siding there was a delay, sometimes of

 half an hour but usually of three times that length.

 Occasionally, without apparent reason, they groaned to a stop in the

 middle of the veld.

 "What the hell is the trouble now?"

 "Somebody shoot the driver."

 "Not again!

 Protest and comment were shouted by the angry heads that protruded from

 the windows of every coach. And when the guard trotted up along the

 gravel led embanlunent towards the front of the train, he was followed

 by a chorus of catcalls and hooting.

 "Please be patient, gentlemen. We have to check the culverts and

 bridges.

 "The -war's over.

 "What are you worried about?"

 "The jolly old Boer is running so hard he hasn't got time to worry

 about bridges.

 Men climbed down beside the tracks, and stood in small impatient groups

 until the whistle blew and they scrambled aboard as the train jolted

 and began crawling forward again.

 Sean and Saul sat together in a corner of a crowded compartment and

 played Klabrias. Because the majority regarded the cold clean high

 veld air with the same horror as if it had been a deadly cyanide gas,

 the windows were tightly closed. "he compartment was blue with

 pipe-smoke and fetid with the smell of a dozen unwashed bodies. The

 conversation was inevitable.

 Confine a number of men in a small space and they'll get round to it in

 under ten minutes.

 This company had a vast experience in matters pornographic.

 A sergeant had served three years in Bangkok, but it took him two hours

 to convince his companions that what rumour placed horizontally,

 nature, in fact, had maintained at the vertical. He carried his point

 only after an expedition down the corridor from which he returned with

 another old China hand. This expert produced photographic evidence

 which was studied minutely and deemed conclusive.

 It served also to remind a corporal who had done a tour of duty in

 India of his visit to the Temple of Konarak. A subject which was good

 for another hour and paved the way for a smooth entry into a discussion

 of the famous Elephant House in Shanghai.

 They kept it up from noon until nightfall.

 In the meantime, Saul had lost interest in the cards and taken a book

 from his bag and started reading. Sean was bored. He cleaned his

 rifle. Then he picked his teeth with a match and stared out of the

 window at the small herds of springbok that grazed along the line of

 rail.  He listened to a detailed account of the pleasures provided by

 the proprietress of the Elephant House, and decided to give it a wide

 berth if he ever visited Shanghai.

 "What am you reading?" he demanded of Saul at last.

 "Huh?" Saul looked up vaguely and Sean repeated the question.

 "The Westminster system of Government. " Saul held the book so that

 Sean could see the title.

 "Jesus!" grunted Sean. "What do you read that stuff for?

 "I am interested in politics," Saul explained defensively and returned

 to reading.

 Sean watched him for a while then,

 "Have you got any other books with you?"

 Saul opened his bag again. "Try this."

 "The Wealth of Nations " Sean handled the book dubiously.

 "What's it about?" But Saul was reading again.

 Sean opened the heavy volume and glanced idly at the first page.

 He sighed with resignation for it was a long time since he had read

 anything but a letter or a bank statement-then his eyes started moving

 back and forth across the page like the shuttle of a loom.

 Without knowing it, they were weaving the first threads into a fabric

 that would cover a part of his soul which until now had been naked.

 After an hour Saul looked across. "What do you make of it?

 he asked.

 Sean grunted without looking up. He was completely absorbed.

 This was important. The language of Adam Smith had a certain majestic

 clarity. With some of his conclusions Sean did not agree but the

 reasoning evoked a train of thought in Sean's own brain, stimulating it

 to race ahead and anticipate sometimes correctly, but often reaching a

 point wide of where the author was aimed.

 He read quickly, knowing that he would go back and read it all again

 for this was only a scouting party into the unknown territory of

 economics. With his eyes still fixed on the pages, he groped in the

 pockets of his tunic, found a stub of pencil and underlined a passage

 to which he wanted to return. Then he left it and went on. Now he

 used the pencil frequently.

 "No!" he wrote in the margin at one place.

 " Good," at another.

 Saul looked up again and frowned as he realized Sean was defacing the

 book. Then he noticed Sean's expression, saw its scowling

 concentration and his own face relaxed. He watched Sean from under

 lowered eyelashes. His feeling for this man of muscle and moods and

 unexpectedly soft places had passed affection and now reached the

 borders of adulation. He did not know why Sean had placed protecting

 wings above him." nor did he care. But it was good to sit quietly, no

 longer reading, and watch the face of this big man who was more than

 just a friend.

 Alone in the midst of a multitude they sat together. The train snaked

 northwards across the grassland, spreading a long trail of silver-grey

 smoke behind it and the sun sank exhausted to the earth and bled on to

 the clouds. After it was gone the darkness came quickly.

 They ate canned meat spread on coarse bread with the blade of a

 bayonet. There was no lighting in the compartment, so after they had

 eaten they sat together wrapped in their blankets and talked in

 darkness. Around them all other conversation died and was replaced by

 the sounds of sleep. Sean opened one of the windows and the cold sweet

 air cleaned their minds and sharpened them so that they talked in

 quietly suppressed excitement.

 They talked of men and land and the welding of the two into a nation;

 and how that nation should be governed. They spoke a little of war and

 much of the peace that would follow it; of the rebuilding of that which

 had been destroyed into something stronger.

 They saw the bitterness ahead that would flourish like an evil weed

 nourished on blood and the corpses of the dead, and they discussed the

 means by which it should be rooted out before it strangled the tender

 growth of a land that could be great.

 They had never spoken like this before. Saul hugged his blankets about

 his shoulders and listened to Sean's voice in the darkness. Like most

 of his race his perception had been sensitized and sharpened so that he

 could pick up a new quality, a new sense of direction in this man.

 I have had a hand in this, he thought, with stirring of pride.

 He is a bull, a wild bull, charging anything that moves; charging

 without purpose, then breaking his run and swinging on to something

 new; using his strength to destroy because he had never learned to use

 it in any other way; confused and angry, roaring at the barbs in his

 shoulders; chasing everything and as a consequence catching nothing.

 Perhaps I can help him, show him a purpose and a way out of the

 arena.

 And so they talked on into the night. The darkness added another

 dimension to their existence. Unseen, their physical forms no longer

 limited them and it seemed that their minds were freed to move out and

 meet in the darkness, to combine into a cushion of words that carried

 each idea forward. Until abruptly, the whole delicate pattern was

 shattered and lost in the concussion of dynamite and the shriek of

 escaping steam, the roar of breaking timber and glass, and the

 confusion of equipment and sleeping bodies thrown violently together as

 the train reared and twisted and plunged from the tracks. Almost

 immediately a further sound blended into it all-the crackling of

 musketry at close range and the steady hammering beat of a Maxim

 machine-gun.

 Sean was pinned helplessly in the complete darkness, unable to breathe

 under an immense weight. He struggled wildly, tearing at the men and

 baggage above him, his legs bound by loose blankets. The weight eased

 enough for him to drag air into his lungs, but a knee was driven into

 his face with such force that his lip burst open and the blood oozed

 saltily into his mouth.

 He lashed out and felt the stinging rake of broken glass along his

 arm.

 In the darkness men screamed in terror and in pain, leading the hideous

 chorus of groans and oaths and gunfire.

 Sean dragged his body free of the press, felt men thrashing under him

 as he stood.

 Now he could hear the repeated splintering thud of bullets into

 woodwork much louder than the guns that fired them.

 Someone reeled against him and Sean caught him.

 "Saul?"

 "Leave me, let me go." A stranger, Sean released him.

 "Saul. Saul. Where are you?"

 "Sean. " "Are you hurt?

 "No. " I "let's get out of here."

 "My rifle."

 "Bugger your rifle."

 "Where's the window?"

 "Blocked."

 At last Sean was able to get some idea of their situation. The coach

 was on its side with the windows against the earth and the whole welter

 of dead and broken men piled upon them. The door was high above them,

 probably jammed.

 "We'll have to break out through the roof. " He groped blindly, then

 swore and jerked his hand back as a splinter of wood knifed up under a

 fingernail, but he felt a draught of cold air on his face.

 "There's a hole." He reached out again eagerly and felt the torn

 timber. "One of the planks is sprung."

 Immediately there was a rush of bodies in the darkness, hands clawed at

 him as half a dozen men fought to find the opening.

 "Get back, you bastards. " Sean struck out with both fists and felt

 them connect. He was panting and he could feel the sweat sliding down

 his back. The air was heavy with the body warmth and breath of

 terrified men.

 "Get back. I'll work on it." He forced his hands into the crack and

 tore the loose plank out. For an instant he struggled with the

 temptation to press his face to the narrow opening and suck in the

 clean air. Then he locked his- hands on to the next plank, braced his

 legs against the roof and heaved back with all his strength. It

 wouldn't budge. He felt the panic mounting in him once more.

 "Find me a rifle, somebody, " he shouted above the uproar.

 "Here. " Saul's voice, and the rifle was thrust into his hands.

 He ran the barrel into the opening and using it as a lever flung his

 weight on to it. He felt wood tearing, moved the barrel and pulled

 again. It gave and he cleared the plank and started on the next.

 "all right. One at a time. Saul, you first." With his panic just

 below the surface. Sean shoved each man unceremoniously through the

 jagged opening. A fat one stuck and Sean put a boot behind him and

 pushed. The man squeaked and went out like a champagne cork.

 "Is there anyone else?" he shouted in the darkness.

 "Sean," Saul's voice from outside. "Get out of there."

 "You get under cover," Sean roared back at him.

 The Boer fire still flailed the wrecked train. Then he asked again.

 "Is there anyone else?" and a man groaned at Sean's feet.

 Quickly Sean found him. Hurt badly, his head twisted. Sean cleared

 the tangle of baggage from above his body and straightened him out.

 Can't move him, he decided, safer here until the Medicos come.

 He left him and stumbled over another.

 "Damn them," he sobbed in his dreadful anxiety to get out.

 This one was dead. He could feel the reptilian clamminess of death on

 his skin, and he left him and scrabbled his way out into the open

 night.

 After the utter blackness of the compartment, the stars lit the land

 with a pearly light and he saw the fog of steam hanging above the

 locomotive in a high, hissing bank, and the leading coaches telescoped

 into each other, and the others jack-knifed and twisted into a weird

 sculpture of destruction. At intervals along the chain a few rifles

 winked a feeble reply to the Boer fire that poured down upon them,

 "Sean, " Saul called from where he was crouched beside the overturned

 coach. Sean ran to him and lifted his voice above the clamour.

 "Stay here. I'm going back to look for Mbejane.

 "You'll never find him in this lot. He was with the horses listen to

 them."

 From the horse-boxes at the rear of the train came such a sound that

 Sean hoped never to hear again. TWo hundred trapped and frenzied

 animals-it was far worse than the sound of those men still in the

 wreckage.

 "My God! " whispered Sean. Then his anger rose higher than his fear.

 "The bastards," he grated and looked up at the high ground above

 them.

 The Boers had chosen a place where the line curved along the bank of a

 river. The watercourse cut off escape on that side, and on the other

 the ground rose steeply in a double fold that commanded the full length

 of the railway line.

 Along the first fold lay their riflemen, two hundred of them at least,

 judging by the intensity of their fire, while from above them on the

 summit ridge the muzzle flashes of the Maxim gun faded and flared as it

 traversed relentlessly back and forth along the train. Sean watched it

 hungrily for a moment, then he lifted the rifle that he still carried

 and emptied the magazine, firing at the Maxim.

 Immediately the flashes grew brighter as it came questing back to find

 him, and around Sean's head the air was filled with the swishing crack

 of a hundred whips.

 Sean ducked down while he reloaded, then stood up again to shoot.

 "You bastards," he shouted at them, and his voice must have carried for

 now the riflemen up there were helping the Maxim to search him out.

 They were getting very close.

 Sean crouched down once more, and beside him Saul was firing also.

 "Where did you get the rifle?"

 "I went back for it." Saul punctuated his reply with gunfire and Sean

 gritmed as his fingers fumbled with the reload. "You're going to get

 hurt one day, " he said.

 "You taught me how to go about it, " Saul retorted.

 Once more Sean emptied his magazine to no effect, except that the

 recoil of the rifle invoked the old high madness in him.

 It needed only Mbejane's voice beside him to trigger it completely.

 "Where the hell. have you been?" Sean demanded.

 "My spears were lost. I spent much time finding them in the darkness.

 " Sean was silent for a moment while he peered up at the ridge.

 Out of the left there was a gap in the line of riflemen where a narrow

 don ga ran through them and down towards the railway.

 A small party might be able to go up that gully and pass through the

 rear of the Boer firing-line. From there the solitary Maxim on the

 ridge would be very vulnerable.

 "Bring your spears, Mbejane.

 "Where are you going?" Saul asked.

 "I'm going to try for that machine-gun. Stay here and keep these

 gentlemen's minds on other things.

 Sean started off along the train towards the outlet of the don ga

 He covered fifty yards before he realized that not only MbeJane but

 Saul was with him.

 "Where do you think you're going?"

 "With YOU' The hell you are!

 "Watch me. " There was that peculiar note of obstinacy in Saul's voice

 that Sean had come to recognize, and there was no time to argue.

 He ran on until he was opposite the don ga where again he sought

 shelter in the lee of an overturned coach while he made his final

 assessment of the position.

 The don ga looked narrow but deep, and the scrub-bush that filled it

 would give them cover to the top where there was a definite gap in the

 Boer line.

 "It'll do, " he decided aloud, and then to the other two,

 "I'll go first, then you follow me, Saul, and watch those big feet of

 yours!

 He was vaguely aware that some show of resistance was being organized

 among the survivors of the wreck. He could hear the officers rallying

 them and now a hundred rifles were returning the Boer fire.

 "All right. I'm off." Sean stood up. "Follow me as soon as I get

 across. " At that moment a new voice hailed them. "What are you men

 UP to?"

 "What's it to you?" Sean flashed impatiently.

 "I'm an officer," and then Sean recognized the voice and the lanky

 figure with a bared sabre in one hand. "Acheson!"

 A second's hesitation before Acheson recognized him.

 "Courtney. What are you doing?"

 "I'm going up that don ga to attack the Maxim.

 "Think you can reach it?"

 "I can try.- " "Good fellow-off you go then. We'll be ready to support

 you if you make it. " "See you at the top," said Sean and ran out

 towards the mouth of the don ga

 They moved quietly in single file upwards and the guns and the shouting

 cloaked the soft sounds of their advance. Sean could hear the voices

 of the burghers above them growing closer and louder as they

 approached-very close now-on the side of the don ga just above their

 heads-then behind them, and they were through.

 The doun ga was shallower here, starting to flatten out as it neared

 the crest. Sean lifted his head above the side and looked out.

 Below him he could just make out the lumpy shapes of the Boers in the

 grass but their rifles threw long orange spouts of flames when seen

 from above-while the British replies were mere pinpricks of light from

 around the dark tangle of coaches.

 Then Sean's attention focused on the Maxim and he could see why the

 rifle-fire from below had made no effect on it. Sited just below the

 crest of the ridge on a forward bulge of the slope, it was protected by

 a scharnz: of rock and earth that had been thrown up in front of it.

 The thick water-jacketed barrel protruded through a narrow opening and

 the three men that served it crouched low behind the wall.

 -Come on," whispered Sean, and wriggled -up out of the don ga on to his

 belly to begin the stalk.

 One of the gunners saw him when he was a few yards from the gun.

 "Magtig! Pasop, daars "n- " and Sean went in with the rifle clubbed in

 both hands and the man never finished his warning. Mbejane and Saul

 followed him in, and for a few seconds the emplacement was filled with

 a struggling mass Of bodies. Then it was over and the three of them

 panted heavily in the stillness.

 "Do you know how to work this thing, Saul?"

 "No. " "Nor do I" Sean squatted behind the gun and settled his hands

 on to the twin grips, his thumbs automatically resting on the

 firing-button.

 "Wat makeer june daar bo? Skiet, man, skeet!" a Boer shouted from

 below, and Sean shouted back,

 "Wag maar "n oomblik-dan skeet ek bedonderdWites daar? Who's that?"

 The Boer demanded and Sean depressed the gun.

 It was too dark to use the sights, so he took a vague aim over the

 barrel and thrust his thumbs down on the button. Immediately his

 shoulders shook like those of a man using a jack hammer and he was

 deafened by the harsh beat of the gun, but he swung the barrel in a

 low, sweeping arch across the ridge below him.

 A storm of shouts and cries of protest broke out along the Boer line,

 and Sean laughed with savage delight. The Boer fire upon the train

 withered miraculously as men jumped up and scattered beneath the spray

 of bullets. Most of them streame( back to where their horses waited

 behind the crest, keeping well out on the flanks of the Maxim, while a

 line of cheering British infantry followed them up from the

 train-giving the support that Acheson had promised.

 Only a tiny but determined group of Boers came up the slope towards

 Sean, yelling angrily and shooting as they came. There was dead ground

 directly below the emplacement where Sean could not reach them with the

 Maxim.

 "Get out of here. Run out to the sides," Sean shouted back at Saul and

 Mbejane as he hoisted the heavy gun on to the rock wall in front of him

 to improve its field of fire. But the movement twisted the belt of

 ammunition and after the first burst the gun jammed hopelessly. Sean

 lifted it above his head, stood like that for an instant and then

 hurled it among the men below him. It knocked two of them down into

 the grass. Sean snatched up a pumpkin-sized rock from the top of the

 wall and sent it after the gun-and another, and another.

 Howling with the laughter of fear and excitement, he rained rocks upon

 them. And they broke.

 Most of them veered out to the sides and joined the general rush for

 the horses.

 Only one man kept coming, a big man who climbed quickly and silently.

 Sean missed him with three rocks, and suddenly he was too close-not ten

 feet away. There he paused and lifted his rifle. Even in the dark, at

 that range, the Boer could hardly miss and Sean sprang from the top of

 the wall. For an instant he dropped free, and then with a shock that

 knocked the wind from both of them, he drove into the burgher's chest.

 They rolled down the slope, kicking and grappling, bouncing over the

 rocky ground, until a small thorn bush held them.

 "Now, you bloody Dutchman!" rasped Sean. He knew there was only one

 possible outcome to this encounter. With supreme confidence in his own

 strength Sean reached for the man's throat, and with a sense of

 disbelief felt his wrist held in a grip that made the bone creak.

 "Kom, ons slaat aan, " the burgher's mouth was an inch from Sean's ear,

 and the voice was unmistakable.

 Jan Paulus!"

 "Sean!" The shock of recognition eased his grip for an instant, and

 Sean broke his hand loose.

 Only once in his life had Sean met a man whose strength matched his

 own-and now again they were pitted against each other. He drove the

 heel of his right hand up under Jan Paulus's chin, forcing his head

 back against the encircling left arm. It should have broken Jan

 Paulus's neck. Instead he locked his arms around Sean's chest below

 the level of his armpits-and squeezed. Within seconds Sean felt his

 face swelling and congesting with blood, his mouth opened and his

 tongue came out between his teeth.

 Without breath, yet he maintained the pressure on Jan Pauls's neck,

 felt it give fractionally-and knew that another inch of movement would

 snap the vertebrae.

 The earth seemed to tot and turn beneath him, he knew he was going for

 his vision was blotched with moving patches of deeper darkness-the

 knowledge gave him a little more strength.

 He flung it all on to Jan Paulus's neck. It moved. Jan Paulus gave a

 wild muffled cry and his grip on Sean's chest eased a fraction.

 Again, Sean told himself, again. And he gathered all of what was left

 for the final effort.

 Before he could make it, Jan Paulus moved quickly under him, changing

 his grip, lifting Sean clear of his chest. Then his knees came up

 under Sean's pelvis and with a convulsive heave drove Sean's lower body

 forward and over-cartwheeling him so that he was forced to release Jan

 Paulus's neck and use his hands to break his own fall.

 A rock caught him in the small of the back and agony flared in him like

 sheet lightning in a summer sky. Dimly through it he heard the shouts

 of the British infantry very near, saw Jan Paulus scramble up and

 glance down the slope at the starlight on the bayonets, and saw him

 take off up the slope.

 Sean dragged himself to his feet and tried to follow him but the pain

 in his back was an effective hobble and Jan Paulus reached the crest

 ten paces ahead of him. But as he ran, another dark shape closed on

 his flank the way a good dog will quarter on a running rybuck. It was

 Mbejane and Sean could see the long steel in his hand as he lifted it

 above Jan Paulus's back.

 "No! " shouted Sean. "No, Mbejane! Leave him! Leave him!

 Mbejane hesitated, slowed his run, stopped and looked back at Sean.

 Sean stood beside him, his hands clasped to his back and his breathing

 hissed in his throat. Below them from the dark rear slope of the ridge

 came the hoof-beats of a single running pony.

 The sounds of Jan Paulus's flight dwindled, and they were engulfed in

 the advance of the lines of the bayonet men from the train. Sean

 turned and limped back through them.

 Two days later, on the relief train, they reached Johannesburg.

 "I suppose we should report to somebody," Saul suggested as the three

 of them stood together on the station platform beside the small pile of

 luggage they had been able to salvage from the train wreck.

 "You go and report, if that's what you want," Sean answered him.

 "Me, I'm going to look around."

 "We've got no billets, " Saul protested.

 "Follow your Uncle Sean."

 Johannesburg is an evil city, sired by Greed out of a dam named Gold.

 But it has about it an air of gaiety, of brittle excitement and bustle.

 When you are away from it you can hate it-but when you return you are

 immediately re-infected. As Sean was now.

 He led them through the portals of the railway building into Eloff

 Street and grinned as he looked up that well-remembered thoroughfare.

 It was crowded. The carriages jostled for position with the

 horse-drawn trams. On the sidewalks beneath the tall three- and

 four-storeyed buildings the uniforms of a dozen different regiments set

 off the butterfly colours of the women's dress".

 Sean paused on the station steps and lit a cigar. At that moment the

 sounds of carriage wheels and human voices were drowned by the

 plaintive wail of a mine hooter and immediately others joined in

 signalling the noon. Automatically Sean reached for his pocket-watch

 to check the time, and noticed the same general movement in the crowded

 street. He grinned again.

 Jo'burg; hasn't changed much-still the old habits, the same feeling

 about it. The mine dumps higher than he remembered them, a few new

 buildings, a little older and a little smarter but still the same

 heartless bitch beneath it all.

 And there on the corner of Commissioner Street, ornate as a

 wedding-cake with its fancy ironwork and corniced roof, stood Candy's

 Hotel.

 With rifle and pack slung over each shoulder, Sean pushed his way

 through the press on the sidewalk with Saul and Mbejane in his wake.

 He reached the hotel and went in through the revolving glass doors.

 "Very grand." He looked about the lobby as he dumped his pack on the

 thick pile of the carpet. Crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains roped

 with silver, palms and bronze urns, marble tables, fat plush chairs.

 "What do you think, Saul. Shall we give this flophouse a try?"

 His voice carried across the lobby and stilled the murmuring of polite

 conversation.

 "Don't talk so loudly," Saul cautioned.

 A general officer in one of the plush chairs hoisted himself and slowly

 turned his head to train a monocled stare upon them, while his

 aide-de-camp leaned across and whispered,

 "Colonials.

 Sean winked at him and moved across to the reception desk.

 "Good afternoon, sir. " The clerk regarded them frostily.

 "You have reservations for my chief of staff and myself.

 "What name Sir? " "I'm sorry, I can't answer that question.

 We are travelling incognito," Sean told him seriously, and a helpless

 expression appeared on the man's face. Sean dropped his voice to

 conspiratory level. "Have you seen a man come in here carrying a

 bomb?"

 "No. " The man's eyes glazed a little. "No, sir. No, I haven't.

 " "Good. " Sean appeared relieved. "In that case we'll take the

 Victoria Suite. Have our luggage sent up.

 "General Caithness has the Victoria Suite, sir." The clerk was

 becoming desperate.

 What?" Sean roared. "How dare you!"

 "I didn't . . . We had no . stuttering the clerk backed away from

 him.

 Call the owner," ordered Sean.

 "Yes, sir. " And the clerk disappeared through a door marked

 "Private.

 "Have you gone mad?" Saul was fidgeting with embarrassment. "We can't

 afford to stay at this place. Let's get out of here. " Under the

 concentrated scrutiny of every guest in the lobby he was very conscious

 of their grubby travel-stained uniforms.

 Before Sean could answer a woman came through the

 "Private" doorway, a very lovely but very angry woman with eyes that

 blazed like the blue sapphires at her throat.

 "I am Mrs. Rautenbach-the owner. You asked to see me."

 Sean just smiled at her, and her anger withered slowly as she began to

 recognize him beneath the creased HI-fitting tunic and without the

 beard.

 "Do you still love me, Candy?"

 "Sean?" She was still uncertain.

 "Who else?"

 "Sean!" And she came to him on the run. Half an hour later General

 Caithness had been evicted and Sean and Saul were settling comfortably

 into the Victoria Suite.

 Freshly bathed, with only a towel around his waist, Sean lay back in

 his chair while the barber scraped away his three-day growth of

 beard.

 "Some more champagne?" Candy had not taken her eyes off him for the

 last ten minutes.

 "Thanks.

 She filled his glass, replaced it at his right hand and then touched

 the thick muscles of his upper arm. "Still hard," she murmured.

 "You've kept ahead of the years. " Her fingers moved on to his chest.

 "Just a little grey here and there-but it suits you," and then to the

 barber,

 "Haven't you finished yet?"

 "One moment more madam. " He again scissored along the line of Sean's

 temple, stood back and studied his masterpiece then with modest pride,

 held the mirror for Sean's approval.

 "Excellent. Thank you."

 "You may go now. See to the gentleman next door." Candy had waited

 long enough. As the door closed behind the barber she turned the key.

 Sean stood up from the chair and they faced each other across the

 room.

 "My God, but you're big. " Her voice was husky, unashamedly hungry.

 "My God, but you're beautiful," Sean answered her, and they moved

 slowly to meet in the centre of the floor.

 Later, they lay quietly while the darkness gathered in the room as

 evening fell. Then Candy moved her mouth across his shoulder and, the

 way a cat cleans its kittens, she began gently to lick the long red

 scratches upon his neck.

 When the room was truly dark Candy lit one of the shaded gaslights and

 sent down for biscuits and a bottle of champagne.

 They sat together upon the rumpled bed and talked.

 At first there was a shyness between them because of what they had done

 together-but soon it passed-and they sat up far into the night.

 Rare it is for a man to have a friend as well as a lover in one

 woman-but with Candy this was possible. And to her he released all

 those things that had been bottled and fomenting within him.

 He told her of Michael, and the strange bond between them.

 He told her of Dirk, and hinted at his misgivings for the boy.

 He spoke of the war and of what he would do when it finished.

 He told her of Lion Kop and his wattle.

 But one thing he could not tell her. He could not speak of Ruth or the

 man who was her husband.

 During the next few days Sean and Saul reported to the headquarters of

 the Regional Commander and were assigned neither billets nor duties.

 Now that they had arrived no one seemed very interested in them. They

 were told to report daily, and turned loose again. They returned to

 Candy's Hotel and spent most of the days playing billiards or cards and

 most of the evenings eating and drinking and talking.

 A week of this and Sean was getting bored. He began to feel like a

 stud stallion. Even a solid diet of heavenly manna begins to pall

 after a while-so when Candy asked him to escort her to a reception and

 dinner with which Lord Kitchener was celebrating his promotion to

 Supreme Command of the Army in South Africa, Sean accepted with

 relief.

 "You look like some sort of god," Candy told him as he entered her

 suite through the concealed doorway which connected it with his own

 bedroom in the Victoria rooms. When she had shown him this discreet

 little panel and demonstrated how at a touch it slid silently aside,

 Sean had thrust down the temptation of asking how many others had used

 it. It was senseless to resent the nameless host who had passed

 through the panel to teach Candy all those little tricks with which she

 now delighted him.

 "You don't look too bad yourself." She was dressed in blue silk, the

 colour of her eyes, and she wore diamonds at her throat.

 "How gallant you are! " She came to him and stroked the silk lapels of

 his newly tailored evening jacket. "I wish you'd wear your medals.

 "I haven't any medals."

 "Oh Sean! You must have! With all those bullet holes in you, you must

 have medals. " "I'm sorry, Candy." Sean grinned. At times she was so

 far from being the glittering sophisticated woman of the world.

 Although she was a year older than he was, time had not destroyed that

 fragile quality of skin and hair that most women lose so quickly.

 There was no thickening of her body, no coarsening of her features.

 "Never mind-even without medals, you'll be the handsomest man there

 tonight.

 As the carriage rolled down Commissioner Street towards the Grand

 National Hotel, Sean lay back against the yielding support of soft

 polished leather. His cigar was drawing evenly with an inch of firm

 grey ash, the single brandy he had drunk before leaving glowed beneath

 the starched front of his dress-shirt, a faint aura of bay rum clung

 and hovered around him-and Candy's hand lay lightly upon his leg.

 All these things induced in him a mood of deep contentment.

 He laughed easily at Candy's chatter and let the smoke of his cigar

 trickle through his lips-tasting it with an almost childlike pleasure.

 When the car rage stopped before the entrance to the hotel and rocked

 gently on its superb springing, he climbed down and stood by the big

 rear-wheel to guard Candy's skirt as she descended.

 Then, with her fingers on his forearm, he guided her up the front steps

 and through the glass doors into the lobby Of the hotel. The splendour

 of the place did not equal Candy's own establishment. But it was

 impressive enough-and so was the reception line that awaited them.

 While they took their places among those waiting to meet the

 Commander-in-Chief, Sean spoke quietly to an aide-de-camp.

 "My Lord, may I present Mr. Courtney and Mrs. Rautenbach. " Lord

 Kitchener had a formidable presence. His hand was cold and hard and he

 stood as tall as Sean. The eyes that stared for an instant into Sean's

 held a disquieting rigidity of purpose.

 Then he turned to Candy and his expression softened momentarily as he

 bowed over her hand.

 "Very kind of you to come, madam."

 Then they were past and into the gaudy of uniforms and velvet and silk.

 The whole was dominated by dress scarlet of the Guards and Fusiliers,

 but there was also the gold-fragged blue of the Hussars, the green of

 the Foresters, kilts of half a dozen Highland regiments, so that Sean's

 black dress suit was conspicuously conservative. Among the glitter of

 orders and decorations shone the jewel lery and white skins of the

 women.

 Here assembled were the prize blooms of the huge tree that was the

 British Empire. A tree grown strong above the rest of the forest. Two

 centuries of victory in war had nurtured it, two hundred million

 persons were its roots that sucked in the treasures of half the world

 and sent them up along the shipping lanes to that grey city astride the

 Thames that was its heart. And there this rich sap was digested and

 transmuted into men. These were the men whose lazy speech and careful

 nonchalance reflected the smugness and arrogance which made them hated

 and feared by even the trunk of the great tree that gave them flower.

 While the lesser trees crowded closer and sent their own roots out to

 divert a little of its sustenance to themselves, the first disease had

 already eaten into the wood beneath the bark of the giant.

 America, India, Afghanistan, and South Africa had started the dry rot

 that one day would bring it crashing down with a force that would

 shatter its bulk into so many pieces as to prove it not teak but soft

 pine.

 Watching them now, Sean felt himself apart from them, closer in spirit

 and purpose to those shaggy men whose Mausers still shouted desperate

 defiance at them from the vast brown veld.

 These thoughts threatened to spoil his mood and he thrust them down,

 exchanged his empty glass for another filled with bubbling yellow wine

 and attempted to join the banter of the young officers who surrounded

 Candy. He succeeded only in conceiving a burning desire to punch one

 of them between his downy moustaches. He was savouring the idea with

 increasing relish when a touch on his arm turned him.

 "Hello Courtney. Seem to find you everywhere there is either a fight

 or a free drink. " Startled, Sean turned to look into the austere face

 and incongruously twinkling eyes of Major General John Acheson.

 "Hello, General. I notice you frequent the same areas. " Sean grinned

 at him.

 "Bloody awful champagne. Old K. must be economizing."

 Then he ran his eyes over Sean's immaculate evening dress. "A bit

 difficult to tell whether you have received the awards for which I

 recommended you. " Sean shook his head. "Still a sergeant. I didn't

 want to embarrass the General Staff by appearing in my chevrons. "

 "AH!" Acheson's eyes narrowed slightly. "Must be some hold up. I'll

 look into it."

 "I assure you I'm quite happy this way."

 Acheson nodded and changed the subject. "You haven't met my wife?"

 This was patronage on the grand scale. Sean was not to know that

 Acheson considered him his personal good luck charm. His own rapid

 promotion dated from their first meeting.

 Sean blinked in surprise before answering.

 "I haven't yet had the honour Come along then."

 Sean excused himself from Candy, who dismissed him with a tap of her

 fan and Acheson steered him through the press towards a group at the

 end of the room. A dozen paces from it Sean stopped abruptly.

 " Something wrong? " Acheson asked.

 "No. Nothing. " Sean started forward again, but now his eyes were

 fastened with fascination on one of the men who was a part of the group

 towards which they were headed.

 A slim figure in the dark blue dress uniform of the Natal Mounted

 Rifles. Sandy brown hair brushed straight back from his high forehead,

 nose too big for the mouth and the chin beneath it, slightly

 round-shouldered but with the highest reward for bravery showing purple

 and bronze beside the striped ribbon of the Distinguished Service Order

 on his chest, while on his shoulders the silver crowns and lace

 proclaimed him a colonel.

 Slowly, with a new awakening of his guilt, Sean let his eyes move down

 to this man's legs. With incomprehension he saw them perfectly

 matched, booted in polished black leather. Only when the man moved

 slightly, shifting his weight, Sean saw the leaden ness in one of them

 and understood.

 "My dear-I would like to present Mr. Courtney. I think you have heard

 me speak of him. He was with me at Colenso, and on the train a few

 weeks ago.

 "Indeed. Mr. Courtney, this is a great pleasure." She was plump and

 friendly but Sean was hardly able to murmur the correct response so

 conscious was he of the other eyes upon his face.

 "And this is Major Peterson of my staff."

 Sean nodded.

 "Colonel Courtney you will probably know-seeing that you bear the same

 name, and not to mention the fact that he is your Commanding

 Officer."

 For the first time in nineteen years Sean looked into the face of the

 man he had crippled.

 "Hello, Garry," he said and held out his hand. He stood with it out

 and waited.

 Garry Courtney's lips moved. He hunched his shoulders and his head

 SWUng slightly from side to side.

 "Take it, Garry. Please take my hand. Sean tried silently to urge

 him. Realizing the forbidding set of his own countenance, Sean forced

 his lips into a smile. It was an uncertain thing that smile, it.

 trembled a little at the corners of his mouth.

 In response Garry's own lips relaxed and for a moment Sean saw the

 terrible longing in his brother's eyes.

 " It's been a long time, Garry. Much too long. " Sean prodded forward

 with his open right hand. "Take it. Oh God, please make, him take

 it.

 Then Garry straightened. As he did so the toe of his right boot

 scraped softly, awkwardly on the marble floor. The naked 'longing in

 his eyes was glazed over, the corners of his mouth lifted upwards in

 something close to a sneer.

 "Sergeant," his voice was too loud, too high. "Sergeant, you are

 incorrectly dressed!" Then he turned, pivoting on the dead leg, and

 limped slowly away through the throng.

 Sean stood with his hand still out and the smile frozen on his mouth.

 You shouldn't have done that to us. We both wanted-I know you wanted

 it as much as I, Sean let his hand fall empty to his side and balled it

 into a fist.

 "You know him?" Acheson asked softly.

 "My brother."

 "I see," Acheson murmured. He saw many things-and one of them was the

 reason why Sean Courtney was still a sergeant.

 Major Peterson coughed and lit a cigar. Mrs. Acheson touched the

 General's arm. "My dear, Daphne Langford arrived yesterday. There she

 is with John-we must have them to dinner.

 "Of course, my dear. I will ask them this evening. " They turned

 their attention on each other, giving Sean the respite he needed to

 recover from his snubbing.

 "Your glass is empty and so is mine, Courtney. I suggest we go on to

 something more substantial than K's cooking champagne.

 Brandy, fiery Cape brandy, very different from that soapy liquor they

 make in France. A dangerous spirit to take in his present mood. And

 only one mood was possible for Sean after what Garry had done to

 him-cold, murderous rage.

 His face was impassive, politely he responded to Mrs. Acheson's charm,

 once he smiled at Candy across the room, but always he sent brandy

 after brandy down to feed the rage that seethed in his belly; his eyes

 followed the figure in dark blue as it limped from group to group.

 The aide-de-camp who arranged the dinner seating could never have known

 that Sean was a mere sergeant. As Mrs. Rautenbach's guest he believed

 him to be an influential civilian and placed him high at the long

 table, between Candy and Mrs. Acheson, with Majar Peterson below him

 and a brigadier and two colonels opposite. One of the colonels was

 Garrick Courtney.

 Beneath the almost uninterrupted stare which Sean fastened on him,

 Garry became nervously garrulous. Never once meeting Sean's eyes, he

 aimed his remarks higher up the table, and that bronze cross suspended

 on the ribbon of shot purple silk that bumped against his chest each

 time he leaned forward gave a weight to his opinions that was evident

 in the attention they received from the officers of general rank.

 The food was excellent. Rock lobster that had run the gauntlet EJJ@_

 of Boer blockade from the Cape, plump young pheasant, venison, four

 assorted sauces-even the quality of the champagne had improved.

 But Sean ate little, instead he gave permanent employment to the wine

 steward who hovered behind his chair.

 "And so," said Garrick as he selected a cigar from the cedar wood box

 that was offered him,

 "I cannot see hostilities continuing another three months at the

 outside.

 "I agree with you, sir," Major Peterson nodded. "We'll be back in

 London for the season.

 "Poppycock! " Sean made his first contribution to the discussion.

 It was a word he had learned only recently-but he Red it.

 Besides, there were ladies present.

 Peterson's face charmeleoned to a creditable match with the scarlet of

 his dress coat, Acheson started to smile then changed his mind, Candy

 wriggled in anticipation for she had reached the edge of boredom, and a

 chilly stillness fell over that area of the table.

 "I beg your pardon?" Garry looked at him for the first time.

 "Poppycock," Sean repeated, and the wine steward stepped forward to

 cascade champagne into the crystal bowl of his glass, an operation

 which he had repeated at least a dozen times during the course of the

 evening-but this time it commanded the attention of the entire

 company.

 "You don't agree with me?" Garry challenged.

 "No. "Why not?"

 "Because there are still eighteen thousand Boers in the field, because

 they are still an organized army, because not once have they had a

 decisive defeat inflicted on them-but mainly because of the character

 of these eighteen thousand that are left. " "You don't-" Garry's voice

 was petulant, but Acheson interrupted smoothly. "Excuse me, Colonel

 Courtney." Then he turned to Sean. "I believe you know these people-"

 he hesitated and then went on, "you are even related through marriage.

 " "My brother-in-law leads the Wynberg, commando,"

 Sean affirmed. The old boy knew more of his past then he suspected

 must have made a few inquiries. Sean was flattered and the harshness

 gone from his voice.

 "What, in your opinion, will be their course of action from now on?"

 Acheson pursued the subject and Sean tasted his champagne while he

 considered his reply.

 "They will scatter, break up into their traditional fighting units, the

 commando. " Acheson nodded, from his position on the General Staff he

 knew this had already happened.

 "In so doing they will avoid the necessity of dragging a supply column

 with them. Once the rainy season begins these small units will find

 grazing less of a problem for their horses.

 "Yes. " Sean saw they were all listening now. He thought quickly,

 cursing the wine that had dulled his brain. "They will avoid battle,

 run from it and swing round to jab at the flanks, then run again."

 "Supplies?" asked the Brigadier.

 "The veld is their storeroom, each farm upon it a haven.

 "Ammunition, weapons, clothing? " persisted the Brigadier.

 "Every British soldier they capture or kill will provide a brand new

 Lee, Metford rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition. " "But how long

 can they live like that?" Garry spoke indulgently, as though to a

 child. "How far can they run?" He glanced around at the others

 seeking their support, but everyone was watching Sean.

 "How wide is the veld, that is how far they can run. " Sean turned on

 him, stung by the tone of his voice. "My God, you know them.

 Hardship is a way of life with them. Pride, the watchword that will

 carry them on."

 "You paint a pretty picture. " Garry smiled easily. "It is unusual to

 find such appreciation of grand strategy among the rank and file." Then

 he looked higher up the table once more with an emphasis that excluded

 Sean from the conversation. "As I was saying, General Acheson, I

 believe, " "One moment please, Colonel." Acheson in turn excluded him

 and put his question to Sean. "If you had the running of it, what plan

 of action would you adopt?"

 Across the table Garrick Courtney coughed in a manner intended to

 inform the company that his brother was about to make a fool of

 himself.

 It was not lost on Sean. "The problem revolves around one single fact.

 The mobility of the enemy," he stated grimly.

 "Your perception does you great credit," murmured Garry.

 "Our first problem is to contain him and then to wear him down, " Sean

 went on, trying to ignore the taunts of his brother.

 "Contain him?" The Brigadier fired the question.

 "Herd him into a limited area," Sean explained.

 "How?"

 "Say, by a series of set fortifications," Sean suggested.

 "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you propose to divide the whole of the

 high veld into paddocks and farm the enemy as one would dairy cattle?"

 Garry was still smiling.

 "The new blockhouse lines along the line of rail are proving effective.

 It should be possible to extend them across the open veld, every time

 the enemy had to pass through them he would be subjected to a mauling

 by the garrisons and his position would immediately be pin, pointed.

 "The cost would be enormous," Acheson pointed out.

 "Not as great as supporting an army of a quarter of a million men in

 the field for another five years," Sean brushed his objection aside, he

 was well set on his run of ideas. "Then, within the defined areas

 small well, mounted bodies of men, unimpeded by supply wagons and

 artillery, would be used to raid the commandos, hitting them in an

 unrelenting series of raids and ambushes. Driving them on to the

 blockhouse lines, wearing down their horses, giving them no chance to

 rest, employing exactly their tactics of skirmishing. Against the

 commandos use counter, commandos. " Acheson nodded thoughtfully. "Go

 on," he said.

 "Then, clear out the farms, " Sean went on recklessly. "Bring in the

 women and old men whose crops keep the commandos fed. Force them to

 operate in a vacuum. " In the years ahead Sean was to regret the

 impulse that made him say it. Perhaps Kitchener would have scorched

 the land without Sean's suggestion, perhaps he had no hand in the

 formation of the concentration camps that bred bitterness, Sean would

 spend the rest of his life trying to sweetep. But he could never be

 certain. He was drunk and angry, but later this knowledge would not

 comfort him.

 Now suddenly he felt empty as though in a premonition of the monstrous

 seed he had sown and he sank into brooding silence while the others

 passed his ideas back and forth, building on them, already beginning to

 plan.

 When the dinner party broke up and they drifted through to drink

 coffee, Sean made one more attempt to tear down the barrier between his

 brother and himself. He went to him with his pride in his hands and

 offered it. "I was in Ladyburg last month. All's well there. Ada

 writes to say, " "I receive a weekly letter not only from my wife but

 from my stepmother and my son. I am fully aware of the latest news

 from home. Thank you. " Garry stared over Sean's shoulder as he

 replied.

 "Garry .

 "Excuse me. " Garry nodded briefly and limped away to speak to a

 brother officer. He kept his back toward Sean.

 "Let's go home, Candy.

 "But, Sean .

 "Come on."

 Sean slept very little that night.

 The Headquarters of the General Officer Commanding the eastern sector

 were tastefully situated in the offices of a brewery company in Plein

 Street. Major Peterson was waiting for Garry when he arrived.

 "I sent for you two hours ago, sir.

 "I was indisposed," Garry told him.

 "Old Ach is not in a very good mood today, we'd better not keep him

 waiting any longer. Come along."

 Down the passage, where orderlies bustled, Peterson led him, to a door

 at the far end. He knocked once and then opened it. Acheson looked up

 from his paperwork.

 "Colonel Courtney is here, sir."

 "Thank you, Peterson. Come in, Courtney.

 Peterson closed the door and left Garry standing alone on the thick

 Persian rug in front of Acheson's desk.

 "I sent for you two hours ago, Courtney. " Acheson used the same

 reprimand, and Garry shifted his leg uncomfortably.

 "I wasn't too well this morning, sir. Had to get the doctor in.Acheson

 fingered his white moustache as he examined the dark circles beneath

 Garry's eyes, and the chalky colour of his face. "Sit down,"

 he ordered.

 Acheson was silent, watching him. But Garry avoided his eyes. He felt

 brittle from the previous night's drinking, his skin dry and sensitive,

 and he fidgeted in the chair, clasping and unclasping the hand that lay

 in his lap.

 "I want one of your men," Acheson spoke at last.

 "Of course, sir, " Gary nodded.

 "That sergeant, Courtney. I want to give him an independent command.

 Garry sat very still

 "You know who I mean?" Acheson persisted.

 "Yes, sir."

 "You should," Acheson murmured dryly. "I have personally recommended

 him to you on two occasions for recognition.

 He flicked through the sheaf of papers in front of him.

 "Yes, sir. " Garry's right hand was opening and closing again.

 "I notice you took no action on either of my recommendations. " "No,

 sir.

 "May I ask why?"

 "I didn't have . . . I didn't think the occasions merited further

 action. " "You thought that my judgement was in error?" Acheson asked

 politely.

 "No, sir. Of course not, sir," Garry answered quickly.

 "Well, then?" Acheson's eyes were pale blue, but cold.

 "I spoke to the man. Congratulated him. After Colenso I gave him

 leave. " "Very decent of you, in view of the wounds he received

 there.

 "I didn't want to . . . You see, he's my brother. It was difficult ,

 favouritism. I couldn't really do much. " Garry wriggled sideways in

 his chair, his hands came up pawing the air as though to pluck words

 from it.

 "Your brother? " Acheson demanded.

 "Yes. My brother. "I know him, I know him, you don't. You can't have

 any idea. " Garry could feel the pattern of his thoughts

 disintegrating, his voice sounded shrill in his own ear. He had to

 explain, he had to tell Acheson. "My leg," he shrilled, "my leg. You

 see it. Look at it! He did that. He took my leg. You don't know

 him. He's evil. He's evil, evil. I tell you he's evil."

 Acheson's expression had not changed, but his eyes were colder, more

 watchful. Garry had to reach him and make him understand.

 "Anna." Garry's lips were wet and blubbery. "My wife, Anna. He did

 that to her. Everything he touches, you can't know how he is. I know.

 He's evil. I tried, I hoped at Colensobut you can't destroy him. He

 is the destroyer. " "Colonel Courtney!" Acheson's voice cut into his

 tirade, and Garry jerked at the crack of it. He covered his lips with

 his fingers and slowly he subsided into the chair.

 "I just want to explain. You don't understand."

 "I think I do," Acheson clipped the words short and harsh.

 "I am granting you indefinite leave on grounds of ill, health.

 "You can't do that, I won't resign my commission. " "I have not asked

 you to," Acheson snapped. "I will send the papers to your hotel this

 afternoon. You can take tomorrow's train south."

 "But, but, sir, " "That will be all, Courtney. Thank you."

 Acheson turned his attention once more to his papers.

 That afternoon Sean spent two hours with Acheson, then fie returned to

 Candy's Hotel and found Saul in the billiard room.

 Sean selected a cue. Saul laid both balls against the far cushion, and

 straightened.

 "Well?" he asked, as Sean chalked his stick.

 "You'll never believe it."

 "Tell me, and let me be the judge."

 Grinning secretly Sean cannoned twice and then sank the red.

 "From sergeant without portfolio, to a full, blown major and an

 independent command," he announced.

 "You?"

 "Me." Sean chuckled and missed a cannon.

 "They must be crazy."

 "Crazy or not. From now on you will stand in my presence, adopt a

 respectful tone of speech, and miss that shot."

 Saul missed.

 "If you're an officer and a gentleman why don't you behave like one and

 keep your mouth shut when I'm making a play.

 "You also have changed your status.

 "How?"

 "You're now a lieutenant," Sean informed him.

 "No! "With a gong.

 "A gong?"

 "A medal, you fool."

 "I'm overcome. I am speechless." At last Saul broke down and began to

 laugh. It was a sound which Sean enjoyed. "What kind of gong, and

 what for?"

 "Distinguished Conduct Medal, for the night of the train."

 "But, Sean, you . . ."

 Sean interrupted. "Yes, they gave me one also. Old Acheson got quite

 carried away. He started hanging medals and promotions on everything

 that moved, with the same dedicated fervour as a bill, poster putting

 up advertisements for Bovril. He damned nearly pinned a medal on the

 orderly who brought in the coffee. " "He gave you coffee?"

 "And a cigar," Sean answered. "He counted not the cost. It was like

 two lovers on an assignation. Repeatedly he addressed me as My dear

 fellow " "And what is this command he gave you?"

 Sean racked his cue and stopped laughing.

 "You and I are to head one of the first counter, commandos.

 Small, lightly equipped units to ride in and ginger, up the Boer.

 Harass him, wear him down, chase the guts out of his horses and keep

 him moving until he runs on to one of the big columns."

 The following morning they rode out with Major Peterson to inspect the

 band of volunteers he had assembled for them.

 "A mixed bag I'm afraid, Courtney. We've scratched together three

 hundred and fifteen. " Peterson was gloating a little behind the

 apology. He had not forgotten that poppycock.

 "It must have been difficult," Sean agreed. "You only had a quarter of

 a million to choose from. What about officers?"

 "Sorry. Only Friedman here. But I have got you an absolute gem.

 Sergeant, major. Snaffled him from the Dorsets. Fellow by the name of

 Eccles. First, class, absolutely first, class.

 "And Tim Curtis, the one I asked for?"

 "Sorry again. They've reopened the gold mines, All engineers are being

 pulled out and sent back to work.

 "Damn it, I wanted him. What about machine, guns?

 "Four Maxims. Bloody lucky to get them."

 "Horses?"

 "A bit of a struggle, but you can go down to remount and take your

 pick.

 Sean went on relentlessly with his demands and questions during the

 ride out towards Randfontem. His excitement for the challenge of this

 venture rose steadily as they argued and talked.

 At last he was taking it seriously. He asked the final and crucial

 question as they trotted past the sentries into the great army camp on

 the outskirts of Johannesburg.

 "Has Acheson decided in which area I will be operating?"

 "Yes." Peterson dropped his voice. "South, east Transvaal."

 "That's where Leroux is!"

 "That's right. The gentleman who met your train the other day. " Jan

 Paulus again!

 "Here you are, Courtney."

 A little apart from the main camp stood three lines of white canvas

 tents. A field kitchen smoked at the far end and around it were

 clustered Scans warriors.

 "My God, Peterson. You said a mixed bag! You've robbed the army of

 cooks and batmen. And what are those, sailors, Be Jesus " Peterson

 shared thinly and shifted in the saddle.

 "Press, ganged them," he admitted. "GunDery detail from Repulse.

 Ah, here comes your sergeant, major. " Eccles approached in column of

 fours; bull, built, black moustache, a few inches over six feet and all

 of it held stiffly erect.

 Peterson introduced them and they appraised each other.

 "A right scruffy lot we got here, sir.

 "We've got a bit of work to do, Eccles.

 "That we 'ave, sir.

 "Let's get started then." And they glowered at each other in mutual

 respect and liking.

 A week later they were ready to go. Saul had named them "Courtney's

 Fighting Scouts." They were all well mounted, although there were some

 interesting styles of horsemanship evident, especially among the

 delegates from the Royal Navy.

 By bullying the quartermaster Sean had arrived at a standard uniform

 similar to that of the Imperial Light Horse; slouch hats, khaki tunics

 and riding breeches, bandoliers, puttees and issue boots. They had

 forty fat and healthy pack, mules, four Maxim machine, guns and Eccles

 had trained teams to serve them.

 Acheson had approved Sean's request to use Charlestown as a base.

 He had arranged rail transport south to this tiny village near the

 Natal border, promised support from the big flying columns in the area,

 and informed Sean that he was expecting big things from him. He made

 it sound like a threat.

 "But, darling, you haven't even been given a real uniform. You look so

 drab." Candy, who was watching him dress from the double bed, held

 very definite views on what constituted a real uniform. It had gold

 lace and fragging with, say a Star of the Garter on a rich scarlet

 ground. " Look at those buttons, they're not even shiny."

 "Boers like shiny things, makes for good shooting in the sun. " Sean

 glanced over his shoulder at her. Her hair was fluffed into golden

 disorder and the blue gown was arranged to provoke rather than conceal.

 Hastily Sean reMmed his eyes to his own reflection in the full-length

 mirror and brushed the hair back along his temples. A touch of grey in

 it now. Quite dignified, he decided. Pity about the nose.

 He took it between his fingers and straightened it, a hell of a nose,

 but when he released his grip it returned immediately to a half, cock

 position.

 "Well, I'll be leaving you now," he said, and she stood up quickly and

 the laughter was gone from her lips, they trembled a little.

 "I'll come down with you." She arranged the gown quickly.

 "No. " "Yes, I have a farewell present for you.

 In the hotel yard, hitched behind four fat mules, was a scotch cart She

 led him to it and lifted the tarpaulin cover.

 "A few things I thought you might need. " Against the cold she had

 provided a sheepskin coat, six fine woollen blankets and a silk

 eiderdown, two feather pillows and a mattress; a case of Courvoisier

 brandy and a case of Veuve Clicquot champagne. Against starvation

 there was potted salmon, strawberry jam, caviar in little glass jars,

 tinned delicacies all carefully packed in wooden boxes. For his health

 a medicine chest complete with a set of surgical instruments.

 Against the Boer there was a

 "Ibledo steel sabre in a leather scabbard worked with silver and a

 matched pair of Colt revolvers in a mahogany presentation case.

 "Candy . . . " Sean stumbled. "I don't know what to say."

 She smiled a little and took his arm, hugging it. "There's something

 else also." She nodded to one of the grooms, who disappeared into the

 stables and led out a full, blooded Arab stallion with an English

 hunting saddle on its back.

 "My God!" exclaimed Sean, and the stallion danced sideways so that the

 early sun glowed on the sheen of its coat. It flared with great pink

 pits of its nostrils and rolled its eyes before rearing high and

 dragging the groom off his feet.

 "Candy, my dear," Sean repeated.

 "Good, bye, Sean." She lifted her lips for his kiss and then broke

 away and almost ran back to the hotel.

 While Saul shouted ribald encouragement, Mbenjane and the groom held

 its head. Sean mounted the stallion, then they turned it loose and

 Sean fought to quieten it. At last he brought it under a semblance of

 control and, crabbing and prancing with arched neck and dainty high,

 stepping gait, persuaded it to head off in the general direction of

 Johannesburg railway station.

 Eccles watched his approach impassively.

 "What the hell are you laughing at, Sergeant, Major?"

 "I wasn't laughing, sir.

 Sean dismounted and, with relief, gave the stallion into the care of

 two of his troopers.

 "Nice bit of horseflesh, sir.

 "What do you think he'll fetch?"

 "YOU're going to sell him, sir?" Eccles could not hide his relief.

 "You're damn right, I am. But it's a gift, so no sale here in

 Johannesburg.

 Well, Colonel Jordan at Charlestown is usually in the market for a good

 nag. I should be able to get you a price, sir. We'll see what we can

 do.

 Colonel Jordan purchased not only the stallion but the pistols and the

 sabre as well. The secretary of the Charlestown garrison officers'

 mess frothed at the mouth with excitement when Eccles drew back the

 tarpaulin cover from the scotch cart

 When Sean's column rode out into the brown open winter grassland

 towards the jagged line of the Drakensberg, the little scotch cart

 trotted behind with the Maxims and a dozen ammunition cases making a

 full load.

 There was cold that first night, and the stars were brilliant, clear

 and very far away. In the morning the land lay white and brittle in

 the grip of the frost; each blade of grass, each twig and fallen leaf

 transformed into a white, jewelled wonder. A thin scum of ice covered

 the pool beside which the column had camped.

 Mbejanc and Sean squatted together. Mbejane with his monkey, skin

 kaross draped over his shoulders and Sean with the sheepskin coat

 buttoned to the throat.

 "Tonight we will camp below that mountain." Sean pointed away towards

 the west at the blue cone that stood out against the lighter blue of

 the dawn sky. "You will find us there.

 , Nkosi, " Mbejane nodded over his snuffbox.

 "These others. " Sean pointed with his chin at the group of four

 natives who awaited quietly with the spears beside the pool.

 "Are they men?"

 Mbejane shrugged. "I know little of them. The best of those I spoke

 with, perhaps. But they work for gold, and of their hearts I do not

 know. " Before going on, he regarded their clothing; tattered European

 cast, offs which were everywhere replacing the traditional tribal

 costume. "They dress without dignity.

 But beneath the rags it is possible that they are men."

 "They are all we have so we must use them. Yet I wish we had those

 others who now grow fat in the company of their women."

 Mbejane smiled. A week before he had put the message into the

 grapevine and he knew that both Hlubi and Nonga were at that moment

 dissipating their accumulations of fat as they trotted north from their

 kraals along the Umfolozi River. They would be here soon.

 "This is the way we will hunt," Sean told him. "Your men will spread

 out ahead of us and search for sign. The horses of those we seek will

 carry no steel on their hooves. If you find it fresh, then follow it

 until the run and direction of it is clear.

 Then return to me in haste."

 Mbejane nodded and sniffed a pinch from his snuffbox.

 "While you search, stop at the kraals you find along the way.

 Speak with the people there, clearly, if the Mabune are here these

 people will know of it.

 "It will be as you say, Nkosi.

 "The sun comes. " Sean looked up at the glow of it upon the high

 places while the valleys were blue with shadow. "Go in peace,

 Mbejane.

 " Mbejane folded his kaross and tied it with a strip of leather.

 He picked up his stabbing spear and slung the great oval war shield on

 his shoulder. "Go in peace, Nkosi."

 Sean watched while he talked with the other trackers, listening to the

 sonorous rise and fall of his voice. Then they scattered, trotting

 away into the veld, dwindled and were gone.

 "Eccles?" "Sir. " "Finished breakfast?"

 "Yes, sir.

 The men stood to their horses, blanket, rolls and carbines on the

 saddles, slouch hats pulled well down and the collars of their

 greatcoats turned up against the cold. Some were still eating with

 their bayonets from the cans of shredded beef.

 "Let's go, then." The column closed up, riding four abreast, the pack,

 mules and the scotch cart in the centre, the outriders fanning out

 ahead to screen the advance. It was a tiny command, not a hundred and

 fifty paces long even with the pack animals, and Saul smiled as he

 remembered the massive fifteen, mile column that had marched from

 Colenso to Spion Kop.

 Yet it was enough to tickle his pride. Courtney's Fighting Scouts. The

 task now was to justify the second word of their title.

 Saul hooked one leg over the saddle, balanced his notebook upon it, and

 while they rode he and Sean planned a thorough reorganization of the

 column.

 When they halted at midday the planning was put into effect, A patrol

 of ten men in charge of the mules, for this duty Sean picked those who

 were fat, old or ungainly in the saddle. These men would also act as

 horse holders when the unit went in to fight on foot.

 From among his sailors, Sean selected the gunners to captain the four

 Maxim teams. The riflemen were divided into patrols of ten with the

 most likely men promoted Sergeant Patrol Leaders, and their warrants

 noted in Saul's little book.

 It was well after nightfall when they off saddled that night below the

 dark massif of the mountain. MbeJane was waiting with his men beside a

 small, well, screened fire.

 "I see you, Mbejane.

 "I see you, Nkosi. " In the firelight Mbejane's legs were coated with

 dust to the knees and his face was grey with fatigue.

 "What news?"

 "Old sign. Perhaps a week ago, many men camped over there below the

 river. 'twenty fires not in lines as the soldiers make them.

 They left no little tin pots as the soldiers (to when they have emptied

 them of meat. No tents, but beds of cut grass, many beds."

 "How many?" It was an idle question for Mbejane could not count as a

 white man counts. He shrugged.

 "As many beds as there are men with us?" Sean sought a comparison.

 "More." Mbejane thought carefully before answering.

 "As many again?" Sean persisted.

 "Perhaps as many again, but no more than that."

 Probably five hundred men, Sean guessed. "Which way were they

 moving?"

 Mbejane pointed south, west.

 Back towards Vryheid and the protection of the Drakensberg mountain.

 Yes, it was part of the Wynberg commando without doubt.

 "What news from the kraals?"

 "There is fear among them. They tell little, and that of no

 importance." Mbejane made no attempt to hide his disgust, the contempt

 that the Zulu feels for every other tribe in Africa.

 "You have done well, Mbejane. Rest now for we ride before the dawn. "

 Four more days they moved south, west, Sean's trackers sweeping the

 ground ten miles on each side of their path and finding it empty.

 The Drakensberg reared up like a serrated back of a prehistoric monster

 along the south horizon. There was snow on the peaks.

 Sean exercised his men in the counters to a surprise attack.

 Riflemen wheeling out and dismounting in line to cover the Maxims as

 they galloped wildly for the nearest high ground.

 Holders gathering the loose horses and pelting away to the cover of the

 nearest don ga or kopJe. Again and again they repeated this

 manoeuvre.

 Sean worked them until they leaned forward in their saddles to nurse

 aching backsides and cursed him as they rode. He worked them to the

 edge of exhaustion and then on to a new physical fitness. They

 sprouted beards, their faces reddened and peeled, then darkened with

 the sun, their uniforms darkened also, but with dirt. Now they no

 longer cursed him. There was a new feeling among them, they laughed

 more and sat solid in the saddle, slept soundly at night despite the

 cold and woke with eagerness.

 Sean was moderately satisfied.

 On the morning of the tenth day Sean was scouting ahead of the column

 with two of his troopers. They had just dismounted to rest among an

 outcrop of boulders when Sean picked up movement out on the plain

 ahead. With a savage lift of anticipation he scrambled down from the

 boulder on which he was sitting and ran to his horse for his

 binoculars.

 "Damn it! " he mouthed his disappointment as he saw the lance blades

 glitter in the round strangely fore, shortened field of the glasses.

 "Cavalry."

 Half an hour later they met the small patrol of lancers from one of the

 big columns that were driving south from the line of block, houses. The

 young subaltern in command gave Sean it cigar, and the latest news of

 the war.

 De la Rey and Smuts were rampaging north of Johannesburg in the

 Magaliesberg with forty thousand men chasing their three thousand.

 South in the Free State another of the great De Wet hunts was in full

 swing. But this time they would catch him, the subaltern assured

 Sean.

 Fifty thousand foot and horse soldiers had driven his commando into the

 angle between the blockhouse line and the flooded Riet River. In the

 east it was quieter. The commandos there lacked leadership and were

 lying up in the mountains around Komatipoort.

 "So far it's quiet here also, sir. But I don't like the looks of it.

 This man Leroux is a nasty piece of work, clever man too.

 So far he's limited his activities to a few raids. Ten days ago about

 five hundred of his men hit one of our supply columns; near

 Charlestown. Wiped out the guard and collected enough ammunition to

 fight a full, scale battle, then made off towards the mountains."

 "Yes," Sean nodded grimly. "We found one of his camps." "No sign of

 him since then, sir. We've been scouring the ground for him, but so

 far without luck.

 "What's his force?" Sean asked.

 "He can muster three thousand, so they say, My guess is that he's

 getting himself poised for something really big.

 That night Mbejane came into camp well after midnight. he came to

 where Sean slept under the scotch cart and with him were two other

 men.

 N'kosi.

 Sean rolled on his side, instantly awake at the touch. "Mbejane?

 " He crawled out from under the cart and stood up.

 The moon was up, silver and round and bright. By its light he

 recognized the men with MbeJane and exclaimed with pleasure: "By God!

 "Hlubi! Nonga! " Then remembering his manners, sean stepped forward

 grinning broadly to clasp their shoulders in turn. And each replied

 gravely as they returned his embrace.

 "I see you, Nkosi.

 "Are YOU well?"

 "I am well. Are you well?"

 The catechism of Zulu greeting can be carried on for as long as there

 is time available. More than a year had passed since Sean had

 discharged them from his service outside Pretoria, and so Sean must ask

 each of them for news of his father, his brothers, his herds, and the

 journey they had made, before he could put his own question.

 "You came through Ladyburg?

 "We came that way," agreed Hlubi.

 "You saw the Nkosizana Dirk?"

 Now for the first time they both smiled, white teeth in the

 moonlight.

 "We sat in council with the Nkosizana," Hlubi chuckled.

 "He grows like a bull calf. Already he wears scars of battle,

 honourable blackening of one of his eyes."

 "He grows in wisdom also," Nonga boasted. "Saying aloud to us those

 things which are written in the book. " Hlubi went on: "He sends

 greetings to the Nkosi, his father, and asks that he be allowed now to

 leave his school and join with him once more. For now he is skilled in

 the matter of books and number."

 Sean laughed. "And what of the Nkosikazi, my mother?" he asked.

 "She is well. She sends you this book." Hlubi produced a travel,

 stained envelope from his loin, cloth. Sean tucked it away inside his

 coat to be read at leisure.

 "Now. " The formula of greeting completed, Sean could come to the

 present. "What news of Mabunu? Have you found sign?"

 MbeJane squatted on his haunches and laid his spear and shield beside

 him. The others followed his example. The meeting came to order.

 "Speak," Mbejane ordered Hluibi.

 "We came through the mountains, this being the shorter way," Hlubi

 explained. "In the hills below the mountains we found the road made by

 many horses, and following it we came upon a level place surrounded by

 rock. The Mabunu are there with cattle and wagons."

 "How far is this place?" Sean asked eagerly.

 "A day's long journey. " Thirty miles.

 "How many Mabunu?" Sean asked and Mbejane explained,

 "As many as camped at the place I told you of.

 It made sense, Sean decided. Jan Paulus would have split his force

 into smaller units, for reasons of supply and concealment, until such

 time as he needed them.

 "We will go then," he said and stood up.

 Eccles woke quickly.

 "Sergeant, Major. The guides have found a small Boer commando in

 laager below the mountains. Get the men mounted UP.

 "Sir! " Eccles's moustache, rumpled with sleep, quivered like the

 whiskers of a hunting dog.

 While around him the commotion of up saddling began, Sean kicked life

 into the fire and in its yellow flickering light he tore a page from

 his notebook and licked the point of a pencil.

 To all British troops in the field: I am in contact with a Boer

 commando of 500. Will attempt to contain them pending your arrival.

 The bearer will act as a guide.

 S. Courtney (Major).

 5th August, 1900. Time 00.46 hours.

 "Hlubi," he called.

 "Nkosi! " "Take this book," he handed him the note. "There are

 soldiers out there." He swept his arm towards the north. "Give it to

 them."

 Bunched into a compact column with the gallant little scotch cart

 bouncing and jolting in the rear, Courtney's Fighting Scouts cantered

 southwards with the brown winter grass brushing their stirrups.

 With Saul beside him and the two Zulus ranging ahead like hunting dogs,

 Sean rode in the van. He slouched easily in the saddle and tried with

 both hands to steady Ada's letter as it fluttered in the wind of his

 passage. It was strange to read the gentle reassuring words as he

 hurried into battle.

 All was well at Lion Kop. The wattle grew apace, free from fire,

 drought or pestilence. She had hired an assistant manager who worked

 afternoons only; his mornings required attendance at Ladyburg School.

 Dirk was earning his princely salary of two shillings and sixpence a

 week and seemed to be enjoying the work. The arrival of his school

 report for the period ended at Easter was the occasion for some

 concern. His average high marks for each subject were followed by the

 notation,

 "Could do much better" or

 "Lacks concentration. " The whole was summarized by the Headmaster,

 "Dirk is a high, spirited and popular boy. But he must learn to

 control his temper and to apply himself with more diligence to those

 subjects he finds distasteful. " Dirk had recently fought an epic bout

 of fisticuffs with the Petersen boy, who was two years his senior, and

 had emerged blooded and bruised, but victorious. Here Sean detected a

 note of pride in Ada's prim censure.

 There followed half a page of messages dictated by Dirk in which

 protestations of filial love and duty were liberally punctuated with

 requests for a pony, a rifle, and permission to terminate his

 scholastic career.

 Ada went on tersely to say that Garry had recently returned to

 Ladyburg, but had not yet called upon her.

 Finally, she instructed him to take pains with his health, invoked the

 Almighty to his protection, anticipated his swift re turn to Lion Kop,

 and ended with love.

 Sean folded the letter carefully and tucked it away. Then he let his

 mind drift, lolling in the saddle while the brown miles dropped

 steadily behind his horse. There were so many loose or ravelled

 threads to follow, Dirk and Ada, Ruth and Saul, Garrick and Michael,

 and all of them made him sad.

 Then suddenly he glanced sideways at Saul and straightened in the

 saddle. This was not the time to brood. They had entered the mouth of

 one of the valleys that sloped upwards towards the massive snow,

 plastered ramparts of the Drakensberg, and were following a stream

 whose banks dropped ten feet to the water that gurgled and tinkled over

 the polished round boulders in its bed.

 "How much farther, Nonga? " he called.

 "Close now, Nkosi.

 In another valley that ran parallel to the one Sean was following,

 separated from it by two ridges of broken rock, a young Boer asked the

 same question.

 "How much farther, Oorn Paul?"

 But before answering, Vecht, Generaal Jan Paulus Leroux eased himself

 around in the saddle and looked back along the commando of one thousand

 burghers he was leading to a rendezvous at his laager in the mountains.

 They rode in a solid mass that clogged the floor of the valley, bearded

 men in a motley of dark homespun clothing, on ponies shaggy in their

 winter coats, yet Jan Paulus felt pride swell in his chest as he looked

 at them. These were the bitter, enders, veterans of half a hundred

 fights, men forged and tempered in the furnace of battle, razor, sharp

 and resilient as the finest steel. Then he looked at the boy beside

 him, a boy in years only for his eyes were old and wise.

 "Close now, Hennie.

 "Eccles, we'll halt here. Water the horses.

 Loosen the girths but don't off saddle No fires but the men can rest

 and eat.

 "Very well, sir. " "I am going forward to have a look at the laager.

 While I am away I want you to issue an extra hundred rounds of

 amunition to each man. Check the Maxims. I should be back in two

 hours.

 "When will it be, sir?"

 "We'll move forward at dusk, I want to be in position to attack as soon

 as the moon rises. You can tell the men now."

 As Sean and Nonga left the column and moved on foot up the valley, two

 men watched them from the ridge. They lay on their bellies among the

 rocks. Both of them were bearded. One of them wore a British

 officer's Sam Browne belt over his patched leather jacket, but the

 rifle that rested on the rock in front of him was a Mauser.

 "They send spies to the laager, " he whispered, and his companion

 answered in the Taal.

 "Ja, they have found it.

 "Go! Ride quickly to Oom Paul and say for him that we have three

 hundred khaki ripe and ready for the plucking. " The other Boer

 grinned and wriggled backwards, working his way off the skyline. Once

 below it he ran to his pony and led it down into the grass which would

 muffle its hoof, beats, before he mounted.

 An hour later Sean returned from his reconnaissance.

 "We've got them, Eccles," he grinned savagely at Saul and Eccles.

 "They're about two miles ahead in a hidden basin of hills.

 He squatted down and smoothed a patch of earth with the palm of his

 hand. "Now here is the way we'll do it." With a twig he drew quickly

 in the dirt. "This is our valley. Here we are. This is the laager,

 hills here and here and here. This is the entrance to the basin. Now,

 we'll place two Maxims here, with a hundred men below and in front of

 them like this. I want you, " Abruptly his earthen map exploded,

 throwing dirt into his eyes and open mouth. "What the bloody, " he

 mouthed as he clawed at his face but the rest of it was lost in the

 blast of the Mausers.

 Through streaming eyes Sean looked up at the ridge. "Oh my God!"

 A fire haze of gunsmoke drifted across it like sea spray on a windy

 day, and he sprang to his feet.

 "Into the river. Get the horses into the river, " he roared above the

 murderous crackle, the shrill fluting whine of ricochets and the

 continuous slapping of bullets into earth and flesh.

 "Into the river. Get into the river!" He ran down the column shouting

 at the men who were struggling to clear their rifles from the scabbards

 of plunging, rearing horses. The Boer fire flogged into them, dropping

 men and horses screaming in the grass.

 Loose horses scattered along the valley, reins trailing and empty

 stirrups bounding against their flanks.

 "Leave them! Let them go! Get into the river!" TWo of the mules were

 down, kicking, wounded in the traces of the scotch cart Sean tore the

 tarpaulin loose and lifted out one of the Maxims. A bullet splintered

 the woodwork under his hands.

 "You!" he shouted at one of his sailors. "Grab this!" He passed the

 gun to him and the man ran with it cradled in his arms and jumped over

 the river bank. With a case of ammunition under each arm Sean followed

 him. It seemed as though he ran waist, deep in water, each pace

 dragging with painful deliberation and his fear came strongly upon him.

 A bullet flipped his hat forward over his eyes, the ammunition cases

 weighted him down, and he blundered panic, stricken towards the river.

 The earth was gone abruptly from under his feet and he fell, dropping

 free until, with a shock that jarred his spine, he struck and toppled

 forward face, down into the icy water.

 Immediately he scrambled up and, still clutching the Maxim ammunition,

 floundered to the steep bank. Above him the Boer fire whipped and

 sang, but the bed of the river was crowded with his men, and others

 still fell and jumped from the bank to add to the congestion.

 Panting and streaming water from his clothing Sean leaned against the

 bank while he gathered himself. The stream of survivors into the

 river, bed dwindled and stopped. The Boer fire also stuttered out and

 a comparative quiet fell over the field, spoiled only by the groaning

 and cursing of the wounded.

 Sean's first coherent thought was for Saul. He found him holding two

 pack, mules under the bank with Nonga and Mbejane beside him holding

 another pair. He sent Saul to take command at the far end of the

 line.

 "Sergeant, Major!" Sean shouted, and with relief heard Eccles's reply

 from close at hand.

 "Here, sir."

 "Spread them out along the bank. Get them to cut firing platforms. "

 " Very good, sir, " and immediately he began, " Here you lot, you heard

 the Major! Up off your backsides!"

 Within ten minutes there were two hundred rifles lining the bank and

 the Maxim was sited and manned behind a scharnz of' stone and earth.

 Those men who had lost their weapons were tending the wounded.

 This pitiful little group were gathered in the middle of the line, they

 were propped against the bank, sitting waist, deep in slush and their

 blood stained the water pinky, brown.

 Sean climbed up on to one of the firing platforms beside Eccles and

 lifted his head to peer cautiously over the bank. The area in front of

 him was a sickening sight. Dead mules and horses with their packs

 burst open littering the grass with blankets and provisions.

 Wounded animals flopping helpless or standing quietly with their heads

 hanging.

 "Is there anyone out there still alive?" Sean called, but the dead men

 gave him no answer. A sniper on the ridge ploughed a bullet into the

 ground in front of Sean's face and he ducked down quickly.

 "Most of them managed to crawl in, sir. Those that didn't are better

 out there than in the mud here.

 "How many did we lose, Eccles? " "About a dozen dead, sir, and twice

 as many wounded. We got off very lightly. " "Yes," Sean nodded.

 "Most of their initial fire went high.

 It's a mistake even the best shots make when shooting downhill. "

 "They fair caught us with our pants down," mused Eccles and Sean did

 not miss the censure in his tone.

 "I know. I should have placed look, outs on the ridge," he agreed.

 You're no Napoleon, he told himself, and you've got casualties to prove

 it.

 "How many of them lost their weapons?" he asked.

 "We've got two hundred and ten rifles and one Maxim, sir, and I issued

 an extra hundred rounds to each man just before the attack. " "Should

 be enough," Sean decided. "Now all that remains is to sweat it out

 until my native guide brings up reinforcements. " For half an hour

 nothing happened beyond a little desultory sniping from the ridge.

 Sean moved along the line talking to the men.

 "How's it going, sailor?"

 "Me old ma would have a fit, sir. "George," she'd say, 'sitting in the

 mud is not going to do your piles no good," she'd say, sir." He was

 shot through the stomach and Sean had to force his chuckle through his

 throat.

 "I could use a smoke, though. That I could."

 Sean found a damp cigar in his pocket for him and moved on.

 A youngster, one of the Colonials, was crying silently as he held

 against his chest the blood, soaked bundle of bandages that was his

 hand.

 , Giving you pain?" Sean asked gently. The boy looked at him, the

 tears smearing his cheeks. "Go away," he whispered. "Please go

 away.

 Sean walked on. I should have put look, outs on the ridge, he thought

 again. I should have." "Flag of truce on the ridge, sir," a man

 shouted excitedly and Sean clambered up beside him.

 Immediately a hum of comment ran along the line.

 "They're hanging out their washing.

 "The bastards want to surrender. They know we've got them licked.

 " Sean climbed out of the river, bed and waved his hat at the speck of

 white that fluttered on the ridge, and a horseman trotted down towards

 him.

 "Middag, Menheer, " Sean greeted him. He received only a nod in reply

 and took the note the man proffered: Menheer, I expect the arrival of

 my Hotchkiss gun at any moment.

 Your position is not safe. I suggest you lay down your guns to prevent

 further killing.

 J. P. Leroux, Vecht, General, Wynberg commando.

 It was written on an irregular scrap of brown wrapping paper in High

 Dutch.

 "My greetings to the General, Menheer, but we will hold out here a

 little longer. " "As you wish," the Boer acquiesced, "but first you

 must see if any of these, , be pointed at the khaki figures that were

 scattered among the dead mules and horses, , you must see if any of

 them are still alive. And you must destroy the wounded animals. " "It

 is kind of you, Menheer."

 "You will, of course, make no attempt to pick up weapons or

 ammunition."

 "Of course."

 The Boer stayed with them while Eccles and half a dozen men searched

 the field, destroying the maimed animals and examining the fallen

 troopers. They found one man still alive. The air hissed softly from

 his severed windpipe and a froth of blood bubbles writhed about the

 hole. On a blanket they carried him down to the river, bed.

 Eleven dead, sir, " Eccles reported to Sean.

 "Eccles, as soon as the truce ends we are going to recover another

 Maxim and the two cases of ammunition.

 They stood beside the scotch cart and Sean inclined his head to

 indicate the bulky, blue, metal led weapon that showed from beneath the

 tarpaulin.

 "Very good, sir.

 "I want four men ready below the lip of the bank. Make sure each man

 has a knife to cut the pack ropes. " "Yes, sir. " Eccles grinned like

 a playful walrus and drifted back towards the river, and Sean strolled

 across to the mounted Boer.

 "We have finished, Menheer.

 "Good. As soon as I cross the skyline up there, then we'll start

 again. " "I agree." Sean walked back to the river, picking his way

 through the dead. Already the flies were there, swarming green and

 metallic, rising like a migrating hive of bees as he passed, then

 settling again.

 Sean reached the bank and below him Saul crouched at the head of a

 bunch of unarmed men. Behind them stood a very disgruntled Eccles, his

 moustache drooping in disappointment.

 Instantly Sean saw what had happened, Saul had used his superior rank

 to take over command of the volunteers. "What the hell do you think

 you're doing?" Sean demanded, and Saul answered him with an obstinate

 stare.

 " You'll stay where you are. That's an order!" He turned to Eccles.

 "Take over, Sergeant, Major," and Eccles grinned.

 This was no time to argue. Already the Boer horseman was half way up

 the ridge. Sean raised his voice and shouted at the long line of men

 below the bank.

 "Listen, all of you. No one is to fire until the enemy do. That way

 we may be able to spin it out a little longer. " Then less loudly as

 he spoke to Eccles. "Don't run, just walk out casually." Sean jumped

 down the bank and stood between Eccles and Saul. All three of them

 peered up at the ridge and saw the Boer reach the crest, wave his hat

 and disappear. "Go!" Sean said, and all of them went.

 Eccles, the four volunteers, and Saul. Flabbergasted, Sean stared at

 the six of them as they strolled out towards the scotch cart Then his

 anger flared. The stupid little bastard, and he went also.

 He caught up with them as they reached the scotch cart and in the

 strained silence of the suspended storm he growled at Saul: "I'll fix

 you for this!" and Saul grinned triumphantly.

 Still there was a puzzled silence from the ridge, but it could not last

 much longer.

 Together Saul and Eccles slashed at the ropes that held the tarpaulin,

 and Sean pulled it back and reached for the gun.

 "Take it. " He passed it to the man behind him. At that moment a

 warning shot cracked over their heads.

 "Grab one each and run!"

 From the ridge and the river came gunfire like a long roll of drums,

 and they ran doubled beneath their loads and dodging, back towards the

 river.

 The man carrying the Maxim fell headlong. Sean threw the ammunition

 case he carried, it dropped short of the bank, but skidded forward and

 toppled over the edge. Hardly pausing in his run, he stooped and

 gathered the fallen Maxim and went on.

 Ahead of him first Eccles, then Saul jumped into safety and Sean

 followed them with the three surviving troopers.

 It was over, Sean sat waist, deep in the icy water with the machine,

 gun clutched to his chest, and all he could think of was his anger at

 Saul. He glared at him, but Saul and Eccles knelt facing each other

 grinning and laughing.

 Sean handed the gun to the nearest trooper and crossed to Saul.

 His hand fell heavily on his shoulder and he pulled him to his feet.

 "You, " He could not find words cutting enough. If Saul had been

 killed out there, Ruth would never have believed Sean had not ordered

 it so. "You fool," he said and might have hit him, but he was

 distracted by the cries from the firing platform beside him.

 "The poor bastard!"

 "He's up."

 "Lie down, for God's sake, lie down."

 Sean released Saul, jumped up on to the platform and stared through the

 loophole in the schranz.

 Out in the open the trooper who had carried the Maxim was on his feet.

 He was moving parallel to the bank, shambling with a curious idiot

 gait, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. They were shooting at

 him from the ridge.

 Held in the paralysis of horror, none of them went to him. He was hit

 and he lurched but tottered on with the Boer rifles hunting him,

 staggering in a circle away from the river. Then, suddenly they killed

 him and he dropped on to his face.

 The gunfire stopped and in the silence the men in the river, bed began

 to move around, and talk of trivial things, avoiding each other's eyes,

 ashamed to have watched such a naked intimate thing as that man's

 dying.

 Sean's anger was gone, replaced by guilty thankfulness that it had not

 been Saul out there in the open.

 In the long period of stagnation that followed, Sean and Saul sat

 together against the bank. Though they talked little, the old sense of

 companionship was restored.

 With a rush and rattle the first shell ripped the air above their

 heads, and with everyone else Sean ducked instinctively. The shell

 burst in a tall brownish, yellow spurt on the far slope. Consternation

 bush fired along the river.

 " Oh my! they've got a gun!"

 "Book me on the next train, mate!"

 "Nothing to worry about, boys," Sean shouted reassuringly.

 "They can't reach us with that piece. " And the next shell burst on

 the lip of the bank, showering them with earth and pebbles. One

 startled second they stood dazed and coughing in the fumes, and the

 next they fell on the bank like a band of competitive grave, diggers.

 Dust from their exertions rose in a pale brown mist over the river to

 puzzle the Boers on the ridge. Almost before the arrival of the next

 shell, each man had hacked out a small earthen cupboard into which he

 could squeeze himself.

 The Boer gunners were alarmingly inconsistent. Two or three rounds

 would fly wildly overhead and burst in the open veld.

 The next would land squarely in the river spraying mud and water high

 in the air. When this happened the sound of sustained cheering drifted

 faintly down from the ridge, followed by a long pause, presumably while

 the gunners received the congratulations of their fellows. Then the

 bombardment would recommence with enthusiastic rapidity, which slowly

 wound down into another long pause while everybody rested.

 During one of these intervals Sean peered through his loophole.

 From a dozen points along the ridge rose pale columns of smoke.

 "Coffee break up there, Eccles."

 "The way they do things we can expect another white flag and a couple

 of their lads coming down with coffee for us as well.

 "I doubt it," Sean grinned. "But I think we can expect them to come

 down though." Sean pulled out his watch. " Half, past four now.

 Two hours to sundown. Leroux must try for a decision before dark.

 " "If they come, they'll come from behind," Saul announced cheerfully

 and pointed to the slope of ground that menaced their rear. "To meet a

 charge from there, we would have to line the far bank and expose our

 backs to sniping from the ridge. " Sean considered the problem for a

 minute. "Smoke! That's it!

 "I beg yours, sir?

 "Eccles, get the men to build fireplaces of stone along the bed and set

 grass and branches ready to light," Sean ordered.

 "If they do come from behind we'll screen ourselves with smoke. "

 Fifteen minutes of furious activity completed the work. At intervals

 of ten paces along the river, bed they built flat, topped cairns of

 stone that rose above the level of the water. On each was piled a

 large heap of grass and wild hemlock branches gathered from where they

 overhung the bank of the river.

 A little before sunset, in that time of shadows and deceptive light,

 with a haze rising in the still, cold air to mask them Leroux charged

 his horsemen at the river.

 Sean heard a low drumming of hooves as though a train passed in the

 distance and started to his feet.

 "Here they come!" somebody shouted. "The bastards are coming from

 behind. " With the low sun at their backs throwing big, distorted

 shadows ahead of them, they swept down in a long line from the west.

 "Light the fires!" bellowed Sean. They were lying flat on their

 horses, five hundred of them coming in at a full gallop and shooting as

 they came.

 "Maxims!" Sean shouted. "Get the Maxims across!" The teams dragged

 the heavy unwieldy weapons from their emplacements and floundered with

 them across the stream. From each of the fires blue smoke spread and

 lifted. Men coughed and swore and splashed to their new positions.

 From the ridge a Mous covering fire raked the river and then the field,

 piece crashed shell after shell amongst them.

 "Fire at will!" Sean shouted. "Hit the bastards. Hit them.

 Hit them hard. " The din was appalling, gunfire and bursting shells,

 the hammering beat of the Maxims, shouts of defiance and pain, the

 thunder of charging hooves, crackling of the flames. Over it all a

 dense fog of smoke and dust.

 With elbows on the rough shale of the bank, Sean aimed and fired and a

 horse went down, throwing rider and rifle high and clear.

 Without taking the butt from his shoulder he worked the bolt and fired

 again. Got him! swaying and twisting in the saddle. Drop, you

 bastard! That's it, slide forward and fall. Shoot again, and again.

 Empty the magazine. Hitting with every shot.

 Beside him the mate lot traversed the Maxim in a deliberate hammering

 arc. Fumbling, as he reloaded, Sean watched the Maxim scythe its slow

 circle of destruction, leaving a shambles of downed horses and

 struggling men, before its beat stopped abruptly and the mate lot

 crouched over it to fit a fresh belt from the wooden case. A bullet

 from the ridge, fired blindly into the smoke, hit him in the back of

 the neck and he fell forward, jamming the gun, blood gusting from his

 open mouth over the jacketed barrel. His limbs twitched and jerked in

 the epilepsy of death.

 Sean dropped his rifle and dragged the mate lot off the gun , levered

 the first round of the belt into the breech and thrust his thumbs down

 on the buttons They were close now. Sean bore down on the firing

 handles to raise his fire, aiming at the chests of the horses.

 The sailor's blood fried and sizzled on the hot barrel, and the grass

 in front of the muzzle flattened and quivered in the continuous

 blast.

 Above him a solid frieze of milling horses was outlined against the

 darkening sky, the men upon them pouring their bullets into the crowded

 river, bed. Wounded horses plunged down the bank, rolling and kicking

 into the mud.

 "Dismount! Dismount! Go in after them!" an old burgher with a neat

 blond beard yelled.

 Sean dragged the gun around to get him. The man saw him in the smoke

 but his right leg was out of the stirrup, his rifle held in the left

 hand, helpless in the act of dismounting. Sean saw his eyes were grey

 and without fear as he looked down into the muzzle of the Maxim.

 The burst hit him across the chest, his arm windmilled, his left foot

 caught in the stirrup as he went backwards and his pony dragged him

 away.

 The attack broke. The Boer fire slackened, ponies wheeled away, and

 raced back for the shelter of the hills. The old burgher Sean had

 killed went with them, dragged upon his back with his head bouncing

 loosely over the broken ground, leaving a long slide mark of flattened

 grass.

 Around him Sean's men cheered and laughed and chattered with

 jubilation. But in the mud there were many who did not cheer and with

 a guilty shock Sean realized he had been standing on the corpse of the

 sailor who had died over the gun.

 "Our round, that one!" Eccles beamed. Callous among the dead as only

 an old soldier can be.

 "Yes," Sean agreed.

 Out in the open a horse heaved itself up and stood shivering.

 one leg hanging broken under it. A wounded burgher started to cough in

 the grass, choking and gasping as he drowned in his own blood.

 "Yes, our round, Eccles. Put up the flag. They must come, down and

 collect the wounded.

 They used lanterns in the darkness to find the wounded and kill the

 horses.

 "Nkosi, at a place where the river turns and the banks are low, they

 have placed men," Mbejane reported, back from his reconnaissance on

 which Sean had sent him. "We cannot escape that way."

 "I thought as much," Sean nodded, and held out the open can of bully

 beef to Mbejane. "Eat," he said.

 "What's he say, sir?" Eccles asked.

 "The river is held in force downstream." Sean lit one of the cheroots

 that he had recovered in the darkness from the saddlebag of his dead

 horse.

 "Ruddy cold sitting here in the mud," Eccles hinted.

 "Patience, Sergeant, Major," Sean smiled. "We'll give them until

 midnight. By then most of them will be down the other side of the

 ridge drinking coffee around the fires.

 You are going to rush the ridge, sir?" Eccles obviously approved.

 "Yes. Tell the men. Three hours' rest and then we'll take the

 ridge.

 "Very good, sir.

 Sean lay back and closed his eyes. He was very weary, his eyes felt

 gritty from the dust and smoke, his lower body was wet and cold, his

 boots heavy with mud. Lyddite fumes had given him a blinding

 headache.

 I should have put a look, out on the ridge, he thought again.

 My God! What a mess I've made of this. My first command and already

 I've lost all the horses and damn, nigh half of my men.

 I should have put a look, out on the ridge.

 They took the ridge a few minutes after midnight with hardly any

 opposition. The few Boer sentries made good time down the far slope

 and Sean looked down upon the Boer laagers. The camp fires glimmered

 in an irregular line along the valley. Men stood around them staring

 up at the ridge. Sean scattered them with a dozen lusty volleys, and

 then yelled,

 "Cease firing. Eccles, get the men settled in. We are going to have

 visitors fairly soon. " The Boers had built scharnzes along the crest

 which saved Sean's men much inconvenience and within ten minutes the

 Maxims were em placed and Sean's two hundred unwounded men waited

 behind walls of rough rock for the Boer counterattack. This took some

 time to develop for the situation necessitated a hurried War Council in

 the valley below. But at last they heard the first stealthy approach

 of the attackers.

 "Here they come, Sergeant, Major. Hold your fire, please."

 The burghers worked their way up cautiously and when Sean could hear

 their voices whispering among the rocks he decided they were close

 enough and discouraged further intimacy with volleyed rifle, fire and

 the use of all his Maxims. The Boers replied with heat and at the

 height of the exchange the Hotchkiss gun joined in from the valley.

 Its first shell passed but a few feet over Sean's head, then burst in

 the valley behind him. The second and third shots dropped neatly among

 the attacking Boer riflemen and raised such a howl of protest that the

 gunners, their efforts not appreciated, maintained an aloof and

 offended silence for the rest of the night.

 Sean had expected a determined night attack but it soon became clear

 that Leroux was fully aware of the danger of closely engaging an

 inferior force in the dark. He contented himself with keeping Sean

 awake all night, his burghers taking it in turn to come up and keep the

 short, range rifle duel going, and Sean began to have qualms about the

 wisdom of his offensive. Dawn would find him on a rocky ridge, facing

 a numerically superior force, with his line anchored at neither end,

 and short enough to be easily flanked and en filtrated He remembered

 Spion Kopand there was little comfort in the memory. But the

 alternative was to fall back on the river, and his hackles rose at the

 thought.

 Unless relief came soon, defeat was certain, better here on the high

 ground than in the mud. We'll stay, he decided.

 In the dawn there was a hill but although the gunfire dwindled to an

 occasional crack and flash on the lower slope yet Sean could sense an

 increase of activity among the Boers. Ominous rustlings and the muted

 sounds of movement on his flanks confirmed his misgivings. But now it

 was too late to retreat on the river, for already the mountains were

 showing stark silhouettes against the dawn sky. They seemed very

 close, as close and unfriendly as the unseen multitude of the enemy

 waiting out there for the light to come.

 Sean stood up. "Take the gun," he whispered to the man beside him as

 he relinquished the Maxim.

 All night he had fought with that wicked clumsy weapon and now his

 hands were claws shaped to the firing grips, and his shoulders ached

 intolerably. He flexed them as he moved down the line, stopping to

 chat with the men who lay belly, down behind the scharnz, trying to

 make his words of encouragement sound convincing, In their replies he

 sensed the respect they were fbrining for him as a fighting man. It

 was more than respect, closer to a tolerant affection. The same

 feeling old General Buller had evoked amongst his men. He made

 mistakes, a lot of men died when he led, but they liked him and

 followed cheerfully. Sean reached the end of the line.

 "How's it going?" he asked Saul softly.

 "Fair enough.

 "Any sign of the old Boer?"

 "They're pretty close, we heard them talking a few minutes ago. My

 guess is they're as ready as we are.

 "How's your ammunition?"

 "We've got enough to finish this business."

 To finish this business! That would be his decision. When the

 massacre began, how much must he make them endure before he called for

 quarter, and they stood up with arms raised in the most shameful of all

 attitudes?

 "You'd better get under cover, Sean. Light's coming fast.

 "Who the hell is looking after whom, " Sean grinned at him.

 "I want no more heroics from you," he said, and walked quickly to his

 station on the other flank.

 The night lifted quickly from the land, and morning came as abruptly as

 it does only in Africa. The Boer laagers were gone.

 The Hotchkiss gun was gone. Sean knew that the gun and the Boer horses

 had been moved back behind the new ridge which now faced their

 position. He knew also that the rocky ground below him was crawling

 with the enemy, that they were on his flanks and probably in his rear

 as well.

 Slowly, the way a man looks at a place before he begins a long journey,

 Sean looked around him at the mountains and the sky and the valley. In

 the soft light it was very beautiful.

 He looked down the gut of the valley towards the grass plains of the

 high veld His head jerked with surprise. He felt excitement lift the

 hair on his forearms. The mouth of the valley was blocked by a dark

 mass. In the uncertain light it could have been a plantation of wattle

 trees, oblong and regular and black against the pale grass. But this

 plantation was moving, changing shape, elongating. Bimarn Wood to

 Dunsinane.

 The first rays of the sun slanted in across the crest of the ridge and

 lit the lance, heads into a thousand minute dazzles.

 "Cavalry!" roared Sean. "By Jesus, look at them."

 The cry was taken up and thrown along the line, yelling, cheering

 wildly they fired down upon the tiny brown figures that were scurrying

 away to meet the Boer pickets who galloped in across the floor of the

 valley, each of them dragging a bunch of a dozen horses after them.

 Then above the cheering and the gunfire, high above the sounds of

 hooves and the cries of panic, a bugle began to sing: "Bonnie Dundee",

 sharp and clear and urgently it commanded the charge.

 Sean's rifles fell silent. The cheering faltered and stopped.

 One by one his men stood up to watch as the lines of lancers moved

 forward. Walk. Trot. Canter. Gallop. The lance heads dropped.

 Belly, high they flitted like fireflies in front of the solid dark

 ranks, and that terrible thing swept down upon the tangle of men and

 frenzied, struggling horses.

 Some of the Boers were up now, wheeling away, breaking like game before

 the beaters.

 "My God!" breathed Sean, tensing himself for the burst of sound as the

 charge struck home. But there was only the drum of hooves, no check,

 no distortion as the dark squadrons drove through the Boers.

 Precisely they wheeled, and came back. Broken lances thrown aside,

 sabres unsheathed, bright and long.

 Sean watched a burgher dodging desperately as a lancer followed him.

 Saw him turning at the last moment and crouching with his arms covering

 his head. The lancer stood in his stirrups and swung his sabre

 backhanded. The burgher dropped. Like a polo player the trooper

 pivoted his horse and rode back over the Boer, leaning low out of the

 saddle to sabre him again as he knelt in the grass.

 "Quarter! " growled Sean, then his voice rising shrilly in horror and

 disgust,

 "Give them quarter! For the love of God, give them quarter!"

 But cavalry gives no quarter. They butchered with dispassionate

 parade, ground precision. Hack and cut, turn and trample until the

 blades blurred redly, until the valley was strewn with the bodies of

 men wounded a dozen times.

 Sean tore his eyes away and saw the remains of Leroux's commando

 scattered into the broken ground where the big cavalry mounts could not

 follow.

 Sean sat down on a rock and bit the end off a cheroot. The rank smoke

 helped cleanse his mouth of the taste of victory.

 Two days later Sean led his column into Charlestown. The garrison

 cheered them and Sean grinned as he watched his men react. Half an

 hour before they had bumped along, hunched unhappily on their borrowed

 mounts. Now they sat erect and jaunty, eating the applause and liking

 the taste.

 Then the grin faded from Sean's face as he saw how his band was

 depleted, and he looked back at the fifteen crowded wagons that carried

 the wounded.

 If only I'd put look, outs on the ridge.

 There was an urgent summons from Acheson waiting for Sean.

 He caught the northbound express twenty minutes after arriving in

 Charlestown, hating Saul for the hot bath in which he left him, and for

 the uniform which Mbejane had persuaded a plump Zulu maid to wash and

 iron, hating him still more venomously for the invitation to be guest

 of honor at the officers' mess that night, and knowing that Saul would

 drink deep on Veuve Clicquot and Courvoisier which had once belonged to

 Sean.

 When Sean arrived in Johannesburg the following morning, with soot from

 the locomotive adding a subtle touch to the fragrance he had gathered

 from two unwashed weeks in the veld, there was an orderly to meet him

 and conduct him to Acheson's suite in the Grand National Hotel Major

 Peterson was patently taken aback by Sean's turnout, he eyed the stains

 and tears and dried mud with genteel horror at the contrast they

 afforded to the breakfast table's crisp white linen and splendid

 silver. The ripeness of Sean's odour impaired Peterson's appetite and

 he dabbed at his nose with a silk handkerchief. But Acheson seemed not

 to notice, he was in festive mood.

 "Damned fine show, Courtney. Oh, damned fine. Proved your point

 entirely. We'll not have much trouble from Leroux for some time, I

 warrant you. Have another egg? Peterson, pass him the bacon.

 Sean finished eating and filled his coffee cup before he made his

 request. "I want to be relieved of this command, I made a bloody mess

 of it."

 Both Acheson and Peterson stared in horror. "Good God, Courtney.

 You've achieved a notable success, the most spectacular in months.

 "Luck," brusquely Sean interrupted. "Another two hours and we would

 have been wiped out. " "Lucky officers are more valuable to me than

 clever ones.

 Your request is refused, Colonel Courtney." So it's Colonel now, a

 bribe to get me into the dentist's chair. Sean was mildly amused.

 A knock at the door prevented Sean continuing his protestation, and an

 orderly came into the room and handed Acheson a message.

 "Urgent dispatch from Charlestown," he whispered.

 Acheson took the paper from him and used it like a conductor's baton as

 he went on talking.

 "I have got three junior officers for you, men to replace your losses.

 You catch them for us and hold them for my cavalry That's all I want

 from you. While you're doing your bit the columns are going to start a

 series of new drives. This time we are going to sweep every inch of

 the ground between the blockhouse lines. We are going to destroy the

 crops and the livestock; burn the farms; take every woman, man and

 child off the land and put them in detainment camps. By the time we're

 finished there will be nothing but bare veld out there. We will force

 them to operate in a vacuum, while we wear them down with a relentless

 series of drives and raids. " Acheson slapped the table so that the

 crockery jingled. "Attrition, Courtney. From now on it's a war of

 attrition " 216 Those words had an uncomfortable familiarity for Sean.

 And suddenly a picture of desolation formed in his mind. He saw the

 land, his land, blackened with fire, and the roofless homesteads

 standing in the wastes. The sound of the empty winds across the land

 was the wailing of orphans, and the protest of a lost people.

 "General Acheson, " he began, but Acheson was reading the dispatch.

 "Damn!" he snapped. "Damn and blast! Leroux again. He doubled back

 and caught the transport column of those same lancers who cut him up.

 Wiped it out and disappeared into the mountains." Acheson laid the

 message on the table in front of him and stared at it.

 "Courtney," he said, "go back and, this time, catch him!"

 "Breakfast is ready, Nkosi. Michael Courtney looked up from his book

 at the servant. "Thank you, Joseph, I'm coming now. " These two hours

 of study each morning passed so quickly. He checked the clock on the

 shelf above his bed, half, past six already, closed the book and stood

 up.

 While he brushed his hair he watched his reflection in the mirror

 without attention. His mind was fully occupied with events that would

 fill this new day. There was work to do.

 His reflection looked back at him with serious grey eyes from a face

 whose lean contours were marred by the big Courtney nose. His hair was

 black and springy beneath the brush.

 He dropped the brush and while he shrugged into his leather jacket he

 flipped open the book to check a passage. He read it through

 carefully, then turned and went out into the corridor.

 Anna and Garrick Courtney were seated at opposite ends of the long

 dining, table of Theuniskraal and they both looked up expectantly as he

 entered.

 Good morning, Mother. " She held up her face for his kiss' Good

 morning, Pa."

 "Hello, my boy." Garry was wearing full dress, complete with crowns

 and decorations, and Michael felt a flare of irritation. It was so

 damned ostentatious. Also it reminded him that he was nineteen years

 old and there was a war going on while he sat at home on the farm.

 "Are you going into town today, Pa?"

 "No, I'm going to do some work on my memoirs."

 "Oh," Michael glanced pointedly at the uniform and his father flushed

 slightly and applied himself to his meal.

 "How are your studies, darling?" Anna broke the silence.

 "Well enough, thank you, Mother."

 "I'm certain you'll have as little trouble with the final examinations

 as you had with the others." Anna smiled at him possessively and

 stretched out to touch his hand. Michael withdrew it quickly and laid

 down his fork.

 "Mother, I want to talk to you about enlisting. " Anna's smile froze.

 At the end of the table Garry straightened in his chair.

 "No," he snapped with unusual violence. "We've been over this before.

 You're still a minor and you do as you're told. " "The war is almost

 over, darling. Please think of your father and me. " It began then.

 Another of those long wheedling, pleading arguments that sickened and

 frustrated Michael until he stood up abruptly and left the room. His

 horse was waiting saddled for him in the yard. He threw himself on to

 its back and swung its head at the gate, lifting it over, and

 scattering chickens as he landed. He galloped furiously away towards

 the main dip, tank.

 From the dining, room they heard the hooves beat away until they had

 dwindled into silence. Garry stood up.

 "Where are you going?" snapped Anna.

 "To my study. " "To the brandy bottle in your study," she corrected

 him contemptuously.

 "Don't, Anna."

 r'Don't, Anna, " she mimicked him. "Please don't, Anna. Is that all

 You can say'? " Her voice had lost the genteel inflexion she had

 cultivated so carefully. Now it contained all the accumulated

 bitterness of twenty years.

 "Please, Anna. I'll stop him going. I promise you."

 "You'll stop him!" She laughed. "How will you stop him?

 Will you rattle your medals at him? How would you stop him you who

 have never done one useful thing in all your life?"

 She laughed again, shrilly. "Why don't you show him your leg and

 say,

 "Please don't leave your poor crippled Daddy." Garry drew himself up.

 His face had gone very pale. "He'll listen to me. He's my son.

 Your son!

 "Anna, please, " "Your son! Oh, that's choice! He's not your son.

 He's Sean's son." "Anna. " He tried to stop her.

  

 "How could you have a son?" She was laughing again, and he could not

 stand it. He started for the door but her voice followed him, cutting

 into the two most sensitive places in his soul: his deformity and his

 impotence.

 He stumbled into his study, slammed the door and locked it.

 Then he crossed quickly to the solid cabinet that stood beside his

 desk.

 He poured the tumbler half, full. and drank it. Then he sank into his

 chair and closed his eyes and reached for the bottle behind him.

 He poured again carefully and screwed the cap back on to the bottle.

 This one he would sip slowly, making it last perhaps an hour. He had

 learned how to keep the glow.

 He unbuttoned and removed his tunic, stood up and hung it over the back

 of the chair, seated himself once more, sipped at the tumbler, then

 drew towards him the pile of handwritten sheets, and read the one on

 top.

 "Colenso: An account of the campaign in Natal under General Buller. "

 By Colonel Garrick Courtney, VC D.S.O.

 He lifted it, laid it aside, and began to read what followed.

 Having read it so many times before, he had come to believe in it.

 It was good. He knew it was good. So too did Messrs. William.

 Heinemann in London, to whom he had sent a draft of the first two

 chapters. They were anxious to publish as soon as possible.

 He worked on quietly and happily all morning. At midday old Joseph

 brought a meal to the study. Cold chicken and salads on Delft, ware

 china, with a bottle of white Cape wine wrapped in a snowy napkin. He

 worked as he ate.

 That evening when he had altered the last paragraph on the final page

 and laid his pen on the inkstand, he was smiling.

 "Now, I will go and see my darling." He spoke aloud and put on his

 tunic.

 The homestead of Theuniskraal sat on the crest of a rise below the

 escarpment. A big building of whitewashed walls, thatch and Dutch

 gables. In front of it the terraced lawns sprawled away, contoured by

 beds of azaleas and blue rhododendrons and bounded on the one side by

 the horse paddocks: two large paddocks for the brood mares and the

 yearlings, where Garry paused beside the low fence and watched the

 foals nuzzling upwards at the udders.

 Then he limped on along the fence towards the smaller enclosure with

 its nine, foot fence of thick, canvas, padded gum, poles that contained

 his stud stallion.

 Gypsy was waiting for him, nodding his almost snakelike head so that

 his mane flared golden in the late sunlight, flattening his ears, then

 pricking them forward, dancing a little with impatience.

 "Hey, Boy. Hey there, Gypsy," Garry called and the stallion thrust his

 head between the poles to nibble with soft lips at Garry's sleeve.

 "Sugar, is that what you're after. " Garry chuckled and cupped his

 hands while the stallion fed delicately from them.

 "Sugar, my darling," Garry whispered in sensual delight at the touch of

 the soft muzzle on his skin and Gypsy cocked his ears to listen to his

 voice.

 "That's all. All finished." The stallion nuzzled his chest and Garry

 wiped his hands on its neck, caressing the warm and silky coat.

 "That's all, my darling. Now run for me. Let me watch you run."

 He stepped back and clapped his hands loudly. "Run, my darling,

 run."

 The stallion pulled his head back between the poles and went up on his

 hind legs, whinnying as he reared, cutting at the air with his fore,

 hooves. The veins stood out along the belly and upon the tight double,

 swollen bag of its scrotum.

 Swift and virile and powerful, it pivoted upon its quarters.

 "Run for me! " shouted Garrick. The stallion came down into full

 gallop along the track worn by his hooves, sweeping around the paddock

 with loose dirt flying and the light dancing on his coat as the great

 muscles bulged beneath.

 "Run. " Leaning against the poles of the fence, Garrick watched him

 with an expression of terrible yearning.

 When he stopped again with the first dark patches of sweat dulling his

 shoulders, Garrick straightened up and shouted across the stable

 yard.

 "Zama, bring her now!"

 On a long rein two grooms led the brood mare down towards the paddock.

 Gypsy's nostrils flared into dark pink caverns and he rolled his eyes

 until the whites showed.

 "Wait, my darling, " whispered Garrick in a voice tight with his own

 excitement.

 Michael Courtney dismounted among the rocks on the highest point of the

 escarpment. For a week he had denied the impulse to return to this

 place. Somehow it seemed a treachery, a disloyalty to both his

 parents.

 Far below and behind him in the forest was the tiny speck of

 Theuniskraal. Between them the railway angled down towards the

 sprawled irregular pattern of rooftops that was Ladyburg.

 But Michael did not look that way. He stood behind his mare and gazed

 along the line of bare hills to the gigantic quilt of trees that

 covered them in the north.

 The wattle was tall now, so that the roads between the blocks no longer

 showed. It was a dark smoky green that undulated like the swells of a

 frozen sea.

 This was as close as he had ever been to Lion Kop. It was a forbidden

 land, like the enchanted forest of the fairy, tale. He took the

 binoculars from his saddle, bag and scanned it carefully, until he came

 to the roof of the homestead. The new thatch, golden and un weathered

 stood out above the wattle.

 Grandma is there. I could ride across to visit, there would be no harm

 in that. He is not there. He is away at the war, Slowly he replaced

 the binoculars in the saddle, bag, and knew he would not go to Lion

 Kop. He was shackled by the promise he had made to his mother. Like

 so many other promises he had made.

 With dull resignation he remembered the argument at breakfast that

 morning, and knew that they had won again. He could not leave them,

 knowing that without him they would wither.

 He could not follow him to war.

 He smiled ironically as he remembered the fantasies he had imagined.

 Charging into battle with him, talking with him beside the camp fire in

 the evenings, throwing himself in front of a bayonet meant for him.

 From the look, out on the escarpment Michael had spent hours each day

 of the last Christmas holidays waiting for a glimpse of Sean Courtney.

 Now with guilt he remembered the pleasure he had experienced whenever

 he picked up that tall figure in the field of his binoculars and

 followed it as it moved between the newly planted rows of wattle.

 But he's gone now. There would be no disloyalty if I rode across to

 see Grandma. He mounted the superb golden mare and sat deep in

 thought. At last he sighed, swung her head back towards Theuniskraal,

 and rode away from Lion Kop.

 I must never come up here again, he thought determinedly, especially

 after he comes home.

 They are tired, tired to the marrow of their bones. Jan Paulus Leroux

 watched the lethargy of his burghers as they off, saddled and hobbled

 their horses. They are tired with three years of running and fighting,

 sick, tired in the certain knowledge of defeat, exhausted with grief

 for the men they have buried, with grief also for the children and the

 women with them in the camps.

 They are wearied by the sight of burned homes scattered about with the

 bones of their flocks.

 Perhaps it is finished, he thought and lifted the battered old Terai

 from his head. Perhaps we should admit that it is finished, and go in

 to them. He wiped his face with his scarf and the cloth came away

 discoloured with the grease of his sweat and the dust of the dry land.

 He folded the scarf into the pocket of his coat and looked at the fire,

 blackened ruins of the homestead on the bluff above the river.

 The fire had spread into the gum trees and the leaves were sere and

 yellow and dead.

 "No," he said aloud. "It is not finished, not until we try for this

 last time, " and he moved, towards the nearest group of his men.

 "Ja, Hennie. How goes it?" he asked.

 "Not too bad, Oom Paul. " The boy was very thin, but then all of them

 were thin. He had spread his saddle blanket in the grass and lay upon

 it.

 "Good. " Jan Paulus nodded and squatted beside him. He took out his

 pipe and sucked on it. There was still the taste of tobacco from the

 empty bowl.

 , Will you take a fill, Oom Paul?" One of the others sat up and

 proffered a pouch of springbok skin.

 "Nee, dankie. " He looked away from the pouch, shutting out the

 temptation. "Keep it for a smoke when we cross the Vaal."

 "Or when we ride into Cape Town, " joked Hennie, and Jan Paulus smiled

 at him. Cape Town was a thousand miles south of them, but that was

 where they were going.

 "Ja, keep it for Cape Town," he agreed and the smile on his face turned

 bitter. Bullets and disease had left him with six hundred ragged men

 on horses half, dead with exhaustion to conquer a province the size of

 France. But it was the last try. He started to speak then.

 "Already Jannie Smuts is into the Cape, with a big commando.

 Pretorius also has crossed the Orange, De la Rey and De Wet will

 follow, and Zietsmann is waiting for us to join him on the Vaal

 River.

 This time the Cape burghers must rise with us. This time . . . " He

 spoke slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, a gaunt

 giant of a man with his unkempt, ginger beard wiry with dust and

 streaked about the mouth with yellowish grey. The cuffs of his sleeves

 were stained with the discharge from the veld sores on his wrists. Men

 came across from the other groups and squatted in a circle about him to

 listen and take comfort.

 "Hennie, bring my Bible from the saddle, bag. We will read a little

 from the Book."

 The sun was setting when he closed the Book and looked around at them.

 An hour had gone in prayer that might more profitably have been spent

 in rest, but when he looked at their faces he knew the time had not

 been wasted.

 "Sleep now, Kerels. We will up saddle early tomorrow." If they do not

 come in the night, he qualified himself silently.

 But he could not sleep. He sat propped against his saddle and for the

 hundredth time re, read the letter from Henrietta. It was dated four

 months earlier, had taken six weeks to reach him along the chain of

 spies and commandos which carried their mail. Henrietta was sick with

 dysentery and both the younger children, Stephanus and baby Paulus,

 were dead from the Witseerkeel. The concentration camp was ravaged by

 this disease and she feared for the safety of the older children.

 The light had failed so he could not read further. He sat with the

 letter in his hands. With such a price as we have paid, surely we

 could have won something.

 Perhaps there is still a chance. Perhaps.

 "Upsaddle! Upsaddle! Khaki is coming." The warning was shouted from

 the ridge across the river where he had placed his pickets. It carried

 clearly in the still of the evening.

 " Upsaddle! Khaki is coming." The cry was taken up around the camp.

 Jan Paulus leaned over and shook the boy beside him, who was too deep

 in exhaustion to have heard.

 "Wake up, Hennie. We must run again."

 Five minutes later he led his commando over the ridge and southward

 into the night.

 "Still holding southwards," Sean observed. "Three days' riding and

 they haven't altered course.

 "Looks like Leroux has got his teeth into something," agreed Saul.

 "We'll halt for half an hour to blow the horses. " Sean lifted his

 hand and behind him the column lost its shape as the men dismounted and

 led their horses aside. Although the entire unit had been remounted a

 week before, the horses were already losing condition from the long

 hours of riding to which they had been subjected. However, the men

 were in good shape, lean and hard, looking. Sean listened to their

 banter and watched the way they moved and laughed. He had built them

 into a tough fighting force that had proved itself a dozen times since

 that fiasco a year ago when Leroux had caught them in the mountains.

 Sean grinned. They had earned the name under which they rode. He

 handed his horse to Mbejane and moved stiffly towards the shade of a

 small mimosa tree.

 "Have you got any ideas about what Leroux is up to?" he asked Saul as

 he offered him a cheroot.

 "He could be making a try at the Cape railway."

 "He could be," Sean agreed as he lowered himself gratefully on to a

 flat stone and stretched his legs out in front of him. "My God, I'm

 sick of this business. Why the hell can't they admit it's finished,

 why Must they go on and on?"

 "Granite cannot bend." Saul smiled dryly. "But I think that now it is

 very near the point where it must break. " "We thought that six months

 ago," Sean answered him, then looked beyond time. "Yes, Mbenjane, what

 is it?"

 Mbejane was going through the ritual which preceded serious speech, He

 had come and squatted half a dozen pieces from where Sean sat, had laid

 his spears carefully beside him in the grass, and now he was taking

 snuff.

 "Nkosi."

 "Yes?" Sean encouraged him and waited while Mbejane tapped a little of

 the dark powder on to his fingernail.

 "Nkosi, this porridge has an unusual taste." He sniffed and sneezed.

 "Yes?"

 "It seems to me that the spoor has changed. " Mbejane wiped the

 residual snuff from his nostrils with the pink palm of his hand.

 "You speak in riddles."

 "These men we follow ride in a different manner from the way they did

 before , " Sean thought about that for a few seconds before he saw it

 Yes! He was right. Where previously Leroux's commando had spread and

 trampled the grass in a road fifty feet wide, since this morning they

 had ridden in two files as though they were regular cavalry.

 "They ride as we do, Nkosi, so the hooves of the horses fall in the

 tracks of those that lead. In this way it is difficult to tell how

 many men we follow."

 "We know there are about six hundred. . . . Hold on! I think I see

 what you .

 "Nkosi, it comes to me that there are no longer six hundred men ahead

 of us."

 "My God! You could be right." Sean jumped up and began to pace

 restlessly. "He is splitting his commando again. We've crossed a

 dozen rocky places where he could have detached small groups of his

 men. By evening we'll be following less than fifty men, , when that

 happens they'll break up into individuals, lose us in the dark and head

 separately for a prearranged rendezvous." He punched his fist into the

 palm of his hand.

 "That's it, by God!" He swung round to face Saul

 "You remember that stream we crossed a mile back, it would have been an

 ideal place."

 "You're taking a big risk," Saul cautioned him. "if we go back now and

 it turns out you're wrong, , then you've lost him for good.

 "I'm right," Sean snapped. "I know I am. Get them mounted up, we're

 going back."

 Sean sat his horse on the bank of the stream and looked down into the

 clear water that sparkled over gravel and small round boulders.

 "They will have gone downstream, otherwise the mud they stirred up

 would have washed down across the ford. " He turned to Saul. "I'm

 going to take fifty men with me so as not to raise too much dust. Give

 me an hour's start and then follow with the rest of the column.

 "Mazelto! " Saul grinned at him.

 With a Zulu tracker on each bank Sean and Eccles and fifty men followed

 the stream towards the north, west. Behind them the mountains of the

 Drakensberg were an irregular pale blue suggestion against the sky and

 around them the brown winter sere veld spread away in the folded

 complexity of ridges and the shallow valleys. In the rocky ground

 along the ridges grew the squat little aloe plants, holding up their

 multiple flowers like crimson candelabra while in the valleys the

 stunted Thorn bushes huddled along the course of the stream. High,

 cold cloud obscured the sky. There was no warmth in the pale sunlight,

 and the wind had a knife, edge to it.

 Two miles below the ford Sean was showing his anxiety by leaning

 forward in the saddle and checking the ground that Mbejane had already

 covered. Once he called,

 "Mbejane, are you sure you haven't missed them?"

 Mbejane straightened from his crouch and turned slowly to regard Sean

 with a look of frigid dignity. Then he shifted his war shield to the

 other shoulder and, not deigning to answer, he returned to his

 search.

 Fifty yards further on he straightened again and informed Sean.

 "No, Nkosi. I have not missed them." He pointed with his assegai at

 the deeply scarred bank up which horses had climbed, and the flattened

 grass which had wiped the mud from their legs.

 "Got them!" Sean exulted in his relief; behind him he heard the stir

 of excitement run through his men.

 "Well done, sir." Eccles's moustache twitched ferociously as he

 grinned.

 "How many, Mbejane?"Twenty, not more."

 "When?"

 "The mud has dried." Mbejane considered the question stooping to touch

 the earth and determine its texture. "They were here at half sun this

 morning. " The middle of the morning; they had a lead of five hours. .

 Is the spoor fat enough to run upon?"

 "It is, Nkosi.

 "Then run, Mbejane.

 The spoor bellied towards the west then swung and steadied in the same

 persistently southward direction, and Sean's column closed up and

 cantered after Mbejane.

 Southward, always southward. Sean pondered the problem what could he

 hope to accomplish with a mere six hundred?

 Unless! Sean's brain started to harry a vague idea. Unless he

 intended slipping through the columns of infantry and cavalry that lay

 before him and trying for a richer prize.

 The railway, as Saul had suggested? No, he discounted that quickly.

 Jan Paulus would not risk his whole command for such low stakes.

 What then? The Cape? By God, that was it, the Cape! That rich and

 lovely country of wheat lands and vineyards. That serene and secure

 land, lazing in the security of a hundred years of British rule, and

 yet peopled by men of the same blood as Leroux and De Wet and Jan

 Smuts.

 Smuts had already taken his commando across the Orange River. If

 Leroux followed him, if De Wet followed him, if the Cape burghers;

 broke their uneasy neutrality and flocked to join the commandos, Sean's

 mind baulked at the thought. He let!

 the wider aspect of it and came back to the moment.

 All right then, Jan Paulus was riding to the Cape with only six hundred

 men? No, he must have more. He must be either! to a rendezvous with

 one of the other commandos. Who'? De la Rey? No, De la Rey was in

 the Magaliesberg. De Wet? No, De Wet was far south, twisting and

 turning away from the columns that harried him.

 Zietsmann? Ah, Zietsmann! Zietsmann with fifteen hundred men.

 That was it.

 Where would they meet? On a river obviously, for they must have water

 for two thousand horses. The Orange was too dangerous, so it must be

 the Vaal, but whereabouts on the Vaal'? It must be a place easily

 recognizable. One of the fords'? No, cavalry used the fords.

 A confluence of one of the tributaries'? Yes, that was it.

 Eagerly Sean unbuckled his saddle, bag and pulled from it his map.

 Holding the heavy cloth map folded against his thigh he twisted

 sideways in the saddle to study it.

 "Here we are now," he muttered and ran his finger south.

 "The Padda River!"

 "I beg your pardon, sir.

 "The Padda, Eccles, the Padda!

 "Very well, sir," agreed Eccles with stolid features covering his

 bewilderment.

 In the dark valley below them the single fire flared briefly, then died

 to a tiny glow.

 "All ready, Eccles," Sean whispered.

 "Sir!" Without raising his voice Eccles placed affirmative emphasis on

 the monosyllable.

 "I'll go down now." Sean resisted the impulse to repeat his previous

 orders. He wanted to say again how important it was that no one

 escaped, but he had learned that once was enough with Eccles.

 Instead he whispered,

 "Listen for my signal. " The Boers had only one sentry. Secure in the

 knowledge that their stratagy had thrown off all pursuit, they slept

 around the poorly screened fire. Sean and Mbenjane moved down quietly

 and squatted in the grass twenty paces from the high rock on which the

 sentry sat. The man was outlined darkly against the stars and Sean

 watched him intently for a full minute before he decided.

 "He sleeps also."

 Mbejane grunted.

 "Take him quietly," Sean whispered. "Make sure his rifle does not

 fall." Mbejane moved and Sean laid a hand on his shoulder to restrain

 him. "Do not kill, it is not necessary."

 And Mbejane moved silently as a leopard towards the rock.

 Sean waited straining his eyes into the darkness. The seconds dragged

 by, and suddenly the Boer was gone from the rock. A gasp, a soft

 sliding sound and stillness.

 Sean waited, and then Mbejane was back as silently as he had left.

 "It is done, Nkosi.

 Sean laid his rifle aside and cupped his hands over his lips, filled

 his cheeks and blew the long warbling whistle of a night bird

 At the fire one of the sleepers stirred and muttered. Farther off a

 horse stamped and blew softly through its nostrils. Then Sean heard a

 pebble click and the cautious swish of feet through grass, small sounds

 lost in the wind.

 "Eccles?" Sean murmured.

 Sir.

 Sean stood up and they closed in on the camp.

 "Wake up, gentlemen. Breakfast is ready." Sean shouted in the Taal,

 and each burgher woke to find a man standing over him and the muzzle of

 a Lee, Metford pressing into his chest.

 "Build up that fire, " Sean ordered. "Take their rifles. " It had

 been too easy, he spoke roughly in the irritation of anti, climax,

 "Mbejane, bring the one from the rock, I want to see how gently YOU

 dealt with him.

 Mbejane dragged him into the firelight and Sean's lips tightened as he

 saw the way the man's head lolled and his legs hung

 "He's dead,"

 Sean accused.

 "He sleeps, Nkosi," MbeJane denied.

 Sean knelt beside him and twisted his face to catch the light.

 Not a man, a lad with a thin bitter face and the fluff of pale, imature

 beard on his cheeks. In the corner of his eye a stye had burst to matt

 the closed lashes with yellow pus. He was breathing.

 Sean glanced up at the other prisoners. They were being herded away

 out of earshot.

 "Water, Mbejane. " And the Zulu brought a canteen from the fire while

 Sean explored the hard swelling above the boy's temple "He'll do," Sean

 grunted, and curled his lips in distaste at what he must do as soon as

 the lad recovered. He must do it while he was still groggy and bemused

 by the blow. From his cupped hand he splashed cold water into his face

 and the boy gasped and rolled his head.

 "Wake up," Sean urged quietly in the Taal. "Wake up.

 "Oom Paul?" The Boer mumbled.

 "Wake up. " The lad struggled to sit.

 "Where ... You're English! " As he saw the uniform.

 "Yes," Sean snapped. "We're English. You've been caught."

 "Oom. Paul?" The boy looked round wildly.

 Don't worry about him. He'll be with you on the boat to Mt. Helena.

 Leroux and Zietsmann were both caught on the Vaal yesterday. We were

 waiting for them at the Padda and they walked right into the trap."

 "Oorn Paul caught!" The boy's eyes were wide with shock.

 still dazed and out of focus. "But how did you know? There must have

 been a traitor, someone must have told. How did you know about the

 meeting, place? " He stopped abruptly as his brain caught up with his

 tongue. "But how ... Oom Paul couldn't be on the Vaal yet, we left him

 only yesterday. " Then sickeningly he realized what he had done. "You

 tricked me," he whispered. "You tricked me."

 "I'm sorry, " Sean said simply. He stood up and walked across to where

 Eccles was securing his prisoners.

 "When Captain Friedman arrives tell him to bring the column into the

 garrison at Vereeniging and wait for me there. I am going ahead with

 my servant, " he said abruptly, then called across to Mbejane.

 "Mbeiane, bring my horse." He would trust no one else to carry the

 news to Acheson.

 The following afternoon Sean reached the railway line guarded by its

 blockhouses and flagged a northbound train. The next morning he

 detrained with soot, inflamed eyes, tired and filthy, at Johannesburg

 station.

 Jan Paulus Leroux checked his horse and behind him the tiny fragment of

 his commando bunched up and all of them peered eagerly ahead.

 The Vaal is a wide, brown river, with sandbanks through which it cuts

 its own channel. The banks are steep and along them are scattered a

 few of the ugly, indigenous thorn trees which provide no cover for an

 army of three thousand men and horses. But Leroux had chosen the

 rendezvous with care. Here the tiny Padda River looped down through a

 complex of small kopjes to join the Vaal and among these kopJes an army

 might escape detection, but only if it exercised care. Which ZietsMann

 was not doing.

 The smoke from a dozen fires hazed out in a long pale smear across the

 veld, horses were being watered on one of the sandbanks in the middle

 of the river, and a hundred men were bathing noisily from the bank,

 while laundry decked the thorn trees.

 "The fool," snarled Leroux and kicked his pony into a run.

 He stormed into the laager, flung himself off his horse and roared at

 Zietsmann.

 "Menheer, I must protest."

 Zietsmann was nearly seventy years old. His beard was pure white and

 hung to the fifth button of his waistcoat. He was a clergyman, not a

 general, and his commando had survived this long because it was so

 ineffectual as to cause the British no serious inconvenience. Only

 great pressure from De la Rey and Leroux had forced him to take part in

 this wild plan. For the last three days, as he waited for Leroux to

 join him, he had been harassed by doubts and misgivings. These doubts

 were shared by his wife, for he was the only Boer general who still had

 his woman with him in the field.

 Now he stood up from his seat by the fire and glared at this red,

 bearded giant Leroux, whose face was mottled with fury.

 "Menheer, " he growled. "Please remember you are speaking not only to

 your Elder, but also to a Dominie of the Church. " In this way was set

 the tone for the long discussions which were to fill the next four

 days. During this time Leroux saw his bold design bog down in a welter

 of trivialities. He did not resent the loss of the first day which was

 spent in prayer, indeed he realized that this was essential.

 Without God's blessing and active intervention the enterprise must

 fail, so the sermon he delivered that afternoon lasted a little over

 two hours and the text he selected was from Judges,

 "Shall I yet again go out to battle against the children of Benjamin,

 my brother, or shall I cease?"

 and the Lord said,

 "Go up; for tomorrow I will deliver them into thine hand."

 Zietsmann bettered his time by forty minutes. But then, as Leroux's

 men pointed out, Zietsmann was a professional while Oom Paul was only a

 lay, preacher.

 The next and most critical question was the election of the Supreme

 Commander for the combined enterprise. Zietsmann was the older by

 thirty years, a factor heavily in his favour. Also, he had brought

 sixteen hundred men to the Vaal against Leroux's six hundred. Yet

 Leroux was the victor of Colenso and Spion Kop, and since then he had

 fought consistently and with not "little success, including the

 wrecking of eight trains and the anihilation of four British supply

 columns.

 Zietsmann had been second in command at Madder River, but since then he

 had done nothing but keep his commando intact.

 For three days the debate continued with Zietsmann dourly refusing to

 bring the matter to the vote until he sensed that opinion had swung to

 his side. Leroux wanted command; not , only for personal Satisfaction,

 but also because he knew that under this cautious and stubborn old man

 they would be lucky to reach the Orange River, let alone force an

 effective entry into the Cape.

 The card that won the hand belonged to Zietsmann, and it was ironic

 that he had it simply because of his inactivity over the last eighteen

 months.

 When Lord Roberts had marched into Pretoria two years before, his entry

 had been offered only token resistance, for the Government of the South

 African Republic had withdrawn along the eastern railway line to

 Komatipoort. With them went the entire contents of the Pretoria

 Treasury, which totalled two million Pounds in gold Kruger

 sovereigns.

 Later, when old president Kruger left for Europe, a part of this

 treasure went with him, but the balance had been shared out among the

 remainder of the commando leaders as their war chests to continue the

 fight.

 Months before most of Leroux's share had been expended on the purchase

 of supplies from the native tribes, on ammunition from the Portuguese

 gun runners and on payment to his men.

 During a desperate night action with one of the raiding British columns

 he had lost the balance along with his Hotchkiss gun, twenty of his

 best men and a hundred irreplaceably precious horses.

 Zietsmann, however, had come to the meeting with a pack mule carrying

 thirty thousand sovereigns. The successful invasion of the Cape would

 depend largely upon this gold. On the evening of the fourth day he was

 duly elected Commander by a majority of two hundred, and within twelve

 hours he had demonstrated how well, equipped he was for the task.

 "So we start in the morning, then," one of the burghers beside Leroux

 grunted.

 "About time," another commented. They were breakfasting on biltong, ,

 sticks of hard dried meat, , for Leroux had succeeded in convincing

 Zietsmann, that open cooking fires, were dangerous.

 "No sign of Van der Bergh's men?" asked Leroux.

 "Not yet, Oom Paul."

 "They are finished, or else they would have been here days ago,

 "Yes, they are finished," agreed Leroux. "They must have run into one

 of the columns." Twenty good men, he sighed softly, and Hennie was

 with them. He was very fond of the boy, all of them were. He had

 become the mascot of the commando.

 "At least they are out of it now, the lucky thunders." The man had

 spoken without thinking, and Leroux turned on him.

 "You can go too hands, up for the British, there is no one to stop you.

 " The softness of his voice did not cover the ferocity in his eyes.

 "I didn't mean it that way, Oom Paul.

 "Well, don't say it then," he growled, and would have continued, but a

 shout from the sentry on the kopje above them brought them all to their

 feet.

 "One of the scouts coming!

 "Which way?" Leroux bellowed upwards.

 "Along the river. He's riding to burst!"

 And the sudden stilling of voices and movement was the only outward

 sign of the dread that settled upon all of them. In these days a

 galloping rider carried only evil tidings.

 They watched him splash through the shallows and slide from the saddle

 to swim beside his horse across the deep channel.

 Then pony and rider, both streaming water, came lunging up the near

 bank and into the camp.

 "Khaki," shouted the man. "Khaki coming!"

 Leroux ran to catch the pony's head and demanded" "How many'? " "A big

 column.

 "A thousand?"

 "More than that. Many more, six, seven thousand."

 "Magtig! " swore Leroux. "Cavalry?"

 "Infantry and guns."

 "How close?"

 "They will be here before midday."

 Leroux left him and ran down the slope to Zietsmann's wagon

 "You heard, Menheer?"

 "Ja, I heard." Zietsmann nodded slowly.

 "We must mount up," Leroux urged.

 "Perhaps they will not find us. Perhaps they will pass us by."

 Zietsmann spoke hesitantly, and Leroux stared at him.

 "Are you mad?" he whispered, and Zietsmann shook his head, a confused

 old man.

 "We must mount up and break away towards the south.

 Leroux grabbed the lapels of Zietsmann's frock coat and shook them in

 his agitation.

 "No, not the south, it is finished. We must go back," the old man

 muttered, then suddenly his confusion cleared. "We must pray. The

 Lord will deliver us from the Philistine.

 "Menheer, I demand . Leroux started, but another urgent warning

 shouted from the kopJe interrupted him.

 "Riders! from the south! Cavalry!"

 Running to one of the horses Leroux vaulted on to its bare back, with a

 handful of its mane he turned it towards the kopJe and flogged it with

 his heels, driving it up the steep rocky side, scrambling and sliding

 in the loose rock until he reached the top and jumped down beside the

 sentry.

 "There! The burgher pointed.

 Like a column of safari ants, tiny and insignificant in the immensity

 of brown grass and open sky, still four or five miles distant, the

 squadrons were strung out in extended order across the southern

 hills.

 "Not that way. We cannot go that way. We must go back."

 He swung round to the north. "We must go that way. " Then he saw the

 dust in the north also and he felt his stomach slide quickly downwards.

 The dust drifted low, so thin it might have been only heat haze or the

 passing of a dust devil, but he knew it was not.

 "They are there also," he whispered. Acheson had thrown his column in

 from four directions. There was no escape.

 "Van der Bergh!" whispered Leroux bitterly. "He has gone hands, up to

 the English and betrayed us. , " A moment longer he stared at the

 dust, then quickly he adjusted to the problem of defence.

 "The river is our one line," he muttered. "With the flanks anchored on

 this kopJe and that one there." He let his eyes run back up the little

 valley of the Padda River, carefully memorizing the slope and lay of

 the land, storing in his mind each of its salient features.

 already siting the captured Maxims, picking the shelter of the hills

 and river bank for the horses, deciding where the reserves should be

 held.

 "Five hundred men can hold the north kopje, but we will need a thousand

 on the river." He vaulted up on to the pony and called down to the

 sentry,

 "Stay here. I will send men up to you. They must build scharnzes

 along the ridge, there, and there."

 Then he drove the pony down the slope, sliding on its haunches until it

 reached the level ground.

 "Where is Zietsmann? " he demanded.

 "In his wagon.

 He galloped across to it and jerked open the canvas at the entrance.

 "Menheer, " he began and then stopped. Zietsmann sat on the wagon bed

 with his wife beside him. A Bible was open on his lap.

 "Menheer, there is little time. The enemy closes from all sides.

 They will be upon us in two hours.

 Zietsmann looked up at him, and from the soapy glaze of his eyes Leroux

 knew he had not heard.

 "Thou shalt not fear the arrow that flieth by day, nor the terror that

 walketh by night," he murmured.

 "I am taking command, Menheer," Leroux grunted. Zietsmann turned back

 to the book and his wife placed an arm round his shoulders.

 We can hold them for this day, and perhaps tomorrow, Leroux decided

 from where he lay on the highest kopJe. They cannot charge their

 cavalry against these hills, so they must come for us with the

 bayonet.

 It is the guns first that we must fear, and then the bayonet.

 "Martinus Van der Bergh," he said aloud. "When next we meet I will

 kill you for this. " And he watched the batteries unlimbering out of

 rifle, shot across the river, forming their precise geometrical

 patterns on the brown grass plain.

 "Nou skeet hulle, " muttered a burgher beside him.

 "Ja, " agreed Leroux. "Now they will shoot," and the smoke gushed from

 the muzzle of one of the guns out on the plain. The shell burst

 thunderously on the lower slopes and for an instant the lyddite smoke

 danced like a yellow ghost swirling and turning upon itself, before the

 wind drifted it up to them. They coughed in the bitter, tasting

 fumes.

 The next shell burst on the crest, throwing smoke and earth and rock

 high into the air, and immediately the rest of the batteries opened

 together.

 They lay behind their hastily constructed earthworks while the

 shellfire battered the ridge. The shrapnel buzzed and hummed and

 struck sparks from the rocks, the solid jarring concussions made the

 earth jump beneath their bellies and dulled their ears so they could

 hardly hear the screaming of the wounded, and slowly a great cloud of

 dust and fumes climbed into the sky above them. A cloud so tall that

 Sean Courtney could see it from where he waited fifteen miles north of

 the Vaal.

 "It looks as though Acheson has caught them," murmured Saul.

 "Yes, he's caught them," Sean agreed, and then softly,

 "The poor bastards. " "The least they could have done was to let us be

 in at the kill," growled Sergeant, Major Eccles. The distant rumble of

 the guns had awakened his blood lust and his great moustache wriggled

 with frustration. "Don't seem right to me, seeing as how we been

 following the old Boer for going on a year and a half, the least they

 could have done was to let us be there at the end. " "We are the cover

 guns, Eccles. General Acheson is trying to drive them south on to his

 cavalry, but if any of the birds break back through his line of beaters

 then they're ours," Sean explained.

 "Well, it just don't seem right to me," Eccles repeated, then suddenly

 remembering his manners, he added,

 "Begging your pardon, sir.

 Exultantly General Acheson traversed his binoculars across the group of

 hills. Vaguely through the dust and smoke he could pick out their

 crests.

 "A fair cop, sir! " Peterson grinned.

 "A fair cop indeed," Acheson agreed. They had to shout above the

 thunder of the guns and beneath them their horses fidgeted and

 trembled. A dispatch, rider galloped up, saluted and handed Peterson a

 message.

 "What is it?" Acheson asked without lowering his glasses.

 "Both Nichols and Simpson are in position for the assault.

 They seem anxious to engage, sir. " Then Peterson looked up at the

 holocaust of dust and flame upon the hills. "They'll be lucky if they

 find anyone left to fight up there."

 "They will," Acheson assured him. He was not misled by the deceptive

 fury of the barrage. They had survived worse at Spion Kop.

 "Are you going to let them go, sir? " Peterson insisted gently.

 For another minute Acheson watched the hills, then he lowered his

 glasses and pulled his watch from his breast pocket. Four o'clock,

 three hours more of daylight.

 "Yes!" he said. "Send them in."

 And Peterson scribbled the order and handed it to Acheson for his

 signature.

 "Hier Kom Hulle. " Lennox heard the shout in the ceaseless.

 roar of the shells, heard it taken up and passed along the line.

 "Here they come."

 "Pasop! They are coming He stood up and his stomach heaved at the

 movement. Poisoned by the lyddite fumes, he fought his nausea and when

 he had controlled it he looked out along the river. For a second the

 veil of dust opened so he could see the tiny lines of khald moving in

 towards the hills. Yes, they were coming.

 He ran down his own line towards the river, shouting as he went.

 "Wait until they are certain! Don't shoot until they reach the

 markers! " From this corner of the kopje he could look out over every

 quarter of the field.

 "Ja, I thought so! " he muttered. "They come from two sides to split

 us. " Advancing on the frontage of the river were those same lines of

 tiny figures. The lines bulged and straightened and bulged again, but

 always they crept slowly nearer. Already the leading rank was moving

 up on his thousand, yard markers, in another five minutes they would be

 in range.

 "They stand out well," Leroux muttered as he ran his eyes along the row

 of markers. While most of his men were building the earthworks along

 the kopjes and the river, others had paced out the ranges in front of

 these de fences Every two hundred and fifty yards they had erected

 those small cairns of stones, and over each they had smeared whitish

 grey mud from the river.

 It was a trick the British never seemed to understand, and as they

 advanced the Boer rifles had their range almost to the yard.

 "The river is safe, " he decided. "They cannot break through there,"

 and he allowed himself time to grin. "They never learn.

 Every time they come against the worst side. " Then he switched his

 attention to the assault on his left flank. This one was dangerous,

 this was where he must command in person, and he ran back to his

 original position while around him and overhead the storm of shrapnel

 and lyddite roared on unabated.

 He dropped on his belly between two of his burghers, wriggled forward

 unbuckling the bandolier from around his chest and draped it over the

 boulder beside him.

 "Good luck, Oom Paul," a burgher called.

 "And to you, Hendrik, " he answered as he set the rear sight of his

 Mauser at a thousand yards, then laid the rifle on the rock in front of

 him.

 "Close now," the burgher beside him muttered.

 "Very close. Good luck and shoot straight!"

 Suddenly the storm lifted and there was silence. A vast aching

 silence, more shocking than the buzzing, howling roar of the guns. The

 dust and the smoke drifted away from the crests and after its gloom the

 sunshine burned down brightly on the hills and the golden brown plain,

 it sparkled with dazzling brilliance on the sweeping waters of the

 Vaal, and it lit each tiny khaki figure with stark intensity, so their

 shadows lay dark on the earth beneath them. They reached the line of

 markers.

 Leroux picked up his rifle. There was one man he had been watching, a

 man who wLeroux had seen who walked a little ahead of his line. Twice

 watching, him pause as if to shout an order to those who followed

 him.

 "You first, my friend," and he took the officer in his sights, holding

 him carefully in the notch with the bead obscuring his trunk.

 Gently he took up the slack in the trigger and the recoil slammed back

 into his shoulder. With the vicious characteristic crack of the Mauser

 stinging his eardrums, Leroux watched the man go down into the grass

 "Ja! " he said and reloaded.

 Not in simultaneous volley, not with the continuous wild crackle which

 they had used at Colenso, but in a careful, steady stutter which showed

 that each shot was aimed, the Boer rifles started the hunt.

 "They have learned, " Leroux muttered as he worked the bolt of his

 rifle, and the empty case pinged away among the rocks.

 "They have learned well," and he killed another man. At two places on

 the ridge the Maxim guns began their frenzied hammering bursts.

 Before it reached the second row of markers, the first line of infantry

 no longer existed, it was scattered back in the grass, completely

 annihilated by the terrible accuracy of the Boer fire.

 The second line walked over them and came on steadily.

 "Look at them come," shouted a burgher farther down the line.

 Though they had seen it a dozen times before, all of these ragged

 farmers were awed by the passive, impersonal advance of British

 infantry.

 "These men fight not to live but to die!" muttered the man who lay

 beside Leroux.

 "Then let us help them to die, " Leroux shouted. And below him on the

 plain the slow inexorable ranks moved forward towards the third row of

 markers.

 "Shoot, Kerels. Shoot straight," Leroux roared, for now he could see

 the bayonets. He pressed a clip full of ammunition down into the

 magazine, and with the back of his hand brushed the clinging drops of

 sweat from his eyebrows, pushed the rifle forward and knocked down four

 men with his next six shots.

 And then he saw the change. At one place the line bulged as men began

 to hurry forward, while on the flanks it wavered and disintegrated as

 others hung back or crouched down behind pitifially inadequate cover.

 "They are breaking! " Leroux howled excitedly. "They won't reach the

 slopes. " The forward movement faltered, no longer able to stand the

 mauling they were receiving, men turned back or went to ground while

 their officers hurried along the ranks goading them on. In so doing

 they proclaimed to the Boer riflemen that they were officers and at

 that range they did not survive long.

 "They're finished!" shouted Leroux, and a thin burst of cheering ran

 along the ridge while the Boer fire increased in volume, flailing into

 the milling confusion of a broken infantry assault.

 "Hit them, Kerels. Keep hitting them!" The following ranks overran

 the leaders, then in turn faltered and failed as the Maxim and Mauser

 fire churned into them.

 Out on the plain a bugle began to lament, and as it mourned, the last

 spasmodic forward movement of the assault ceased, and back past the

 dead and the wounded streamed the retreat.

 A single shell rushed overhead to burst in the valley beyond and

 immediately, as if in frustrated fury, the guns lashed the kopje once

 more. But in the jump and flash of the shells five hundred Boers

 cheered and laughed and waved their rifles at the retreating

 infantry.

 "What happened on the river?" Leroux called in the tumult, and after a

 while the answer came back.

 "They did not reach the river. They are broken there also."

 Leroux lifted his hat from his head and wiped the sweat and the dust

 from his face. Then he looked at the sunset.

 "Almighty God, we give you thanks for this day. We ask your mercy and

 guidance in the days that are to come."

 The shellfire lashed the hills like the surf' of a storm, driven sea

 until the night came.  Then in the darkness they saw the fires of the

 British bivouacs spread like a garden of yellow flowers on the plains

 around them.

 "We must break out tonight." Leroux looked across the fire at

 Zietsmann.

 "No." The old man spoke softly, not looking at him.

 "Why?" demanded Leroux.

 "We can hold these hills. They cannot drive us from them.

 "Ja! We can hold them tomorrow-two days, a week-but then it is

 finished. We lost fifty men today from the guns."

 "They lost many hundreds. The Lord smote them and they perished.

 " Zietsmann looked up at him now and his voice gathered strength.

 -We will stay here and place our trust in the Lord." There was a

 murmur of agreement from those who listened.

 "Menheer. " Leroux covered his eyes for a moment, pressing fingers

 into them to still the terrible aching. He was sick from the lyddite,

 and tired-tired to the depths of his soul. It would be easier to stay.

 There would be no dishonour in it for they had fought like no men

 before them. Two more days and then it would be over without

 dishonour. He removed his hands from his face. "Menheer, if we do not

 break out tonight we never will. By tomorrow we will not have the

 strength." He stopped for the words came slowly, slurred a little from

 a brain dulled by the lyddite and the hammering of big guns. He looked

 at his hands and saw the suppurating sores on his wrists. There would

 be no dishonour. They would fight this last time and then it would be

 finished.

 "But it is not a matter of honour," he mumbled. Then he stood up and

 they watched him in silence for he was going to speak. He spread his

 hands out in appeal, and the firelight lit his face from below leaving

 his eyes in shadow, dark holes like the sockets of a skull. He stood

 like that for a while and his rags hung loosely on the gaunt wasted

 body.

 There was nothing except the need to fight on. He dropped his hands to

 his sides.

 "I am going," he said with simplicity. "When the moon goes down I

 ride," and he walked away from the fire. One by one the men rose and

 followed him, and all of them were men of his own commando.

 Six men squatted in a circle and watched the moon as it touched the

 hills. Behind them the horses were saddled and the rifles stuck up

 from their scabbards. By each of the six hundred horses a burgher lay

 fully clothed, wrapped in his blanket and trying to sleep. Though the

 horses stamped and moved restlessly there was no jingling of bits for

 all of them were carefully muffled.

 "We will say it again, so that each of us knows his part."

 Leroux looked around the circle. "I will go first with a hundred men

 and follow the river towards the east. What is your route, Hendrik?

 "South, through the cavalry until the dawn, then round towards the

 mountains.

 Leroux nodded and asked the next man: "And yours?"

 "West along the river.

 "Ja, and yours?"

 He asked each in turn and when all had answered-"The place of meeting

 is the old laager by the Hill of Inhlozana. Is this agreed?"

 And they waited, watching the moon and listening to the jackals

 squabbling over the British corpses on the plain. Then the moon went

 down below the hills and Leroux stood up stiffly.

 Totsiens, KereLs! Good luck to all of us." He took the reins of his

 pony and led it down towards the Vaal, while in silence a hundred men

 led their horses after him. As they passed the single wagon beside the

 Padda, old Zietsmann was waiting and he came forward leading a

 pack-mule.

 "You are going?" he asked.

 "Ja, Menheer. We must. " "God go with you." Zietsmann thrust out his

 hand and they gripped briefly.

 "The mule is loaded. Take the money with you. We will not need it

 here.

 "Thank you, Menheer. " Leroux motioned to one of his men to take the

 mule. "Good luck."

 "Good luck, General. " For the first time Zietsmann used his tiTLe,

 and Leroux went down to the perimeter of their de fences and out into

 the veld where the British waited.

 With the first pale promise of dawn in the sky, they were through and

 clear. Though twice during the night heavy outbursts of firing in the

 darkness far behind showed that not all of the escaping bands had been

 so fortunate.

 Sean and Saul stood beside the little scotch cart and Mbejane brought

 them coffee.

 "My God, it's cold enough to freeze the hanger off a brass monkey."

 Sean cupped his hands around the mug and sipped noisily.

 "At least you've got a hood to keep your tip warm," Saul retorted.

 "We'd better get moving before we all freeze to the ground. " "Dawn in

 an hour," Sean agreed. "Time to start walking our beat," and he called

 across to MbeJane,

 "Kill the fire and bring my horse. " In double file with the scotch

 cart bumping along in the rear they started on the outward leg of their

 patrol. In the last four days they had covered the same ground as many

 times, tacking backwards and forwards across the beat that Acheson had

 assigned them. The grass was brittle with frost and crunched under the

 horses' hooves.

 While ahead of them the Zulu trackers ranged like gun dogs

 and behind the troopers huddled miserably in their greatcoats, Sean and

 Saul picked up their endless discussion from the point at which they

 had left it the previous evening. Already they had reached so faR,

 into the future that they were talking of a federation under

 responsible government that would encompass all the territories south

 of the Zambesi.

 "That's what Rhodes has proposed for the last ten years," Saul pointed

 out.

 "I don't want any part of that wily bastard. " Sean spoke

 emphatically. "He'll keep us tied for ever to the apron strings of

 WhiteHall, the sooner we get rid of him and Mimer the better, say

 "You want to get rid of Imperial rule?" Saul asked.

 "Of course, let's end this war and send all of them back across the

 sea. We can run our own affairs. " "Colonel, it seems to me you are

 fighting on the wrong side," Saul remarked, and Sean chuckled.

 "But seriously, Saul . . . " He never finished. Mbejane came out of

 the darkness, running with silent purpose so that Sean checked his

 horse and felt the skin along his arms prickle with nervous

 excitement.

 "Mbejane?"

 "Mabuna!"

 "Where? How many?"

 He listened to MbeJane's hurried explanation, then swung round to face

 Sergeant, Major Eccles, who was breathing heavily down his neck.

 "Your birds, Eccles. A hundred or so of them, only a mile ahead and

 coming straight towards us. " Sean's voice was tight with the same

 excitement that made Eccles's moustache wriggle like an agitated

 caterpillar on the impassive oval of his face.

 "Deploy in single line. They'll walk Right on top of us in the dark. "

 "Dismounted, sir?"

 "No," Sean answered. "We'll gun charge them as soon as they show.

 But for God's sake keep it quiet."

 As Sean sat his horse with Saul beside him, the two files of troopers

 opened on each side of them. There was no talking; only the clicking

 of iron, shod hooves on rock, the rustling of men struggling out of

 their heavy greatcoats, and the soft rattle and snick of breech, bolts

 opening and closing.

 "Once more into the breach, dear friends," whispered Saul, but Sean did

 not answer because he was wrestling with his fear.

 Even in the cold of dawn his hands were damp. He wiped them on the

 thighs of his breeches and slid his rifle from the scabbard.

 "What about the Maxims?" Saul asked.

 "No time to set them up." Sean knew his voice was hoarse and he

 cleared his throat before he went on. "We won't need them, it's six to

 one.

 He looked along the silent line of his men. A dark line against the

 grass that was paling in the dawn. He could see that each of his

 troopers leaned forward in the saddle with his rifle held across his

 lap. The tension was a tangible thing in the half darkness even the

 horses were infected, they moved beneath their riders, shifting their

 bodies, nodding with impatience.

 Please God, let none of them whicker now.

 And he peered ahead into the darkness. Waiting with his own fear and

 the fear of his men so strong that the Boers must surely smell it.

 A patch of greater darkness in the dawn, ahead and slightly to the left

 of centre. Sean watched it for a few seconds and saw it move, slowly,

 like the moonlit shadow of a tree on the open veld.

 "Are you sure they're Boers?" Saul whispered, and the doubt startled

 Sean. While he hesitated the shadow spread towards them and now he

 could hear the hooves.

 Are they Boers? Desperately he searched for some sign that would allow

 him to loose his charge. Are they Boers? But there was no sign, only

 the dark advance and the small sounds of it, the click and creak in the

 dawn.

 They were close now, less than a hundred yards, although it was

 impossible to tell with certainty for the dark, moving mass seemed to

 float towards them.

 "Sean . . . " Saul's whisper was cut off by the shrill nervous whinny

 of his horse. The sound was so unexpected that Sean heard the man

 beside him gasp. Almost immediately came the sign for which Sean

 waited.

 "Wie's duar? " The challenge from ahead was in the guttural of the

 Taal.

 "Charge!" yelled Sean and hit his horse with his heels.

 Instantly the whole of his line jumped forward to hurl itself upon the

 Boers.

 Forward in the pounding hooves, forward in the shouting, in the

 continuous crackle of rifle, fire that sparkled along the line with his

 fear left behind him, Sean spurred at them. Steadying the butt of his

 rifle under his right armpit, firing blind, blending his voice with the

 yelling of six hundred others, leading slightly in the centre of the

 Line; he took his commando down upon the Boers.

 They broke before the charge. They had to break for they could not

 hope to stand against it. They swung and drove their exhausted horses

 back towards the south.

 "Bunch up!" roared Sean. "Bunch on me!" And his line shortened so

 they charged knee to knee in a solid wall of men and horses and gunfire

 before which the Boers fled in wild despair.

 Directly in Sean's path lay a struggling, badly wounded horse with its

 rider pinned underneath it. Jammed into the charge he could not

 swerve.

 "Up, Boy!" he shouted and lifted his horse with his knees and his

 hands, clearing the tangle and stumbling as they landed.

 Then forward again in the urgent, jostling clamour of the charge.

 "We're gaining!" yelled Saul. "This time we've got them."

 The horse beside him hit a hole and went down with its leg breaking

 like a pistol, shot. The trooper was thrown from it high and clear,

 turning in the air as he feLL. The line closed to fiLL the gap, and

 pounded on over the grassland.

 "There's a kopje ahead," Sean shouted as he saw the ragged loom of it

 against the dawn sky. "Don't let them reach it! " And he raked his

 spurs along his horse's ribs.

 "We won't catch them," warned Saul. "They'll get into the rocks.

 "Damn it! God damn it!" groaned Sean. In the past few minutes the

 light had strengthened. Dawn in Africa comes quickly once it starts.

 Clearly he could see the leading Boers ride into the rocks, throw

 themselves from their ponies and duck into cover.

 "Faster!" shouted Sean in agony. "Faster!" as he saw the chance of

 quick success slip from his grasp. Already Mausers were talking back

 from the lower slopes of the kopie, and the last burghers were down and

 scurrying into the rocks. Loose ponies turned wildly into his line,

 empty stirrups flapping, eyes wide with terror, forcing his men to

 swerve into each other, dissipating the force of the charge. A loose

 pack, mule with a small leather pack upon its back climbed up through

 the rocks until a stray bullet killed it and it rolled into a deep

 crevice. But nobody saw it fall, Sean felt the horse between his legs

 jerk and he was thrown with such violence that the stirrup leathers

 snapped like cotton and he went up and out, hung for a sickening moment

 and then swooped down to hit the ground with his chest and shoulder AND

 the side of his face.

 While he lay in the grass the charge spent itself like a wave on the

 kopJe, then eddied and swirled into confusion. Dimly Sean was aware of

 the hooves that trampled about his head, of the sound of the Mausers

 and the shouts of the men who were swept by them.

 "Dismount! Get down and follow them." Saul's voice and the tone of it

 roused Sean. With his hands under his chest he pushed himself into a

 sitting position. The side of his face burned where the skin had been

 smeared away, his nose was bleeding and the blood turned the earth in

 his mouth to a gritty paste.

 His left arm was numb to the shoulder and he had lost his rifle.

 Dully he tried to spit the filth from his mouth while he peered at the

 chaos about him, trying to make sense of it. He shook his head, to

 joggle the apathy from his brain, while all around him men were being

 cut down at point, blank range by the Mausers.

 "Dismount! Dismount! " The urgency of Saul's voice brought Sean

 unsteadily to his feet.

 "Get down, you bastards!" He took up the cry. "Get down and chase

 them. " A horse brushed against him and he staggered but kept his

 balance. The trooper slid down from its back beside Sean.

 "Are you all right, Colonel?" He reached out to steady Sean, AND a

 bullet took him in the chest below his raised arm and killed him

 instantly. Sean stared down at the body and felt his brain click back

 into focus.

 "The bastards," he snarled and snatched up the man's rifle, then, "Come

 on!" he roared. "Follow me!" and he led them out of the shambles of

 struggling horses into the rocks.

 In the next half, hour, grimly and irresistibly, they used their

 superior numbers to drive the Boers back up the kopje. Each outcrop of

 rocks was a strongpoint that had to be assaulted and carried, and paid

 for in blood. On a front of perhaps two hundred yards, the attack

 became a series of isolated skirmishes over which Sean could not

 maintain command. He gathered those men who were near him and boulder

 by boulder they fought their way towards the top, while the burghers in

 front of him held each position until the last moment and then fell

 back on the next.

 The top of the kopJe was flattened into a saucer with fifty feet of

 steep open ground falling away on all sides, and finally sixty burghers

 reached this natural fortress and held it with the determination of men

 who knew that they fought for the last time AND they threw the British

 from the lip of the saucer and sent them scrambling and sliding back

 into the shelter of the broken rock below.

 After the second repulse a heavy unnatural silence settled on the

 kopje.

 Sean sat with his back to a rock and took the water, bottle that a

 corporal offered him. He rinsed the slime of blood and congealing

 saliva from his mouth and spat it pink on to the ground beside him.

 Then he tilted the bottle and swallowed twice with his eyes tightly

 closed in the intense pleasure of drinking.

 "Thanks. " He passed the bottle back.

 "More?" the corporal asked.

 "No." Sean shook his head and looked back down the slope.

 The sun was well up now, throwing long shadows behind the horses that

 were grazing far out across the veld below. But at the foot of the

 slope lay the dead animals, most of them on their sides with legs

 thrust stiffly out. Blanket, rolls had burst open to litter the grass

 with the pathetic possessions of the dead men around them.

 The men in their khaki and brown were as inconspicuous as piles of dead

 leaves in the grass, mostly British but with here and there a burgher

 lying amongst them in the fellowship of death.

 "Mbejane. " Sean spoke softly to the big Zulu who squatted beside him.

 "Find Nkosi Saul and bring him to see me here."

 He watched the Zulu crawl away. Mbejane had been left behind at the

 start of that wild gallop, but before Sean was halfway up the kopJe he

 had glanced back to find him kneeling two paces behind, ready with a

 bandolier of ammunition for the moment when Sean needed it. Neither of

 them had spoken until this moment. Between them words were seldom

 necessary.

 Sean fingered the raw graze on his face and listened to the murmured

 conversation of the men around him. Twice he heard clearly the voices

 of Boers from the saucer above them and once he heard a burgher laugh ,

 They were very close, and Sean moved uneasily against the rock.

 Within minutes Mbejane was back with Saul crawling behind him.

 When he saw Sean, Saul's expression changed quickly.

 "Your face! Are you all right?"

 "Cut mySElf shaving." Sean grinned at him. "Have a seat.

 Make yourself comfortable."

 Saul crawled the last few yards and settled himself against Sean's

 rock. "Now what?" he asked.

 "Ten minutes' rest, then we're going up again," Sean told him.

 "But this time with a little more purpose. I want you to work around

 the back of the kopje with half the men. Take Eccles with you.

 We'll rush their whole perimeter at the same moment. When you're in

 position fire three shots in quick succession then count slowly to

 twenty. I'll back you from this side. " "Good." Saul nodded. "It'll

 take me a little while to get round, don't be impatient." And he was

 smiling as he rose to his knees and leaned forward to touch Sean's

 shoulder.

 Sean would always remember him like that: big mouth creased at the

 corners, smiling with white teeth through three days' growth of beard,

 slouch hat pushed to the back of his head, so his hair fell forward on

 to his forehead, and sunburned skin flaking from the tip of his nose.

 The rock behind them was cracked through. If Saul had not leaned

 forward to make that gesture of affection he would not have exposed

 himself.

 The sniper on the ridge had seen the brim of his hat above the rock and

 he held his aim into the crack. At the moment that Saul's fingers

 touched Sean's shoulder his head moved across the gap and the Boer

 fired.

 The bullet hit Saul in the right temple, slanted diagonally back

 through his head and came out behind his left ear.

 Their faces were but eighteen inches apart and Sean was smiling into

 Saul's eyes as the bullet hit. Saul's whole head was distorted by the

 impact, swelling and bursting like a balloon.

 His lips stretched so that for an instant his smile was a hideous

 rubbery thing and then he was snatched away and thrown sideways down

 the slope. He slid to a stop with his head and shoulders mercifully

 covered by a tuft of the Coarse grey grass that grew among the rocks,

 but his trunk shivered and his legs danced and kicked convulsively.

 For a slow count of ten Sean did not move nor did his expression alter.

 It took him that long to believe what he had seen Then his face seemed

 to crumple.

 "Saul!" His voice was a croak.

 "Saul!" It rose higher, sharp with the realization of his loss He came

 slowly to hIS knees. Now Saul's body was still, Very still and

 relaxed.

 Again Sean opened his mouth but this time the sound he uttered was

 without form. The way an old bull buffalo bellows at the heart shot,

 that way Sean gave expression to his grief. A low shuddering cry that

 carried to the men in the rocks around him and to the Boers in the

 saucer above.

 He made no attempt to touch Saul. He stared at him.

 "Nkosi. " Mbenjane was appalled at what he saw on Sean's face.

 His tunic was stiff with his own dried blood. The graze across his

 cheek was swollen and inflamed and it wept pale lymph. But it was the

 eyes that alarmed Mbejane.

 "N'Kosi." Mbejane tried to restrain him, but Sean did not bear.

 His eyes were glazing over with the madness that had taken the place of

 his grief. His head hunched down on his shoulders and he growled like

 an animal.

 "Take them! Take the bastards!" And he went up and over the rock in a

 twisting leap with the bayoneted rifle held against his chest.

 "Come on! " he roared and went up the slope so fast that only one

 bullet hit him. But it did not stop him and he was over the lip,

 roaring and clubbing and hacking with the bayonet.

 From the rocks four hundred of his men swarmed up after him and boiled

 over the lip of the saucer. But before they reached Sean he was face

 to face with Jan Paulus Leroux.

 This time it was no match. Jan Paulus was wasted and sick.

 A gaunt skeleton of the man he had been. His rifle was empty and he

 fumbled with the reload. He looked up and recognized Sean. Saw him

 tall and splattered with blood. Saw the bayonet in his hands and the

 madness in his eyes.

 "Sean!" He said and lifted the empty rifle to meet the bayonet.

 But he could not hold it.  With Sean's weight behind it the bayonet

 glanced off the stock and went on. Jan Paulus felt the tingling slide

 of the steel through his reluctant flesh and he went over backwards

 with the bayonet in him.

 "Sean," he cried from his back. Sean stood over him and plucked the

 bayonet out. He lifted it high with both hands, his whole body poised

 to drive it down again.

 They stared at each other. The British charge swept past them and they

 were alone. One man wounded in the grass and the other wounded above

 him with the bayoneted rifle and the madness still on him.

 The vanquished in the grass, who had fought and suffered and sacrificed

 the lives of those he loved. victor above him, who had fought and

 suffered and sacrificed the lives of those he loved.

 The game was war. The prize was a land. The penalty for defeat was

 death.

 "Maak dit klaar! Make it finished! " Leroux told him quietly The

 madness went out in Sean like the flame of a candle. He lowered the

 bayoneted rifle and let it drop. The weakness of his wound caught up

 with him and he staggered. With surprise he looked down at his belly

 and clasped his hands over the wound, and then he sank down to sit

 beside Jan Paulus In the saucer. the fight was over.

 "We're ready to move, sir. Eccles stood beside the scotch cart and

 looked down at Sean. A massive scowl concealed his concern. "Are you

 comfortable?"

 Sean ignored the question. "Who is in charge of the burial details,

 Eccles?"

 "Smith, sir."

 "You have told him about Saul, about Captain Friedman?"

 "Yes, sir. They will bury him separately."

 Sean lifted himself painfully on to an elbow and for a minute stared at

 the two gangs working bare to the waist on the COMmunal graves. Beyond

 them lay the rows of blanket, wrapped bundles. A fine day's work, he

 thought bitterly.

 "Shall we start, sir?" Eccles asked.

 "You've given Smith my orders? Burghers to be buried with their

 comrades, our men with theirs?"

 "It's all taken care of, sir."

 Sean lay back on the bedding that covered the floor of the scotch

 cart

 "Please send my servant to me, Eccles."

 While he waited for Mbejane, Sean tried to avoid contact with the man

 who lay beside him in the scotch cart He knew Jan Paulus was watching

 him.

 "Sean, Menheer, who will say the words for my men?"

 "We have no Chaplain. " Sean did not look at him.

 "I could say them. " "General Leroux, it will be another two hours

 before the work is completed. You are wounded, and it is my duty to

 get this column with the other wounded back to Vereeniging as soon as I

 can. We are leaving the burial detail and when they're finished

 they'll catch us up. " Sean spoke lying on his back staring up at the

 sky.

 "Menheer, I demand, " Jan Paulus began, but Sean turned angrily towards

 him.

 "Listen, Leroux. I've told you what I'm going to do. The graves will

 be carefully marked, and later the War Graves Commission will send a

 Chaplain. " There was very little room in the scotch cart and they

 were both big men. Now, as they glared at each other their faces were

 a foot apart. Sean would have said more, but as he opened his mouth

 the wound in his guts caught him and he gasped. The sweat broke out

 heavily across his forehead.

 "Are you all right?" Jan Paulus's expression altered.

 "I'll feel better once we get to Vereeniging. " "Ja, you're right. We

 must go," agreed Leroux.

 Eccles came back with Mbejane.

 "Nkosi, you sent for me?"

 "Mbejane, I want you to stay here and mark the place where they bury

 Nkosi Saul. Remember it well, for later you must be able to bring me

 back to it," Sean mumbled.

 "Nkosi. " Mbejane went away.

 "Very well, Eccles. You can start."

 It was a long column. Behind the van rode the prisoners, many of them

 mounted two up. Then followed the wounded, each in a horse litter of

 poles and blankets, behind them the scotch cart and finally Eccles and

 two hundred troopers of the rear guard Their progress was slow and

 dismal.

 In the scotch cart neither of them spoke again. They lay in pain,

 bracing themselves against the jolt and lurch, with the sun beating

 down mercilessly upon them.

 In that dreamlike state induced by pain and loss of blood, Sean was

 thinking of Saul. At times he would convince himself that it had not

 happened and he would experience a rush of relief as though he had

 woken from a nightmare to find it was not reality. Saul was alive

 after all. Then his mind would focus with clarity and Saul was dead

 again. Saul was wrapped in a blanket with the earth above him, and all

 they had planned was down there with him. Then Sean would grapple once

 more with the unanswerable.

 "Ruth! " he cried aloud, so that Jan Paulus beside him stirred

 uneasily.

 "Are you all right, Sean?"

 But Sean did not hear him. Now there was Ruth. Now there was Ruth

 alone. He felt joy then in his loss, joy quickly swamped with guilt.

 For an instant he had been glad that Saul was dead, and his treachery

 sickened him and ached like the bullet in his guts. But still there

 was Ruth, and Saul was dead. I must not think of it like that. I must

 not think! And he struggled up into a sitting position and clung to

 the side of the scotch cart

 "Lie down, Sean," Jan Paulus told him gently. "You'll bleed again.

 "You!" Sean shouted at him. "You killed him.

 "Ja. " Leroux nodded his red beard into his chest. "I killed them,

 but you also, all of us. Ja, we killed them. " And he reached up and

 took Sean's arm and drew him down into the blankets. "Now, lie still

 or we'll bury you also."

 "But why, Paul. Why?" Sean asked softly.

 "Does it matter why? They are dead. " "And now what happens?"

 Sean covered his eyes from the sun.

 "We go on living. That is all, we just go on."

 "But what was it about? Why did we fight?"

 "I don't know. Once I knew clearly, but now I have lost the reason,"

 Leroux answered.

 They were silent for a long time and then they began to talk again.

 Groping together for the things that must take the place of that which

 had filled these last three years.

 Twice that afternoon the column halted briefly while they buried men

 who had died of their wounds. And each of these deaths, one a burgher

 and the other a trooper, gave poignancy and direction to the talk in

 the scotch cart

 In the evening they met a patrol that was scouting ahead of the big

 columns returning from the vaal River. A young lieutenant came to the

 scotch cart and saluted Sean.

 "I have a message for you from General Acheson, sir.

 "Yes? " "This fellow Leroux got away from us at the Padda.

 Zietsmann, the other Boer leader, was killed, but Leroux got away.

 "This is General Leroux," Sean told him.

 "Good God! " He stared at Leroux. "You caught him. I say well done,

 sir. Jolly well done. " In the past two years Jan Paulus had become a

 legend to the British, so that the lieutenant examined him now with

 frank curiosity.

 "What is your message?" Sean snapped.

 "Sorry, sir. " The youngster dragged his eyes away from Jan Paulus.

 "All the Boer leaders are meeting at Vereeniging. We are to give them

 safe conduct into the garrison. General Acheson wanted you to try to

 contact Leroux with the offer, but, that won't be difficult now. Jolly

 good show, sir.

 "Thank you, Lieutenant. Please tell General Acheson that we'll be in

 Vereeniging tomorrow."

 They watched the Patrol ride away and disappear over a fold in the

 land.

 "So!" growled Leroux. "It's surrender then."

 No," Sean contradicted him. "It's peace!"

 The primary school at Vereeniging had been converted into an officers'

 hospital. Sean lay on his field cot and regarded the picture of

 President Kruger on the wall opposite him. In this way he was putting

 off the moment when he must continue with the letter he was writing. So

 far he had written the address, the date and the salutation: "My dear

 Ruth. " It was ten days since the column had returned from the veld.

 It was also ten days since the surgeons had cut him open and tied

 together those parts of his alimentary canal that the bullet had

 disrupted. He wrote: I am at this moment well on the way to recovering

 from a small wound received two weeks ago near the Vaal River, so

 please take no notice of my current address. "He started a new

 paragraph. " God knows I wish the circumstances in which I write were

 less painful to both of us. You will by now have received an official

 notification of Saul's death, so there is nothing I can add but to say

 that he died in circumstances of great personal gallantry. While about

 to lead a bayonet charge he was shot and killed instantly.

 I know you will want to be alone in your grief. It will be some weeks

 before the doctors allow me to travel. By the time I reach

 Pietermaritzburg I hope you will be sufficiently recovered to allow me

 to call on you in the hope that I may be able to give you some

 comfort.

 I trust that small Storm continues to increase in weight and beauty. I

 look forward to seeing her again.

 A long while he pondered the ending, and finally decided on

 "Your true friend." He signed it, folded it into its envelope and laid

 it on the locker beside his bed for posting.

 Then he lay back on his pillows and surrendered himself to the ache of

 loss and the dull pain in his belly.

 After a while his physical pain dominated, and he glanced

 surreptitiously around the ward to ensure there were no nurses about.

 Then he lifted the sheet, pulled up his nightshirt and began picking at

 the bandage until he had exposed the edge of the wound with the black

 horsehair stitches standing stiffly out of it like the knots in a

 strand of barbed wire. An expression of comical disgust curled his

 lips. Sean hated sickness, but especially he hated it in his own

 flesh.

 The disgust gave way slowly to helpless anger and he glared at the

 wound.

 "Leave it stand, old Sean. Looking won't make it better."

 Sean had been so intent on the evil gash in his stomach that he had not

 heard the speaker approach. Despite the cane and the limp that dragged

 his right leg, Leroux moved silently for a big man. He stood now

 beside the bed and smiled shyly down at Sean.

 "Paul!" Guiltily Sean covered himself.

 ,Ja, Sean. How goes it?" ....... "Not too bad. And you?"

 Leroux shrugged. "They tell me I will need this for a long time to

 come." He tapped the ferrule of the cane on the floor.

 , May I sit down?"

 "Of course." Sean moved to give him the edge of the bed and Leroux

 lowered himself with his bad leg stretched stiffly in front of him. His

 clothing was newly washed and the cuffs of his jacket darned; patches

 on the elbows, and a long tear in the knee of his breeches had been

 cobbled together with crude, masculine stitches.

 His beard had been trimmed and squared. There were iodine stained

 bandages covering the open sores on his wrists, but a red mane of hair

 hung to the collar of his jacket and the bones of his forehead and

 cheeks made harsh angles beneath skin that was desiccated and browned

 by the sun.

 "So!" said Sean.

 "So!" Leroux answered him and looked down at his hands.

 Both he and Sean were silent then, awkward and inarticulate, for

 neither of them dealt easily in words.

 "Will You smoke, Paul?" Sean reached for the cheroots on his locker.

 "Thank you." They made a show of selecting and lighting, then silence

 overwhelmed them again and Leroux scowled at the tip of his cheroot.

 "This is good tobacco," he growled.

 "Yes," agreed Sean and regarded his own cheroot with equal ferocity.

 Leroux coughed and rolled his cane between the fingers of his other

 hand,

 "Toe maar, I just thought I'd come and see you." he said.

 "I'm glad of it."

 "So, you're all right then, hey?"

 "Yes. I'm all right," Sean agreed.

 "Good. " Leroux nodded sagely. "Well, then!" He stood up slowly. "I

 had better be going. We are meeting again in an hour.

 Jannie Smuts has come up from the Cape. " "I heard so." Even the

 hospital was penetrated by ruMOurS of what was happening in the big

 marquee tent pitched on the parade, ground near the station. Under the

 chairmanship of old President Steyn the Boer leaders were talking out

 their future.

 De Wet was there, and Niemand and Leroux. Botha was there and Hertzog

 and Strauss and others whose names had echoed across the world these

 last two years. And now the last of them, Jannic Smuts, had arrived.

 He had left his commando besieging the little town of O'Kiep in the

 Northern Cape and travelled up the British-held railway.  Now they were

 all assembled. If they had gained nothing else in these last desperate

 years, they had at least won recognition as the leaders of the Boer

 people. This tiny band of war-sick men was treating with the

 representatives of the greatest military power on earth.

 -ja, I have heard so," Sean repeated, and impulsively he thrust out his

 hand. "Good luck, Paul."

 Leroux seized his hand and held it hard, his mouth moved with the

 pressure of his emotions

 "Sean, we must talk. We have to talk!" he blurted.

 "Sit down," Sean told him and Leroux freed his hand and sank on to the

 bed once again.

 "What must I do, Sean?" he asked. "It's you who must advise me.

 Not these . . . not these others from over the sea."

 " You have seen Kitchener and Mimer. " It was not a question, for Sean

 knew of the meeting. "What do they ask of you?"

 "They ask everything. " Leroux spoke bitterly. "They ask for

 surrender without terms. " "Will you agree to that?"

 For a minute Leroux was silent, and then he lifted his head and looked

 full into Sean's face.

 "So far we have fought to live," he said and what Sean saw in those

 eyes he would never forget. "But now we will fight to die. " "And by

 this, what will you achieve?" Sean asked softly.

 "Death is the lesser evil." "We can not live as slaves.

 "Leroux's voice rose sharply. "This is my land," he cried.

 "No," Sean told him harshly. "It is also my land, and the land of my

 son," and then his voice softened. "And the blood of my son is your

 blood."

 "But these others-this Kitchener, this devil Mimer."

 "They are a people apart," Sean said' But you fought with them!"

 Leroux accused.

 "I have done many foolish things," agreed Sean. "But, from them I have

 learned. " "What are you saying?" demanded Leroux, and Sean could see

 the sparkle of hope in his eyes. I must say this carefully, thought

 Sean, I must be very careful. He drew a long breath before he spoke.

 "As it stands this moment your people are scattered but alive, If you

 fight on, the British will stay until you have found the innihilation

 you seek. If you stop now, then soon they will leave. " "Will you

 leave?" demanded Leroux savagely.

 "No. " "And you are British! The British will stay-you and those like

 you. " Then Sean grinned at him. It was so sudden, so irresistible

 that grin, that it threw Leroux off balance.

 "Do I look and talk like a rooinek, Paul?" he asked in the

 "Taal.

 "Which half of my son is burgher and which half British?"

 Confused by this sneak attack Leroux stared at him for a long time

 before he dropped his eyes and fiddled with his cane.

 "Come on, man," Sean told him. "Make an end to this foolishness .

 You and I have a lot of work to do.

 "You and I?" Leroux asked suspiciously.

 , yes. , , Leroux laughed, a sudden harsh bellow of laughter.

 "You are a slim Kerel, " he roared.

 "I'll have to think about what you have said." He rose from the bed

 and seemed to stand taller now. The laughter filled out his gaunt

 features and wrinkled his nose.

 "I'll have to think very carefully about it." He reached out his hand

 again and Sean took it. "I will come and talk with you again."

 He turned away abruptly and limped down the ward with his cane tapping

 loudly.

 Jan Paulus kept his word. He visited Sean daily, an hour or so at a

 time, and they talked. Two days after the Boer surrender he brought

 another man with him.

 Jan Paulus stood a good four inches over him, but though he was slimly

 built the visitor gave the impression of size.

 "Sean, this is Jan Christian Niemand."

 "Perhaps I am lucky we did not meet before, Colonel Courtney, "

 Niemand's voice, high in timbre, was crisp and authoritative . He

 spoke the perfect English he had learned at Oxford University. "What

 do you think, Oubaas? " He addressed Jan Paulus by the title which was

 obviously a private joke between them, and Jan Paulus chuckled.

 "Very lucky. Otherwise you also might be using a stick."

 Sean examined Niemand with interest. Hard years of war had muscled his

 shoulders and he walked like a soldier, yet above the pointed blond

 beard was the face of a scholar. The skin had a youthful clarity which

 was almost maidenly, but the eyes were a penetrating blue, the

 merciless blue of a Toledo steel blade.

 His mind had the same resilience, and before many minutes Sean was

 using all his wits to meet and answer questions that Niemand asked

 him.

 It was clear that he was being subjected to some sort of test. At the

 end of an hour he decided he had passed.

 "And now, what are your plans?"

 I must go home," Sean answered.

 soon, soon, perhaps, a wife."

 "I wish you happiness "it is not yet settled," Sean admitted. "I still

 have to ask her.

 Jannie Niemand smiled. "Well, then, I wish you luck with your suit.

 And strength to build a new life." Suddenly he was serious.

 "We also must rebuild what has been destroyed." He stood up from the

 bed and Jan Paulus stood with him.

 "There will be need of good men in the years ahead." Niemand held out

 his hand and Sean took it. "We will meet again.

 Count on that.

 As the train ran in past the great, white mine dumps Sean leaned from

 the window of the coach to look ahead at the familiar skyline of

 Johannesburg, he wondered how such an unlovely city still had the power

 to draw him back each time. It was as though he was connected to it by

 an elastic umbilical cord which allowed him a wide range. But when he

 reached its limit it pulled him back.

 "TWo days," he promised himself. "Two days I'll stay here.

 Just long enough to hand old Acheson my formal resignation and tell

 Candy Good, bye. Then I'll head south to Ladyburg and and leave this

 town to stew in its own evil juices.

 Near at hand a midday hooter howled from one of the mines, and

 immediately its cry was taken up and answered by the other mines. It

 sounded as though a pack of hungry wolves were hunting across the

 valley, the wolves of greed and gold. Those mines that had been forced

 to close during the hostilities were now back in production, and the

 black smoke from their stacks sullied the sky and drifted in a dirty

 mist across the crest of the ridge. The train slowed, and the

 unexpected clatter and lurch of the points broke the rhythm of its run.

 Then it was sliding in along the concrete platform of Johannesburg

 Station.

 Sean lifted his luggage down from the rack above his head and passed it

 out of the open window to Mbejane. The exertion of lifting and

 carrying no longer caught in his guts; except for the irregular scar

 near his navel he was completely healed. When he strode down the

 platform towards the exit he held himself erect, no longer stooping to

 favour his stomach.

 A horse drawn cab deposited them on the pavement outside Acheson's

 headquarters, and Sean left Mbejane guarding the luggage while he

 pushed his way across the crowded lobby and climbed the staircase to

 the first floor,

 "Good afternoon, Colonel." The orderly sergeant recognized him

 immediately and jumped to attention with such alacrity that he

 overturned his stool.

 "Afternoon, Thompson," Sean told him. The honours of his rank still

 embarrassed him. Thompson relaxed and inquired with more than just the

 formal concern: "How are you, sir? Sorry to 'ear about your belly,

 sir.

 "Thank you, Thompson, I am fine now. Is Major Peterson in?

 Peterson was delighted to see him. He made tender inquiries after the

 movement of Sean's bowels, for irregularity was often one of the

 unpleasant aftermaths of a stomach wound. Sean reassured him and

 Peterson went on: "Have some tea. The old man is busy right now but

 he'll see you in ten minutes," and he shouted for Thompson to bring tea

 before he returned to the subject of Sean's wound. "Much of a scar,

 old chap? " he asked.

 Sean loosened his Sam Browne belt, unbuttoned his tunic and pulled his

 shirt out from his trousers. Peterson came around the desk and

 inspected Sean's hairy stomach at close range.

 "Very neat. Damn good job they did on you." Peterson gave his expert

 opinion. "I got one at Omdurman, , one of those fuzzy wuzzies pegged

 me with his dirty great spear." And he in turn partially disrobed and

 displayed his pale hairless chest. From common courtesy Sean was

 forced to cluck and shake his head at the small triangular cicatrice on

 Peterson's bosom, although secretly he was not impressed.

 The attention went to Peterson's head.

 , Got another one, damn painful it was too!" and he unbuckled his belt

 and had his trousers half down when the inter leading door opened.

 "Hope I'm not interrupting anything, gentlemenl" General Acheson

 inquired politely. There were a few moments of con fusion while they

 both attempted to dress and make the correct military salutations.

 Peterson had the nicest decision to make, not covered by the Articles

 of War. It was one of the few occasions in history where a senior

 divisional commander was received by a field officer standing at rigid

 attention with his trousers round his ankles. Major Peterson affected

 a rather startling line in scarlet flannel underwear. Once Acheson had

 understood the reason for this irregularity of dress among his

 officers, he was strongly tempted to join in the exhibition, for he

 also had some fine scars, but he restrained himself admirably. He led

 Sean through to the inner office and gave him a cigar, Well, Courtney.

 I hope you haven't come looking for a job, " "On the contrary, I want

 to get the hell out of this business, sir.

 "I think we can arrange that. The Paymaster will be relieved.

 Acheson nodded. "I'll get Peterson to draw up your papers.

 "I want to leave tomorrow, Sean insisted, and Acheson smiled.

 "You're in a big hurry. All right. Peterson can post them to you for

 your signatUre, your unit has already been disbanded so there is no

 point in kicking your heels around here."

 "Good!" Sean had anticipated resistance, and he laughed with relief.

 "There are just three other items," Acheson went on, and Sean frowned

 with quick suspicion.

 "Firstly, a parting gift from His Majesty. A Distinguished Service

 Order for catching Leroux, there will be an investiture next week. Lord

 K. would like you to attend personally.

 "Hell, no! If I've got to stay in Johannesburg, I don't want it.

 And Acheson chuckled. "A surprising lack of gratitude! Peterson can

 post it to you also. "Secondly, I've been able to bring a little

 influence to bear on the War Claims Adjustment Board.

 Although Parliament hasn't passed the Bill, they've gone ahead and

 sanctioned your claim. " "Good God!" Sean was stunned. At Acheson's

 suggestion he had registered a claim for ten thousand pounds, his

 deposit in the Volkskaas Bank, which had been seized by the Boers at

 the outbreak of war. He had expected nothing from it, and had promptly

 forgotten about it. "They haven't made a full award, have they?"

 "Don't be naive, Courtney," Acheson chuckled. "Only twenty per cent

 against a possible further adjustment once the Bill is through the

 House. Still, two thousand is better than a poke in the eye with a

 blunt stick. Here's their cheque. You'll have to sign for it.

 Sean examined the slip of paper with rising delight. It would go a

 little way towards paying off his loan from Natal Wattle.

 He looked up quickly.

 "And the third item?" he asked.

 Acheson slipped a small square of cardboard across the desk.

 "My card, and a standing invitation to visit and stay as long as you

 like whenever you are in London." He stood up and extended his hand.

 "Good luck, Sean. And I'd like to think it isn't good, bye.

 In a rosy state of elation induced by freedom and the prospect of a

 loving farewell with Candy Rautenbach, Sean stopped the cab first at

 the railway station to reserve a seat on the following mornings

 southbound train, and to cable Ada of his homecomIng . Then, on to

 Commissioner Street and the lobby of Candys Hotel to ask for the

 proprietress.

 "Mrs. Rautenbach is resting, sir, and cannot be disturbed," the clerk

 informed him.

 "Good man!" Sean passed him half a guinea and ignored his squawks of

 protest as he climbed the marble staircase.

 He let himself silently into Candy's suite and crossed to her bedroom.

 He wanted to surprise her; and there could be no doubt that he

 succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. Candy Rautenbach was not

 resting. In fact she was most strenuously employed in the

 entertainment of a gentleman whose tunic, hanging over the back of one

 of the gilt and red velvet chairs, showed him to be a subaltern in in

 one of His Majesty's regiments.

 Sean supported his subsequent actions on the hypothesis that Candy was

 his exclusive property. In the flood of righteous indignation that

 overwhelmed him, he took no account of the fact that his visit was a

 farewell gesture, that his relationship with Candy had been at best

 vague and intermittent, and that he was the following morning leaving

 to propose matrimony to someone else. All he saw was the cuckoo in the

 nest.

 So that no discredit may reflect on the courage of the subaltern or the

 honour of his regiment, we must remember that his knowledge of Candy's

 domestic arrangements, if not those of her anatomy, was incomplete. She

 had been introduced to him as Mrs. Rautenbach and now in this terrible

 moment as he returned to reality he assumed that the large and angry

 man who bore down on the bed, roaring like a wounded bull; was the one

 and only Mr. Rautenbach come home from the wars. He made preparation

 for departure, which began with a rapid descent from the high

 four-poster bed on the opposite side to that of Sean's approach.

 In a condition of stark mental clarity induced by a super-abundance of

 adrenalin in the blood stream, the subaltern became aware of his own

 nudity which prevented flight into the public gaze, of the fact that

 Mr. Rautenbach's threatening advance made such flight imperative, and

 finally that Mr. Rautenbach wore the uniform and insignia of a full

 colonel. This last consideration weighed most heavily with him, for

 despite his age he came from an old and respected family with an

 impressive record of military service and he understood the decencies

 and orders of society of which one of the strictest was that you did

 not unite with the wife of an officer who outranked you.

 Sir, he said, and drew himself up with dignity. I think I can explain.

 You little bugger! Sean answered him in a tone that suggested his

 explanation would have little consequence. Taking the shortest route,

 which was over the bed, Sean went for him.

 Candy, who had in these first few seconds been too preoccupied pulling

 the coverlets over herself to take any active part in proceedings, now

 shrieked and lifted the silk eiderdown in such a way that it wrapped

 around Sean's boots as he leaped over her, and became tangled in his

 spurs. Sean fell with a crash that reverberated through the whole

 building and startled the guests in the lobby below, and he lay for the

 moment stunned his feet on the bed and his head and shoulders on the

 floor.

 out! Candy shouted at the subaltern, as Sean began to stir ominously.

 Then she gathered up an armful of bedclothes and spread them over Sean,

 winding him and smothering him.

 Hurry up. For God's sake, hurry! she entreated as her friend hopped

 with one leg in his breeches. He'll tear you to pieces. And she

 pounced on top of the struggling, cursing mound of sheets and

 blankets.

 Don't worry about the boots, and the subaltern tucked them under one

 arm, slung his tunic over his shoulders and placed his helmet on the

 back of his head.

 Thank you, ma'am, he said, and then with gallantry, I realy regret any

 inconvenience I have caused you. Please.

 my apologies to your husband. out, you fool, she pleaded, clinging

 desperately to Sean as he heaved and swore. After he had left she

 stood up and waited for Sean to emerge.

 Where is he? I'll kill him. I'll murder the little bastard!

 Sean threw off the bedclothes, scrambled to his feet and glared wildly

 around him. But the first thing he saw was Candy, and Candy was

 shaking with laughter. There was a lot of Candy to shake and most of

 it was white and round and smooth, and even if the laughter was a

 little hysterical it was still a very pleasing spectacle.

 Why did you stop me? Sean demanded, but he was fast transferring his

 interest from the subaltern to Candy's bosom.

 He thought you were my husband, she gasped.

 The little bastard, growled Sean.

 He was sweet. And abruptly she stopped laughing. And who the hell are

 you to come barging in here, anyway? Do you think you own the world

 and everything in it? You belong to me. Like hell, I do!

 Candy exploded. Now get out of here, you big lumbering ox. Put some

 clothes on. Things were taking an unforeseen turn. Sean had expected

 her to be guilty and contrite.

 "Get out of here, " she yelled, as her temper started to run.

 Sean had never seen her like this and he only just managed to field the

 large vase she hurled at his head. Frustrated in her desire to hear

 breaking china, Candy grabbed another missile, an ornamental mirror,

 which crashed with satisfying violence against the wall behind him. Her

 boudoir was furnished in splendid Victorian taste and provided an

 almost unlimited supply of ammunition. Despite Sean's nimble footwork,

 he could not remain unscathed for ever and finally he was hit by a

 gilt, framed picture of some nameless officer. Candy's taste leaned

 rather heavily towards martial men.

 "You little bitch!" roared Sean in pain, and he launched a counter,

 attack. Candy fled, naked and squealing, but he caught her at the

 door, lifted her on to his shoulder and carried her kicking to the

 bed.

 "Now, my girl," he grunted as he arranged her, pink bottom up, across

 his lap. "I'm going to teach you some manners."

 The first slap left a perfect red print of his hand upon her chubby

 cheeks, and stilled her struggles. The second slap had considerably

 less force behind it, and the third was an affectionate, pat. But

 Candy was sobbing pitifully.

 With his right hand raised, Sean realized with dismay that for the,

 first time in his life he was striking a woman! "Candy! " He spoke

 uncertainly, and was amazed that she twisted and sat up in his lap,

 clasped him about the neck and pressed a damp cheek against him.

 Words welled up in his throat, words of apology, a plea for

 forgiveness, but his good sense prevented them from emerging and

 instead he demanded huskily,

 "Are you sorry for your behaviour?"

 Candy gulped and nodded shakily. "Please forgive me, darling. I

 deserved that. " And her fingers fluttered at his throat and across

 his lips. "Please forgive me, Sean. I'm so terribly sorry.

 They ate dinner in bed that evening. In the early morning, while Sean

 soaked lazily in the sunken bath and the hot water stung the scratches

 on his back, they talked.

 "I'm catching the morning train home, Candy. I want to be home for

 Christmas. " "oh, Sean! Can't you stay, , just a few days'?"

 "No.

 "When will you come back'?"

 "I don't know.

 There was a long silence before she spoke again.

 "I take it then that I am not included in Your plans for the future?"

 "You are my friend, Candy," he protested.

 "Now, isn't that nice." And she stood up. "I'll order your breakfast.

 " In the bedroom she paused and regarded herself slowly in the full,

 lepgth mirror. The blue silk of her gown matched the blue of her eyes,

 but at this time of the day there were tiny creases in the Skin of her

 throat.

 I am rich, she thought, I don't have to be lonely. She walked on past

 the mirror.

 Sean walked slowly up the gravel drive towards the Goldberg mansion. He

 walked between an avenue of

 "Pride of India" trees and around him the green lawns climbed in a

 series of terraces towards the rococo facade of the house. It was a

 morning of drowsy warmth and the doves in the Pride of Indias cooed

 sleepily.

 Faintly from among the ornamental shrubbery he heard the tinkle.

 of laughter. He stopped and listened to the sound of it.

 Suddenly he was shy, loth to meet her again, unable to know how she

 would receive him for she had not replied to his letter.

 At last he left the drive and crossed the carpet of lawn until he

 reached the lip of an amphitheatre. In the bowl below him stood a

 miniature replica of the Parthenon temple. Clean, white, marble

 columns in the sunshine, with a circular fishpond like a moat around

 it. He could see the shapes of carp gliding slowly through the green

 water below the lily pads. The lily blossoms were white and gold and

 purple.

 Ruth sat upon the raised marble edge of the pond. She was dressed all

 in black from her throat to her toes, but her arms were bared and she

 held them out and cried: "Walk, Storm. Walk here to me."

 Ten paces away, her solid bottom solidly planted on the lawn, Storm

 Friedman regarded her mother seriously from under a bang of dark

 hair.

 "Come on, baby," Ruth urged her, and very deliberately the child leaned

 forward. Slowly she elevated her plump posterior Until it was pointed

 towards the sky, displacing a laced and beribboned pair of pantaloons

 beneath the short skirt. She remained like that for a few seconds and

 then, with an effort, came up on to her feet and stood balanced

 precariously on her fat, pink legs. Ruth clapped her hands in

 spontaneous delight, and Storm smiled in triumph, displaying four large

 white teeth.

 "Come here to Mummy, " laughed Ruth and Storm completed a dozen

 unsteady paces before abandoning this form of locomotion as

 impractical. Dropping to her hands and knees she finished the course

 at a canter.

 "You cheated!" Ruth accused, and jumped up to catch her under the arms

 and swing her high. Storm squealed ecstatically,

 "More!" she commanded. "More!"

 Sean wanted to laugh with them. He wanted to run down to them and

 gather them both in his arms. For suddenly he knew that here was the

 whole meaning of life, his excuse for existing.

 A woman and a child. His woman, and his child.

 Ruth looked up and saw him. She froze with the child held to her

 chest. Her face was without expression as she watched him come down

 the steps into the amphitheatre.

 "Hello." He stopped in front of her, twisting his hat awkwardly

 between his hands.

 "Hello, Sean," she whispered, then the corners of her mouth lifted in a

 shy, uncertain smile and she flushed. "You took so long. I thought

 you weren't coming."

 A great grin split Sean's face and he stepped forward, but at that

 moment Storm, who had been staring at him with solemn curiosity, began

 a series of convulsive leaps accompanied by yells of: "Man! Man!" Her

 feet were anchored against Ruths stomach, which gave power to her

 thrusts. She leaned out towards Sean determined to reach him, and Ruth

 was taken by surprise.

 "Sean had to drop his hat and catch Storm before she fell.

 "More! More!" yelled Storm, continuing to bounce in Sean's arms.

 One of the few things Sean knew about babies was that they have a soft

 pulsing spot on the top of their heads which is very vulnerable, so he

 clung to his daughter in terror that he drop her and in equal terror

 that he crush her. Until Ruth stopped laughing, relieved him of his

 burden and said,

 "Come up to the house. You're just in time for tea.

 They crossed the lawn slowly, each of them holding one of Storm's

 hands, so that the child need no longer concentrate on balancing and

 could devote her whole attention to the fascinating manner in which her

 feet kept alternately appearing and disappearing under her.

 "Sean. There is one thing I have to know before anything else."

 Ruth was looking down at her child, not at him. "Did you She paused.

 "Saul, Could you have prevented what happened to him. I mean, you

 didn't Her voice trailed off.

 "No, I didn't," he said harshly.

 "Swear it to me, Sean. As you hope for salvation, swear it to me," she

 pleaded,

 "I swear it to you. I swear on . He sought for an oath, not on his

 own life, for that was not strong enough. "I swear on the life of our

 daughter, " And she sighed with relief. "That was why I did not write

 to you , I had to know first. " He wanted to tell her then that he was

 taking her away with him, he wanted to tell her about Lion Kop and the

 huge empty house that waited for her to make it into a home. But he

 knew it was not the moment, not immediately after they had spoken of

 Saul. He would wait.

 He waited while he was introduced to the Goldbergs and was left with

 them when Ruth took the child into the house to deliver her into the

 care of the nurse. She returned and he made small conversation during

 tea and tried not to let them see it in his eyes when he looked at

 Ruth.

 He waited until they were alone together on the lawn and then he

 blurted it out: "Ruth, you and Storm are coming home with me."

 She stooped over a rosebush and picked a butter, yellow blossom, then

 with a slight frown on her face she broke each of the tiny red thorns

 off the stem before she looked at him.

 Am I? She asked innocently, but he should have been warned by the

 chips of diamond brightness in her eyes.

 "Yes," he said. "We can be married within the next few days. it will

 take that long to arrange a special licence and for you to pack.

 Then I'll take you to Lion Kop, I haven't told you about . . ."

 "Damn you," she said softly. "Damn your conceit. Damn your arrogance.

 " And he gawked at her.

 "You stroll in with your whip in your hand, crack it once and expect me

 to bark and jump through the hoop. " She was working herself into a

 fury now. "I don't know what dealings you've had with women before,

 but I for one am not a camp, follower, or do I intend being treated

 like one. Did it ever occur to you for one single second that I might

 not be prepared to accept this favour you intend bestowing on me? How

 long did it take you to forget that I have been a widow for three short

 months? What supreme lack of perception made you believe I would run

 from one man's grave and throw myself into your condescending arms? "

 "But, Ruth, I love you." He tried to stop her outburst, but she

 shouted at him.

 "Then prove it, damn you. Prove it by being gentle. Prove it by

 treating me like a woman and not a chattel, by understanding.

 Now his surprise gave way to an anger every bit as intense as hers, and

 in his turn he shouted at her.

 "You weren't so bloody fussy on the night of the storm, or afterwards!

 " As though he had struck her, she stepped back a pace and the

 mutilated rosebud dropped from her hand.

 "You swine," she whispered. "Get out, and don't come back.

 "Your servant, ma'am." He clapped his hat on to his head, swung round

 and strode away across the lawn. When he reached the gravel drive his

 steps slowed and he stopped and wrestled with his anger and his

 pride.

 Then slowly he turned. The lawn was an empty sweep of smooth green.

 She was gone.

 Ruth ran up the wide marble staircase, but by the time she reached her

 bedroom window he was half, way down the drive.

 From the height of the second floor his figure was foreshortened so

 apeared mass've, and his dark suit stood out clearly against the pale

 gravel of the drive. He reached the gates and stopped, she leaned

 forward eagerly across the sill of the window so he could see her more

 easily when he turned to look back. She saw him deliberately light a

 long black cheroot, flick away the match, adjust the hat on his head,

 square his shoulders, and walk away.

 n disbelief she stared at the twin columns of the gate, and the dark

 green hawthorn hedge behind which he had disappeared.

 Then slowly she left the window and crossed to the bed and sat down.

 "Why didn't he understand?" she asked softly.

 She knew she would cry later, in the night when the real loneliness

 began.

 Sean returned to Ladyburg in the middle of a misty Natal winter's day.

 As the train huffed over the rim of the escarpment, he stood on the

 balcony of his coach and looked out at the vast green stain upon the

 hills of Lion Kop. The sight of it moved him, but his elation was

 toned with dark colours.

 This is the middle of the way. This year I will be forty, one years

 old. Out of all that striving and folly something must have emerged.

 Let me total my assets.

 In cash I have a little over two thousand pounds (compliments Of the

 War Claims Adjustment Board). In land I have fifteen thousand acres,

 with an option to purchase as many more. I have ten thousand acres of

 standing wattle which, in another year, will be ready for cutting. My

 loans against this are heavy but not oppressive, so I am a wealthy

 man.

 In things of the flesh I have a number of grey hairs, a fine collection

 of scars and a broken nose. But I can still lift and carry a two,

 hundred, pound sack of mealies under each arm, I can eat half a young

 sheep at a sitting; without field, glasses I can count the number of

 head in a herd of springbok at a distance of two miles, and Candy who

 knows about these things made no complaint about my stamina. I am not

 yet old.

 Apart from these things I have a son who belongs to me (and a son and a

 daughter who do not). Although I have lost the best of them, I have

 friends, perhaps more friends than enemies.

 But as important as any of these is the purpose and direction I have at

 last achieved. I know what I want. My course is plotted and the wind

 stands fair.

 These are my assets. These are mine to use and enjoy.

 What are my liabilities? Borrowed money, the hatred of a brother and a

 son, and Ruth.

 Ruth is gone! Ruth is gone! clattered the crossties under the coach.

 Ruth is gone! Ruth is gone! They mocked him.

 Sean scowled and forcibly changed the words in his mind.

 "The wind is fair! The wind is fair!"

 Over the months that followed Sean used his whole energy in the

 development of Lion Kop. He planned the cutting of his standing bark

 and decided to reap one, third of it a year before maturity, and

 another third in each of the subsequent two years.

 To replace it he used his two thousand pounds not to pay off his loans,

 but to plant the rest of his land to wattle. When this was done he had

 to keep busy. He bought himself a theodolite and a book of instruction

 in elementary survey, and mapped his lands, laid out his block of

 trees, pegged new roads for access to his plantations when the cutting

 began Once again he had nothing to do, so he went to see Dennis

 Petersen and spent a long day arguing the purchase of Mahobo's Kloof

 Ranch on which he had bought an option. He had no cash, and Jackson at

 Natal Wattle baulked at the suggestion of further loans. When Dennis

 refused to consider extended terms of payment, Sean called on Ronny Pye

 at the Ladyburg Banking & Trust. It was a forlorn chance and Sean was

 genuinely surprised when Ronny gave him a cup of coffee and a cigar,

 then listened politely to his proposition.

 "You're putting it all on one horse, Sean," Ronny warned him.

 "Theres only one horse in this race. it can't lose."

 "Very well." Ronny nodded. "Here's what I will do with you. I will

 advance you the full purchase price of Mahobo's plus a further ten

 thousand pounds to develop it. In return , you will give me a first

 bond on Mahobo's Kloof, and a second bond on Lion Kop after Natal

 Wattle Company's loan.

 " Sean took it. A week later Ronny Pye called on Jackson in

 Pietermaritzburg. After the preliminary sparring Ronny asked him: are

 you quite happy about those Notes you have out to Courtney?"

 "The security is good. " Jackson hesitated. "But he seems to be going

 a little wild.

 "I might be willing to take them Over from you," Ronny hinted

 delicately, and Jackson rubbed his nose thoughtfully to mask his

 relief.

 Happily Sean flung his army of Zulus at the virgin grassland of

 Mahobo's Kloof. He delighted in the long ranks of sweating, singing

 black men as they opened the rich, red earth and placed the fragile

 little saplings.

 Dirk was Sean's constant companion in these days , His attendance in

 the schoolhouse became more sporadic. Convinced that Dirk would never

 become a scholar, Sean tacitly condoned the gastric disturbances that

 prevented Dirk leaving for school in the mornings, but cleared

 miraculously a few minutes later and allowed him to follow Sean out

 into the plantations. Dirk aped Sean's stance, his seat in the saddle,

 and his long reaching walk. He listened carefully to Sean's words and

 repeated them later without omitting the oaths. In the late afternoons

 they hunted quail and pheasant and guinea, fowl along the slopes of the

 escarpment. On Sunday when Sean rode across to his neighbours for a

 bush buck shoot, or a poker session, or merely to drink brandy and

 talk, then Dirk went with him.

 Despite Sean's protest, Ada returned with her girls to the cottage on

 Protea Street. So the homestead of Lion Kop was a vast empty shell.

 Sean and Dirk used only three of the fifteen rooms, and even these were

 sparsely furnished. No carpets on the floor, nor pictures on the

 walls. A few leather, thonged chairs, iron bedstead, plain deal

 tables, and a cupboard or two. Piled in odd corners were the books and

 fishing, rods; a pair of shotguns and a rifle on the rack beside the

 fireplace. The yellow, wood floor was unpolished with dust and bits of

 fluff beneath the chairs and beds, dark stains left by the litter of

 pointer puppies; and in Dirk's bedroom, which Sean never visited, there

 was a welter , , ANN of old socks and soiled shirts, school exercise

 books and trophies of the hunt.

 Sean had no interest in the house. It was a place to eat an sleep, it

 had a roof to keep the rain out, a fireplace for warmth, and lamplight

 so that he could indulge his new appetite for reading. With reading

 glasses purchased from a travelling salesman on his nose, Sean spent

 his evenings wading through books on politics and travel, economics and

 surveying, mathematics and medicine, while Dirk, ostensibly preparing

 his schoolwork, sat across the fireplace from him and watched him

 avidly. Some nights when Sean was engaged in correspondence, he would

 forget that Dirk was there and the boy would sit up until after

 midnight.

 Sean was now corresponding with both Jannie Niemand and Jan Paulus

 Leroux. These two had become a political team in the Transvaal, and

 were already bringing gentle pressure to bear on Sean. They wanted him

 to organize the equivalent of their South Africa Party, and to lead it

 in Natal. Sean hedged. Not yet, perhaps later he told them.

 Once a month he received and answered a long letter from John Acheson.

 Acheson had returned to England and the gratitude of the nation. He

 was now Lord Caisterbrook and from his seat in the House of Lords he

 kept Sean informed of the temper and mood of the English people and the

 affairs of State.

 Sometimes, more often than was healthy, Sean thought about Ruth.

 Then he became angry and sad and desperately lonely.

 Slowly it would build up within him until he could not sleep, then he

 would go down at night to a friendly widow who lived alone in one of

 the gangers' cottages beside the new railway yards.

 Yet he counted himself happy, until that day at the beginning of

 September 1903, when he received an embossed card. It said simply:

 Miss Storm Friedman requests the pleasure of the company of Colonel

 Sean Courtney, DSO, DCM, at a party to celebrate her third birthday.

 4 pm, September 26th.

 IRSVPI The Goldbergs, Chase Valley, Pietermaritzburg.

 In the bottom right, hand corner was an inky finger, print about the

 size of a threepenny, piece.

 On the 24th, Sean left by train for Pietermaritzburg. Dirk came back

 from the station with Ada to his old room in the cottage on Protea

 Street.

 That night Mary lay awake and listened to him cry for his father.

 Only a thin wooden partition separated them. Ada's cottage had not

 been designed as a workshop and hostel for her girls. She had solved

 the problem by enclosing the wide, back veranda and dividing it into

 cubicles each large enough to hold a bed, a cupboard and a washstand.

 One of these was Mary's and tonight Dirk was in the cubicle next to

 hers.

 For an hour she lay and listened to him weep, praying quietly that he

 would exhaust himself and fall asleep. Twice she thought he had done

 so, but each time after a silence of only a few minutes the tear,

 muffled sobs started again. Each of them drove needles of physical

 pain deep into her chest, so that she lay rigid in her bed with her

 fists clenched until they ached.

 Dirk had become the central theme of her existence. He was the one

 bright tower in the desolation. She loved him with obsessive devotion,

 for he was so beautiful, so young and clean and straight.

 She loved the feel of his skin and the springy silk of his hair.

 When she looked at Dirk her own face did not matter. Her own scarred

 ruin of a face did not matter.

 The months she had been separated from him had been an agony and a dark

 lonely time. But now he was back and once again he needed her comfort.

 She slipped from her bed and stood taut with her love, her whole

 attitude portraying her compassion. The moonlight that filtered in

 through the mosquito screened window treated her with the same

 compassion. It toned down the mottled cicatrice that coarsened the

 planes of her face and it showed them as they might have been. Her

 twenty, year old body beneath the thin nightgown was slender but full

 breasted, innocent Of the marks that marred her face. A young body, a

 soft body clad in moon, luminous white like that of an angel.

 Dirk sobbed again and she went to him.

 "Dirk," she whispered as she knelt beside his bed. "Dirk, please don't

 cry, please, my darling.

 Dirk gulped explosively and rolled away from her, folding his arms

 across his face.

 "Shh! my darling. It's all right now. " She began to stroke his

 hair. Her touch evoked a fresh outburst of grief from him, liquid

 choking grief that spluttered and throbbed in the darkness.

 "Oh Dirk, please. And she went into his bed. The sheets were warm and

 moist where he had lain. She gathered him, held his hot body to her

 bosom and began to rock him in her arms.

 Her own loneliness at last overwhelmed her. Her voice took on a husky

 quality as she whispered to him.  She strained to him, her need growing

 much greater than his.

 One last convulsive sob and Dirk was silent. She felt the tension go

 out of his back and out of his hard round buttocks that were pressed

 into her stomach. Straining him even closer, her fingers moved down

 across his cheek to caress his throat.

 Dirk turned towards her, turning within the circle of her arms.

 She felt his chest heave and subside as he sighed, and his voice

 stifled with misery.

 "He doesn't love me. He went away and left me."

 "I love you, Dirk," she whispered. "I love you, we all love you,

 darling." And she kissed his eyes and his cheeks and his mouth. The

 taste of his tears was hot salt.

 Dirk sighed again and bowed his head until it was on her bosom.

 She felt his face nuzzling into the softness and her hands went to the

 back of his head and drew it closer.

 "Dirkie. Her voice dried up in the strange new heat within her. In

 the morning Dirk woke slowly, but with a feeling of wonder. He lay a

 while and thought about it, unable at first to place the formless

 shimmering sense of well, being that possessed him.

 Then he heard Mary moving about behind the partition of her cubicle.

 The gurgle and splash of water poured from jug to basin, the rustle of'

 cloth. Finally, the sound of her door, softly opened and closed, and

 her steps moving away towards the kitchen.

 The events of the previous evening came back to him, crisp and stark in

 every detail. Not fully understood, but looming large to overshadow

 all else in his mind.

 He threw the sheets aside and lifted himself on both elbows, drew up

 his nightshirt and contemplated his body as though he had never seen it

 before.

 He heard footsteps approaching. Quickly he covered himself, pulled the

 bedclothes over and feigned sleep.

 Mary came in quietly and placed a cup of coffee, with a rusk in the

 saucer, on the bedside table.

 Dirk opened his eyes and looked at her.

 "You're awake," she said.

 "Yes." "Dirk , . . " she started, and then she blushed. It mottled

 the puckered skin of her cheeks , Her voice fell to a whisper, scratchy

 with her shame. "You mustn't ever tell anybody. You must forget about

 . . . what happened.

 Dirk did not reply.

 "Promise me, Dirkie. Please promise me."

 He nodded slowly. Not trusting himself to speak, his throat filled

 with a knowledge of domination over her.

 "It was wrong, Dirkie. It was a terrible thing. We mustn't even think

 about it again.

 She walked to the door.

 "Mary.

 "Yes." She stopped without turning, her whole body poised like a bird

 on the point of flight.

 "I won't tell anyone, if you come again tonight."

 "No," she hissed violently.

 "Then, I'll tell Granny.

 "No. Oh, Dirkie. You wouldn't. " She was beside the bed and

 kneeling, reaching for his hand. "You mustn't, you mustn't. You

 promised me.

 "Will you come?" he asked softly. She peered into his face, into the

 serene perfection of warm brown skin and green eyes with the black silk

 of his hair curling on to the forehead.

 "I can't, it's a terrible, terrible thing that. we did."

 "Then I'll tell," he said.

 She stood up and walked slowly out of the cubicle, her shoulders

 slumped forward in the attitude Of surrender, He knew she would come.

 In a hired carriage Sean arrived punctually at the Goldberg residence.

 He arrived like a column of wise men from the east.

 The seats of the carriage were piled with fancy wrapped packages.

 However, Sean's limited knowledge of a three, year, old female's tastes

 were reflected in his choice of gifts , Every single package contained

 a doll. There were large china dolls that closed their eyes when

 reclining, smart dolls with blonde hair and squawked when its stomach

 was squeezed, , a doll that passed water, dolls in a dozen national

 costumes and dolls in swaddling clothes.

 Mbejane followed the carriage leading the gift which Sean considered a

 master stroke of originality. It was a piebald Shetland pony, complete

 with a hand, fashioned English saddle and a tiny martingale and

 reins.

 The gravel drive was crowded with carriages. Sean was forced to walk

 the last hundred yards, his arms filled with presents.

 Under these circumstances navigation was a little difficult. He took a

 fix on the hideously ornamented roof of the mansion, he could just see

 over the top of his load, and set off blind across the lawns. He was

 aware of the continuous and piercing shrieking which grew louder as he

 proceeded, and finally of an insistent tugging on his right trouser

 leg. He stopped.

 "Are those my presents? " a voice from somewhere above the level of

 his knee asked. He craned his head out to one side and looked down

 into the upturned face of a miniature Madonna.

 Large shining eyes in an oval of innocent purity framed with shiny dark

 curls. Sean's heart flipped over.

 "That depends what your name is," he hedged.

 "My name is Miss Storm Friedman of The Golds, Chase Valley,

 Pietermaritzburg.

 Now are they my presents?

 Sean bent his knees until he squatted with his face almost on a level

 with that of the Madonna.

 , Many happy returns of the day, Miss Friedman," he said.

 , Oh, goody!" She fell on the packages, trembling with excitement

 while from the mass of fifty children who ringed them in the shrieking

 continued unabated.

 Storm demolished the wrappings in very short order, using her teeth

 when her fingers were inadequate for the task. One of her small guests

 attempted to assist her, but she flew at him like a panther kitten with

 a cry of

 "They're my presents! " He retired hastily.

 At last she sat in a litter of wrappings and dolls and pointed at the

 single remaining package in Sean's hands.

 "That one?" she asked.

 Sean shook his head. "No, that one is for your Mummy. But if you look

 behind you, you might find something else. " Mbejane, grinning widely,

 was holding the Shedland. For seconds Storm was too overcome to speak

 and then with a sound like a steam, whistle she flew to her feet.

 Deserting her newly adopted children, she ran to the pony.

 Behind her a flock of small girls descended on the dolls, vultures when

 a lion leaves the kill.

 "Lift me! Lift me!" Storm was hopping with delirious impatience.

 Sean took her up and the warm, wriggling little body in his hands made

 his heart flip again. Gently he set her on the saddle, handed her the

 reins and led the pony towards the house.

 A queen riding in state, followed by an army of her attendants, Storm

 reached the upper terrace.

 Ruth was standing beside the delicacy, laden trestle table with the

 parents of Storm's guests. Sean handed the lead rein to Mbejane.

 "Look after her well," and he crossed the terrace, very conscious of

 the many adult eyes upon him, thankful for the hour he had spent that

 morning at the barber's shop, and for the care he had taken with his

 attire, a brand, new suit of expensive English broadcloth, boots

 burnished to gloss, solid gold watch a chain across his belly and a

 white carnation in his buttonhole.

 He stopped in front of Ruth and removed his hat. She held out her

 hand, palm downwards. Sean knew that he was not expected to shake that

 hand.

 "Sean, how good of you to come."

 Sean took her hand. It was a measure of his feelings; that he bowed to

 touch it with his lips, a gesture which he considered French, foppish

 and undignified.

 "It was good of you to ask me, Ruth."

 He produced the box from under his arm and held it out to her.

 She opened it without a word and her cheeks flushed with pleasure when

 she saw the long, stemmed roses it contained. .

 "Oh, how sweet of you!" And Sean's heart did its trick again as she

 smiled full into his eyes, then slipped her hand into the crook of his

 arm.

 "I'd like you to meet some friends of mine.

 That evening when the other guests had left and Storm, prostrated with

 nervous and physical exhaustion, had been put to bed, Sean stayed on to

 dinner with the Goldbergs. By now both Ma and Pa Goldberg were fully

 aware that Sean's interest in Ruth was not on account of his previous

 friendship with Saul .

 All afternoon Sean had followed Ruth around the lawns like a huge St.

 Bernard behind a dainty poodle.

 During dinner Sean, who was extremely pleased with himself, the

 Goldbergs and life in general, was able to endear himself to Ma

 Goldberg and also dull Ben Goldberg's suspicions that he was a

 penniless adventurer. Over brandy and cigars Sean and Ben discussed

 the ventures on Lion Kop and Mahobo's Kloof. Sean was completely frank

 about the financial tightrope which he was walking, and Ben was

 impressed with the magnitude of the gamble and Sean's cold appraisal of

 the odds. It was just such a coup as this that had put Ben Goldberg

 where he was today. It made him feel nostalgic and vaguely sentimental

 of the old days, so that when they went through to join the ladies he

 patted Sean's arm and called him

 "My boy."

 On the front steps, while he was preparing to leave, Sean asked, "May I

 call on you again, Ruth?" and she answered,

 "I'd like that very much.

 Now began what was for Sean . a novel form of courtship.

 To his surprise he found he rather enjoyed it. Every Friday night he

 would entrain for Pieterniaritzburg and install himself in the White

 Horse Hotel. From this base he conducted his campaign.

 There were dinner parties, either at The Golds or with Ruth's friends

 or at one of the local hostelries where Sean played host.

 There were balls and dances, days at the races picnics and rides over

 the surrounding hills with Storm on her Shetland bouncing along between

 them. During Sean's absences from Ladyburg, Dirk moved into the

 cottage on Protea Street and Sean was relieved that he seemed to accept

 it with better grace.

 The time arrived when at last the first blOcks of wattle were ready for

 the axe. Sean determined to use this as an excuse to inveigle Ruth

 away to Ladyburg. The Goldbergs froze up solid at the suggestion and

 Only thawed when Sean produced a written invitation from Ada for Ruth

 to be her guest for the week. Sean went on to explain that it was to

 be a celebration of his first cutting of bark, which would begin at the

 end of the week, and that thereafter he could not leave Ladyburg for

 months.

 Ma Goldberg, who was secretly delighted at having Storm all to herself

 for a whole week, exerted a subtle influence on Ben, and very

 grudgingly he gave his approval.

 Sean decided that Ruth would be treated like visiting Royalty, the

 grand climax to his suit.

 As one of the biggest landowners in the district and because of his war

 honours, Sean ranked high in the complicated social structure of

 Ladyburg. Therefore, preparations for Ruth's visit produced an

 epidemic of excitement and curiosity that affected the entire Ladyburg

 district. The flood of invitations he released sent women to their

 wardrobes and sewing, baskets, while the outlying farmers begged

 accommodation from relatives and friends nearer town. Other leading

 members of the community, jealous of their social status, rode out to

 Lion Kop with others to provide entertainment on those three days of

 the week which Sean had left empty. Reluctantly Sean agreed, he had

 private Plans for those three days.

 Ada and her girls were inundated with orders for new clothing, but they

 still made one afternoon free and came up to the Lion Kop homestead

 armed with brooms and dusters and tins of polish. Sean and Dirk were

 driven from the house. They spent that afternoon riding over Sean's

 estate, looking for the best place to hold the big bush, buck shoot

 which would be the climax of the week.

 With a gang of his Zulus, Mbejane hacked down the jungle of undergrowth

 around the homestead and dug the barbecue pits.

 The Village Management Board met in secret conclave, infected by the

 general excitement and armed with strict instructions from their wives,

 they voted unanimously for a civic reception of Ruth Friedman at the

 station and a formal Ball that night. Dennis Petersen, who had Sean's

 consent to a barbecue on the night of Ruth's arrival, was placated with

 the promise that he would be allowed to make a short speech of welcome

 at the station.

 Sean called upon Ronny Pye and was again surprised when Ronny agreed

 cheerfully to a further loan of one thousand pounds. Ronny signed the

 cheque with the satisfied air of a spider putting the final thread into

 his web, and Sean left immediately for Pietermaritzburg to visit a

 jeweller. He returned home five hundred pounds poorer, with a packet

 in his breast pocket that contained a huge square, cut diamond set in a

 band of platinum. Dirk was at the station to meet him. Sean took one

 look at him and ordered him to the village barber.

 The night before Ruth's arrival Sean and Mbejane fell upon Dirk in a

 surprise attack and dragged him protesting to the bathroom. Sean was

 astounded by the large quantities of foreign matter that he removed

 from Dirk's ears, and by the way in which Dirk's suntan dissolved so

 readily under an application of soap.

 The following morning as her railway coach ground to a jerky halt in

 front of the station building, Ruth looked down on a mass of strangers

 surrounding the roped, off area in front of her. Only one family was

 not represented in the crowd, which included the young ladies and

 gentlemen of Ladyburg High School in their church clothes.

 She stood uncertainly on the balcony of the coach and heard the hum of

 appreciative comment and speculation. Ruth had relieved the plain

 black mourning with a wide ribbon of pink around the crown of her hat,

 pink gloves and gauzy pink veil, which shrouded her firm in a misty and

 mystmions fashion. It was very effective.

 Convinced that there was some misunderstanding, Ruth was about to

 withdraw into the coach, when she noticed a deputation approaching

 along the roped, off passageway. It was headed by Sean and she

 recognized the thunderous scowl he wore as his expression of acute

 embarrassment. She felt an inexplicable urge to burst out laughing,

 but managed to keep it to a smile as Sean climbed up on to the balcony

 and took her hand.

 "Ruth, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't plan all this, things got a little

 out of control, " he whispered hurriedly, then he muttered an

 introduction to Dennis Petersen, who had ponderously mounted the steps

 behind him. Now Dennis turned to face the crowd and spread his arms in

 the gesture that Moses might have employed on his return from the

 mountain.

 "Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Ladyburg, friends, " he began, and

 from the way he said it Sean knew he was good for another half, hour.

 He glanced sideways at Ruth and saw that she was smiling.

 It came as a surprise to him when he realized she was enjoying herself

 Sean relaxed a little.

 "It gives me great pleasure to welcome to our fair town this lovely

 lady, friend of one of our foremost . . . " Ruth's fingers found their

 way surreptitiously into Sean's hand, and Sean relaxed a little more.

 He saw the wide brim of Ada's hat standing out in the crowd and he

 smiled at her. She replied with a nod of approval towards Ruth.

 By some curious twist of oratory, Dennis was now talking about the new

 water filtration plant and its benefit to the community.

 ", But, my friends, this is only the first of a series of projects

 planned by your Board. " He paused significantly.

 "Hear, hear," Sean interjected loudly and clapped his hands.

 The applause was taken up by the crowd, and Sean stepped past Dennis to

 the rail of the balcony.

 "On behalf of Mrs. Friedman and myself, I thank you for your

 friendship and your hospitality." Then, leaving Dennis on the balcony

 making helpless little movements with his hands and silently opening

 and closing his mouth, Sean spirited Ruth away, ran her through a rapid

 fire series of introductions and handshakes, gathered Ada and Dirk and

 got them all into the car rage

 While Sean and Mbenjane fussed with the luggage, Ruth an!

 Ada settled their skirts and adjusted their hats before meeting each

 other's eyes again.

 "Although Sean warned me, I didn't expect you to be quite so lovely,"

 Ada said. Flushing with pleasure and relief, Ruth leaned impulsively

 across to touch her arm.

 "I've been longing to meet you, Mrs. Courtney.

 "If you promise to call me Ada, then I'll call you Ruth."

 Sean scrambled into the carriage, flustered and perspiring.

 "Let's get the hell out of here! That week was to be remembered for

 many years. The usual Christmas festivities paled into insignificance

 beside it.

 Matrons competed fiercely to provide food, mountains of it, prepared

 from their closely guarded recipe books. In between cooking they

 conducted old feuds, began new ones and worried about their

 daughters.

 The young bucks competed on the gymkhana and polo field, then again on

 the dance floor. Dirk Courtney won the junior tent, pegging event.

 Then against a visiting team from Pietermaritzburg College he captained

 the school rugby Win to an inglorious 30, 0 defeat.

 The young ladies competed with equal ferocity, covering it with giggles

 and blushes. The success of their efforts was measured in the outbreak

 of betrothals and scandals during the week.

 The older men smiled indulgently, until, fortified with bottled spirit,

 they discarded their dignity and capered and panted around the dance

 floor. There were three bouts of fisticuffs but these were between old

 enemies and none of them were really worth watching.

 Only one family held aloof from the festivities. There were many of

 the young ladies who missed Michael Courtney.

 During one of the infrequent lulls of the week, Sean managed to

 separate Ruth from Ada, and take her out to the homestead at Lion

 Kop.

 She moved silently through the empty rooms, appraising each with

 narrowed thoughtful eyes while Sean hovered anxiously behind her,

 certain that her silence was disapproval.

 In fact, Ruth was in ecstasy; a shell, a magnificent shell of a house,

 with no trace of another woman in it, waiting for her to bring it to

 life. She could imagine exactly the curtains she wanted, her Persian

 carpets sent down by Uncle Isaac from Pretoria and now in storage,

 would look just right once she had the yellow, wood floors polished to

 a gloss. The kitchen, of course, would have to be completely rebuilt,

 with a new double Ago stove. The bedroom . . .

 Unable to contain himself, Sean blurted out: "Well, do you like it?"

 She turned slowly to him, the mists of thought clearing from her eyes

 "Oh, Sean! It's the most beautiful house in all the world."

 In this emotional moment, Sean put forward the proposition he had

 planned for that evening.

 "Ruth, will you marry me?"

 And Ruth, who had planned to hesitate and ask for a little time to

 consider, replied instantly: "Oh, yes please!"

 she was truly impressed with the ring.

 The finale to the week was Sean Courtney's bush, buck shoot.

 Sean and Dirk arrived at Protea Cottage with the dawn. They were

 dressed in rough hunting clothes and the leather gun, cases lay on the

 floor of the mule, wagon under Sean's feet. It took nearly fifteen

 minutes for Sean to transfer Ruth, Ada and her girls from the cottage

 to the carriage. In the same way a man might drive a flock of chickens

 towards the door of a henhouse.

 He would get them all moving slowly in front of him, down the path

 towards the carriage, clucking and fussing. Almost there when suddenly

 one of them would shriek softly and double back towards the cottage for

 a forgotten parasol or work, basket and the general movement would

 break down again.

 The third time this happened Sean felt something snap inside his head.

 He bellowed. A vast hush fell over the ladies and two of them looked

 as though they might cry.

 "Now don't get worked up, dear." Ada tried to soothe him

  

 "I am not getting worked up, dear." Sean's voice quivered with the

 effort of matitit. "But if everybody is not in the carriage by the

 count of ten, then I might easily get that way.

 They were all seated by the count of five and he drove out to the stock

 pens

 Carriages and mule, wagons carrying the entire population of the

 Ladyburg district were waiting in a disorderly tangle in the field

 beside the stock pen Sean trotted past in a babble of greeting and

 comment. One at a time the waiting carriages wheeled into line behind

 him and the long convoy wound out towards Mahobo's Kloof Farm. The big

 shoot had begun.

 In the middle of the line someone was playing a concertina and the

 singing started. It spread to each carriage in turn and blended with

 the sound of wheels and hooves and laughter.

 Gradually Sean's irritation smoothed out. Ada's girls were singing

 Boland Se Nooinentje in the back seat. Dirk had jumped down from the

 carriage and with half a dozen of the youngsters from the village ran

 ahead of the horses. Ruth's hand touched Sean's leg uncertainly and as

 he turned and grinned at her he saw the relief in her answering

 smile.

 "What a beautiful day, Sean."

 "Sorry I nearly spoiled it, " he answered.

 "Oh, nonsense!" She moved closer to him and suddenly he was happy. all

 the preparation was worth it. Beside him Ruth laughed softly.

 "What's the joke?" Sean reached out and took her hand.

 "No joke. I just felt like laughing," she answered. "Look how green

 everything is , " She said it to distract him, to make him look away so

 that she could study his face. The subterfuge worked.

 "The land seems so young now." His eyes, as he looked at it, took on

 that gentleness she knew so well. By now she knew many of his moods

 and she was learning how to induce or redirect each of them. He was

 such a simple man, yet in that simplicity lay his strength. He is like

 a mountain, she thought.

 You know how it will be with the sun on it in the early morning.

 You know that when the wind is in the south there will be mist covering

 the crest, and in the evening the shadows will fall in certain patterns

 across the slopes and the gorges will look dark and blue. Yet also you

 know the shape of the mountain is uDchanged, that it will never

 change.

 "I love you, my mountain," she whispered, and anticipated the startled

 expression before it flashed across his face.

 "I love you, my man," she amended.

 "Oh! I love you too."

 And now he is vaguely embarrassed. Oh, God, I could eat him! If I

 were to reach over and kiss him now in front of everybody . . . !

 Secretly she savoured the idea.

 "What devilment are you planning?" he demanded gruffly.

 He wasn't supposed to read her so accurately. Taken off balance she

 stared at him. Suddenly the mountain had shown that it understood

 exactly the way she felt when she looked at it.

 "Nothing, " she denied in confusion. "I wasn't. . . " Before she

 realized fully what he was about, he had turned half, way in his seat

 towards her and lifted her bodily into his lap.

 "Sean, no! " she gasped and then her protests were muffled.

 She heard the laughter of Ada's girls, the hoots of encouragement and

 applause from the other carriages, and she kicked and struggled,

 pushing with one hand against his chest and trying to keep her hat on

 with the other.

 By the time he replaced her on the seat beside him, her hair had come

 down behind, her hat was off and her cheeks and ears were flaming red.

 She had been very thoroughly kissed.

 "Nice shot, Sean!"

 "Author! Author!"

 "Arrest that man!" the cries and the laughter added to her

 confusion.

 "You're terrible! " Ruth used her hat as a screen behind which she

 tried to control her blushes. "In front of all those people, too!

 " "That should keep you out of mischief for a while, me lass!

 And suddenly she wasn't so sure of the shape of her mountain.

 The cavalcade turned off along the rough track from the main road,

 splashed through the drift, climbed the far bank and spread out among

 the trees. Servants, who had been waiting since the previous evening,

 ran to their masters' horses as they halted.

 Each vehicle disgorged a noisy blast of children and dogs, and then a

 more dignified trickle of adults. The women moved without hesitation

 towards the two huge marquees that had been erected among the trees,

 while the men unloaded the gun, cases and began assembling their

 weapons.

 Still sitting on the front seat of the wagon, Sean opened the leather

 case at his feet and while his hands automatically titteet the barrels

 into the breech piece of his shotgun he allowed him self to review his

 preparations with a certain amount of satisfaction.

 He had selected this site not only for the cool grove of syringA trees

 which provided shade above and a soft carpet of fallen leaves below,

 nor for the proximity of the tinkling stream where all the animals

 could be watered, but also because it was situated within fifteen

 minutes' walk of the first beat.

 Days before a gang of Zulus working under Mbejane had cleared out all

 the undergrowth beneath the trees, had erected the marquee tents and

 the trestle tables, dug the cooking pits and even built two grass,

 walled pit latrines discreetly out of view of the main camp Huge log

 fires were burning in the cooking pits now, but by noon they would have

 burned down to glowing coal beds. The trestle tables about which the

 women had already begun working were laden with food. There was a

 great deal of activity going on in that direction at the moment, most

 of it talking.

 From the other wagons men were starting to drift towards him, buckling

 on their cartridge belts, hefting shotguns, chatting together

 nonchalantly in an attempt to disguise their excitement.

 Under instruction from Sean, Dirk had assembled a rabble of those males

 who were too young to handle shotguns but too old to stay with the

 women. These were making no effort to hide their excitement.

 Armed with sikelav (the Zulu fighting sticks) they were showing every

 indication of getting out of hand. Already one small boy was weeping

 loudly and massaging the welt he had received from a playful sikela.

 " All right, shut up, all of you," Sean shouted. "Dirk will.

 take you up to the beaters. But remember! Once the hunt starts, keep

 in the line and listen to what you're told. If I catch anybody of you

 running about or getting ahead of the line, I'll personally wallop the

 tar out of him. Do you understand? " It was a long speech to shout

 and Sean ended with his face flushed ferociously. That gave weight to

 his words and resulted in a respectful chorus of

 "Yes, Mr. Courtney."

 "Off you go, then."

 Whooping, racing each other they poured away through the trees and a

 comparative peace descended on the camp.

 "My God, let alone bush buck, that lot would drive elephant buffalo and

 lion panic, stricken ahead of them," observed Dennis Petersen dryly.

 "How about our positions, Sean?"

 Aware that he had their complete attention, Sean drew out the nmoment a

 little.

 , We are going to drive the Elands' Kloof first," he announced.

 "Mbejane and two hundred Zulus are waiting at the head of the Kloof for

 the signal. The guns will take station at the tail of the Kloof. "

 Sean paused.

 "How about our positions?"

 "Patience. Patience. " Sean chided them. "I know I shouldn't have to

 repeat the safety rules, but . . . and he immediately went on to do

 so. "No rifles, shotguns only. You'll shoot only in an arc of 45

 degrees directly ahead of you, no passing shots to either side.

 Especially you, Reverend." That gentleman, who was notoriously

 trigger, happy, looked suitably abashed. "My whistle will mean the

 beaters are too close, all guns up and unloaded immediately."

 "It's getting late, Sean.

 "Let's get on with it."

 "Right," Sean agreed. "I'll take centre gun." There was a murmer of

 agreement. That was fair enough, the plum to the man who provided the

 hunt, no one could grudge that. "On my left flank in this order,

 Reverend Smiley, since the Almighty will obviously send most of the

 game his way, I might as well profit by it." A burst of laughter as

 Smiley wavered between horror at the blasphemy and delight at his own

 good fortune.

 "Then Ronny Pye, Dennis Petersen, Ian Vermaak, Gerald and Tony Erasmus

 (you two fight it out in a brotherly fashion), Nick. ... Sean read

 from the list in his hand. This in strict order of seniority was the

 social register of Ladyburg, a proper and exact balancing of wealth and

 influence, of popularity and age. Apart from placing himself in the

 centre of the line, Sean had not taken much part in the preparation of

 the list, quite correctly Ada had not trusted his sense of social

 perception.

 "That takes care of the left flank." Sean looked up from the list. He

 had been so engrossed in reading that he had not sensed the air of

 tension and expectancy which had fallen over his audience. A single

 horseman had crossed the drift and walked His magnificent thoroughbred

 into the camp. He had dismounted quietly and servants had led his

 horse away. Now, carrying a shotgun, he was walking towards Sean's

 wagon.

 Sean looked up and saw him. He stared in surprise, while slowly

 elation mounted within him until it reached his face in a wide grin.

 "Garry, glad you could make it!" he cowled out spontaneously, but

 Garry's face remained without expression. He nodded a curt greeting.

 At least he's come, exulted Sean. This is the first overture.

 Now it's up to me.

 "You can take the first position on my right, Garry."

 "Thank you. " Now Garry smiled, but it was a curiously cold grimace

 and he turned away to talk with the nearest man , A small shiver of

 disappointment moved the crowd. They had expected something

 spectacular to happen. All of them knew the feud between the Courtney

 brothers and the mystery that surrounded it. But now, with a feeling

 of anti, climax they turned their attention back to Sean's reading.

 Sean finished and jumpe( down from the wagon, and immediately the crowd

 moved away Sean sought Garrick and saw him far ahead near the head of

 the.

 long file of men that was strung out along the footpath that led to

 Elands' Kloof.

 The file moved fast as the hunters stepped out eagerly. Unless he ran,

 Sean knew he would not be able to pass the men ahead of him and catch

 up with Garry. I'll wait until we reach the beat, he decided.

 My God, what a wonderful ending to this week. I have Ruth, now if only

 I can get back my brother and with him, Michael!

 From the shoulder of the gorge Sean looked down across Elands' Kloof. A

 deep slot of a valley, two miles long and five hundred yards wide at

 this end, but it tapered slowly upwardly until it lost its identity in

 the high ground. The full length of it was clogged solid with dark

 green bush, a seemingly impenetrable mass above which a few tall trees

 reared up in a desperate attempt to reach the sunlight.

 Like the tentacles of a giant squid, creepers and vines lifted from the

 dark bush to overpower then and drag them down. Here on the shoulder

 the air was dry and wholesome, down there it would stink of damp earth

 and rot ting vegetable matter.

 Lingering as though suddenly reluctant to go down into the humid

 discomfort of the Kloof, the hunters gathered on the shoulder.

 Shading eyes against the glare, they peered up toward, the head of the

 gorge where the beaters were a line of dari specks against the green

 spring grass.

 "There go the kids," someone pointed. Dirk was leading his band along

 the high ground above the Kloof.

 Sean moved across to his twin brother.

 "Well, Garry, how are things out at Theuniskraal?"

 "Not bad.

 "Iread your book, I think it's excellent. It certainly deserved the

 reception it got in London. Lord Caisterbrook wrote to me to say that

 your concluding chapter is giving the War Office just food for thought.

 Well done, Garry. " . "Thank you." But there was an evasive lack of

 warmth in Garry's reply. He made no attempt to continue the

 conversation.

 "Michael didn't come out with you today?"

 "No. " "Why not, Garry?" And Garry smiled for the first time, a cool,

 spiteful smile.

 "He didn't want to."

 "Oh!" The hurt showed in Sean's face for an instant, then he turned to

 the men around him. "Right, gentlemen, let's get down there.

 " In position now, a line of men standing quietly in the gloom and

 stagnant heat. Each man's neighbour visible only as an indefinite

 shape among the leaves and vines and fallen trees. Few things sharp,

 the outline of a hat, brim, the glint of a random beam of sun on gun,

 metal, a human hand framed in a hole of dark green leaves. The silence

 heavy as the heat, spoiled by the nervous rustle of a branch, a hastily

 smothered cough, the click of a shotgun breech.

 Sean hooked his thumb across both hammers of his gun and pulled them

 back to full cock, lifted the twin muzzles to the roof Of leaves above

 his head and fired in rapid succession. He heard the deep booming note

 of the gun bouncing against the sides of the valley, echoing and

 fragmenting as it was thrown back upon itself. Then swiftly the

 silence closed in again.

 He stood motionless, tuning his hearing as finely as was possible, but

 his reward was the thin drone of an insect and the harsh startled cry

 of a bush laurie. He shrugged, two miles of distance and the mass of

 vegetation would blanket completely the cries of the beaters and the

 clatter of their sticks as they thrashed the bush. But they were

 coming now, of this he was certain, they would have heard his signal

 shots. He could imagine them moving down the line, two hundred black

 men interspersed with the small white boys, chanting the rhetorical

 question which was as old as the drive hunt itself.

 "Eyapi, Repeated over and over again, the accent on the first half of

 the word, shrilling it.

 , Eyapi? Where are you going?"

 And between him and the beaters, in that wedge of tangled bush there

 would be the first uneasy stirring. Dainty bodies dappled with grey,

 rising from the secret beds of fallen leaves.

 Hooves, pointed and sharp, splayed and driven deep into sot't leaf,

 mould by the weight of tensed muscle. Ears pricked forward, eyes like

 wet black satin, shiny moist muzzles quivering and snuffling, corkscrew

 horns laid back. The whole poised on the edge of flight.

 With the taint of gunsmoke in his nostrils, Sean opened the action of

 his shotgun and the empty shells ejected crisply, spilling out to leave

 the eyes of the breech empty. He selected fresh cartridges from his

 belt and slid them home, snapped the gun closed and thumbed the hammers

 on to half, cock.

 Now they would be moving. The does first, ginger, brown and away down

 the valley with then dappled like roe, deer, slipping fawns long,

 legged beside them. Then the bucks, the Inkonka, black and big and

 silent as shadows; crouching as they moved, horns flat against their

 shoulders. Moving away from the faint cries and the commotion, moving

 their mates and their young away from danger, down towards the waiting

 guns.

 "I heard something there! " The Reverend Smiley's voice sounded as

 though he were being strangled, probably by the dog collar which showed

 as a pale spot in the gloom.

 "Shut up, you fool!" Sean gambled his chance of salvation on the

 rebuke, but he need not have worried for the endearment, was drowned by

 the double blast of Smiley's shotgun, so in decently loud and totally

 unexpected that Sean's feet left the ground.

 "Did you get him'?" Sean asked, his voice a little shaky from the

 fright.

 "Reverend, did you get one?" Sean demanded. He had seen nothing, and

 heard nothing that might by the most generOU' stretch of imagination

 lead anyone to suspect the presence of bush buck.

 "My goodness, I could have sworn . Smiley's reply was in the kind of

 voice you would expect from beyond the grave

 "Oh dear, I think I must have been mistaken."

 Here we go again, thought Sean with resignation.

 "If you run out of cartridges let me know," he called softly and

 grinned at Smiley's inured silence. The shots would have turned the

 game back towards the beaters, they would be start iv to mill now as

 they sought an avenue of escape. Perhaps move over out on the flanks.

 As if in confirmation of Scans thoughts, a shotgun thudded out on the

 left, then another, then two more on the right.

 The fun had started in earnest.

 In the brief silence he heard the beaters now, their excited cries

 muffled but urgent.

 A blur of movement ahead of him through the screen of branches, just a

 flick of dark grey and he swung the gun and fired, wallop of the butt

 on to his shoulder, and thud and scuffle and roll and kick in the

 undergrowth.

 "Got him!" exulted Sean. Still kicking, the head and shoulders of a

 half, grown ram emerged from under a bramble bush.

 it was down, mouth open, bleeding, crabbing against the earth, leaving

 a drag mark through the dead leaves. Boom again, the mercy stroke, and

 it lay still. Head speckled with tiny gunshot wounds, eyelids

 quivering into death and the swift rush of blood from the nostrils.

 The din of gunfire all about, cries of the beaters and the answering

 shouts of the gunners, the panic, stricken run and crackle in the bush

 ahead.

 Inkonka, big one, black as a hellhound, ffiree twists in the horn, eyes

 staring, lunging into the clearing to halt with head up and front legs

 braced wide, hunted, panting, wild with terror.

 Lean forward against the gun, hold the pip on his heaving chest and

 fire. The bounce of the gun and the long blue gush of smoke.

 Knock him down with the solid charge of short range buckshot.

 Cleanly, quickly, without kicking.

 "Got him!"

 Another one, blundering straight into the gun line, blind with panic,

 bursting out of the undergrowth almost on top of Sean.

 Doe with fawn at her heels, let her go.

 The doe saw him and wheeled left to take the gap between Sean and

 Garrick. As it dashed through, Sean looked beyond and saw his

 brother.

 Garrick had left his position and closed in on Sean. He was crouched

 slightly, the shotgun held in both hands, hammers fully cocked, , and

 his eyes were fastened on Sean.

 Garrick waited quietly during the initial stages of the beat, The tree,

 trunk on which he sat was soft and rotten, covered with moss and the

 orange and white tongues of fungus. From the inside pocket of his

 jacket he took the silver flask inlaid with camelians. The first

 mouthful started his tears and numbed his tongue, but he swallowed it

 painfully and lowered the flask.

 He has taken from me everything I ever had of value: My leg: Garry

 looked down at the way it stuck out stiffly ahead of him with the heel

 buried in the damp leaf, mould. He drank again quickly, closing his

 eyes against the sting of brandy.

 My wife: In the dark redness behind his eyelids he saw her again, as

 Sean had left her, lying in torn clothing with bruised and swollen

 lips.

 my manhood. Because of what he did to her that night, Anna has never

 let me touch her body. Until then there was hope. But now I am forty,

 two years old and I am virgin. It is too late.

 My position. That swine Acheson would never have thrown me out, but

 for Sean.

 And now he will take Michael from me.

 He remembered again the premonition of disaster that he had experienced

 when Anna reported to him how she had found Michael and Sean together

 on Theuniskraal. It had started then, each little incident building

 up. The day Michael had stared at the faded but bold entries in the

 leather, bound stock register. Is that Uncle Sean's handwriting?"

 That battered saddle Michael had found in the loft above the stables;

 he had polished it lovingly and restitched the seams, fitted new

 stirrup leathers, and used it for a year. Until Garry had noticed the

 crude initials cut into the leather of the flap.

 "SC." That night Garry had taken the saddle and thrown it into the

 furnace of the hot, water boiler. , Eight months ago, on Michael's

 twenty first birthday, Garry had called him into the panelled study of

 Theuniskraal, atic' reluctantly told him of Scans legacy to him.

 Michael had read the dog, eared sheet and read it through with his lips

 moving silently. Then at last he looked up and his voice was shaky.

 "Uncle Sean gave me a half, share in Theuniskraal even before I was

 born. Why, Dad? Why did he do that?" And Garry had no answer for

 him.

 This last week had been the climax. It had taken all Anna and

 Garrick's combined influence and entreaties to prevent Michael

 responding to the invitations Sean had sent. Then the Zulu herd, boy,

 whose duty was to follow Michael and come to Garick immediately Michael

 crossed the boundary of The unieskraal, reported that each evening

 Michael rode up to the high ground on the escarpment and sat there

 until after dark staring in the direction of Lion Kop ranch.

 I am going to lose him. He is my son, even if Sean sired him.

 But he is my son, and unless I prevent it Sean is going to take that

 away from me also.

 Unless I prevent it. He lifted the flask to his lips once more and

 found with surprise that it was empty. He screwed the stopper down and

 returned the flask to his pocket.

 Around him the gunfire and the shouting began. From the log beside him

 he picked up the shotgun and loaded it. He stood up and cocked the

 hammers.

 Sean saw him, coming slowly, limping a little, crouching, making no

 attempt to fend off the branches that dragged across his face.

 "Don't bunch up, Garry. Stay in your position, you're leaving a gap in

 the line.

 Then he noticed Garry's expression. It seemed that the skin had been

 stretched tight across the cheek, bones and the nose, so the rims of

 his nostrils were white. His jaws were chewing nervously and there was

 a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead. He looked sick or deadly

 afraid.

 "Garry, are you all right?" Alarmed, Sean started towards him, then

 stopped suddenly. Garry had lifted the shotgun.

 "I'm sorry, Sean. But I can't let you have him," he said. The blank

 double eyes of the muzzles were all Sean saw of the gun, and below

 them, Garry's knuckles white with pressure, as he gripped the stock.

 One finger was hooked forward around the triggers.

 Sean was afraid then. He stood without moving for his legs were heavy

 and numb under him.

 "I've got to." Garrys voice was a croak. "I have to do it otherwise

 you'll take him. You'll destroy him also.

 With fear making his legs clumsy and slow, Sean turned deliberately

 away from him and walked back to his station. The muscles of his back

 were stiff with anticipation, knotted so tightly that they ached.

 The beaters were close now, he could hear them shouting and thrashing

 the bush just ahead. He lifted the whistle to his lips and blew three

 shrill blasts. The shouting died away, and in the comparative silence

 Sean heard a sound behind him, a sound half, way between a sob and a

 cry of pain.

 Slowly, inchingly, Sean turned his head to look back. Garry was

 gone.

 Beneath him Sean's legs began to tremble, and a muscle in his thigh

 twitched spasmodically. He sank down and sat on the carpet of soft

 damp leaves. When he lit a cheroot he used both hands to steady the

 fluttering flame of the match.

 "Dad! Dad!" Dirk came pelting out into the tiny clearing,

 "Dad, how many did you get?"

 "TWo," said Sean.

 "Only two? " And Dirk's voice went flat with disappointment and shame.

 "Even Reverend Smiley beat you hollow. He got four!

 Ruth returned to Pietermaritzburg the afternoon following the hunt.

 Sean insisted on accompanying her home. Ada, Dirk and a dozen of the

 friends Ruth had made during the week were at the station to see them

 leave. Sean was trying to detach Ruth from the earnest discussion into

 which all women seemed to fall on the eve of a major parting. His

 repeated,

 "You'd better get aboard, my dear," and

 "The flag's up, Ruth," were studiously ignored by all of them, until he

 found it necessary to take Ruth's arm and bundle her up into the coach.

 Her head reappeared instantly at the window to take up the discussion

 at the exact point where Sean had interrupted it. Sean was about to

 follow her when he saw Dirk. With a stab of guilt Sean realized how,

 blatantly he had neglected Dirk during the week.

 "Cheerio, Dirkie," Sean called gruilly and the boy flew at him and

 wound his arms tightly around Sean's neck.

 "Come on, Dirk. I'll be back tomorrow morning.

 "I want to go with you."

 "You have school tomorrow." Sean tried to loosen Dirk's hold. The

 women were watching in silence now, and Sean felt himself flushing With

 embarrassment. God, he's not a baby anymore, he's nearly fifteen. He

 tried to keep his irritation from showing in his voice as he whispered:

 "Stop that now. What will people think of you?"

 "Take me with you, Dad. Please take me," and Dirk quivered against

 him. The whistle blew and with voluble relief the women turned away

 and began talking all at once.

 "Do you think I'm proud of you when you act like this? Sean hissed at

 him. "Now, behave yourself and shake hands properly. " Dirk clutched

 his hand, with the tears filling his eyes.

 "Stop it this instant! " Sean turned abruptly and swung himself up

 into the coach as the train jerked forward and started sliding out of

 the platform.

 Dirk took a few indeterminate paces after it and then stopped with his

 shoulders shaking uncontrollably, his eyes still fastened on Sean's

 face as it protruded from the window.

 "Your father will be back tomorrow, Dirkie. " Ada laid her hand

 consolingly on Dirk's shoulder.

 "He doesn't love me," whispered Dirk. "He never even . .

 "Of course he does," Ada interrupted quickly. , It was just that he

 was so... But Dirk did not wait for her to finish. He shrugged her

 hand away, spun round and jumped blindly from the Platform On to the

 tracks, ducked through the barbed, wire fence beyond and ran out across

 the fields to intercept the train as it made its first long turn on to

 the slope of the escarpment.

 He ran with his face contorted, and the harsh grass brushing his legs,

 he ran with his arms pumping the rhythm of his racing feet, and ahead

 of him the train whistled mournfully and crawled out from behind the

 Van Essen plantation.

 It was crossing his front, still fifty yards away, slowly gathering

 speed for its assault on the escarpment. He would not reach it, even

 though Sean's coach was the last before the guard's van, he would not

 reach it.

 He stopped, panting, searching wildly for a glimpse of his father, but

 the window of Scans compartment was blank.

 "Pa! " he shrieked, and his voice was lost in the clatter of the

 crOssties and the hoarse panting of steam.

 "Pa!" He waved both arms wildly above his head. "Pa! It's, me.

 Me, Dirk."

 Sean's compartment moved slowly across his line of vision For a few

 brief seconds he looked into the interior.

 Sean moved sideways to the window, he was leaning forward with his

 shoulders hunched and Ruth was in his arms. Her head thrown back, the

 hat gone from her head and her dark hair in abundant disarray. She was

 laughing, white teeth and eyes asparkle. Sean leaned forward and

 covered her open mouth with his own. And then they were past.

 Dirk stood like that with his arms raised. Then slowly they sank to

 his sides. The tension in his lips and around his eyes smoothed away.

 All expression faded from his eyes and he stood and watched the train

 puff and twist up the slope until with a last triumphant spurt of steam

 it disappeared over the skyline.

 Dirk crossed the railway line and found the footpath that climbed the

 hills. Once he lifted his hands and with his thumbs wiped the tears

 from his cheeks. Then he stopped listlessly to watch a scarab beetle

 at his feet. The size of a man's thumb, glossy black and homed like a

 demon, it struggled with a ball of cow-dung three times its own size.

 Standing on its back legs, thrusting with its front, it rolled the

 perfect sphere of dung before it. Oblivious of everything but the need

 to spawn, to bury the ball in a secret place and deposit its eggs upon

 it, it laboured in spent dedication.

 With the toe of his boot Dirk flicked the ball away into the grass. The

 beetle stood motionless, deprived of the whole purpose of its

 existence. Then it began to search. Back and forth, clicking and

 scraping its shiny body armour across the hard, bare earth of the

 path.

 Watching its frenzied search dispassionately, Dirk's face was calm and

 lovely. He lifted his foot and brought his heel down gently on the

 beetle.

 He could feel it wriggling under his foot until with a crunch its

 carapace collapsed and it spurted brown as tobacco juice.

 Dirk stepped over it and walked on up the hill In the night. Dirk sat

 alone. His arms were clasped around his legs and his forehead rested

 on his knees. The shafts of moonlight through the canopy of wattle

 branches had a cold white quality, similar to the emotion that held

 Dirk's body rigid. He lifted his head. Moonlight lit his face from

 above, accentuating the perfection of his features. The smooth, broad

 depth of his forehead, the flaring dark lines of his brows set off the

 large but delicately formed plane of his nose. But now his mouth was a

 line of pain. of cold white pain.

 I hate him. " His mouth did not lose the shape of pain, as he

 whispered the words, "and I hate her. He doesn't care about me

 anymore-all he cares about is that woman. " The vicious hiss of breath

 through his lips was the sound of despair.

 "I always try to show him ... No one else but him, but he doesn't care.

 Why doesn't he understand-Why? Why? Why?

 And he shivered feverishly.

 "He doesn't want me. He doesn't care."

 The shivering ceased, and the shape of his mouth changed from pain to

 hatred.

 " "I'll show him. If he doesn't want me-then I'll show him.

 And the next words he spat as though they were filth from his mouth,

 "I hate him." Around him the wattle branches rustled in the wind. He

 jumped to his feet and ran, following the moonlit road deeper into the

 plantations of Lion Kop.

 A meerkat hunting alone along the road saw him and scampered into the

 trees like a small grey ferret. But Dirk ran on, faster now as his

 hatred drove him and his breathing sobbed in rhythm with his feet. He

 ran with the dry west wind into his &face, he needed the wind. His

 revenge would ride on the wind.

 "Now, we'll see," he shouted suddenly as he ran. "You don't want

 me-then have this instead!" And the wattle and wind answered him with

 a sound like many voices far away.

 At the second access road he turned right and ran on into the heart of

 the plantations. He ran for twenty minutes and when he stopped he was

 panting wildly.

 "Damn you-God damn you all. " His voice came catchy from his dried-out

 mouth.

 "Damn you, then." And he walked off the road and fought his way into

 the trees. They were two-year growth not yet thinned, and the branches

 interlaced to dispute his passage hands trying to hold him, small

 desperate hands clutching at him, tugging at his clothing like the

 supplicating hands of a beggar. But he shrugged them away and beat

 them off until he was deep in amongst them.

 "Here!" he said harshly and dropped to his knees in the soft crackling

 trash of small twist and dry leaves that carpeted the earth.

 Hooking his fingers he raked a pyramid of the stuff, and he sobbed as

 he worked so that his muttering was broken and without coherence.

 "Dry, its dry. I'll show you then-you don't want-Everything I've done

 you've ... I hate you ... Oh, Pa! Why? Why don't YOU-what have I

 done?"

 And the matchbox rattled. TWice he struck and twice the match broke in

 his fingers. The third flared blue, spitting tiny sparks of sulphur,

 burning acrid, settling down to a small yellow flame that danced in the

 cup of Ins hands.

 "Have this instead!" And he thrust the flame into the pile of

 kindling. It fluttered, almost died, and then grew again as a wisp of

 grass caught it.

  

 Consumed instantly, the grass was gone and the flame died, gone-almost,

 but then a leaf and it jumped brightly, orange points of flame in the

 twigs. The first tiny popping and it spread sideways, a burning leaf

 swirled upwards.

 Dirk backed away as the flame leapt jubilantly into his face.

 He was no longer sobbing.

 "Pa, " he whispered and the flame fastened on to the living leaves of a

 branch that hung above it. A wiff of wind hit it and sprayed sparks

 and golden flame against its neighbour.

 Pa." Dirk's voice was uncertain, he stood up and wiped his hands

 nervously against his shirt.

 "No." He shook his head in bewilderment, and the sapling bloomed with

 fire and the fire whispered softly.

 "No Dirk's voice rose. "I didn't mean. but it was lo eMt in the

 pistol-shots of flame and the whisper that was now a drumming roar.

 "Stop it," he shouted. "Oh God, I didn't mean it. No! No!"

 And he jumped forward into the heat of it, into the bright orange

 glare, kicking wildly at the flaming kindling, scattering it so that it

 fell and caught again in fifty new points of fire.

 "No, stop it. Please stop it!" And he clawed at the burning in tree

 until the heat drove him back. He ran to another sapling and tore a

 leafy branch from it. He rushed at the fire, beating at it, sobbing

 again in the smoke and the flame.

 Riding joyously on the west wind, roaring red and orange and black, the

 flames spread out among the trees and left him standing alone in the

 smoke and the swirling ash.

 "Oh Pa! I'm sorry-I didn't mean it."

 A shutter kept slamming softly in the wind, but this was not the only

 reason Michael Courtney could not sleep. He felt trapped, chained by

 loyalties he could not break; he was aware of the dark oppressive bulk

 of the Theuniskraal homestead around him.

 A prison, a place of bitterness and hatred.

 He moved restlessly on his bed and the shutter banged and banged, .

 He threw off the single sheet and the floorboards creaked as he stood

 up from the bed.

 "Michael! " The voice from the next room was sharp, suspicious.

 "Yes, Mother."

 "Where are you going, darling?"

 "There's a loose shutter. I'm going to close it.

 "Put something on, darling. Don't catch cold."

 Stifling, beginning to sweat now in physical discomfort, Michael knew

 he must get out of this house into the cool freedom of the wind and the

 night. He dressed quickly but silently, then carrying his boots he

 crept down the long passage and out on to the wide front stoep.

 He found the shutter and secured it, then he sat upon the front steps

 and pulled on his boots before standing again and moving out across the

 lawns. He stood on the bottom terrace of Theuniskraal's gardens and

 around him the west wind soughed and shook the trees.

 The restlessness of the wind increased his own, so he must get out of

 the valley-get up on to the high ground of the escarpment. He started

 to walk, hurrying past the paddocks towards the stables. In the stable

 yard he stopped abruptly, his tall lean body caught in mid-stride.

 There was a glow, a soft orange glow on the far hills of the Lion

 Kop.

 Then Michael ran, shouting as he passed the grooms' quarters.

 He threw open the half door of one of the stalls and snatched the

 bridle from its peg as he ran to his horse. Hands clumsy with haste,

 he forced the bit between the animal's teeth and buckled the cheek

 strap. When he led it out into the yard two of the grooms were standing

 there, bewildered with sleep.

 "Fire!" Michael pointed along the hills. "Call everybody and bring

 them to help. " He went up on to the bare back of his horse and looked

 down at them. "Bring every man from the location, come in the mule,

 wagon. Come as fast as you can. Then he hit his heels into the mare's

 flanks and drove out of the yard, laying forward across her back.

 Seventy minutes later Michael checked her on the crest of the

 escarpment. She was blowing heavily between his knees. Still five

 miles ahead, bright even in the bright moonlight, a circle of fire lay

 on the dark plantations of Lion Kop. Above it a black cloud, a cloud

 that climbed and spread on the wind to hide the stars.

 "Oh God, Uncle Sean!" The exclamation wrung from Michael was a cry of

 physical pain, and he urged the mare forward again. Charging her

 recklessly through the ford of the Baboo Stroom. so that the water

 flew like exploding glass, then lunging up the far bank and on along

 the hills.

 The mare was staggering in her gallop as Michael kneed her through the

 gates into the yard of the Lion Kop homestead.

 There were wagons and many blacknen carrying axes. Michael hauled the

 mare back so violently that she nearly fell.

 "Where is the Nkosi?" he shouted at a big Zulu he recognized as Sean's

 personal servant.

 "He has gone to Pietermaritzburg.

 Michael slid down from his horse and turned her loose.

 "Send a man to the village to ask for help.

 "It is done," the Zulu replied.

 "We must move all the livestock from the top paddocks, get the horses

 out of the stables, it may come this way," Michael went on.

 "I have sent all the wives to do these things."

 "You have done well, then. Now let us go."

 The Zulus were swarming up on to the wagons, clutching the long,

 handled axes. Michael and Mbejane ran to the lead wagon Michael took

 the reins. At that moment two horsemen galloped into the yard.

 He could not see their faces in the night.

 "Who's that?" Michael shouted.

 ster and Van Wyk! " The nearest neighbours.

 Thank God! Will you take the other wagons?"

 They dismounted and ran past Michael.

 Michael stood with his legs braced apart, he threw his shoulders open

 as he wielded the whip and then sent it snaking forward to crack an

 inch above the ears of the lead mules. They longed forward into the

 traces and the wagon bounced and clattered out of the yard.

 As they galloped in frantic convoy along the main access road towards

 the plantations they met the Zulu women with their children from the

 location streaming down towards the homestead, their soft voices

 calling greeting and speed to their men as they passed.

 But Michael hardly heard them, he stood with his eyes fastened on the

 pillar of red flame and smoke that rose from the heart of Sean's

 trees.

 "It is in the trees we planted two years ago. " Mbejane spoke beside

 him. "But already it will be close upon the next block of older trees.

 We cannot hope to stop it there.

 "Where then?

 This side there are more young trees and a wide road. We can try

 there.

 "What is your name? " Michael asked.

 "Mbejane. " "I am Michael. The Nkosi's nephew."

 "I know. " Mbejane nodded, then went on,

 "Turn off where next the roads meet.

 They came to the cross, roads. In the sector ahead were the young

 trees, ten feet high, thick as a man's arm, massed dark leaves and

 interlacing branches. Far out beyond them in the tall mature wattle

 was the line of flame. Above it a towering wall of sparks and dark

 smoke, coming down swiftly on the wind. It would be upon them in less

 than an hour at its present rate of advance.

 A fire like this would jump a thirty, foot road without checking, they

 must cut back into the young wattle and increase the gap to sixty feet

 at the least.

 Michael swung the wagon off the road and hauled the mules to a halt. He

 jumped down to meet the other wagons as they Came up.

 "Go on for two hundred yards, then start your boys in chop, ping out

 the wattle towards the fire, we've got to widen the road. I'll start

 my gang here", he shouted at Van Wyk.

 "Right. " "Mr. Broster, go on to the end of the block and start

 working back this way, cut the timber out another thirty feet. "

 Without waiting to hear more, Broster drove on. These two men, twice

 Michael's age, conceded him the right of command without argument.

 Snatching an axe from the nearest Zulu, Michael issued his orders as he

 ran to the young wattle. The men crowded after him and Michael

 selected a tree, took his stance and swung the axe in a low arc from

 the side. The tree quivered and rained loose leaves upon him at the

 blow. Smoothly he reversed his grip on the shaft of the axe and swung

 again from the opposite side. The blade sliced through the soft wood,

 the tree sagged wearily away from him and groaned as it subsided. He

 stepped past it to the next. Around him the Zulus spread out along the

 road and the night rang with the beat of their axes.

 Four times during the next half, hour fresh wagons galloped in, wagons

 loaded with men and driven by Sean's neighbours, until almost three

 hundred men were using the axe on Sean's lovingly planted and tenderly

 nursed wattle.

 Shoulder to shoulder, chopping in wordless frenzy, trampling the fallen

 saplings as they moved forward.

 Once a man yelled in pain and Michael looked up to see two Zulus

 dragging another back to the road with his leg half severed by the slip

 of a careless axe. Dark blood in the moonlight.

 One of the neighbours hurried to tend the injured man and Michael

 turned back to the destruction of the wattle.

 Swing, change hands and swing again, the solid thunk! and the tree

 swaying. Shove it over and struggle through the fallci@ tangle of

 branches to the next. Swing again, and smell the sweet bleeding sap,

 feel the ache in the shoulders and the sting of sweat in the burst

 blisters of the palms.

 Then suddenly the other smell, acrid on the wind. Smoke.

 Michael paused and looked up. The men on each side of him stopped work

 also and the firelight danced on their naked, sweat greased bodies as

 they leaned on their axes and watched it come On a front four hundred

 yards wide, ponderously it rolle down towards them. Not with the

 explosive white heat of a burning pine forest, but in the awful

 grandeur of orange and dar' red, billowing smoke and torrential

 sparks.

 Gradually the sound of axes died along the line as men stopped and

 watched this appalling thing come down towards them. it lit their

 faces clearly, revealing the awe that was on all of them.

 They could feel the heat now, great gusts of it that shrivelled the

 tender growth ahead of the flames, and suddenly a freak of the wind

 sent a bank of black smoke billowing down over the motionless line of

 men and blotted them out from each other. It cleared as swiftly as it

 came. and left them coughing and gasping.

 "Back! Get back to the road!" yelled Michael and the cry was taken up

 and thrown along the line. They waded back through the morass of

 waist, high vegetation and assembled in small subdued groups along the

 road, standing together helplessly with the axes idle in their hands,

 fearful in the face of that line of flame and smoke.

 "Cut branches to beat with! " Michael whipped their apathy.

 "String out along the edge. " He hurried along the road, pushing them

 back into line, bullying them, cursing in his own fear.

 "Come on, the flames will drop when they reach the fallen trees.

 Cover your faces, use your shirts. Hey, you, don't just stand there.

 With renewed determination each man armed himself with a green branch,

 and they re, formed along the road.

 Quietly they stood in the daylight glare of the flames, black faces

 impassive, white ones flushed with heat and working anxiously.

 "Do you think we'll be able to . Michael started as he reached Ken

 Broster, and then he stopped. The question he had been about to ask

 had no answer. Instead he said,

 "We've lost three thousand acres already, but if it gets away from us

 here! " Involuntarily both of them glanced back at the tall mature

 wattle behind them.

 "We'll hold it here," Broster stated with a certainly he did not

 feel.

 "I hope you're right," whispered Michael, then suddenly Broster

 shouted: "Oh Christ, look!

 For a moment Michael was blinded by the red glare and unsighted by the

 smoke. The tire burned unevenly. In places it had driven forward in

 great wedge, shaped salients of Ilaine and left behind bays of standing

 wattle that were withering and browning in the heat.

  

 From out of one of these bays, into the springy matt of fallen and

 trampled branches staggered a man.

 "Who the hell started Michael. The man was unrecognizable. His shirt

 ripped to shreds by branches that had also scourged his face into a

 bloody mask. He floundered forward towards the road, two slack

 exhausted paces before he fell and disappeared under the leaves.

 "The Nkosikana. " Mbejane's voice boomed above the thunder of the

 flames. "Dirk! It's Dirk Courtney!" Michael started forward.

 The heat was painful in Michael's face. How much more intense must it

 be out there where Dirk was lying. As if they knew their prey was

 helpless the flames raced forward eagerly, triumphantly, to consume

 him. Whoever went in to rob them would meet the full fury of their

 advance.

 Michael plunged into the brush and ploughed his way towards where Dirk

 thrashed feebly, almost encircled by the deadly embrace of the flames,

 and the heat reached out ahead of the flames to welcome him.

 Mbejane ran beside him.

 "Go back," shouted Mbejane. "It needs only one of us."

 But Michael did not answer him and they crashed side by side through

 the brush, racing the fire with Dirk as the prize.

 Mbejane reached him first and lifting him, turned back for the road. He

 took one step before he fell and rose again unsteadily from the mass of

 branches. Even his vast strength was insufficient in this vacuum of

 heat. His mouth was open, a pink cave in the glistening black oval of

 his face, wide open and his chest heaved strenuously as he hunted air,

 but instead sucked the scalding heat into his throat.

 Michael threw himself forward against the heat to reach him It was

 almost a solid thing, a barrier of red shimmering glare Michael could

 feel it swelling and tightening the skin of his face, and drying the

 moisture from his eyeballs.

 "I'll take his legs," he grunted and reached for Dirk. A patch of

 brown appeared miraculously on the sleeve of his shirt singed by the

 flames as though it had been carelessly ironed Beneath it the heat sunk

 a barb of agony into his flesh.

 Half a dozen paces together with Dirk between them before Michael

 tripped and fell, dragging Mbenjane down with him, They were a long

 time rising, all movement slowing down_, when they did they were

 surrounded.

 long prongs of flame had reached the area of fallen sapling on either

 side of them. This had slowed them and diminished their fury. But a

 chance gust of wind and fuel had forced them to curl inwards on each

 other, spreading horns of fire ahead of Michael and Mbejane and leaving

 them enclosed by a dancing, leaping palisade of flame.

 "Go through! " croaked Michael, his throat scalded and swolen.

 "We must break through. " And they churned their way towards the

 encircling wall.

 Through it, vague and unreal, he could see men beating at the flames,

 distorted phantoms trying desperately to open a path for them.

 Mbejane wore only a loin cloth, no breeches, coat nor boots to protect

 him, as Michael had.  He was very near the limit of his strength.

 Now looking at Michael across the body of the boy they carried, Mbejane

 saw a curious thing. Michael's hair crinkled slowly and then began to

 smoke, smouldering like an old sack.

 Michael screamed at the agony of it, a hideous sound that shrilled

 above the roar and crackle of the flames. But agony was the key that

 unlocked the last storehouse of his strength. As though it were a rag

 doll he snatched Dirk's body from Mbejane's grasp and lifting it with

 both hands on to his shoulders he charged into the fire.

 The flames reached to his waist, clawing greedily at him as he ran and

 the smoke eddied and swirled about him, but he was through.

 "Help Mbejane! " he shouted at the Zulu beaters and then he was out on

 to the road. He dropped Dirk and beat at his clothing with his bare

 hands. His boots were charred and his clothing was alight in a dozen

 places. He fell and rolled wildly in the dusty road to smother it.

 Two Zulus went in to help Mbejane. Two nameless blacknien, two

 labourers, men of no distinction. Neither of them wore boots. Both of

 them reached Mbejane as he tottered weakly towards them. One on each

 side they urged him back towards the road.

 At this moment Michael rolled to his knees in the road and despite his

 own agony watched them with a sickened fascination.

 Leading Mbejane between them as though he were a blind man, they

 stumbled barefooted into the flames and stirred up a great cloud of

 sparks around them. Then the smoke, rolled dOWT@ over them and they

 were gone.

 , Mbejane! " croaked Michael, and pushed himself to his feet to go to

 him, then: "Oh God, Oh, thank God." Mbejane and one of the Zulus

 stumbled out of the smoke into the arms of the men who waited for

 them.

 back for the other Zulu. No one went back for No one went him until

 two hours later when the dawn had broken and the fire had been stopped

 at the road and the mature wattle had been saved. Then Ken Broster led

 a small party gingerly into the wilderness of still smouldering ash,

 into the black desert. They found him on his face Those parts of him

 that had lain against the earth were still recognizable as belonging to

 a human being.

 "Ladyburg in twenty minutes, Mr. Courtney. The conductor put his head

 round the door of the compartment.

 "Thanks, Jack." Sean looked up from his book.

 "I see from this morning's paper that you're engaged to be married'? "

 "That's right."

 "Well, then, break clean, no hitting low, let's have a good fight and

 good luck to both of you Sean grinned and the clean man went down the

 passage. Sean packed his book into the briefcase, stood up and

 followed him.

 On the balcony of the coach he stopped and lit a cheroot, their he

 leaned on the railings and looked out across the veld for his first

 glimpse of Lion Kop. This had become a ritual whenever he returned to

 Ladyburg.

 This morning he was as happily content as he had ever been in his life.

 Last night, after conferring with Ma and Pa Gold berg, Ruth had set the

 wedding date for March next year. then Sean would have completed his

 first cutting of bark, an, they would take a month to honeymoon in the

 Cape Now, at last, I have everything a man could reasonably ask for, he

 thought, and smiled and in that moment he saw the smoke. He

 straightened up and flicked the cheroot away.

 The train snaked up towards the rim of the escarpment, slowing as the

 gradient changed beneath it. It reached the crest and the whole vista

 of the Ladyburg valley opened below it. Sean saw the great irregular

 blot upon his trees, with the thin grey streams of smoke drifting

 wearily away across the hills.

 He opened the balcony gate and jumped down from the train.

 He hit and slid and rolled down the gravel embankment. The Skin was

 scraped from his knees and the palms; of his hands.

 Then he was on his feet, running.

 Along the road where the fire had been stopped men waited.

 sitting quietly or sprawled in exhausted sleep, all of them were coated

 with ash and soot. Their eyes were smoke, inflamed and their bodies

 ached with fatigue. But they waited while the black acres smouldered

 and smoked sullenly, for if the wind came up again it would fan the

 ashes to life.

 Ken Broster lifted his head from his arm, then sat up quickly.

 "Sean's here!" he said. The men around him stirred and then stood up

 slowly. They watched Sean approaching, he came with the sloppy,

 blundering legs of a man who has run five miles.

 Sean stopped a little way off and his breathing wheezed and heaved in

 his throat.

 "How? How did it happen?"

 "We don't know, Sean." In sympathy Ken Broster dropped his eyes from

 Sean's face. You do not stare at a man in anguish.

 Sean leaned against one of the wagons. He could not bring himself to

 look again at the vast expanse of smouldering desert with the skeletons

 of the tree, trunks standing out of it like the twisted hand blackened

 fingers of an arthritic hand.

 "One of your men was killed," Ken told him softly. "One of your

 Zulus." He hesitated, then went on firmly. "Others were hurt, badly

 burned."

 Sean made no reply, he did not seem to understand the words.

 "Your nephew and your boy, Dirkie. " Still Sean stared at him dully.

 "Mbejane also. " This time Sean seemed to cringe away from him.

 "I sent them down to the homestead, the doctors there.

 Still no reply from Sean, but now he wiped the palm of his hand across

 his mouth and eyes.

 "Mike and Dirk aren't too badly, burned, Mbeiane's feet are in a hell

 of a mess." Ken Broster spoke quickly now.

 "Young Dirk got trapped in front of the flames. Mike and Mbejane went

 to get him ... surrounded... down ... picked him up ... tried to help

 ... useless... badly burned meat off his feet.

 For Sean the words were disjointed, meaningless. He leaned against the

 wagon. There was looseness in him, a lack of will, It was too much.

 Let it go. Let it all go.

 "Sean, are you all right?" Broster's hands on his shoulders. He

 straightened up and looked around him again.

 "I must go to them. Lend me a horse.

 "You go ahead, Sean. We'll stay on here and watch it for YOU.

 Don't worry about it, we'll make bloody sure she doesn't stan .

 again.

 "Thank you, Ken. " Then he looked around the circle of ancious

 compassionate faces. "Thank you," he said again.

 Sean rode slowly into the stable yard on Lion Kop. There were many

 carriages and servants, black women and children, but a hush came upon

 them when they recognized him. Surrounded by women, a crude litter lay

 near the far wall of the yard and Sean walked across to it.

 "I see you, Mbejane. " "Nkosi." Mbejane's eyelashes were burned away

 giving his face a bland and slightly puzzled expression. His hands and

 his feet were bound loosely in bundles of crisp white bandages through

 which ointment had soaked in yellow patches. Sean squatted behind him.

 He could not speak. He reached out almost, hesitantly and touched

 Mbejane's shoulder.

 "Is it bad?" he asked then.

 "No, Nkosi. It is not too bad. My wives have come for me I will

 return when I am ready.

 They spoke together a little while, and Mbejane told him about Dirk and

 how Michael had come. Then he murmured, , This woman is the wife of

 the one who died."

 Sean noticed her for the first time. She sat alone in the crowded

 yard, on a blanket against the wall. A child stood beside her: leaning

 forward, naked, holding one of her fat, black breasts, with both hands

 as he fed from it. She sat impassively with her legs folded under her,

 a cloak of ochre, dyed leather drape loosely over her shoulders, but

 open at the front for the child Sean moved across to her. The child

 watched him with large eyes, but without removing the nipple from his

 mouth and the corners of his mouth were wet with spilled milk.

 "He was a man," Sean greeted the woman.

 She inclined her head gravely. "He was a man!" she agreed.

 "Where will you go?" Sean asked.

 "To my father's kraal." The high headdress of red clay enhanced the

 quiet dignity of her reply.

 "Select twenty head of cattle from my herds to take with you.

 "Ngi Yabonga, I praise you, Nkosi.

 "Go in peace."

 "Stay in peace. " She stood, lifted the child on to her hip and walked

 slowly from the yard without looking back.

 "I will go now, Nkosi." Mbejane spoke from the litter. The colour of

 his skin was grey with pain. "And when I return we will plant again.

 It was only a small fire."

 "it was only a small fire." Sean nodded. "Go in peace, my friend.

 Drink much beer and grow fat. I will visit you.

 Mbejane chuckled softly and signalled his wives to their places around

 the litter. They lifted him, young women strong from their work in the

 fields, on to the soft mattress of fur, and they carried him out of the

 yard. They began to sing as they passed the gates, moving in double

 file on each side of the litter, stately and tall, their naked backs

 glistening with oil, rumps swaying together beneath the brief loin

 cloths, and their voices joined high and proud in the ancient song of

 welcome to the warrior returned from battle.

 Gathered on the stoep of Lion Kop were many of his neighbours and their

 wives, come with sympathy and offers of assistance.

 Ada was waiting for him as Sean climbed the steps.

 "Dirk?" he asked.

 "He is well, asleep now. Laudanum.

 "Michael?"

 "He is waiting for you. He refused the drug. I've put him in your

 room.

 On his way down the passage Sean stopped at Dirk's room and looked in.

 Dirk lay on his back with bandaged hands folded across his chest.

 His face was swollen and laced with ugly red lines where the wattle

 branches had clawed him. beside his bed Mary sat in patient vigil. She

 looked at Sean and made to rise. Sean shook his head.

 "No, I will come back when he is awake." He went down the passage to

 his own room.

 Three of Ada's girls hovered and chirruped about Michael's bed like

 birds whose nests are endangered. They saw him and stopped their

 chatter. All Ada's girls held Sean in unexplained awe.

 "Oh, Mr. Courtney. His poor hands one little lass began, then blushed

 crimson, dropped a hurried curtsey and escaped from the room.

 The others followed quickly.

 Sean moved across to the bed.

 "Hello, Mike." His voice was gruff, as he saw the blister that hung

 like a pale grape on Michael's cheek.

 "Hello, Uncle Sean." The raw places of his face and lips were smeared

 with yellow ointment. Sean sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed

 "Thank you, Michael," he said.

 Ronny Pye called early the following morning. With him came Dennis

 Petersen and both of them were wearing suits.

 "Very fancy turnout," Sean greeted them. "Business or social?

 Well, you might say a little of each." Ronny paused at the top of the

 veranda steps. " May we come in?"

 Sean led them to the end of the veranda, and they seated themselves

 before anyone spoke again.

 "I heard about the fire, Sean. Terrible business. I heard there was a

 native killed and both Dirk and Michael were hurt. Terrible business."

 Ronny shook his head in sympathy.

 "Did you also hear that I lost four thousand acres of timber?

 Sean inquired politely.

 "Heard that also." Ronny nodded solemnly. "Terrible business.

 Ronny and Dennis glanced at each other furtively, and then looked down

 at their hands.

 "Very nasty," Ronny repeated and a silence fell upon them.

 "Anything else worrying you?" Sean inquired politely.

 "Well, now that you've brought it up-- Ronny reached inside his jacket

 and withdrew a long folded document tied with a red ribbon.

 "Mind you, we don't have to discuss it today.

 Leave it until you feel better?"

 "Ok!" Sean grunted.

 "Clause eight. " Ronny spread the document between the coffee-cups on

 the table. "In the event of the said security, namely, a certain block

 of wattle known as No 2 block of Lion Kop Estates in extent

 approximately Ronny hesitated.

 "Guess there's no sense in me reading it all. You know what it says.

 That wattle was part of the collateral for the loan.

 "How long will you give me to raise the money?" Sean asked.

 "Well, Sean, you understand there is no period of grace allowed in the

 contract. Seems to me you'll have to put it up right away.

 "I want a month," Sean told him.

 "A month! " Ronny was shocked and hurt by the request.

 See here now, Sean. I don't honestly-I mean, surely you've got the

 money. I mean why do you need a month? Just let us have your

 cheque.

 "You know damned well I haven't got it."

 "Seems to me-" Ronny offered delicately. "Seems to me if you haven't

 got it now, there's not much chance you'll have it in a month.

 No offence, Sean, but we have to look at this thing from a business

 angle. If you follow me."

 "I follow you." Sean nodded. "And I want a month."

 "Give it to him," blurted Dennis Petersen, his first contribution, and

 Ronny turned on him instantly with his face twisting into a snarl.

 The struggle he had within himself to smooth out his features and to

 restore his voice to its level and reasonable tone lasted fully five

 seconds.

 "Well now, Dennis," he murmured. "That's an unusual way to look at it.

 Seems to me-" "I spoke to Audrey before we came up here. I promised

 her . . . Anyway, we both agreed." Dennis was staring out across the

 valley, unable to meet his partner's eyes.

 Suddenly Ronny Pye chucided. Yes, by all means, It would be seem

 better that way-watching this big arrogant bastard crawling round

 begging, with his hat in his hands. Sean would go to Jackson first and

 Ronny had telegraphed Jackson the previous afternoon. He had also

 telegraphed Nichols at the Standard Bank. By now the message would be

 spreading swiftly along the network of South African banking

 channels.

 Sean Courtney would find it difficult to borrow the price of a meal.

 "All right then, Sean. As a special concession you can have a month. "

 Then all the laughter was gone and he leaned forward in his chair.

 "You've got exactly thirty days. Then, by Christ, I am going to sell

 out under you.

 After they were gone Sean sat alone on the wide veranda. The sunlight

 on the hills was bright and hot, but in the shade it was cool.

 He heard Ada's girls chattering somewhere in the house, then one of

 them giggled shrilly. The sound irritated Sean, his frown deepened and

 he drew a rumpled envelope from his jacket pocket and smoothed it out

 on the arm of his chair. Awhile he sat in thought nibbling the stub of

 a pencil.

 Then he wrote: "Jackson. Natal Wattle. " And again, Standard Bank. "

 Then

 "Ben Goldberg. " He paused and considered this last name on his list.

 Then he grunted aloud and scratched it out with two hard strokes of the

 pencil. Not from the Goldbergs. Leave them out of this.

 He wrote quickly, scrawling a single word-"Candy" and below it "Tim

 Curtis."

 That was all. John Acheson was in England. It would take two months

 to receive a reply from him.

 That was all. He sighed softly and folded the envelope into his

 pocket. Then he lit a cheroot, sank down in the chair and placed his

 feet on the low veranda wall in front of him. I'll leave on tomorrow

 morning's train, he thought.

 The windows behind him were open. Lying beyond them in the bedroom

 Michael Courtney had heard every word of their conversation.

 Now he stood up painfully from the bed and began to dress. He went out

 the back way and nobody saw him leave.

 His horse was in the stables, and on a borrowed saddle he rode back to

 Theuniskraal.

 Anna saw him coming and ran out into the yard to meet him.

 "Michael! Oh, Michael. Thank God you are safe. We heard Then she saw

 his face and the raw, swollen burn on it and she from. Michael

 dismounted slowly and one of the grooms led his horse away.

 "Michael, darling. Your poor face." And she embraced him quickly.

 "It's nothing, Mother."

 "Nothing!" She pulled away from him, lips drawn into a tight, hard

 line. "You run away in the middle of the night to that ... that Then

 you come home days later with your face and your hands in a terrible

 mess-is that nothing!

 "I'm sorry, Mother. Gran'a looked after me.

 "You knew I'd be half-dead with worry, sitting here imagining all sorts

 of things. You didn't send word to me, you just let me, ... "You could

 have come to Lion Kop, " he said softly.

 "To the home of that monster? Never! " And Michael looked away from

 her.

 "Where's Father?

 "In his study, as usual. Oh, darling, you don't know how I've missed

 you. Tell me you love me, Michael.

 "I love You, " he repeated automatically and the sensation of

 suffocating was on him again. "I must see Dad. It's very urgent.

 "You've just arrived. Let me fix something to eat-let me se to your

 poor face.

 "I have to see Dad now.  I'm sorry." And he went past her towards the

 house.

 Garry was sitting at his desk when Michael walked into the study.

 Michael hated this room. He hated the high smoke-stained ceiling, the

 oppressive darkness of the panelled walls, the massive hunting

 trophies, he hated even the carpets and the smell of old paper and

 dust. From this room had issued the decrees and the pronouncements

 which had restricted and predetermined his life. This room was the

 symbol of everything from which he wished to escape. Now he glared

 around it defiantly, as though it were a living thing-Ive come back to

 extract from you what you owe me, he thought, you've had value from me,

 now pay me back!

 "Michael!" Garrick's boot scraped on the wooden floor as he stood to

 greet him, and Michael winced at the sound.

 "Hello, Dad."

 "Your mother and I we have been so worried. Why didn't you send word

 to us?" The hurt was there in Garrick's voice Michael opened his mouth

 to apologize in mitomatic guilt, but the words came out differently

 from the way he had intended.

 "I was busy. I didn't have a chance."

 "Sit down, my boy." Garrick gestured to one of the polished leather

 arm-chairs. He removed the metal-framed spectacles from his nose, but

 he did not look at Michael's injured face again. He would not think

 about Sean and Michael.

 "I'm glad you've come back. I was just working on the Opening chapters

 of my new book. It's a history of our family from the time of your

 great-great-grandfather's arrival at the Cape. I'd very much like your

 opinion. I'd value it immensely. The side red opinion of a graduate

 from the South African College. " The trap was closing. It was so

 obvious that Michael squirmed.

 He could almost feel the panelled walls moving in on him. He started

 to protest: "Dad, I have to speak to you." But already Garrick was

 adjusting his spectacles and shuffling through the papers on his desk,

 talking quickly.

 "I think you'll like it. It should interest you. " Garrick glanced up

 and smiled at Michael with the eagerness of a child that brings a gift.

 "Here we are. I'll. start at the beginning. You must allow for it

 being the first rough draft. It's not polished yet.

 And he began to read. At the end of each paragraph he searched for

 Michael's approval, smiling in anticipation of it. Until Michael could

 bear it no longer, until he shouted suddenly in the middle of a

 sentence.

 "I want you to pay me out my share of Theuniskraal.

 There was a momentary break in Garrick's reading, just a flutter in his

 voice to acknowledge Michael's request and then he went on steadily,

 but his voice had lost its timbre and was now a lifeless monotone, He

 finished the paragraph, laid the sheet aside, removed his spectacles

 and placed them in their case. The lid of the case snapped shut

 against the tension of its spring and Garry lifted his head slowly.

 "Why?"

 "I need the money."

 "What for?"

 "I need it."

 Garry stood up and moved across to the window. He stood before it with

 his hand clasped behind him. The green lawns flowed down to the fence

 that bounded the gardens, and upon them the poinsettia bushes were

 vivid patches of scarlet. Beyond, the land lifted into the first long

 roll, golden grass and scattered forest with the cattle feeding beneath

 and the massive silver and blue clouds piled above.

 "It will rain tonight," Garrick murmured, but Michael did not answer.

 "We need it. Three weeks of dry, and the pasture is withering. "

 Still no reply and Garry returned to his desk.

 "I hear there was a fire on Lion Kop last night.

 -"There was.

 "They say that your uncle is finished. They say the fire finished him.

 " "No!" Michael denied it quickly. "That's not true."

 "Is that why you want the money, Michael?"

 "Yes. "You want to give it to Sean?"

 "I want to buy a share in Lion Kop Wattle. I don't want to give

 anything-it will be a business offer.

 "And what about Theuniskraal-it's your home. You were born here.

 "Please, Dad. I've made up my mind."

 "Did Sean suggest this?"

 "He did not. He knows nothing about it.

 "It's your idea then. You thought it up all on your own. You're going

 to sell out your own parents for him. My God, what sort of hold has he

 over you that you would do that for him? " Flushing a dusty brick

 colour, Michael kicked back his chair and jumped to his feet.

 "You make it sound like treachery."

 "That's exactly what it is!" shouted Garrick. "It's Judas's work.

 Your mother and I-we raised you with everything. We scraped to send

 you to University, we built our whole lives around you. We worked for

 the day you would return here to Theuniskraal and . . ." He stopped,

 panting, and wiped from his chin the bubble of saliva that had burst

 through his lips.

 "Instead you ran off to Join that . . . that swine. How do you think

 we liked that? Don't you think it nearly broke our hearts?

 Of all people you had to go to him! And now, now you want half of

 Theuniskraal to take him as a gift-to buy his . . . " "Stop that! "

 Michael warned him sharply. "And before you go on remember where I got

 my half of Theuniskraal. Remember who made the original gift. " He

 picked up his hat and riding crop and strode towards the door.

 "Michael. " The terrible appeal in Garry's voice checked him.

 "What is it?"

 "Your share, it isn't very much. I hadn't told you before, but there

 was a time-when you were very young. The rinderpest.

 I had to-" He couldn't go on.

 "What are you trying to tell me?"

 "Sit down, Michael. Sit down and I'll show you." Reluctantly, afraid

 of what he was about to hear, Michael returned and stood beside his

 chair.

 Garry selected a key from the bunch on his watch-chain and opened the

 top drawer of his desk. He selected a rolled document, slipped it from

 its retaining ribbon and handed it without speaking to his son.

 Michael spread it and read the words upon the cover.

 "Deed of Mortgage."

 With a sliding sensation in his stomach, he turned the page.

 He did not read it all. Words and groups of words stood out in bolder

 print, and they were sufficient: "The Ladyburg Trust & Banking Co." .

 "A certain piece Of land in extent approx. 25,000 morgen situate in

 the district of Ladyburg, Magisterial Division of Pietermaritzburg,

 known as the farm Theuniskraal" "AB constructions, erections and

 improvement thereon" . "Plus interest at eight and one half per

 cent,"I see." Michael handed the document back to his father and stood

 up.

 "Where are you going?"

 "Back to Lion Kop. " "No!" Garry whispered. "No, Michael.

 Please, my son.

 No-O God-No!" Michael left the room and closed the door softly behind

 him.

 When Anna came into the room Garry was sitting behind the desk, sitting

 quietly with his shoulders slumped forward.

 "You let him go!" she hissed. Garry did not move, he did not seem to

 hear.

 "He's gone. Gone to your brother-and you let him." Her voice was very

 low, but now it rose harshly and she shrieked at him. "You useless

 drunken animal. Sitting here playing with your little books.

 You were not man enough to breed him-your brother had to do that for

 you! And you are not man enough to keep him-again your brother!

 You let him go. You've taken my son from me. " Garry sat unmoving.

 He saw nothing. He heard nothing. In his head was a soft, misty grey

 ness and the mist blotted out all sight and sotirid. It was warm in

 the mist-warn and safe. No one could reach him here for it wrapped and

 protected him. He was safe.

 "This is all you are good for." Anna snatched a handful of the

 manuscript sheets from the desk in front of him. "Your little pieces

 of paper. Your dreams and stories of other men-real men.

 She ripped the pages through and through again, then flung them at him.

 The pieces fluttered and swirled, then settled like dead leaves on his

 shoulders and in his hair. He did not move.

 Panting in her grief and anger, she took up what remained of the

 manuscript and shredded that also, scattering the tiny white scraps

 about the room.

 The two of them stood together on the station platform. They did not

 speak. Most of the previous day and night had been spent talking and

 now there was nothing more to say. They stood together in quiet

 companionship-and a stranger looking at them would have known

 immediately they were father and son.

 Though Michael was not as tall, and he was lean beside Sean's bulk-yet

 the tone of the skin and the colour of the hair were the same.

 Both had the big Courtney nose and their mouths were wide and

 full-lipped.

 "I'll telegraph as soon as I hit gold." Sean had explained to Michael

 in detail the financial structure of Lion Kop. He had told him how he

 intended to find the money which would keep it from collapsing.

 "I'll hold this end up. " Michael was to begin cutting the wattle

 which had survived the fire. They had ridden the previous afternoon

 through the plantations and marked the blocks which were ripe for the

 axe. "Good luck, Uncle Sean."

 "Since we are working together now, Mike, I suggest YOU drop the

 "Uncle." It's too clumsy for everyday use."

 Michael grinned. "Good luck, Sean."

 "Thanks, Mike." They clasped hands, gripping hard, then Sean climbed

 up into the coach.

 Jackson was friendly but firm and Nichols at the Standard Bank was very

 polite and full of sympathy. Sean caught the northbound train for

 Johannesburg to fire his last two bullets.

 "Colonel Courtney. How good to see you." The reception clerk at

 Candy's Hotel came round from behind his desk to greet Sean. "We were

 only talking about you last week. Welcome back to Johannesburg."

 "Hello, Frank. Putting on a little weight there, aren't you?", Sean

 prodded his waistcoat and the man chuckled. "Tell me, Frank, is Candy

 . . . is Mrs. Rautenbach in?"

 Ah! There've been some changes since you left, sir. " The clerk

 grinned with just a trace of malice. "It's not Mrs. Rautenbach any

 longer. No, sir. Mrs. Heyns-Mrs. Jock Heyns now!"

 "Good God! She married Jock!

 "That she did. Two weeks ago-biggest wedding in Jo'burg since the war.

 Two thousand guests."

 Where is she now?"

 "On the water. Off to England and the Continent for six months"

 honeymoon."

 "I hope she'll be happy," Sean murmured softly, remembering the

 loneliness he had seen in her eyes when he left.

 "With all Mr. Heyns's money? How can she be otherwise?"

 the clerk asked in genuine surprise.

 "Will you be staying, Colonel?"

 "If you have a room."

 "We always have a room for our friends. How long, sir?

 "Two days, Frank."

 Tim Curtis was Chief Engineer on the City Deep. When Sean spoke to him

 about a loan he laughed.

 "Christ! Sean, I only work there-I don't own the bloody mine."

 Sean had dinner with him and his bride of two years" standing.

 At their urging Sean examined their newborn infant and secretly decided

 that it looked like an unweaned bulldog.

 Extending his stay in Johannesburg, Sean visited the banks.

 He had dealt with most of them long ago, but the personnel had changed,

 so he was puzzled that the manager of each institution seemed to have

 heard of him.

 "Colonel Courtney. Now would you be Colonel Sean Courtney of Lion Kop

 Wattle Estates down in Natal?" And when he nodded he saw the shutters

 come down in their eyes, like windows barred by a prudent householder

 against burglars.

 On the eighth night he ordered liquor to be sent to his suite, two full

 bottles of brandy. He drank steadily and desperately.

 The brandy would not quieten the violent struggles of his brain, but

 seemed to goad it, distorting his problems and deepening his

 melancholia.

 He lay alone until the dawn paled out the yellow gaslight of the lamps.

 The brandy hummed giddily in his head and he longed for peace-the peace

 he had found only in the immense silence and space of the veld.

 Suddenly a picture fbrined in his mind of a lonely grave below a little

 hill. He heard the wind moan over it and saw the brown grass sway.

 That was peace.

 "Saul," he said, and the sadness was heavy on him for the pilgrimage he

 had promised himself and had not made.

 "It is finished here. I'll go now," and he stood up. The giddiness

 caught him and he clutched at the head-rail of the bed to steady

 himself.

 He recognized the kopJe from four miles off. Into his memory its shape

 was indelibly etched; the symmetrical slope of the sides cobbled with

 boulders that glinted dully in the sunshine like the scales of a

 reptile, the flattened summit ringed by a holder stratum of rock, the

 high altar on which the sacrifice to greed and Stupidity had been

 made.

 Closer he could discern the aloe plants upon the slopes, fleshy leaves

 spiked like crowns and jewelled with scarlet blooms. On the plain

 below the kopje, in the short brown grass, stood a long line of white

 specks. Sean rode towards them and as he approached each speck evolved

 into a cairn of whitewashed stones and on each stood a metal cross.

 Stiff from the long day in the saddle Sean dismounted slowly.

 He hobbled the horses, dropped saddle and pack from their backs and

 turned them loose to feed. He stood alone and lit a cheroot, suddenly

 reluctant to approach the line of graves.

 The silence of the empty land settled gently upon him, a silence not

 broken but somehow heightened by the sound of the wind across the

 plain. The harsh tearing as his mount cropped at the dry brown grass

 seemed sacrilegious in this place, but it roused Sean from his

 thoughts. He walked towards the double line of graves and stood before

 one of them. Stamped crudely into the metal of the cross the words

 "Here lies a brave burgher.

 He moved along the line of crosses and on each he read those same

 words. On some of them the printing was irregular, on one the "r- in

 burgher had been replaced by a "g." Sean stopped and glared at it,

 hating the man who in his haste and unconcern had made the epitaph an

 insult.

 "I'm sorry." He spoke aloud, apologizing to the man who lay beneath

 it.  Then he was embarrassed, angry at himself for the weakness. Only

 a madman speaks aloud to the dead. He strode away towards the second

 row of crosses.

 "Leading Seaman W. Carter, RN." The fat one,

 "Corporal Henderson CFS. " Twice in his chest and another in the

 belly.

 He walked along the line and read their names. Some were just names,

 others he saw instantly and vividly. He saw them laughing, or

 frightened, saw the way they rode, remembered the sound of their

 voices. This one still owed him a guinea, he remembered the bet.

 "Keep it. " He spoke and immediately checked himself again.

 Slowly he went on to the end of the line, his momentum running down as

 he approached the grave that stood separate from the others-the way he

 had ordered it.

 He read the inscription. Then he squatted down comfortably on his

 haunches beside it and stayed there until the sun settled and the wind

 turned cold and plaintive. Only then he went to his saddle and

 loosened the blanket-roll. There was no firewood and he slept fitfully

 in the cold of the night and the icier cold of his thoughts.

 In the morning he went back to Saul's grave. For the first time he

 noticed that grass was growing up between the stones of the cairn and

 that the cross sagged a little to one side. He shrugged off his coat

 and went down on his knees, working like a gardener over the grave,

 weeding out the grass with his hunting knife, making certain the roots

 were removed. Then he went to the head and lifted the rocks away from

 around the cross. He tore the cross from the ground and re-dug the

 hole for it, setting it up again carefully, plugging the base with

 pebbles and earth and at last packing the whitewashed rocks firmly

 around it once more.

 He stood back, brushed earth and flakes of whitewash from his hands and

 surveyed his handiwork. It was still not right, there was something

 missing. He thought about it, frowning heavily until he found the

 answer.

 "Flowers," he grunted and lifted his head towards the aloes on the

 kopJe above him. He set off up the slope, picking his way through the

 litter of boulders towards the summit. His knife slipped easily

 through the soft thick stems and the juice oozed heavily from the

 wounds. With an armful he started back down the slope. Out to one

 side a patch of colour caught his eye, a sprinkling of pink and white

 among the boulders. He detoured towards it. Hottentot Daisies, each

 one a perfect trumpet with a pink throat and a fragile yellow tongue.

 Delighted with his find, Sean laid aside his burden of aloe blooms and

 went in amongst them. Stooping like a reaper he worked through them

 towards the lip of a narrow ravine, gathering the flowers into posies

 and binding the stems together with grass. Finally, he reached the

 ravine and straightened up to rest his aching back.

 The ravine was narrow, he could have jumped across it with little

 effort-but it was deep. He peered down into it without much

 interest.

 The cleft was floored with rainwashed sand, and his interest quickened

 as he made out the half-buried bones of a large animal. But what made

 him climb down into the ravine was not the bones, but the bulky leather

 object entangled with them.

 Sliding on his backside the last few feet of the descent he reached the

 bottom, and examined his find. A leather mule pack double pouches, and

 the buckles of the harness almost rusted away. He tugged the whole lot

 loose from the sand and was surprised at the weight of it.

 The leather was dry and brittle, faded almost white with exposure and

 the locks of the pouches were rusted solid. With his knife he slit the

 flap of one pouch and out of it cascaded a stream of sovereigns.

 They fell into the sand, clinking upon each other in a heap that

 glittered with merry golden smiles.

 Sean stared at them in disbelief. He dropped the pack and squatted on

 his haunches over the pile. Timidly he picked up one of the discs and

 examined the portrait of the old President, before lifting the coin to

 his mouth and biting down upon it. His teeth sank into the soft metal

 and he removed it from his mouth.

 "Well, damn. me sideways," he invited, and he laughed out loud.

 Rocking back on his haunches and lifting his face to the sky he roared

 out his jubilation and his relief. It went on and on until his

 laughter dried suddenly, and he sobered.

 Cupping a double handful of the gold he asked it: "Now, where the hell

 did you come from?" And his answer was in the grim face embossed upon

 each coin. Boer Gold.

 "And who do you belong to?"

 The answer was the same, and he let the coins trickle through his

 fingers. Boer Gold.

 -The hell with it! he growled angrily. "Starting this minute it's

 Courtney Gold." And he began to count it.

 As his fingers worked so did his brain. He prepared his case against

 his own conscience. They owed him the balance outstanding on a train

 of wagons filled with ivory, they owed him his deposits in the

 Volkskaas Bank, they owed him for a shrapnel wound in the leg and a

 bullet in the belly, they owed him for three years of hardship and

 danger, and they owed him for a friend. As he stacked the sovereigns

 into piles of twenty he considered his case, found it good and proven,

 justified it and gave judgement in his own favour.

 "I find for the appellant," he announced, and concentrated his whole

 attention on the counting. An hour and a half later he reached the

 total.

 There was a huge pile of coins upon the flat rock he had used as a

 desk. He lit a cheroot and the smoke he drew into his lungs made him

 lighthearted. His conscience had surrendered unconditionally and in

 its place was a sense of well-being. All the more intense for the

 period of depression through which he had come.

 "Sean Courtney accepts from the Government of the onetime Republic of

 the

 "Transvaal an amount of twenty-nine thousand, two hundred pounds, in

 full discharge of all debts and claims. " He chuckled again and began

 shovelling the gold back into the leather pouches.

 With the heavy pack slung over his shoulders and with his arms full of

 wild flowers, Sean went down the kopJe. He saddled his horse and

 loaded the pack on to his mule before he went to pile the flowers on

 Saul's grave. They made a brave show of colour against the brown

 grass.

 He lingered another hour, fussing over his floral arrangements and

 resisting the temptation to thank Saul. For now he had decided the

 gold was not a gift from a Republican Governmentbut from Saul

 Friedman.

 This made it even easier to accept.

 At last he mounted and rode away. As the man and his horses dwindled

 into insignificance on the great brown plain, a dust devil came dancing

 up from the south. A tall, spinning column of heated air and dust and

 fragments of dry grass, it weaved and swayed towards the graveyard

 below the kopJe. For a time it seemed as though it would pass wide of

 it, but suddenly it changed direction and dashed down upon the double

 row of crosses. It snatched up the flowers on Saul's grave, lifted

 them, ripped their petals and scattered them widely across the plain.

 With Michael beside him lugging the carpet-bag which was the heaviest

 item of luggage, Sean left the buggy and crossed the sidewalk into the

 offices of the Ladyburg Banking & Trust Co. "Oh! Colonel Courtney,"

 the young lady at the reception desk enthused. "I'll tell Mr. Pye you

 are here."

 "Please don't bother. I'll carry the glad news myself.

 Ronny Pye looked up in alarm as the door of his office flew open and

 the two of them walked in.

 "Good morning, Ronny," Sean greeted him cheerfully.

 "Have you bled any good stones today, or is it still too early?"

 Guardedly Ronny murmured a reply and stood up.

 Sean selected a cigar from the leather box on the desk and sniffed

 it.

 "Not a bad line in horse-dung you've got here," he remarked and bit the

 end off. "Match please, Ronay, I'm a customer, where are your manners?

 " Reluctantly, suspiciously, Ronny lit the cigar for him.

 Sean sat down and placed his feet on the desk with ankles neatly

 crossed.

 "How much do I owe you?" he asked. The question heightened Ronny's

 suspicion and his eyes settled on the carpet-bag in Michael's hands.

 -you mean altogether? Capital and interest?"

 "Capital and interest," Sean affirmed.

 "Well, I'd have to work that out.

 "Give it to me in round figures."

 "Well, very roughly, you understand, it would be around oh I don't

 know-say He paused. That carpet-bag looked confoundedly heavy. Its

 sides bulged and he could see the tension in Michael's arm muscles as

 he held it. "Say, twenty-two thousand, eight hundred and sixteen

 pounds, fifteen shillings. " As he named the exact figure Ronny

 dropped his voice in veneration the way a primitive tribesman might

 evoke the name of his god.

 Sean lowered his feet. Then he leant forward and swept the papers that

 covered the desk to one side.

 "Very well. Pay the man, Michael."

 Solemnly Michael placed the bag in the cleared space. But when Sean

 winked at him his solemnity cracked and he grinned.

 Making no attempt to hide his agitation, Ronny plunged both hands into

 the mouth of the bag and withdrew two pouches of unbleached canvas. He

 loosened the draw string of one and spilled gold on to his desk.

 "Where did you get this?" he demanded angrily.

 At the end of the rainbow.

 "There's a fortune here," Ronny protested, as he dipped into the

 carpet-bag again.

 "A goodly amount, I'll admit.

 "But, but Ronny was scratching in the pile of coins, hunting for the

 secret of their origin like a hen for a worm.

 However, Sean had spent a week in Johannesburg and another two days in

 Pietermaritzburg visiting every bank and exchanging small parcels of

 Kruger coin for Victorian and Portuguese, and the coin of half a dozen

 other States. For a minute Sean watched his efforts with a smile of

 happy contempt. Then he excused himself.

 "We'll be getting on home now. " Sean placed an arm around Michael's

 shoulder and led him to the door.

 "Deposit the balance to my account, there's a good fellow."

 Further protest stillborn on his lips, and despair mingled with

 frustration, Ronny Pye watched through the window as Lion Kop Wattle

 Estates climbed up into the buggy, settled its hat firmly, waved a whip

 in a courteous farewell and trotted sedately out of his clutches.

 All that summer the hills of Lion Kop echoed to the thud of axes and

 the singing of hundreds of Zulus. As each tree toppled and fell in a

 froth of heaving branches, men with cane-knives moved forward to strip

 the rich bark and tie it in bundles. Every train that left for

 Pietermaritzburg towed truckloads of it to the extract plant.

 Each long day together strengthened the bonds between Sean and Michael.

 They evolved a language of their own, notable only for its economy of

 words. Without lengthy discussion each took charge of a separate

 sphere of Lion Kop activity. Michael made himself responsible for the

 maintenance of equipment, the loading and dispatch, all the paperwork

 and the ordering of material. At first Sean surreptitiously checked

 his work, but when he found no fault in it he no longer bothered. They

 parted only at the end of each week; Sean to Pietermaritzburg for

 obvious reasons, and Michael to Theuniskraal in duty. Michael hated

 those returns home, he hated Anna's endless accusations of disloyalty

 and her occasional fits of weeping. But even worse was the silent

 reproach in Garrys face. Early each Monday morning, with the joy of a

 released convict he set off for Lion Kop and Sean's welcome: "What

 about those bloody axe handles, Mike?"

 Only in the evenings they talked freely sitting together on the stoep

 of the homestead. They spoke of money and war and politics and women

 and wattle-and they talked as equals, without reserve, as men who work

 together with a common purpose.

 Dirk sat quietly in the shadows and listened to them. Fifteen years

 old, but Dirk had a capacity for hatred out of all proportion to his

 age, and he used it all on Michael. Sean's handling of Dirk was in no

 way different; his school attendance was still spasmodic, he trailed

 Sean about the plantations and received his full share of rough

 affection and even rougher-disciPline yet he sensed in the relationship

 between Sean and Michael a terrible threat to his security. Merely by

 reason of age and experience he was excluded from the evening

 discussions on the stoep. His few contributions were received with

 indulgent attention, then the talk would be resumed as though he had

 not spoken. Dirk sat quietly planning in lurid detail his

 assassination of Michael. On Lion Kop that summer there were small

 thefts and unexplained acts of vandalism, all of which affected only

 Michael. His best riding-boots vanished, his single dress shirt was

 ripped down the back when he came to don it for the monthly dance at

 the schoolhouse, his pointer bitch whelped a litter of four puppies,

 which survived only a week before Michael found them dead in the straw

 of the barn.

 Ada and her young ladies began preparing for the Christmas of 1904 in

 the middle of December. As their guests, Ruth and Storm came down from

 Pietermaritzburg on the twentieth and Sean's frequent absences from

 Lion Kop left a heavy burden of work on Michael. There was an air of

 mystery in the Protea Street cottage. Sean was strictly excluded from

 the long sessions in Ada's private rooms, where she and Ruth retired to

 plan the wedding dress, but this was not the only secret.

 There was something else, which was keeping all the young ladies in

 fits of suppressed giggles and excitement. With a little eavesdropping

 Sean gathered it was something to do with his Christmas present from

 Ruth. However, Sean had other worries, chief of which was maintaining

 his position in the fierce competition for Miss Storm Friedman's

 favours. This included a heavy expenditure on sweetmeats, which were

 delivered to Storm without Ruth's knowledge. The Shetland pony had

 been left in Pietermaritzburg and Sean was required to substitute at

 the cost of his dignity and grass stains on the knees of his breeches.

 As reward he was invited to take tea each afternoon with Storm and her

 dolls.

 Favourite among all Storm's dolls was a female child with human hair

 and an insipid expression on its large china face.

 Storm wept with a broken heart when she found that china head shattered

 into many pieces. With Sean's help she buried it in the back yard and

 they stripped Ada's garden of flowers for the grave. Sullenly Dirk

 watched the funeral. Storm was now completely reconciled to her loss

 and so thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony that she insisted Sean exhume

 the body and start again.

 In all the doll was buried four times and Ada's garden looked as though

 a swarm of locusts had descended upon it.

 Christmas Day started early for Sean. He and Michael supervised the

 slaughter of ten large oxen for the Zulu labour force, then distributed

 pay and gifts. "for each man a khaki shirt and short pants, and for

 each of their wives a double handful of coloured beads. There was much

 singing and laughter. Mbejane, risen from his sickbed for the

 occasion, made a speech of high dramatic content. Unable to prance on

 his freshly healed legs, yet he shook his spears, postured and roared

 his questions at them.

 "Has he beaten you?"

 "Ai-bho! " They hurled the negative back at him.

 "Has he fed you?"

 "Yhe-bho!" explosive accent.

 "Is there gold in your pockets?"

 Yhe-bho!

 "Is he our father?"

 "He is our father!"

 All to be construed not too literally, Sean grinned. Then he stepped

 forward to accept the large earthen pot of millet beer that Mbejane's

 senior wife presented to him. It was a matter of honour that this be

 emptied without removing it from the lips, a feat which Sean and then

 Michael both accomplished. Then they climbed up into the waiting

 buggy, Mbejane took the reins and with Dirk on the seat beside him

 drove them down to Ladyburg.

 After the first flurry of greeting and good wishes, Ruth led Sean into

 the back yard followed by everyone else. There stood a large object

 covered by a unmulin which Win ceremoniously removed and Sean gaped at

 what Ruth had given him.

 Its paintwork burnished to a high gloss, metal parts and polished

 leather upholstery sparkling in the sun-stood a motor vehicle. U

 Stamped in the huge metal wheel hubs, and below the mascot on the

 radiator were the words

 "Rolls-Royce. " Sean had seen these fiendishly beautiful machines in

 Johannesburg, and now he was overcome by the feeling of unease they had

 given him then.

 "My dear Ruth, I haven't the words to thank you. " He kissed her

 heartily to delay the moment when he must approach the monster.

 "Do you really like it?"

 "Like it? It's the most magnificent thing I have ever seen."

 Over her shoulder Sean noticed with relief that Michael had taken over.

 As the only engineer present, he was seated behind the wheel and

 speaking authoritatively to the crowd about him.

 "Get in! " Ruth ordered

 "Let me look at it first. " With Ruth on his arm, Sean circled the

 Rolls, never approaching closer than half a dozen paces. The great

 headlights glared at him malevolently and Sean averted his eyes. His

 unease was slowly becoming genuine fear as he realized that he was

 expected not only to ride in the thing, but to direct its course and

 speed.

 Unable to delay any longer, he approached and patted the bonnet.

 "Hey there!" he told it grimly. With an unbroken anima you must

 establish mastery from the first contact.

 "Get in! " Michael was still in charge and Sean obeyed, placing Ruth

 in the middle of the front seat and himself nearest the door. On

 Ruth's lap Storm bounded and squealed with excitement. The delay while

 Michael consulted the handbook at length did nothing for Sean's

 confidence.

 "Ruth, don't you think it wise to leave Storm behind-just this first

 time?"

 "Oh, she isn't any trouble." Ruth regarded him quizzically, then

 smiled. "It's really quite safe, darling. " Despite her assurance,

 Sean stiffened in terror when the motor finally roared into life; and

 he held that pose, staring fixedly ahead, during the whole of their

 triumphal progress through the streets of Ladyburg. Citizens and

 servants boiled from the houses along their route and lined the road to

 cheer in wonder and delight.

 At last they were back in Protea Street and when Michael stopped

 outside the cottage Sean escaped from the vehicle like a man waking

 from a nightmare. He firmly vetoed the suggestion that the family

 motor to church, on the grounds that it was irreverent and in bad

 taste. The Reverend Smiley was flattered that Sean remained awake

 throughout his sermon, and judged by Sean's worried expression that at

 last he was in fear for his soul.

 After church Michael went out to Theuniskraal to eat Christmas dinner

 with his parents, but returned early in the afternoon to begin Sean's

 instruction. The entire population of Ladyburg turned to watch Sean

 and Michael circling the block at a walking pace. By early evening

 Michael decided that Sean was ready for a solo circuit and accordingly

 he disembarked.

 Alone at the wheel, sweating nervously, Sean looked at the sea of

 expectant faces around him and saw Mbejane grinning hugely in the

 background.

 "Mbejane! " he bellowed.

 -Nkosi! I I

 "Come with me," and Mbejane's grin dissolved. He backed away a little.

 It was unnatural that a vehicle should move of its own accord-and

 Mbejane wanted no part of it.

 "Nkosi, there is much pain still in my legs.

 Among the crowd were many of the Zulu labourers from Lion Kop, who had

 come down from the hills when news of the miracle reached them.

 Now one of these laughed in such a manner as to cast doubt on Mbejane's

 courage. Mbejane drew himself to his full height and withered the man

 with his eyes, then he stalked proudly to the Rolls, sat on the seat

 beside Sean and folded his arms across his chest.

 Sean drew a deep breath and gripped the steering-wheel with both hands,

 his eyes narrowed and he scowled ahead down the road.

 "Clutch in!" he muttered to himself. "In gear! Brake off!

 Throttle down! Clutch out! " The Rolls leapt forward so violently

 that both he and Mbejane were nearly thrown over the back of the seat.

 Fifty yards farther on the machine expired from lack of fuel, a stroke

 of good fortune because it was unlikely that Sean would have been able

 to remember the procedure for stopping it.

 Grey of face and unsteady of limb, Mbejane allgbted from the Rolls for

 the last time. He never rode in it again-and secretly Sean envied him

 his freedom. He was greatly relieved to hear that it would be weeks

 before more fuel could be sent up from Cape Town.

 Three weeks before Sean's wedding Ada Courtney went into her orchard

 one morning early to pick fruit for breakfast. She found Mary there,

 dressed in her white nightgown, and hanging by her neck from the big

 avocado tree. Ada cut her down and sent one of the servants to call

 Doctor Fraser.

 Between them they carried the dead girl to her cubicle and laid her on

 her bed. While Doc Fraser made a hasty examination Ada stood staring

 down at the face that death had made more pitiful.

 "What depths of loneliness drove her to this? " she whispered, and Doc

 Fraser pulled the sheet over the corpse and looked across at Ada.

 "That wasn't the reason-in fact, it might have been better if she were

 a little more lonely. " He pulled out his tobacco pouch and began to

 load his pipe. "Who was her boy friend, Aunt Ada? " "She had none."

 "She must have.

 "Why do you say that?"

 "Aunt Ada, this girl was four months pregnant."

 It was a small funeral, just the Courtney family and Ada's girls.

 Mary was an orphan and she had no other friends.

 Two weeks before the wedding, Sean and Michael finished the season's

 cut of bark and switched the Zulus to planting out the blocks destroyed

 by the fire. "together they drew up a draft Profit and Loss Account.

 Combining their rudimentary knowledge of accounting and arguing far

 into the night, they finally agreed that from fifteen hundred acres of

 wattle they had cut fourteen hundred and twenty tons of bark, to gross

 a little over twenty-eight thousand pounds sterling.

 But here all agreement ended. Michael insisted that the stocks of

 material and expenditure on planting of new trees be carried forward,

 giving a net profit for the year of nine thousand pounds.

 Sean wanted to write all expenditure off against income and show a

 profit of one thousand, so they deadlocked and finally sent all the

 books to a qualified accountant in Pietermaritzburg.

 This gentleman sided with Michael.

 They then considered the prospects for the coming season and were a

 little awed when they realized that there would be four thousand acres

 of wattle to reap and an expected gross of eighty thousand pounds

 sterling-always providing there were no more fires. That evening,

 without Sean's knowledge, Michael wrote two letters. One to a

 manufacturer of heavy machinery in Birmingham, whose name and address

 Michael had furtively copied from one of the huge boilers in the Natal

 Wattle Estate Company's plant. The other to the firm of Foyle's

 booksellers in Choring Cross Road, London, requesting the immediate

 dispatch of all and any literature on the processing of wattle bark.

 Michael Courtney had caught from Sean the habit of dreaming

 extravagantly. He had also acquired the trick of setting out to make

 those dreams become reality.

 Three days before the wedding Ada and her young ladies set out for

 Pietermaritzburg by train and Sean, Michael and Dirk followed in the

 Rolls.

 The three of them arrived dusty and bad-tempered outside the White

 Horse Hotel. It had been a nerve-racking journey. Sean had enlivened

 it by shouting incessant warnings, instruction and blasphemy at

 Michael, the driver.

 "Slow down, for God's sake, slow down! Do you want to kill us all!"

 Look out! Watch that cow!"

 "Don't drive so close to the verge!

 Dirk had done his share by demanding halts for urination, hanging over

 the sides, climbing tirelessly between the front and back seats and

 urging Michael to exceed the speed-limit set by Sean. Finally, in

 anger, Sean had Michael stop the car and administered corporal

 punishment with the birch of a melkbos tree cut from beside the road.

 On arrival Dirk was met by Ada, and led away snivelling.

 Michael took the Rolls and disappeared in the direction of the Natal

 Wattle Company's plant, where he was to spend most of the following

 three days snooping and asking questions, and Sean went to find Jan

 Paulus Leroux, who had come down from Pretoria in response to Sean's

 wedding invitation. By the day of the wedding Michael Courtney had

 compiled a small volume of notes on wattle processing, and Jan Paulus

 had given Sean a minute account of the aims and objects of the South

 African Party. But in response to his urging Sean had promised only to

 "'think about it."

 The wedding ceremony had given everybody much cause for thought.

 Although Sean had no qualms about marrying in a synagogue, yet he

 steadfastly refused to undergo the painful little operation which would

 enable him to do so. His halfhearted suggestion that Ruth should

 convert to Christianity was met with a curt rejection. Finally, a

 compromise was agreed, and Ben Goldberg persuaded the local Magistrate

 to perform a civil ceremony in the dining-room of The Golds.

 Ben Goldberg gave the bride away and Ma Goldberg wept a little.

 Ruth was magnificent in Ada's creation of green satin and seed

 pearls.

 Storm wore an exact miniature of Ruth's dress and sparked off a minor

 brawl with the other flower girls during the ceremony. Michael as Best

 Man conducted himself with aplomb.

 He quelled the riot among the flower girls, produced the wedding ring

 on cue and prompted the groom when he muffed his lines.

 The reception on the lawns was attended by a large crowd of the

 Goldbergs" friends and business associates and by half the population

 of Ladyburg, including Ronny Pye, Dennis Petersen and their families.

 Garrick and Anna Courtney were not there, nor had they acknowledged the

 invitation.

 Brilliant sunshine blessed the day and the lawns were smooth and green

 as expensive carpets. There were long trestle tables laden with the

 fruits of Ma Goldberg's kitchen and the products of Ben Goldberg's

 brewery.

 Storm Friedman went from group to group of guests, boosting up her

 skirts to display the pink ribbons in her pantaloons, until Ruth caught

 her at it.

 Having found his first taste of champagne very much to his liking, Dirk

 went on to drink six glasses of it behind the rose bushes. He was then

 copiously ill. Fortunately Michael found him before Sean did, and

 spirited him away to one of the guest roomns and left him there to

 languish.

 With Ruth on his arm, Sean inspected the display of wedding gifts and

 was impressed. He then circulated among the crowds on the lawn until

 he reached Jan Paulus and fell into an earnest political discussion.

 Ruth left them to it and went to change into her going-away clothes.

 The prettiest and most blonde of Ada's young ladies caught the bouquet.

 Immediately thereafter she caught Michael's eye and blushed to match

 the crimson carnations in her hand.

 Amid a hum of appreciative comment and a snowstorm of confetti Ruth

 returned and, a queen ascending the throne, took her seat in the Rolls.

 Beside her Sean, in dust coat and goggles, steeled himself, muttered

 his usual incantations and gave the Rolls its head. Like a wild horse

 the machine seemed to rear on its hind wheels and then tear down the

 driveway scattering gravel and guests. Ruth clutching desperately at

 her hatful of ostrich feathers and Sean shouting at the Rolls to

 "Whoa! There, girl, --they headed out along the road that led through

 the Valley of a Thousand Hills to Durban and the sea, and disappeared

 in a tall column of dust.

 Three months later, having picked up Storm from Ma Goldberg en passant,

 they reappeared at lion Kop homestead. Sean had put on weight and both

 of them had that smugly complacent look found only in the faces of

 couples returning from a successful honeymoon.

 On the front stoep and in the outbuildings of Uon Kop were the crates

 and packing-cases which contained wedding gifts, Ruth's furniture and

 carpets, and the additional furniture and curtains they had purchased

 in Durban. Ruth, ably assisted by Ada, threw herself joyously into the

 task of unpacking and moving in. Meanwhile Sean began a tour of

 inspection of the estate to determine how much of it had suffered in

 his absence, and he felt vaguely cheated when he found that Michael had

 managed very well without him. The plantations were trim and cleared

 of undergrowth, the vast black scar through their centre was nearly

 obliterated with freshly planted rows of saplings, the labour force was

 half as productive again under the new incentive payment scheme which

 Michael, in consultation with the Accountant, had introduced. Sean

 gave Michael a lecture on "not getting too bloody clever" and "learning

 to walk before you ran" which he ended with a few words of praise.

 Thus encouraged, Michael approached Sean one night when he was alone in

 his study. Sean was in a state of deep contentment induced by a meal

 from an enormous roast sirloin which he was digesting, by the fact that

 Ruth had finally agreed to his adoption of Storm and the change of her

 name from Friedman to Courtney, and by the prospect of joining Ruth in

 their gargantuan double bed just as soon as he finished his brandy and

 his hand-rolled Havana cigar.

 "Come in, Michael. Sit down. Have a brandy. " Sean greeted him

 genially, and almost defiantly Michael crossed the Persian carpet and

 laid a thick sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him.

 "What's this all about?" Sean smiled at him.

 "Read it and you'll see. " Michael retreated to a chair across the

 room. Still smiling Sean glanced at the heading on the top sheet.

 "Preliminary estimates and ground plan for proposed Tannin Extraction

 Plant. Lion Kop Estates.

 The smile faded. Sean turned the page and as he read he began to frown

 and then to scowl. When at last he finished he relit his dead cigar

 and sat in silence for five minutes while he recovered from the

 shock.

 "Who put you up to this?

 "Nobody.

 "Where would you sell your extract?"

 "Page 5. The outlets are listed there-and the ruling prices over the

 last ten years.

 "This plant needs 20,000 tons of bark a year-if we planted every foot

 of Lion Kop and Mahobo's Kloof to wattle we could only supply half of

 that. " "We'd buy the rest from the new estates along the valley-we

 could offer a better price than Jackson, because we'd save rail age to

 Pietermaritzburg. " "Who would run the plant?"

 an engineer.

 "On paper you are," Sean grunted. "What about water?"

 "We'd dam the Baboon Stroom above the falls. " For an hour Sean poked

 and prodded at the scheme, seeking for a soft spot. His agitation

 mounted as Michael calmly met each of his queries.

 "All right," Sean growled. "You've done your homework.

 Now answer me this one. How the hell do you propose finding seventy

 thousand pounds to finance this little lot?"

 Michael closed his eyes as though he were praying, his jaw was a hard,

 thrusting line. And suddenly Sean wondered why he had never noticed

 the strength in that face, the stubborn almost fanatical determination.

 Michael opened his eyes again and spoke softly.

 "A loan on Lion Kop and Mahobo's Kloof for twenty-five thousand, a

 notarial bond on the plant for as much again-and a public share issue

 on the balance.

 Sean jumped up from his desk and roared.

 "No!"

 "Why not?" still calmly and reasonably.

 y

 "Because I've spent half my life in debt up to here!" Sean rubbed his

 own throat. "Because now at last I'm in the clear and I want to stay

 that way. Because I know what it feels like to have more money than I

 need, and I don't like the feeling.

 Because I'm happy just the way things are now-and I don't want to catch

 another lion by the tail and have him cum round and claw the hell out

 of mee." He stopped panting and then shouted: "Because a certain

 amount of money belongs to you, but more than that you belong to it.

 Because I don't want to be that wealthy again! " Lean and fast as an

 angry leopard, Michael came out of his chair and smashed a balled fist

 on to the top of the desk. He glared across at Sean, flushed angry red

 under his tan, quivering like an arrow.

 "Well, I do! Your only objection to my plan is that it's sound, he

 blazed. Sean blinked in surprise and then rallied.

 "If you get it, you won't like it!" he bellowed, and Michael matched

 his volume.

 "Let me be the judge of that!"

 At that moment the door of the study opened and Ruth stood on the

 threshold and stared at them. They looked like a pair of game cocks

 with their hackles up.

 What on earth is going on?" she demanded. Both Michael and' Sean

 looked up guiltily, then slowly they relaxed. Michael sat down and

 Sean coughed awkwardly.

 "We are just having a discussion, my dear.

 "Well, you've woken Storm and just about torn the roof off.

 Then she smiled and crossed to take Sean's arm. "Why don't you leave

 it until tomorrow. Then you can continue your discussion at twenty

 paces with pistols."

 The pygmies of the Ituri Forests hunt elephant with tiny arrows.

 Once the barb is lodged they follow quietly and doggedly, camping night

 after night on the spoor until at last the poison works its way to the

 animal's heart and brings it down. Michael had placed his arrow-head

 deep in Sean's flesh.

 At Lion Kop Ruth found a happiness she had never expected, had not

 believed existed.

 Up to this time her existence had been ordered and determined by an

 adoring but strict father, and then in the same manner by Ben Goldberg.

 The few short years with Saul Friedman had been happy, but now they

 were as unreal as memories of childhood. Always she had been wrapped

 in a cocoon of wealth, hemmed in by social taboos and the dignity of

 the family. Fven Saul had treated her as a delicate child for whom all

 decisions must be made. Life had been placid and orderly, but deadly

 dull. Only twice she had rebelled, once to run away from Pretoria and

 again when she had gone to Sean in the hospital.

 Boredom had been her constant companion.

 But now suddenly she was mistress of a complex community.

 The sensation had been a little overpowering at first and from habit

 she had appealed to Sean for him to make the fifty decisions that each

 day brought forward.

 "I'll make a bargain with you," he answered. "You don't tell me how to

 grow wattle and I'll not tell you how to run the house-put the damn

 sideboard where it looks best. " Hesitantly at first, then with

 growing confidence and at last with sureness and pride she made Lion

 Kop into a home of beauty and comfort. The coarse grass and scrub

 around the homestead fell back to make room for lawns and flower-beds,

 the outer walls of Lion Kop gleamed in a crisp new coat of whitewash.

 Inside, the yellow-wood floors shone like polished amber setting off

 the vivid Bokhara carpets and draped velvet curtains.

 After a few disastrous experiments the kitchens began to yield a

 succession of meals that moved Michael to raptures, and even Sean

 pronounced them edible.

 Yet, with a dozen servants, she had time for other things. To read, to

 play with Storm and to ride. Sean's wedding gift to her was a string

 of four golden palarninos. There was time also for long visits from

 and with Ada Courtney. The two of them established an accord stronger

 than that of mother and daughter.

 There was time for dancing and barbecues, there was time for laughter

 and for long quiet evenings when she and Sean sat alone on the wide

 front stoep or in his study and talked of many things.

 There was time for love.

 Her body, hard from riding and walking, was also healthy and hot.

 It was a sculpture sheathed in velvet and fashioned for love.

 There was only one dark place in her happiness-Dirk Courte they.

 When her overtures were met with sullenness and her small specially

 cooked gifts were rejected, she realized the cause of his antagonism.

 She sensed the bitter jealousy which was eating like a canker behind

 those lovely eyes and the passionately beautiful face.

 For days she prepared what she would say to him.

 Then she found the opportunity when he came into the kitchens while she

 was alone. He saw her and turned quickly to leave, but she stopped

 him.

 "Oh, Dirk, please don't go. I want to discuss something with you He

 came back slowly and leaned against the table. She saw how tall he had

 grown in the last year, his shoulders were thickening into the shape of

 manhood and his legs were strong and tapered from the narrow hips that

 he thrust forward in a calculated insolence.

 "Dirk. . . " she began and paused. Suddenly she was unsure of

 herself. This was not a child as she had imagined; there was a

 sensuality in that beautiful face she found disturbing-he carried his

 body with awareness, moving like a cat. Suddenly she was afraid, and

 she swallowed jerkily before she went on: "I know how difficult it has

 been for you-since Storm and I came to live here. I know how much you

 love your father, how much he means to you. But . . . " She spoke

 slowly, her carefully prepared speech forgotten so that she had to

 grope for the words to explain. She tried to show him that they were

 not in competition for Sean's love; that all of them-Ruth, Michael,

 Storm and Dirk-formed a whole; that their interests did not overlap,

 but that each of them gave to Sean and received from him a different

 kind of love. When at last she faltered into silence she knew he had

 not listened nor tried to understand.

 "Dirk, I like you and I want you to like me.

 With a thrust of his buttocks against the table, Dirk straightened up.

 He smiled then and let his eyes move down over her body, slowly "Can I

 go now?" he asked, and Ruth stiffened. Then she knew there was no

 compromise, that she would have to fight him.

 "Yes, Dirk. You may go," she answered. She knew with sudden clarity

 that he was evil, and if she lost this contest he would destroy her and

 her child. In that moment she was no longer afraid.

 Catlike, Dirk seemed to sense a change in her. For a moment she

 thought she saw a flicker of doubt, of uncertainty in his eyes-then he

 turned away and sauntered out of the kitchen.

 She guessed that it Would Come soon, but not as soon as it did.

 Every afternoon Ruth would ride out into the plantations with Storm's

 pony on a lead rein beside her. They made a game of finding Sean and

 Michael, following the labyrinth of roads that crisscrossed through the

 blocks of" trees, guided by the vague directions of the gangs of Zulus

 until finally they ran them down and delivered the canteens of coffee

 and the hamper of sandwiches. Then, all four of them would picnic on

 the soft carpet of dead leaves beneath the trees.

 This afternoon, dressed in riding habit and carrying the hamper, Ruth

 came out into the kitchen yard. The young Zulu nursemaid was sitting

 in the shade of the kitchen wall flirting with one of the grooms. Storm

 was nowhere in sight, and Ruth asked sharply: "Where is Miss Storm?"

 "She went with Nkosikana Dirk." And Ruth felt the tingling premonition

 of danger.

 "Where are they?" and the nursemaid pointed vaguely in the direction

 of the stables and outbuildings that sprawled away down the back slope

 of the hill.

 "Come with me." Ruth dropped the hamper and ran with her skirts

 gathered in one hand. She reached the first row of stables and hurried

 down them, glancing into each stall as she passed. Then into the feed

 rooms with the big concrete bins and the smell of oats and molasses and

 chopped lucerne mixing with the sharp tang of dung and dubbined

 leather, out again into the sunlight, running for the barns.

 Storm screamed in terror, just once, but high and achingly clear, so

 the silence afterwards quivered with the memory of it.

 The harness room. Ruth swirled in her run. God, please No!

 Don't let it happen. Please! Please!

 She reached the open door of the harness room. It was gloomy and cool

 within the thick stone walls, and for a moment the scene made no sense

 to Ruth.

 Her back wedged into the far corner, Storm stood with hands lifted to

 shield her face-small fingers rigid, splayed open, spread like the tip

 feathers of a bird's wing. Her body shook silently with her sobs.

 In front of Storm, squatting on his heels, Dirk leaned forward with one

 hand outstretched as though he offered a gift. He was laughing.

 Then Ruth saw the thing in Dirk's hand move and she froze with horror.

 It uncoiled from around his wrist, and slowly reached out towards

 Storm, its head cocked back in a half-loop of its body, tiny black

 tongue vibrating between the grinning pink lips.

 Ruth screamed, and Dirk jumped to his feet and spun to face her with

 his right hand hidden behind his back.

 ------ . ..... .

 From the corner Storm darted across the room and bailed her face in

 Ruth's skirts, weeping piteously. Ruth picked her up and held her

 tight against her shoulder, but she never took her eyes off Dirk's

 face.

 "It's only a rooi-slang. " Dirk laughed again, but nervously.

 "They're harmless-I was only having a joke." He brought the snake out

 from. behind his back, dropped it on to the stone flagged floor and

 crushed its head under the heel of his riding boot He kicked it away

 against the wall, then with an impatient gesture he brushed the black

 curls from his forehead and made to leave the room. Ruth stepped

 across to block his path.

 "Nannie, take Miss Storm back to the house." Gently Ruth handed the

 child to the Zulu nursemaid and closed the door after them and slid the

 bolt across.

 Now it was darker in the room, two square shafts of sunlight filled

 with moving dust motes fell from the high windows, and the quiet was

 spoiled only by the sound of Ruth's laboured breathing.

 "I was only having a joke," Dirk repeated, and grinned defiance at her.

 "I suppose you'll run and tell my father?"

 The walls of the room were studded with wooden pegs from which were

 suspended the harness and saddlery. Beside the door hung Sean's

 raw-hide stock whips eight foot of braided leather tapering from the

 butt handle into nothingness. Ruth lifted one down from the rack and

 flicked the lash out to lie upon the floor between them.

 "No, Dirk, I'm not going to tell your father. This thing is between

 you and me alone.

 "What are you going to do?"

 "I'm going to settle it."

 "How?" Still grinning, he placed his hands on his hips. Beneath

 rolled sleeves his upper arms bulged smooth and brown as though they

 had been freshly oiled.

 "Like this," Ruth flicked her skirt aside and stepped forward, using

 the whip underhand she sent the lash snaking out to coil around Dirk's

 ankle and immediately she jerked back on it.

 Taken completely off balance, Dirk went over backwards. His head hit

 the wall as he fel and he lay stunned.

 To give herself space in which to wield the whip, Ruth moved into the

 centre of the room. Her anger was cold as dry ice, it gave strength to

 arms already finely muscled from riding, and it seared away all mercy.

 Now she was a female animal fighting for the survival of herself and

 her child.

 She had learned to use a stock whip in the process of becoming an

 expert horsewoman, and her first blow split Dirk's shirt from the

 shoulder to the waist. He shouted with anger and rolled on to his

 knees. The next blow cut down from the base of his neck along his

 spine, paralysing him in the act of rising. The next, across the back

 of both knees, knocked his legs out from under him.

 On his belly Dirk reached for the pitchfork against the wall, but

 braided leather exploded around his wrist. He shouted again and rolled

 on his side to nurse the hand against his chest.

 Ruth hit him and he writhed across the floor towards her like a wounded

 leopard with its hindquarters shattered by buckshot.

 Step by step Ruth retreated before him, and the long lash hissed and

 cracked.

 Without mercy she beat him until his shirt hung in tatters from his

 waist and shoulders, exposing the smooth white skin with the fat

 crimson welts superimposed upon it.

 She beat him until his shouts turned to shrieks and finally to

 sobbing.

 She beat him until he lay shivering, moaning, moving feebly with his

 blood sprinkled in dark blobs on the stone paving around him.

 Then she folded the whip and turned to open the door. In the stable

 yard, standing in silent curiosity, were gathered a the grooms and the

 household servants.

 Ruth selected four of them.

 "Take the Nkosikana to his room."

 Then to one of the grooms" "Ride to the Nkosi. Tell him to come

 quickly."

 Sean came quickly; he came wild with anxiety and nearly tore the door

 off Dirk's bedroom in his haste. He stopped dead on the threshold and

 stared aghast at Dirk's back.

 Stripped to the waist, Dirk lay face downwards on his bed and Ruth

 worked over him with a sponge. On the table beside her stood a

 steaming basin and the pungent reek of antiseptic filled the room.

 "Good God! What happened to him?"

 "I beat him with a stock whip- Ruth answered him calmly and Sean gaped

 at her, then dropped his gaze to Dirk

 "You did that?"

 "Yes.

 The anger tightened Sean's mouth.

 "Jesus God! You've cut him to pieces. You've half killed him.

 " And he glanced at Ruth. "Why?"

 "It was necessary." The absolute assurance and lack of remorse in her

 reply confused Sean. He was suddenly uncertain in his anger.

 "What did he do?"

 "I can't tell you that. It is something private between us. You must

 ask Dirk. " Sean crossed quickly to the bed and knelt beside it.

 "Dirk. Dirkie, my boy, what happened? What did you do?"

 And Dirk lifted his face from the pillow and looked at his father, "It

 was a mistake. It doesn't matter. " Then he buried his face in the

 pillow once more, and his voice was muffled, so Sean had excuse for not

 believing that he had heard correctly.

 "What did you say?" he demanded, and there was a short delay before

 Dirk replied quite distinctly.

 "I said-it was my fault. " "That's what I thought you said. " Sean

 stood up with a puzzled expression on his face. "Well, I don't know

 why you sent for me, Ruth. You seem to have the situation fairly well

 in hand.

 He moved to the door, looked back as though he were going to speak,

 then, changing his mind, he shook his head and went out.

 That night in the quiet, exhausted minutes before sleep, Sean murmured

 against her cheek,

 "I think you did today what I should have done years ago. " And then,

 with a sleepy chuckle,

 "At least the res no doubt in anyone's mind as to who is the mistress

 of Lion Kop.

 There was a guileless simplicity in Sean's approach to life-in his mind

 any problem when met with direct action disintegrated.

 If you became obsessed with a woman, you tumbled her. If that didn't

 produce the desired effect, then you married her.

 If you wanted a piece of land or a horse or a house or a gold mine,

 then you paid your money and took it. If you didn't have the money,

 you went out and found it.

 If you liked a man, you drank with him, hunted with him, laughed

 together If you disliked him, you either punched him in the head or

 subjected him to a ponderous sarcasm and mockery. Either way you left

 him in no doubt of your feelings.

 When a son got out of hand you whaled the tripe out of him, then gave

 him an expensive present to demonstrate your affection. Now he

 admitted he had been tardy in the matter of Dirk; but Ruth had done a

 most effective job. It only remained for him to call Dirk into the

 study and shout at him a little. A week later he returned from a trip

 to Pietermaritzburg and with an embarrassed scowl presented to Dirk his

 peace offerings. The first was a brass-bound leather case, which

 contained a hand-made shotgun by Greener of London; tooled silver

 inlay, glossy walnut stock and butt, and interchangeable Damascus

 barrels. The other was a two-year-old filly from the Huguenot stud at

 Worcester in the Cape. By Sun Lord out of Harvest Dance, Sun Dancer

 was an animal of the most distinguished blood in Africa and of

 surpassing beauty and speed. Sean paid a thousand guineas for her and

 considered he had got the best of the bargain.

 As far as he was concerned there was no longer any problem with Dirk,

 and Sean could devote all his energy to furthering the three major

 ventures in which he was engaged.

 Firstly, there was the matter of putting Ruth with child. Here he had

 her wholehearted co-operation. But their efforts, apart from providing

 a deal of healthy exercise and pleasure, were singularly unproductive.

 Sean remembered the deadly skill he had shown in their first encounter

 and was puzzled. Ruth suggested they keep in training until the rainy

 season began; she had developed a superstitious belief in the power of

 thunder. On one of his trips to Pietermaritzburg Sean saw a carved

 wooden statue of Thor in a junk dealer's window. He bought it for her,

 and from then on the god stood on their bedside table clutching his

 hammer and overlooking their strivings with such a knowing expression

 that at last Ruth turned him face to the wall.

 Then there was Michael's Thnnin Extract Plant. He had resorted to a

 piece of underhand villainy that shocked Sean and, he professed, killed

 his belief in the essential decency of mankind. Michael had visited

 each of the new growers along the valley, men who had followed Sean's

 lead in the planting of wattle, and after swearing them to secrecy had

 offered them shares in the Company. They were enthusiastic and with

 Michael at the head they visited Lion Kop in formal deputation.

 The meeting was conducted with so much verbal thunder and lightning

 thrown about that the Great God Thor might have been in the Chair. At

 the end Sean, who had teased the idea all the months since Michael had

 approached him and who was now as enthusiastic as any of them, allowed

 himself to be persuaded.

 He spoke for seventy per cent of the shares and the balance was

 allotted to the other growers. A Board of Directors, with Sean as

 Chairman, was elected and the Accountant was instructed to proceed with

 the registration of The Ladyburg Wattle Cooperative Ltd. For the first

 time Sean exercised his majority vote to crush the misgivings of the

 other shareholders and appoint Michael Courtney as Plant Engineer.

 Then, with an older director to act as a steadying influence, Michael

 was put aboard the next Union Castle mail ship for England, a letter of

 authority in his pocket and Sean's warnings and words of wisdom in his

 head. Remembering himself at the age of twenty-three, Sean decided it

 necessary to point out to Michael that he was being sent to London to

 buy machinery and increase his knowledge of it, not to populate the

 British Isles nor to tour their hostelries and gaming establishments.

 There was swift reaction from Jackson at Natal Wattle, who regretted

 that the contracts between the Valley growers and his company would not

 be renewed-and that owing to heavy demands from elsewhere he could no

 longer supply seed or saplings. But Sean's seed beds were now well

 enough established to meet the needs of the whole valley-and, with

 luck, their plant would be in production by the beginning of the next

 cutting season.

 Before Michael and his chaperon returned flushed with the success of

 their mission, Sean had another visitor. Jan Paulus Leroux, weary of

 the three-year argument he and Sean had conducted with the aid of the

 postal authority, arrived at Ladyburg and expressed his intention of

 staying until Sean agreed to head the Natal branch of the South African

 Party and to contest the Ladyburg seat at the next Legislative Assembly

 elections. Two weeks later, after he and Sean had hunted and killed a

 number of guinea-fowl, pheasant and bush buck; had consumed huge

 quantities of coffee and more moderate quantities of brandy; had talked

 each other hoarse and had closed the last gap between them, Jan Paulus

 left on the Johannesburg train with the parting words: "Toe Maar! It

 is settled then."

 The South African Party's platform was a Federation of the Cape, the

 Transvaal, the Orange Free State and Natal, under government

 responsible to Whitehall. It was opposed by extreme English and Dutch

 opinion-the jingoes who shouted

 "God Save the King," and the Republicans who wanted the Almighty to

 treat the King differently.

 After meeting with the men on the list Jan Paulus had given him, Sean

 began the campaign. His first convert was Ruth Courtney, won over by

 the prospect of the excitement associated with an election battle

 rather than by Sean's oratory. Now a week or more of every month was

 spent in travelling about Natal to attend political gatherings. Ruth

 rehearsed Sean in his speech he had only one-until he was word perfect.

 She kissed the babies and played hostess to the wives, tasks in which

 Sean showed no special aptitude. She sat beside him on the platform

 and restrained him from going down into the audience to engage in

 hand-to-hand combat with hecklers. The way she smiled and the way she

 walked certainly lost no votes for the South African Party. From

 London Lord Caisterbrook promised his support, and it looked as though

 Sean could count on twenty-two seats out of the Assemblys thirty.

 On the level ground below the escarpment, nearby the Baboon Stroom, lay

 the plant of the Ladyburg Wattle Co-operative Maine Bob wok shape. It

 covered ten acres of ground and beyond the cottages of the employees

 were laid out in neat blocks.

 Despite Michael's vehement protests, Sean bowed to the will of his

 fellow directors and a consulting engineer was employed until such time

 as the plant was in production. Without him they would have lost a

 year's harvest of bark, for although Michael was eager and tireless,

 yet he was a young man with no practical experience. Even with the

 older man to help him, the plant was still a long way from ready before

 the season's cutting began.

 When at last the tall silver smoke stack began spewing smoke and the

 furnaces lit the night with a satanic glow, there were thousands of

 tons of bark piled up in the open-sided warehouses around the

 factory.

 It was a wonderful season. Good rains had filled the bark with rich

 sap and when the year ended the Co-operative had shown a profit of ten

 thousand pounds on its first year's operation Lion Kop Estates a profit

 four times greater. Sean had been in and out of debt as swiftly as a

 small boy visits the bathroom when sent to wash his face.

 Despite the good rains, there were only three spectacular storms that

 summer. On each occasion Sean was away from Lion Kop on business.

 While the lightning leapt across the hills and the hammer strokes of

 thunder broke over the valley, Ruth stood at the window of their

 bedroom and lamented another wasted opportunity. Mbejane did much

 better-all his seed brought forth fruit and he reaped four fat sons

 that season.

 It was a busy year for Dirk Courtney also. After his resounding defeat

 at the thin end of the stock whip Dirk and Ruth fell into a state of

 wary neutrality-but he conceded control of Lion Kop to her.

 Storm Courtney he ignored unless she was in Sean's lap or initial

 riding on his shoulder. Then he watched them covertly until he could

 find an excuse to interrupt their play or to get away from Lion Kop.

 His absences became more frequent; there were trips to Pietermaritzburg

 and the surrounding districts to play rugby and polo; there were

 mysterious night excursions to Ladyburg, and in the day he rode away at

 dawn each morning, Sean believed he rode to school until he received a

 note from the headmaster asking him to call.

 After showing him the attendance register and a copy of Dirk's academic

 record, the headmaster leaned back in his chair and waited for Sean's

 comments.

 "Not so good, hey?"

 "I agree, Mr. Courtney. Not so good."

 "Couldn't we send him to a boarding establishment somewhere, Mr.

 Besant?"

 "Yes, you could do that," Besant agreed dubiously, "but would it serve

 any real purpose-apart from providing him with expert coaching in rugby

 football?"

 "How else will he get his University entrance?" Sean was impressed

 with what higher education had done for Michael. He looked upon it as

 a sovereign alchemy for all the ills of youth.

 "Mr. Courtney . . . " The headmaster hesitated delicately.

 He had heard of Sean's temper and did not want a personal demonstration

 of it. "Some young men are not really suited for University training.

 " "I want Dirk to go," Sean interjected.

 "I doubt that either Stellenbosch or Cape Town Universities share your

 ambitions. " The schoolroom manner re-asserted itself for a moment,

 and Besant spoke with dry sarcasm.

 "You mean he's stupid?" Sean demanded.

 "No, no. " Hurriedly Besant soothed him. "It'sjust that lies not,

 shall we say, academically inclined.

 Sean pondered on that awhile. It seemed a very nice distinction, but

 he let it go and asked: "Well, what do you suggest?"

 Besant's suggestion was that Dirk Courtney get the hell out of his

 school-but he phrased it gently.

 "Although Dirk is only sixteen-he is very mature for his age. Say you

 were to start him at the Wattle Company . . . ?"

 "You recommend I take him away from school, then?" Sean asked

 thoughtfully, and Besant suppressed a sigh of relief.

 Dirk Courtney was apprenticed to the foreman boilermaker at the

 factory. His first action was to inform his journeyman that he'd be

 running this show one day and what was he going to do about it'? That

 gentleman, forewarned by Dirk's reputation, regarded him dolefully,

 spat a long squirt of tobacco juice an inch It from Dirk's gleaming

 toecap, and replied at some length. He then pointed to a kettle on the

 workshop forge and told Dirk to make him a cup of coffee, and while he

 was about it to remove his thumb from his posterior orifice. Within a

 week the two of them were cronies and the man, whose name was Archibald

 Frederick Longworthy, began to instruct Dirk in arts other than the

 fabrication of steel plate Archy was thirty-six years old. He had come

 out to Africa after completing a five-year term in Leavenworth Prison

 for the intriguing offence of Crimen Injuria-and when he explained the

 meaning Dirk was delighted.

 Archy introduced Dirk to one of his friends, Hazel, a plump and

 friendly girl who worked at the Ladyburg Hotel as a barmaid and

 dispensed her favours in the same cheerful manner that she did her

 liquor-but Dirk quickly became her favourite, and he learned some

 pretty little tricks from her.

 Shrewdly, Archibald Longworthy examined the situation and decided that

 nothing but profit could come from friendship with Sean Courtney's

 heir. Besides which the boy was a lot of fun.

 He could tumble a tart and swig gin with the best of them-also he had a

 seemingly inexhaustible supply of sovereigns.

 In exchange Dirk hero-worshipped Archy, diverting much of his feelings

 from his father to his first real friend. Ignoring the grey wrists and

 neck which bespoke Archy's disaffection for soap and water, the pale

 wispy hair through which pink scalp showed, ignoring also the black

 tooth in the front of his mouth Dirk invested him with the glamour and

 excitement of an old time pirate.

 When Dirk found himself to be suffering from a painless but

 evil-smelling condition, it was Archy who assured him it was only

 "whites" and went with him to a doctor in Pieten-naritzburg. On the

 train coming home they planned their revenge with much laughter,

 comradely banter-and rising anticipation.

 Hazel was surprised to see them in the middle of a Sunday afternoon,

 she sat up quickly as they came into her room overlooking the back yard

 of the hotel.

 "Dirkie, you shouldn't come here in the daytime-your Pa will find out.

 It was warm in the shabby little room, and the smell of cheap went and

 a half-filled chamber-pot blended harshly with the odour of female

 perspiration. Hazel's thin chemise clung damply to her body and

 outlined the heavy hang of her breasts and the deep lateral fb1d around

 the level of her navel.

  

 There were dark smudges below her eyes and a curl was sweat plastered

 down her cheek where the pillow had left little creases in the skin.

 The two of them stood in the doorway and grinned at her, from many

 experiences Hazel recognized the wolfish eagerness those grins

 masked.

 "What do you want?" Suddenly she was afraid and instinctively she

 covered the deep cleft of her bosom with one hand.

 "Dirkie here wants to have a little chat with you. " Carefully Archy

 closed the door and turned the key in the lock, then he ambled towards

 the bed. Manual labor had sheathed his arms in hard, knotty muscle and

 the hands that hung at his sides were disproportionately large and

 coated with coarse, blond hair.

 "You keep away from me, Archy Longworthy. " Hazel swung her legs off

 the bed, the chemise pulled up to expose fat white thighs. "I don't

 want no trouble, you just leave me alone. " "You give Dirkie here a

 clap. Now Diride here is my friend and he don't like what you give

 him. " "I didn't" It couldn't have been me. I'm clean-I tell you."

 She stood up, still holding the front of her chemise closed and backed

 away before him. "You keep away from me." Then as Archy jumped

 forward,

 "No-don't! I'll . "And she opened her mouth to scream, but Archy's

 hand closed over it like a great hairy spider. She struggled

 desperately, clawing at the hand over her face.

 "Come on, Dirk. " Archy chuckled, as he held her easily with one arm

 around her waist. Uncertainly Dirk hesitated at the door, no longer

 grinning.

 "Come on, man. I'll hold her." With a sudden swing of his arm Archy

 hurled the girl face down on the bed, then jumped across to keep her

 mouth smothered in the pillow. "Come on, Dirk, use this!" With his

 free hand Archy unbuckled the wide belt he wore. The leather was

 studded with blunt metal spikes.

 "Double it over!"

 "Hell's teeth, Arch-you reckon we should?" Dirk still hesitated, the

 belt hanging limply from his hands.

 "You scared, or something?" And Dirk's mouth hardened at the gibe. He

 stepped forward and swung the belt in a full overarm stroke across the

 wriggling body. Hazel froze at the sting of it and she gasped

 explosively into the pillow.

 "That's the stuff-hold on a second!" Archy hooked his thumb into the

 thin fabric of her chemise and ripped it down from the shoulder-blades

 to the hem. Her fat woman's buttocks bulged through, dimpled and

 white. "Now, give it hell!"

 Again Dirk lifted the heavy doubled leather, he stood poised like that

 while a sensation of giddy power buoyed him upwards to the level of the

 gods, then he swung his body down into the next stroke.

 "He's unopposed," Ronny Pye murmured, and beside him Garrick Courtney

 stirred uneasily.

 "Have you heard him speak?" Ronny persisted.

 "No.

 "He wants to throw in Natal with that bunch of Dutchmen up in the Free

 State and Transvaal.

 "Yes, I know."

 "Do you agree with him?"

 Garry was silent, he seemed to be engrossed with the antics of the

 small herd of foals in the paddock in front of them as they chased each

 other on legs that seemed to have too many joints, clumsy in their

 fluffy baby coats.

 "I'm sending twenty yearlings up to the show sales in

 Pietermaritzburg--should average about four, five hundred a head

 because they're all first-class animals. Be able to let you have a

 sizeable payment on the bond. " "Don't worry about that now, Garry. I

 didn't come out here looking for money. " Ronny offered his

 cigar-case, and when Garry refused he selected one himself and began

 preparing it carefully. "Do you agree with this idea of a Union?"

 "No.

 "Why not?" Ronny did not look up from his cigar, he did not want to

 show his eagerness prematurely.

 "I fought them-Leroux, Niemand, Botha, Smuts. I fought them-and we

 won. Now they're sitting up there in Pretoria calmly plotting to take

 over the whole country-not just the Free State and Transvaal, but Natal

 and the Cape as well. Any Englishman who helps them is a traitor to

 his King and his country.

 He should be put against the wall and shot.

 "Quite a few people round here think that way-quite a few.

 And yet no one is opposing Sean Courtney-he's just going to walk into

 the Assembly. " Garry turned and began limping slowly along the

 paddock fence towards the stables, and Ronny fell in beside him.

 "Seems to me and the others we need a good man to put against

 him-someone with a lot of prestige. Good war record, man who has

 written a book and knows what's going on-knows how to use words. If we

 could find someone like that, then we'd be happy to put up the expense

 money. " He struck a match and waited for the sulphur to clear before

 he lit his cigar and spoke through the smoke. "Only three months to

 election time-we got to get organized right away. He's holding a

 meeting at the schoolhouse next week-" Sean's political campaign, which

 had been ambling along mildly without causing much interest, suddenly

 took on new dramatic quality.

 His first meeting in Ladyburg was attended by most of the local

 population-all of them so starved for entertainment that they were

 prepared to listen to Sean reel off the little speech that they had

 already read reported verbatim in most of the Natal newspapers. With

 hardy optimism they hoped that question time Might be more

 rewarding-and some of them had prepared queties on such momentous

 matters as the price of hunting licenses, the public library system,

 and the control of foot and mouth disease. At the very least it was an

 opportunity to meet friends from the outlying areas.

 But, apart from Sean's employees, friends and neighbours, others

 arrived at the schoolhouse and filled the first two rows of desks. All

 of them were young men Sean had never seen before, and he eyed them

 with heavy disapproval while they laughed and joked loudly during the

 preliminaries.

 "Where did this bunch come from?" he demanded of the Chairman.

 "They came in on the afternoon train-all in one party."

 "Seems as though they're looking for trouble." Grimly Sean sensed in

 them the slightly feverish excitement of men steeling themselves to

 violence. "Most of them have been on the bottle.

 "Now, Sean." Ruth leaned across and laid her hand on his knee.

 "You must promise not to get worked up. Don't antagonize them."

 Sean opened his mouth to reply, then left it like that as Garry

 Courtney came in through the crowd around the doorway and moved across

 to sit with Ronny Pye in the back row.

 "Close your mouth, darling," Ruth murmured and Sean obeyed, then smiled

 and waved a greeting to his brother. Garry replied with a nod, and

 immediately fell into deep discussion with Ronnie Pye.

 Amid coughing and feet shuffling the Chairman rose to introduce Sean to

 men who had been his schoolmates, who had drunk his brandy and hunted

 with him. He went on to tell them how Sean had won the Anglo-Boer war

 virtually single-handed, how he had brought prosperity to the district

 with his factory and his wattle. Then he ended with a few remarks that

 had Sean squirming in his seat and trying to get two fingers into his

 collar.

 "So, ladies and gentlemen of our fair district-I give you a man of

 vision and foresight, a man with a heart as big as his fists-your

 candidate and mine, Colonel Sean Courtney!"

 Sean stood up smiling, to be rocked by a blast of. jeers and catcalls

 from the front rows. The smile faded and his fists curled into great

 bony hammers on the table in front of him. He scowled down on them,

 beginning to sweat with anger. A light tug on the tail of his coat

 steadied him and his fists opened a little. He began to speak,

 bellowing above the shouts of

 "Sit down!" " "Speak up!" "Give him a chance! " "Stand down!" and

 the thunder of booted feet stamping in unison on the wooden floor.

 Three times in the uproar he lost the run of his speech and had to turn

 to Ruth for prompting, scarlet in the face with anger and

 mortification, while waves of derisive laughter broke over him. He

 ended up reading out the last half from his notebook it made little

 difference that he stumbled and lost his place repeatedly for no one

 more than three feet away could hear a word.

 He sat down and a sudden silence descended on the hall, an air Oft'L of

 expectancy that made Sean realize that this must have been carefully

 planned-and that the main entertainment was still to follow.

 "Mr. Courtney. " At the back of the hall Garry Courtney was on his

 feet, and every head was craned around towards him.

 "May I ask you a few questions?"

 Sean nodded slowly. So that is it! Garry planned this reception.

 "My first question, then. Can you tell us what the name is for a man

 who sells his country to the enemies of his King?"

 "Traitor!" howled the hecklers.

 "Boer!" They stood up in a mass and roared at him. The pandemonium

 lasted perhaps five minutes.

 "I'm taking you out of here," Sean whispered to Ruth and reached for

 her arm, but she pulled away.

 "No, I'm staying."

 "Come on, do as I tell you. This is going to get rough."

 "You'll have to carry me out first," she flared at him, angry and

 beautiful.

 Sean was about to accept the challenge, when suddenly the uproar ceased

 abruptly. Again, all heads turned towards Garrick Courtney, where he

 stood ready with his next question. In the silence he grinned

 maliciously.

 "One other thing, do you mind telling us the nationality and faith of

 your wife?"

 Sean's head jerked back. He felt the sickening physical jolt of it in

 his stomach, and he started to struggle to his feet. But Ruth was

 already standing, and she laid a hand on his shoulder to prevent him

 rising.

 "I think I will answer that one, Garry." She spoke clearly with just a

 trace of huskiness in her voice

 "I am a Jewess."

 The silence persisted. Still with her hand on Sean's shoulder,

 standing straight and proud beside him, she held Garry's stare across

 the room. Garry broke first. Flushing up along his neck, he dropped

 his eyes and shifted clumsily on his bad leg. Among the men in the

 front rows the same guilty reaction followed her words. They glanced

 at each other and then away, moving awkwardly in shame. A man stood

 up, and started down the aisle towards the door. Half-way there he

 stopped and turned.

 "Sorry, Missus. I didn't know there'd be any of that," and he went on

 towards the door. As he passed Ronny Pye he tossed a sovereign into

 his lap. Another man stood up, grinned uneasily at Ruth and hurried

 out. Then in twos and threes the others followed him. The last of

 them trooped out in a bunch, and Sean noted with relish that not all of

 them returned Ronny's sovereigns.

 At the end of the schoolroom Garry dithered, uncertain whether to leave

 or to stay and attempt to brazen his way out of a situation he had

 seriously misjudged.

 Sean stood up slowly and encircled Ruth's waist with one arm, he

 cleared his throat for it was choked with his pride of her.

 "Not only that," he called, "but she's one of the best goddamned cooks

 in the district also. " In the laughter and cheers that followed Garry

 stumbled and pushed his way out of the room.

 The following day Garrick Courtney announced his intention of

 contesting the Ladyburg seat as an Independent, but not even the

 Loyalist newspapers gave him an outside chance of winning-until six

 weeks before polling-day.

 On that evening, long after dark, Dirk hitched Sun Dancer at the rail

 outside the hotel. After he had loosened the girth and slipped the bit

 from her mouth, he left her to drink at the trough and went up onto the

 sidewalk. As he sauntered past the bar he peered in through the large

 window with its gold-and-red-lettered slogan,

 "Got a thirst, drink a Goldberg Beer!"

 Quickly he checked the clientele at the bar for informers.

 There were none of his father's foremen-they were always dangerous, nor

 were Messrs. Petersen or Pye or Erasmus present this evening. He

 recognized two of the factory mechanics, a couple of railway gangers, a

 bank clerk, a counter-hand from the Co-operative Society among the

 half-dozen strangers-and he decided that it was safe.

 None of these ranked high enough in Ladyburg society to carry news to

 Sean Courtney of his son's drinking habits.

 Dirk walked to the end of the block, paused there for a few seconds,

 and then strolled casually back. But his eyes were restlessly checking

 the shadows for tale carriers. Tonight the main street was deserted,

 and as he came level with the swing doors of the bar he stepped

 sideways through them and into the warm yellow lamplight of the saloon.

 He loved this atmosphere-he loved the smell of sawdust, liquor, tobacco

 smoke and men. It was a place of men. A place of rough voices and

 laughter, of crude humour and companionship.

 A few of the men along the bar glanced up as he entered.

 "Hey, Dirk!"

 "We've missed you-where have you been all week?" Dirk returned Archy's

 greeting self-consciously and when he walked to take the stool beside

 him at the end of the bar counter he held himself erect and swaggered a

 little-for this was a place of men,

 "Good evening, Dirk.

 What will it be?" The barman hurried across to him.

 "Hello, Henry-is it all right tonight?" Dirk dropped his voice to a

 whisper.

 "Should be-we aren't expecting any snoopers," Henry reassured him.

 "But the door behind you isn't locked."

 Dirk's seat in the corner had been selected with care. From it he

 could survey each newcomer to the room while being screened himself by

 the drinkers along the counter. Behind him a door led through the wash

 up into the back yard-a necessary precaution when you're seventeen and

 both the law and your father forbid you liquor.

 "Very well, then-give me the usual," Dirk nodded.

 "You're out late tonight," Henry remarked as he poured gin into a

 tumbler and filled it with bottled ginger beer "You been out hunting

 again?" Henry was a small man in his early fifties, with a pale un

 sunned face and little blue eyes, and now as he asked the question he

 winked one of them at Archy Longworthy.

 "Did you get it tonight?" Archy took over the catechism.

 Dirk laid a finger along the side of his nose. "What do you think?" He

 grinned and they all laughed delightedly.

 ""Who was it? Madame?" Archy drew him out, playing for the other

 listeners, who were leaning forward still chuckling.

 "Oh, her! " Dirk shrugged contemptuously. Madame was the code name of

 the wife of one of the railway drivers. Her husband ran the night

 train to Pietermaritzburg every alternate day. She was not considered

 much of a conquest.

 "Who then?" Henry kidded softly.

 "I'll let you know when I'm finished nesting there myself," Dirk

 promised.

 "A pretty one?" they insisted. "Young, hey?"

 "She's all right-not too bad." Dirk tasted his gin.

 "Man, you get so much you don't hardly "preciate it any more,"

 Archy chided him, grinning at his audience, and Dirk bridled with

 pleasure. "Come on, Dirk-tell us, man. Is she hot? " For answer Dirk

 extended one finger cautiously and touched his glass, hissed sharply as

 though he had touched red hot steel and jerked his hand back with an

 exclamation of pain. They roared with appreciation and Dirk laughed

 with them, flushing, eager for their acceptance.

 I've us the story-" Henry insisted. "You don't have to give us the

 name, just give us the details. Where did you take her?"

 "Well-" Dirk hesitated.

 "Come on, Dirk. Tell us about it."

 And of course he obliged. Telling it in detail so that the indulgent

 quality of their laughter changed and they leaned closer to him

 listening hungrily.

 "Jesus! Did she say that?"

 "Then what did you do?" they encouraged him.

 And Dirk told them. He was a natural storyteller and he built up the

 suspense until there was a small island of attentive silence around

 him. But the rest of the bar-room was louder with laughter and voices

 than it had been when he entered. One group in particular were feeling

 their liquor.

 --So I took her hand," Dirk went on, "and I said,

 "Now I've got a little surprise for you. " "What is it?" she asked,

 as though she didn't know. "Close your eyes and I'll show you." I

 told her . And a voice rang loudly from across the room: --You take

 that big ugly bastard Courtney. What does he do except drive around in

 a big motor-car and make speeches.

 Dirk stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked up. Suddenly his

 face was pale. The man who had spoken was one of the group at the far

 end of the bar. He was dressed in a shabby over-all of blue denim.

 A man no longer young, with the lines of hardship etched deep around

 his eyes and mouth.

 "You know who gives him his money? I tell you-we give it to him.

 Without these he'd be finished-he wouldn't last a month." The man held

 up his hands, they were calloused and the nails were split and ragged,

 encrusted with dark semicircles of dirt. "That's where he gets his

 money. Colonel Bloody Courtney. Dirk was staring across at the

 speaker; his hands lay clenched on the counter in front of him.

 Now suddenly the room was very quiet-so that the man's next words

 seemed even louder.

 "You know what he pays,- thirty-two pounds a month top journeyman's

 wages! Thirty-two pounds a month!"

 "The minimum rate is twenty-five-" one of his companions observed

 dryly. "I reckon you're free to move on to a better job-if you can

 find it. Me, I'll stay on here. " "That's not the point. That big

 idle bastard's making a fortune out of us-I reckon he can afford to pay

 more. I reckon . . . " "Do you reckon you're worth that much?" Dirk

 jumped up from his stool and shouted the question down the length of

 the counter. There was a stir of interest and every head turned

 towards him.

 "Leave him, Dirk, he's drunk. Don't start anything," Henry whispered

 in agitation, and then raising his voice and turning to the other,

 "You've had enough, Norman. Time you were on your way. Your old lady

 will be waiting dinner for you."

 "Good God!" the man was peering in Dirk's direction, his eyes focusing

 blearily.

 "Good God! It's Courtney's pup."

 And Dirk's face set into nervous rigidity. He began to walk slowly

 down the room towards the man.

 "Leave him, Dirk." To restrain him Archy caught his arm as he passed.

 But Dirk shrugged it off.

 "You insulted my father. You called him a bastard!"

 "That's right." Norman nodded. "Your daddy's a bastard all right.

 Your daddy's a big lucky bastard who's never done a full day's work in

 his life-a big, lucky, bloodsucking bastard. And he's whelped an

 equally useless pup, who spends his time .

 Dirk hit him in the mouth, and he went over backwards off the stool,

 flailing his arms as he fell. He hit the floor with his shoulders and

 rolled on to his knees spitting blood and a broken tooth from his

 mouth.

 "You little bastard-- he mouthed through the blood. Dirk stepped

 forward with his left foot and swung his boot with the whole weight of

 his body behind it. The toe of his boot thudded into the man's chest

 and flung him on to his back.

 ,

 "Christ, stop him," shouted Henry from behind the bar. But they sat

 paralyzed as Dirk stooped for the bar stool, lifted it above his head

 and then brought it down, swinging his body with it as though he were

 chopping a log. The heavy wooden seat hit the man in the centre of his

 forehead, it hit solidly for the back of his head was against the floor

 and could not give with the blow. It split his skull cleanly and twin

 spurts of blood shot from his nostrils into the sawdust on the floor.

 "You've killed him. " A single voice broke the long silence that

 followed.

 "Yes." Dirk agreed. I've killed him. I've killed a man. It sang

 within him savagely. It came up and filled his chest so that he could

 hardly breathe. And he stood over the corpse not wanting to miss a

 moment of it. He felt his legs trembling under him, the muscles of his

 cheeks so tight with excitement they felt they must tear.

 "Yes, I killed him. " His voice was choked with the violence of the

 pleasure that gripped him. His vision narrowed down so that the dead

 man's face filled the whole field of it. The forehead was deeply

 dented and the eyes bulged from their sockets.

 Around him there was a sudden bustle of consternation.

 "You'd better send for his father."

 "I'm getting out of here!"

 "No, stay where you are. Nobody must leave."

 "My God, call Doc Fraser."

 "Doc's not wanted-get the police."

 "He was so quick-like a bloody leopard-"Christ, I'm getting out of

 here."

 TWo of them stooped over the body.

 "Leave him!" snapped Dirk. "Don't touch him.

 a young lion of its kill. And instinctively they obeyed. They stood

 up and moved away. With them everyone else drew back, leaving Dirk

 standing alone.

 "Get his father," repeated Henry. "Someone ride out and call Sean

 Courtney. " An hour later Sean strode into the room. He wore an

 overcoat over his nightshirt and his boots had been pulled hurriedly

 over his bare feet. He stopped on the threshold and glared around the

 room, his hair in wild disorder from sleep-but when he entered, the

 atmosphere in the room changed. The tense silence relaxed and every

 face turned eagerly towards him.

 "Mr. Courtney-thank God you've come," blurted the young police

 constable who was standing beside Dr. Fraser.

 "How bad is it, Doc?" Sean asked.

 "He's dead, Sean."

 "Pa," Dirk started.

 "Shut up!" Sean ordered him grimly. "Who is he?" he fired at the

 constable.

 "Norman Van Eek, one of your fitters from the mill.

 "How many witnesses?"

 "Fourteen of them, sir. They all saw it."

 "Right," Sean ordered, "get the body down to the police station.

 You'll be able to take statements from them tomorrow morning.

 "What about the accused ... I mean what about your son, sir? " The

 constable corrected himself.

 "I'll be responsible for him.

 "I'm not sure that I shouldn't . He saw the expression on Sean's face.

 "Well, that will be all right, I suppose, " he agreed reluctantly.

 "Pa . Dirk started again.

 "I told you to keep your mouth shut-you've done enough damage for one

 night. " Sean spoke without looking at him, then to the barman.

 "Fetch a blanket." Then to the police constable,

 "Get some of them to help you," and he pointed towards the window which

 was lined four deep with curious faces.

 "Very well, Mr. Courtney. " After they had shuffled out with the

 blanket-wrapped body, Sean glanced significantly at Dr. Fraser.

 "I'd better get down there and complete my examination.

 "You go ahead," Sean agreed and the doctor packed his bag and went.

 Sean closed the door behind him and slammed the shutters across the

 window. Then he turned to the men who stood anxious along the bar.

 "What happened?" They stirred restlessly and looked everywhere but at

 him.

 "You, George?" Sean selected one of his mechanics.

 "Well, Mr. Courtney your Dirk went up to Norman and hit him off the

 stool.

 Then he kicked him as he was trying to get up, then he picked up the

 stool and hit him with it." The mechanic stumbled hoarsely through his

 explanation.

 "Did this man provoke him?" Sean demanded.

 "Well, he called you a-begging your pardon, Mr. Courtney-he called you

 a big, idle, bloodsucking bastard. " Sean frowned quickly. "Did he

 now! What else did he say?"

 "He said you were a slave owner-that you starved your men.

 He said that he was going to get even with you sometime."

 Arrhy Longwortby took over the telling of it with a note of

 interrogation in his voice as he glanced around at the others for

 support. After a few seconds there was a guilty nodding of heads and a

 few murmurs of agreement. Archy took courage from it.

 "He sort of hinted that he was going to wait for you one night and get

 even.

 "Did he say that in so many words?" Sean's presence dominated the room

 with such an obvious air of authority that when Archy looked again for

 support he found it in their faces.

 "He said: "One night I'm going to wait for that big bastard then I'll

 show him a few things." " Archy gave them the exact words. No one

 protested.

 "Then what happened?"

 "Well then he sort of picked on young Dirk. And "here's Courtney's

 brat," he said. "Yellow as his old man, I reckon!

 "What did Dirk do?" Sean asked.

 "Well, Mr. Courtney, he just laughed-like the gentleman, sort of, nice

 and friendly. "Forget it, he said-you've had too much to drink." " A

 sudden thought occurred to Sean. "What was Dirk doing in here,

 anyway?"

 "Well, its like this, Mr. Courtney-a few weeks ago he lent me a couple

 of pounds. I asked him to call round here tonight so I could give it

 back to him-that's all it was.

 "He wasn't drinking then?" Sean asked suspiciously.

 "Good Lord, no!" Archy was so obviously shocked at the suggestion that

 Sean nodded.

 "All right, what happened then? " he pursued,

 "Well, Norman went on ribbing him. Called him a coward and all that-I

 can't remember the exact words. But at last young Dirk lost his

 temper. He walked across and hit him off the stool.

 "Well, I guess Norman deserved that-what do you drink, boys?"

 Archy looked at them again.

 "That's right-fair made my blood boil to hear him picking on Dirk like

 that. " The mechanic backed him up and the others murmured

 agreement.

 "Well, then," Archy took up the tale again,

 "Norman's lying on the floor and pulls out his knife." There was a

 rustle of astonishment from along the bar. One man opened his mouth

 and lifted his hand in protest, but suddenly embarrassed, he carried

 the gesture through and massaged his neck.

 "Knife. What knife-where's it now?" Sean leaned forward eagerly.

 Standing beside him Dirk began to smile softly. When he smiled his

 face was beautiful.

 "Here's the knife." Henry, the barman, reached under the counter and

 brought out a large bone-handled clasp knife. Everybody in the room

 stared at it blankly.

 "How did it get there?" Sean asked, and now for the first time he was

 aware of the sickly guilt-ugly faces in front of him.

 He knew then for certain it was a lie.

  

 "I took it off Norman afterwards. We thought it best you should be the

 first one to know the truth-you being his father, and all. " Archy

 wriggled his shoulders ingratiatingly and smiled around at his

 witnesses.

 Slowly Sean turned to the man nearest to him, the bank clerk.

 "Is this the knife with which Norman Van Eek threatened my son?

 "Yes, Mr. Courtney. " The man's voice squeaked unnaturally.

 Sean looked at the man beyond him and repeated the question exactly.

 "Yes, that's the one, sir.

 "That's it."

 I

 "Yes.

 "No doubt about it-that's it."

 He asked each man in turn and each answered the same.

 "Dirk. " Sean came last to him. He asked it slowly and heavily.

 Looking into the clear innocent eyes of his son. "As God is your

 witness-did Norman Van Eek draw this knife on you?"

 Please, my son, deny it now. Say it so they all can hear you.

 If you value my love-tell me the truth now. Please, Dirk, please.

 All this he tried to say, tried to convey it with the sheer force of

 his gaze.

 "As God is my witness, Pa," Dirk answered him and was silent again.

 "You have not answered," Sean insisted. Please, my son.

 "He drew that knife from the hip pocket of his overalls-the blade was

 closed. He opened it with the thumbnail of his left hend, Pa,"

 Dirk explained softly. "I tried to kick it out of his hand, but hit

 his chest instead. He fell onto his back and I saw him raise the knife

 as though he were going to throw it. I hit him with the stool. It was

 the only way I could stop him. " All the passion went out of Sean's

 face. It was stony and hard.

 "Very well, " he said. "We'd better get home now." Then he addressed

 the rest of the bar-room. "Thank you, gentlemen."

 And he walked out through the door to the Rolls. Dirk followed him

 meekly.

 The next afternoon Dirk Courtney was released by the local magistrate

 into his father's custody on bail of fifty pounds, pending the visit of

 the Circuit Court two weeks later, when he was to stand trial on a

 charge of manslaughter.

 His case was set down at the head of the Court list. The whole

 district attended the old, packing the tiny Courthouse and clustering

 at each of its windows.

 After a retirement of seven minutes the jury brought back its verdict

 and Dirk, walking out of the dock, was surrounded by the laughing,

 congratulating crowd and borne out into the sunlight.

 In the almost deserted Courtroom Sean did not rise from his seat in the

 front row of chairs. Peter Aaronson, the defence lawyer Sean had

 imported from Pieten-naritzburg, shuffled his papers into his

 briefcase, made a joke with the Registrar, then walked across to

 Sean.

 "In and out again in seven minutes already-that's one for the record

 book. " When he smiled he looked like a koala bear.

 "Have a cigar, Mr. Courtney. " Sean shook his head and Peter thrust a

 disproportionately large cigar into his own mouth and lit it.

 "I tell you truly, though, I was worried by the knife business. I

 expected trouble there. I didn't like that knife."

 "No more did I, " Sean agreed softly, and Peter held his head on one

 side examining Sean's face with bright, birdlike eyes.

 "But I liked those witnesses-a troupe of performing seals.

 "Bark," you say to them-Woof! Woof! Just like magic. Someone trained

 them pretty well!"

 "I don't think I understand you," Sean said to him grimly, and Peter

 shrugged.

 "I'll post my account-but I warn you I'm going to hit you with a big

 one. Say, five hundred guineas?"

 Sean lay back in his seat and looked up at the little lawyer.

 "Say, five hundred," he agreed.

 "Next time you need representation-I recommend a bright youngster name

 of Rolle. Humphrey Rolle," Peter went on.

 "You think I'll need a lawyer again?"

 "With your boy-you'll need a lawyer, " Peter told him with certainty.

 "And you don't want the job?" Sean leaned forward with sudden

 interest. "At five hundred guineas a throw?"

 "Money I can get anywhere." Peter took the cigar from his mouth and

 inspected the fluffy grey ash at its tip. "Remember the name, Mr.

 Courtney-Humphrey Rolle. He's a bright boy and not too choosy.

 He walked away down the aisle lugging his heavy briefcase, and Sean

 stood up and followed him slowly. Pausing on the steps of the

 Courthouse he looked across the square. The centre of a small knot of

 men, Dirk stood laughing, with Archy's arm around his shoulder. Archy's

 voice carried to where Sean stood.

 "Don't let any of you get the idea you can tangle with Dirkie

 here-you'll end up with your teeth busted clean out the back of your

 head. " Archy grinned so that the blackened tooth showed. "I say it

 so you can all hear me. Dirkie here is my friend-and I'm proud of

 him.

 " You alone, thought Sean. He looked at his son and saw how tall he

 stood. Shaped like a man-broad in the shoulders with muscle in his

 arms, no fat on the belly and long legs dropping away clean from

 hips.

 But he is only sixteen. He's a child-perhaps there is still time to

 prevent him setting hard. Then with truth he knew he was deceiving

 himself, and he remembered what a friend had said to him long ago:

 "Some grapes grew in the wrong soil, some were diseased before they

 went to the press, and others were soiled by a careless vintner-not all

 grapes make good wine.

 And I am the careless vintner, he thought.

 Sean walked across the square. "You're coming home," he told Dirk

 harshly, knowing as he looked at the lovely face that he no longer

 loved his son. The knowledge nauseated him.

 "Congratulations, Colonel. I knew we'd win," Archy Longworthy beamed,

 and Sean glanced at him.

 "I'll be in my office ten o'clock tomorrow morning. I want to talk to

 you! - " "Yes, sir!" grinned Archy happily, but he was not grinning

 when he left Ladyburg on the following evening's train with a month's

 pay in lieu of notice to compensate him.

 With the storm of adverse editorial comment raised by Dirk's trial,

 Garry Courtney's chances in the coming election increased

 significantly. The jingo press spoke darkly of a "surprise outcome,

 which thinking men will welcome as a true assessment of the worth of

 the two candidates for the Ladyburg constituency. " Only the Liberal

 papers reported the generous pension which the Ladyburg Wattle

 Co-operative Co. voted to Norman Van Eek's widow and orphan.

 But everyone knew that Sean Courtney was still a long way ahead.

 He could be certain of the vote of the two hundred men employed at the

 factory and on his estates, the other wattle producers of the valley

 and their employees, as well as a good half of the townsfolk and

 ranchers-that was until the Pietermaritzburg Farmer & Trader devoted a

 full front page to the exclusive story of one Archibald Frederick

 Longworthy.

 Mr. Longworthy related how, by the threat of physical violence and

 loss of employment, he had been forced to pedure himself in court.

 How, after the case, he had been summarily dismissed from his work.

 The exact nature of his peury was not revealed.

 Sean cabled his lawyers in Pietermaritzburg to begin immediate

 proceedings against the &rmer & Trader for defamation of character,

 libel, contempt, treason, and anything else they could think of. Then,

 reckless of his own safety, he climbed into the Rolls and raced at

 thirty miles an hour in pursuit of his cable.

 He arrived in Pietermaritzburg to find that Mr. Longworthy, after

 signing a sworn statement and graciously accepting a payment of fifty

 guineas, had departed without leaving a forwarding address. Legal

 advice was against Sean visiting the editor of the Farmer & Rader and

 laying himself open to a counter-suit of assault and battery. It would

 be two months before the defamation trial was heard in court, and the

 election was to be held in ten days" time.

 All Sean could do was publish a full-page denial in each of the Liberal

 papers, then return to Ladyburg at a more sedate pace. There a

 telegram awaited him from Pretoria. Jan Paulus and Jan Niemand

 suggested that in the circumstances it might be better if Sean withdrew

 from nomination. Sean's reply went sizzling back over the wires.

 Like a pair in harness, Garry and Sean Courtney swept up to the

 polling-day finishing line.

 The actual voting took place in the Ladyburg Village Management offices

 under the beady eyes of two Government registration officers.

 Thereafter, the ballot boxes would be removed to Pietermaritzburg,

 where on the following day in the City Hall the votes would be counted

 and the official results announced.

 On opposite sides of the square the opposing candidates set up the

 large marquee tents from which free refreshments would be served to the

 voters. Traditionally the candidate who fed the largest number would

 be the loser. Nobody wished to put their choice to additional expense,

 so they patronized the other man's stall. This day, however, both

 candidates served an almost equal amount of food.

 It was a day that threatened the approach of the wet season, humid heat

 lay trapped beneath grey overcast clouds and the occasional bursts of

 sunlight stung like the blast of an open furnace door. Sean, suited

 and waist coated sweated with anxiety as he greeted each visitor to his

 stall with a booming, false camaraderie. Beside him Ruth looked like a

 rose petal, and smelled as sweet. Storm, demure for once, stood

 between them.

 Dirk was not there-Sean had found work for him on the far side of Lion

 Kop. Many sly eyes and snide sallies remarked his absence Ronny Pye

 had persuaded Garry not to wear his uniform.

 Anna was with him, pretty in mauve and artificial flowers. It was only

 at closer range that the ugly little lines around her mouth and eyes,

 and the gray hairs that were woven into the shiny black mass of her

 hair showed up. Neither she nor Garry let their eyes wander across the

 square.

 Michael arrived and spoke first with his father, kissed his mother

 dutifully, then crossed to resume the argument Sean had broken off the

 night before. Michael wanted Sean to buy ten thousand acres of the

 coastal lowlands around Tongaat and plant it to sugar-cane. Within a

 few minutes he realized that this was not the best time to push his

 idea; Sean greeted each of his points with hearty laughter and offered

 him a cigar. Discouraged but not resigned, Michael went into the

 ballot office and, settling his problem of divided loyalty,

 deliberately spoiled his paper.

 Then he returned to his office at the wattle factory to whip his sugar

 estimates into shape for the next attack on Sean.

 Ada Courtney never left the Protea Street cottage all that day.

 She had steadfastly denied appeals to join either camp, and refused to

 allow any of her girls to help in the preparations. She had prohibited

 any political discussion in her house-and ordered Sean to leave when he

 had disregarded this rule. Only after Ruth had interceded and Sean had

 made an abject apology, was he allowed to return. She disapproved of

 the whole business and considered it undignified and common that

 members of her family should not only be standing for public office but

 actually competing for it. Her deep distrust of and contempt for

 officialdom stemmed from the time the Village Board had wanted to place

 street lamps along Protea Street.

 She had attended their next meeting armed with an umbrella, and in vain

 they had tried to convince her that street lights did not attract

 mosquitoes.

 However, Ada was the only person in the district who did not attend.

 From midmorning until polling closed at five o'clock the square was

 jammed solid with humanity, and when the sealed ballot boxes were borne

 in state to the railway station, many of them climbed on the same train

 and went up to Pieten-naritzburg for the official counting.

 It had been a day of unremitting nervous tension, so a very short time

 after entering their suite in the White Horse Hotel, Ruth and Sean fell

 into exhausted sleep in each other's arms.

 When, in the early morning a brilliant electrical storm raged down upon

 the town, Ruth moved restlessly in her sleep, coming slowly back to

 consciousness-and to the realization that she and Sean were already

 engaged in the business that had been delayed so long. Sean woke at

 the same time and, for the few seconds that it took him to understand

 what was happening, was as bewildered as she-then both of them went to

 it with a will.

 BY dawn Ruth knew that she would bear a son, though Sean felt it was a

 little soon to tell for certain.

 After bathing, they ate breakfast in bed together with a renewed sense

 of intimacy. Ruth in a white silk gown, with her hair loosed into a

 shiny mass on her shoulders and her skin glowing as though she had been

 freshly scrubbed, was extreme provocation to Sean.

 Consequently they arrived late at the City Hall, much to the agitation

 of Sean's supporters.

 The counting was well advanced. In a roped-off section of the hall

 ballot officers sat in silent industry at the tables piled with the

 small pink slips of paper. On a placard above each table was printed

 the name of the district and the candidates, and between the tables

 scrutineers paced watchfully.

 The body of the hall was filled with a milling, humming swarm of men

 and women. Before it engulfed them Sean caught a glimpse of Garry and

 Anna moving through the press, then for the next ten minutes he was

 subjected to an orgy of hand-shaking, back-slapping and well

 wishes-interrupted by a bell and a complete silence.

 "The result for the legislative assembly seat of Newcastle .

 a high thin voice announced in the hush Mr. Robert Sanipson 986 votes.

 Mr. Edward Sutton 423 votes . And the rest was lost in a burst of

 cheers and groans. Sampson was the South African Party candidate, and

 Sean fought his way through the pack that surrounded him.

 "Well done, you old son of a gun," shouted Sean and beat him between

 the shoulder-blades.

 "Thanks, Sean. It looks as though we are home and dry-I never expected

 a majority that size!" and they wrung each other's hands

 deliriously.

 The morning went on with intervals of excited, buzzing ten exploding

 into applause as each result was announced.

 Sean's confidence rose as his party captured each seat they had

 expected, and one that they were resigned to lose-but then the bell

 rang again and in the satire impersonal tone the Chief Registration

 Officer at last announced: "The resuk for the legislative assembly seat

 of Ladyburg and the lower lbgela-" he felt the cold emptiness of

 apprehension in his stomach, and his breath burning up the back of his

 throat.

 Standing beside him he could sense the rigidity of Ruth's body and he

 groped for her hand.

 "Colonel Garrick Courtney 638 votes. Colonel Sean Courtney 631

 votes."

 Ruth's hand squeezed hard, but Sean did not reply to the pressure.

 The two of them stood very still, a tiny island of quiet in the surge

 and roar-in the triumphant cheers and despairing groans-until Sean said

 softly: "I think we'll go back to the hotel, my dear.

 "Yes," she answered as softly, and the sound of her voice was helpless

 pity. Together they started across the floor and a way opened for

 them. A passage lined by faces that bore expressions of regret,

 happiness, curiosity, indifference and triumphant malice.

 Out into the sunlight and across the street to the rank of hire cabs

 they walked together, while behind them the uproar was muted-sounding

 at this distance like the voices of wild animals.

 Sean handed Ruth up into the coach and was about to join her before he

 remembered what there was still to be done. He spoke to the driver and

 gave him money before coming back to Ruth.

 "Please wait for me at the hotel, my dear. " "Where are you going?"

 "I must offer Garry our congratulations.

 Through the screen of bodies that surrounded him Garry saw Sean

 approaching, and he felt his body tensing involuntarily racked by that

 conflict of hatred and love he bore for this man.

 Sean stopped in front of him and smiled. "Well done, Garry!"

 he said and offered his right hand. "You beat me in a hard straight

 fight-and I'd like to shake your hand. " Garry took the words up with

 temerity, examined them with growing realization of their meaning and

 found that they were true. He had fought Sean and beaten him. This

 was something that could not be destroyed-something that Sean could

 never take away from him. I've beaten him. For the first time-the

 very first time in all my life" It was an emotional orgasm so intense

 that for a long moment Garry could not move or make any reply.

 "Sean . . ." His voice choked up. He caught Sean's outstretched hand

 in both of his and held it with desperate strength.

 "Sean, perhaps now . . . " he whispered,

 "I'd like to . . . I mean, when we get back to Ladyburg . . . " Then

 he stopped and blushed scarlet with embarrassment. Quickly he released

 Sean's hand and stepped back. "I thought you might like to come out to

 Theuniskraal,"

 he mumbled, "some day when you're not busy. Look around the old

 place.

 " Then more eagerly,

 "It's been a long time. I've still got Pa's old . . . " "Never!" Anna

 Courtney hissed the word. Neither of them had noticed her cross the

 hall, but now she appeared suddenly at Garry's side. Her eyes were

 bright gems of hatred set in their patterns of wrinkles, and her face

 was white as she glared at Sean.

 "Never," she hissed again, and took Garry's arm. "Come with me," she

 commanded, and Garry followed her meekly.

 But he glanced back at where Sean still stood, and there was a

 desperate plea in his eyes. A plea for understanding, for forgiveness

 of this weakness.

 Like one who lives in a hurricane belt, and recognizes the shape of

 clouds and the breathless hush that precedes high wind-Ruth knew she

 would have to deal with the brooding undirected rage which would be

 Sean's reaction to this failure of his plans. His moods came at widely

 spaced intervals and did not last long-but she feared those moods of

 his, and like the prudent householder forewarned of the hurricane's

 approach, she took precautions to minimize its wrath.

 When she reached the hotel she sent an urgent summons to the Manager.

 "In half an hour I want lunch served in the suite-not your ordinary

 bill of fare. Something really good." The Manager thought a moment.

 "Oysterl We have a barrel just arrived from UmWanga Rocks."

 "Excellent. " Ruth liked the man's response to the emergency.

 "Then I could do a smoked ham, cold venison, cold rock lobster, salads?

 " "Excellent again. What about cheese?"

 "Gruyre. Danish Blue. Camembert."

 "Wine?

 "Champagne?"

 "Yes," Ruth agreed instantly. She would shamelessly exploit Sean's

 weakness for it. "A bottle of Veuve Clicquot-no, on second thoughts,

 three bottles. " "I'll send the wine up first?"

 "Immediately-with your best glass and a silver bucket," Ruth told

 him.

 Then she fled to her toilet. Thank the Lord for French perfume and

 this morning dress of grey silk she had been saving for just such an

 occasion. She worked quickly, but with skill, upon her face and hair,

 and when she was finished she sat quietly before the mirror and

 composed her features into an expression of peace. The effect was very

 satisfactory, she decided after critical contemplations. Since it was

 the way he had first seen it, Sean could never resist her hair in

 braids. It made her look like a little girl.

 "Shall I open the wine, Madam?"

 "Yes, please. " She called into the sitting-room, then went through to

 await the onslaught of the hurricane.

 Ten minutes later it came wafting in like a gentle zephyr, with a cigar

 clamped between its teeth, its hands thrust deep into trousers pockets

 and a bemused expression on its face.

 "Hey, now!" Sean stopped when he saw her, and removed the cigar.

 "That's nice!"

 The fact that he had noticed her appearance was proof that her weather

 forecast was hopelessly incorrect and she burst out laughing.

 "Whats so funny?" Sean asked mildly Nothing and everything. You and

 me. Have a glass of champagne.

 "Mad woman," Sean said and kissed her. "I like your hair like this

 "Aren't you disappointed?"

 "About the result, you mean? yes, I suppose I am. " He went to the

 central table and poured wine into the crystal glasses, handed one to

 her and took up the other.

 "I give you a toast-the short, exciting political career of Sean

 Courtney. " "You wanted to win so badly-but now . . . ?"

 Sean nodded. "Yes, I always want to win. But now that the game is

 lost. . . " He shrugged. "Shall I tell you something? I was getting

 a bit sick of all the speechifying and hand-shaking.

 I feel that even in my sleep I have a vacant grin on my face."

 He crossed to one of the leather arm-chairs and sank down into it

 gratefully. "There is something else also. Come here and let me tell

 you about it. " She went to him, sat in his lap and slid her hand into

 the front of his shirt so that she could feel the soft springy hair of

 his chest, and the hard rubbery flesh beneath.

 "Tell me," she said, and he told her about Garry. He spoke slowly,

 telling her everything-about the leg, how it was when they were

 children, and finally, about Michael. She was quiet for a while, and

 he could see the hurt in her eyes that Sean had been another woman's

 lover. At last she asked: "Does Garry know that Michael is your

 son?"

 "Yes. Anna told him one night. She told him the night I left

 Ladyburg-he wanted to kill me."

 "Why did you leave?

 "I couldn't stay on. Garry hated me for siring his son,- and anna

 hated me because I would not go to her."

 "She still wanted you, then?"

 "Yes. That night-the night I left, Anna came to me and

 "Yes."

 Ruth nodded, hurt still and jealous, but making the effort to

 understand.

 "I refused her-and she went to Garry and, in spite, she told him about

 the child. My God, what a poisonous bitch she is!"

 "But if she wanted you, why did she marry Garry?"

 "She was with child. She thought I had been killed in the Zulu war-she

 married him to provide a father for her child."

 "I see, " Ruth murmured. "But why do you tell me this?

 "I wanted you to understand how I feel about Garry. After What he did

 to you at that meeting I can't expect you to have much sympathy for

 him,- but he wasn't trying to hurt you, he asked me to .

 Sean paused. "You know what I mean.

 was aiming at me. I owe him so much, I now seem able to pay him.

 That's why . . . " "That's why you are glad he won today?" Ruth

 finished for him.

 "Yes," Sean answered eagerly. "You see, don't you, how important this

 must have been to him. For the first time he was able to ... able to

 ... Sean fluttered his hands in confusion as he sought the words.

 "He was able to compete with you on equal terms," Ruth supplied them

 for him.

 "Exactly!" Sean struck the arm of his chair with clenched fist.

 "When I went to congratulate him, he was ready to meet me. He invited

 me out to Theuniskraal-just then that evil, bloody woman interfered and

 took him away. But somehow I know it's going to be all right now. " A

 knock on the outer door interrupted him, and Ruth jumped up from his

 lap.

 "That will be the waiter with the lunch," but before she was half-way

 across the room, the knock was repeated with such Insistence that it

 threatened to loosen the plaster.

 "I'm coming." Irritated, Ruth raised her voice and swung the door

 open.

 Led by Bob Sampson a flood of men rushed into the room; jabbering and

 gesticulating they bore down on Sean.

 "What the hell's going on?" he demanded.

 "You've won!" shouted Bob. "A recount, you won on a recount-by ten

 votes!"

 "My God!" breathed Sean, and then so softly that only Ruth heard

 him,

 "Garry. Poor Garry!"

 "Open that champagne-send for another case. We're in solidly-all of

 us!" exulted Bob Sampson. "So let's drink to the Union of South

 Africa!"

 "Not even this once. Out of so many times, so many thing snot even

 this once." Already Garry Courtney was drunk. He lay deep in his

 chair with a tumbler held in both hands, stirring the brown liquid with

 a circular movement so a few drops slopped over the rim and stained the

 cloth of his trousers.

 "No," agreed Anna. "Not even this once." She stood with her back to

 him, staring out of the window of their suite into the ga slit street

 below, for she did not want him to see her face. But she could not

 control the harsh, gloating quality of her voice.

 "Now you can go back to writing your little books. You've made your

 point-you've proved to yourself and the rest of the world how effective

 you are. " Moving her hands slowly, she began to massage her own upper

 arms with sensual pleasure. A tiny shudder thrilled her so she moved

 restlessly and her skirts rustled like leaves in the wind.

 God, how close it had been-and she had been afraid.

 "You're a loser, Garry Courtney. You have always bee nand you will

 always be. " Again she shuddered with the memory of her fear. He had

 so nearly escaped. She had seen it begin from the moment the first

 result was announced, every minute it had grown stronger. Even his

 voice had changed, deeper with the first hint of confidence in it. He

 had looked at her strangely, without submission, with the beginning of

 his contempt. Then the flare of rebellion when he had spoken to Sean

 Courtney. She had been truly afraid then.

 "You are a loser," she repeated, and heard the sound he made-half-gulp,

 half-sigh. She waited and when she heard the soft gurgle of brandy

 poured from bottle to glass she hugged herself tighter and now she

 smiled as she remembered the announcement of the recount.

 The way he had shrunk, the way he had crumpled and turned to her with

 all of it gone-the confidence and contempt wiped away. Gone!

 Gone for ever. Sean Courtney would never have him. She had made that

 oath-and now it would be kept.

 As so many times before, she played over in her mind the details of

 that night. The night she had made the oath.

 It was raining. She was standing on the wide stoep of Theuniskraal,

 and Sean was leading his horse up across the lawns of Theuniskraal. The

 damp linen of his shirt clung to his shoulders and chest, the rain had

 made his beard break out in tiny curls so he looked like a mischievous

 pirate,

 "Where's Garry? " Her own voice, and his voice answering.

 "Don't worry. He's gone into town to see Ada. He'll be back by

 supper-time. " Then he was coming up the steps towards her, standing

 tall above her, and his hand on her arm was cold from the rain.

 "You must take better care of your-self now. You can't stand in the

 cold any more. "And he led her through the french doors.

 The top of her head was on a level with his shoulders, and his eyes as

 he looked down at her were gentle with masculine awe of pregnancy

 "You're a damn fine woman, Anna. And I'm sure you're going to make a

 fine baby.

 "Sean!" She remembered how his name had come up her throat like an

 involuntary exclamation of pain. The fierce forward surge that had

 flattened her body against his, arching to send her hips forward

 searchingfbr his manhood. The coarse electric feeling of his hair in

 her hands as she pulled his face down and the taste of his mouth opened

 warm and moist.

 "Are you mad! " As he tried to break away from her, her arms locked

 around his body and her face pressed to his chest.

 "I love you. Please, Sean, please. Just let me hold you, that's all.

 I just want to hold you. " "Get away from me! "And she felt herself

 thrown roughly on to the couch beside the fireplace.

 "You're Garry's wife and you'll soon be the mother of his child.

 Keep your hot little body for him. " And his face thrust forward,

 close to hers. "I don't want you. I could no more touch you than I

 could go with my own mother. You're Garrys wife.

 If ever again you look at another man I'll kill you. I'll kill you

 with my bare hands. " Love congealing instantly, transformed to hatred

 by his words Her fingernails raking across his cheek so the blood slid

 down into his beard, and he caught her wrists. Holding her while she

 struggled and screamed at him.

 "You swine, you dirty, dirty swine. Garry's wife you say.

 Garry's baby you say! Now hear the truth. What I have within me you

 put there. It's yours-not Garry's! " Then he was backing away from

 her. "You're lying. It can't be. " Following him now, speaking those

 cruel words softly. "You remember how we said good-bye when you went

 to war? You remember that night in the wagon? " "Leave me, leave me

 alone. I've got to think. I didn't know.

 And he was gone. She heard the door of his study slam, and she stood

 in the centre of the floor while the storm surf of her anger abated and

 exposed the black reefs of hatred beneath.

 Then she was alone in her bedroom, standing before the mirror-making

 her oath.

 "I hate him. There's one thing I can take from him. Garry belongs to

 me now. Mine, not his. I will take that away from him. " The pins

 pulled from her hair, so it tumbled to her shoulders.

 Her fingers tangling it into confusion. Teeth closing on her own lips

 so she could taste the blood.

 "Oh God, I hate him, " she whispered through the pain. Tearing open

 the blouse of her dress, watching in the mirror the great pink bosses

 of her nipples already darkening with the promise of fruition

 "I hate him. " Pantaloons torn and discarded, bowls of face powder and

 cosmetics swept from the dressing-table to burst and fill the room with

 the pungent reek of joerfitme.

 The lying alone in the darkening room. Waiting for Garry to come.

 Now she turned away from the window and looked down at Garry,

 triumphantly, knowing he could never escape again.

 I have kept my oath, she thought, and crossed to the chair.

 "Poor Garry." She forced her voice to croon gently, and she stroked

 the hair back from his forehead. He looked up at her, surprised, but

 eager for affection. "Poor Garry. Tomorrow we'll go home to

 Theuniskraal.

 She moved the bottle on the side table closer to his hand.

 Then she kissed his cheek lightly, and went on into the bedroom of the

 suite-smiling again, secure and safe in his weakness.

 Four months passed quickly. Sean, distracted by the responsibilities

 of his office, the mountains of correspondence, the meetings and

 sessions, the petitioners and the schemers-offered only a token

 resistance to Michael's sugar plans. Michael went off to the coast,

 purchased the land, and became deeply involved with the seller's eldest

 daughter. This young lady had the dubious distinction of being one of

 the few divorcees in Natal. When the scandal reached his ears, Sean,

 secretly pleased that Michael's chastity was at last shed, boarded the

 Rolls and went off on a flying mission of rescue. He returned to

 Ladyburg with a penitent Michael in tow. Two weeks later the young

 lady married a travelling salesman and moved from Tongaat to Durban,

 whereupon Michael was allowed to return to Tongaat and begin the

 development of the sugar estate.

 Ruth no longer accompanied Sean on all of his absences from Ladyburg.

 Her swiftly increasing girth and a mild malady which assailed her in

 the mornings kept her at Lion Kop, where she and Ada spent much time in

 the design and fabrication of baby wear In this Storm rendered

 assistance. The matinee jacket, which took three months to knit, was

 certain to fit the infant perfectly-provided it was a hunchback with

 its one arm twice as long as the other.

 Kept busy from early morning to nightfall in the capacity of overseer

 on Mahobo's Kloof, Dirk found little time for distraction.

 Ladyburg was now well covered by Sean's espionage system, and Dirk's

 few visits were reported in detail.

 But on the far side of Ladyburg, derelict and shabby from want of love,

 brooded the great homestead of Theuniskraal, In the night a single

 window showed a pale yellow square of light as Garry Courtney sat alone

 at his desk. In front of him lay a pathetically thin sheaf of papers.

 Hour after hour he stared at it-but no longer seeing it.

 He was dry inside, deprived of the juice of life and seeking its

 substitute in the bottle, which was always near him.

 The days drifted into weeks, and they in turn became months-and he

 drifted with them.

 Each afternoon he would go down to the paddocks, then leaning against

 the heavy wooden paling, he would watch Ins blood stock Hour after hour

 he stood unmoving and it seemed that, in time, he left his own body and

 lived within those richly gleaming skins, as though his own hooves

 drove deep into the turf as he ran, as though his own voice squealed

 and his muscles bunched and moved in the savage mating of heaving

 bodies.

 Ronny Pye found him there one afternoon; without Garry being aware of

 his presence, he came up silently and stood beside him, studying the

 pale intense face with the chisel-marks of pain and doubt and terrible

 yearning sculptured deep around the mouth and below the pale blue

 eyes.

 "Hello, Garry. " He spoke softly, but recognizing the pity in his own

 voice he thrust it aside. There was no room for softness now, and

 ruthlessly he hardened his resolve.

 "Ronny. " Vaguely, Garry turned to him, and when he smiled it was

 shyly. "Business or social?"

 "Business, Garry."

 "The bond?"

 "Yes.

 "What do you want me to do?"

 "How about coming into town-we can go over things in my office.

 "Now?

 "Yes, please."

 "Very well." Garry straightened up slowly. "I'll come with you.

 They rode together over the crest of ground and down towards the

 concrete bridge over the Baboon Stroom. Both of them silent, Garry

 because there was nothing in him, nothing to give voice to; Ronny Pye

 because of his sense of shame for the thing he was about to do. He was

 going to take a mans home from him and turn him loose upon a world in

 which he would have no chance of survival.

 At the bridge they stopped automatically to rest their horses, and they

 sat without speaking, an incongruous pair. One man sitting quietly,

 slim and wasted, his clothing slightly rumpled, his face austere with

 suffering; the other plump, red-faced below bright ginger hair, dressed

 in expensive cloth, fidgeting in the saddle.

 There was little sign of life across the river. A long, fired smear of

 smoke from the wattle factory stack rising straight into the still hot

 air, a black boy moving cattle down to drink at the river, the huff and

 clatter and clang of a locomotive shunting in the goods-yards-but

 otherwise the town of Ladyburg lay slumbering in the heat of a summer

 afternoon.

 Then on the open grassy plain below the escarpment, urgent movement

 caught Ronny's eye, and he focused his attention upon it with relief.

 A horseman riding fast, and even at this distance Ronny recognized

 him.

 "Young Dirk," he grunted, and Garry roused himself and peered out

 across the river. Horse and rider blended into one unit, seeming to

 touch the earth so lightly they were bound to it only be a pale feather

 of dust that drifted low behind them.

 "My God, that little bastard can ride." In reluctant admiration Ronny

 shook his head solemnly and a drop of perspiration broke from his

 hairtme and slid down his cheek. The horse reached the road and

 pivoted neatly, flattening into the increased speed of its run.

 Movement of such rhythmic grace and power that the watchers were

 stirred.

 "Look at him go!" whistled Ronny. "Don't reckon there's anything to

 catch that horse in the whole of Natal. " "You think so?" Garry's

 voice was suddenly alive, and his lips were pursed in anger.

 "I'm damned certain of it."

 "Mine. My colt-Grey Weather. Over a point-to-point course, I'd match

 him against any of Sean Courtney's stud."

 And those words gave Ronny Pye the idea. He turned it over in his mind

 while with slightly narrowed eyes he watched Dirk Courtney race Sun

 Dancer down towards the wattle factory.

 When horse and rider had disappeared through the tall gates, Ronny

 spoke softly: "Would you back your colt with money?"

 "Id back him with my life." There was savagery in Garry's voice.

 Yes, thought Ronny, this way at least I will give him a chance.

 This way the fates will make the decision, there will be no blame to my

 account.

 "Would you back him with The Uniskraal? he asked, and the silence drew

 out.

 "How do you mean?" whispered Garry.

 "If you win, the bond on Theuniskraal is set aside.

 "And if I lose?"

 "You lose the farm."

 "No," snapped Garry. "Christ, That's too much.

 Ronny shrugged indifferently. "It was just an idea-you're probably

 wise. You wouldn't have much of a chance against Sean. " Garry gasped

 sharply, that challenge had wounded deep as a lance. Made it a direct

 competition between Sean and himself, to ignore it would be to admit he

 could never win.

 "I'll take the bet.

 "The whole bet? You'll cover my money with what you have left of

 Theuniskraal?

 "Yes, damn you. Yes. I'll show you how much chance I have against

 him.

 "We'd better get it down in writing, Ronny suggested gently.

 "Then I'll see if I can arrange it with Sean." He touched his mount

 with his spurs and they moved forward across the bridge.

 "By the way, I think it best we tell nobody about our little bet.

 We'll pretend it's just an honour match. " Garry nodded his agreement.

 But that night when he wrote to Michael he told him about it, then went

 on to plead with Michael to ride Grey Weather in the race.

 Two days before the competition Michael confided in his grandmother.

 Ada went out to Theuniskraal to try and dissuade Garry from this

 reckless gamble, without success. Garry was almost fanatical in his

 determination. The stake meant nothing to him-it was the prospect of

 winning.

 And now he had Grey Weather and Michael to run for him.

 This time he would win. This time!

 down the lane to the stables In the dark Sean walked with Dirk The

 clouds banked along the escarpment were fired red by the hidden sun and

 the wind fretted through the plantations, so that the wattle moaned and

 shook.

 "North wind," grunted Sean. "It'll rain before nightfall."

 "Sun Dancer loves the rain, Dirk answered him tensely, and Sean glanced

 at him.

 "Dirk-if you lose today he started, but Dirk cut him short.

 "I wont lose," and again as though it were a vow,

 "I won't lose!

 " "If you'd only show as much determination in other things the more

 important.

 "Important! Pa, this is important. This is the most important thing

 I've ever done. " Dirk stopped and turned to his father. He caught

 Sean's sleeve, clinging to him. "Pa, I'm doing this for you-for you,

 Pa! " Sean looked down and what he saw in his son's face, in that

 beautiful face, silenced the retort that he was about to make.

 Where did I go wrong with you, he asked himself with love stained by

 loathing. Where did you get this blood, why are you this way, demanded

 his pride and his contempt.

 "Thanks," he said dryly, freed his arm and walked on towards the

 stables.

 Sightless in his deep preoccupation with Dirk, Sean was into the stable

 yard before he noticed Mbenjane.

 "Nkosi. I see you." Mbejane rose solemnly from the hand carved stool

 on which he sat.

 "I see you also," Sean cried with pleasure, and then controlled

 himself. A display of emotion in front of lesser persons would

 embarrass Mbenjane. "You are well?" he asked gravely, and restrained

 the desire to prod the swelling dignity of Mbenjane's stomach,

 reminding himself that Mbejane's abundant flesh and fat had been

 carefully cultivated as a sign to the rest of the world of his

 prosperity.

 "I am well," Mbeiane assured him.

 "That you have come gives me pleasure.

 "Nkosi, on a day of importance it is right that we should be

 together-as it was before." And Mbejane allowed himself to smile for

 the first time, a smile that within seconds became a mischievous grin

 that Sean gave back to him. He should have guessed that Mbejane would

 never miss a fight, or a hunt, or a contest.

 Then Mbejane turned to Dirk.

 "Do us honour today," he commanded, as though he spoke to one of his

 own sons. "Your father and I will be watching you." He placed a huge

 black hand upon Dirk's shoulder as though in benediction, then he

 turned to gesture with his fly whisk at the stable-boys waiting behind

 him.

 "Bring the horse!"

 TWo of them led her out, her hooves ringing on the paving of the yard

 as she danced a little. Head up, moving greyhoundI bellied, pricking

 her ears forward and back, she saw Dirk and wrinkled the soft velvet of

 her nostrils as she whickered.

 "Hey, girl!" Dirk walked towards her. At his approach she rolled her

 eyes until the whites showed and her small dainty ears flattened

 wickedly against her neck.

 "Stop that nonsense," Dirk admonished, and she bared yellow teeth

 menacingly and reached with her slender snakelike neck. He put out his

 hand to her and she took his fingers between those terrible teeth and

 nibbled them tenderly. Then, finished with pretence, she snorted,

 pricked her ears and nuzzled his chest and neck.

 "Where is her blanket'? Has she eaten? Put the saddle and bridle in

 the car." Dirk snapped a chain of questions and instructions at the

 stable-boys as he caressed Sun Dancer's face with the gentle hands of a

 lover.

 So many contradictions in one person. Sean watched his son with

 sadness heavy upon him, oppressive as this red dawn Where did I go

 wrong?

 "Nkosi, I will walk down with the horse." Mbejane sensed his mood and

 sought to end it.

 "Better that a man of your station should ride with me in the

 motor-car, " Sean demurred, and took a fiendish pleasure in the shifty

 glance that Mbejane cast at the great gleaming Rolls parked at the far

 end of the yard. It has eyes like a monster, thought Mbejane and

 looked quickly away.

 "I will walk with the horse and see that it comes to no harm," he

 announced.

 "As you wish," Sean agreed. The small procession set off towards

 Ladyburg. The two grooms leading Sun Dancer in her red tartan blanket,

 and Mbejane following sedately with his small black sons carrying his

 carved stool and his spears behind him.

 Two hours later Sean drove the Rolls into the field behind the

 stockyards. Staring straight ahead, both hands gripping the wheel so

 that the knuckles of his hands gleamed white-Sean did not hear the

 shouted greetings nor see the gala crowds and the bunting until the

 Rolls bumped to a halt in the grass and his hands unfroze from the

 wheel. Then he exhaled gently and the rigid muscles of his face

 softened into a grin of uncertain triumph.

 "Well, we made it! " He spoke as if he were not quite certain.

 "You did very well, my dear." Ruth's voice was also a little scratchy

 and she relaxed her protective hold on Storm.

 "You should let me drive, Pa." Dirk was lounging against the saddlery

 on the back seat. Sean turned furiously upon him, but Dirk was too

 quick. He flung open the door and was absorbed into the crowd that had

 gathered around the Rolls before Sean could assemble his words. Sean

 glowered after him.

 "Hello, Sean. Nice to see you. " Dennis Petersen had opened the door

 at his elbow and Sean hastily rearranged his features into a smile.

 "Hello, Dennis. Nice turn-out."

 "Everybody in the district," Dennis assured him, as they shook hands,

 and then looked with satisfaction around the field.

 There were at least fifty carriages parked haphazard along the

 stockyard fence, an open wagon had been arranged as a refreshment stall

 with silver urns of coffee and piles of cakes laid out upon it. A dog

 fight was in progress near the gate, while small boys in already wilted

 church clothes shrieked and whooped and chased each other through the

 crowd.

 "Who's responsible for the decorations?" Sean asked, surveying the

 flags and bunting that fluttered from the poles that marked the

 finishing line and from the wide roped-off lane that led up to them.

 "The Board-we voted it last week."

 "Very nice." Sean was looking now at the stock pen where the horses

 were. A solid barricade of humanity lined the railings, but he saw

 Dirk climb over and jump down beside Sun Dancer amid a splatter of

 applause from the onlookers.

 "Good-looking lad. " Dennis was watching Dirk also, but there was

 something in his tone that added, but I'm glad he's not mine.

 "Thanks. " The defiance in Sean's voice was not lost on Denrus and he

 smiled ironically.

 "We'd better go across and talk to the other judges, Garrick is

 waiting. " Dennis jerked his head towards the carriage at the end of

 the line, and although he had been painfully aware of it, Sean looked

 at it for the first time.

 Together with Pye, Erasmus and his father, Michael was standing beside

 it watching them. Tall and lean in tight black riding-boots, and an

 open shirt of white silk accentuating the breadth of his shoulders, he

 leaned against the wheel. Above him Ada and Anna sat together on the

 rear seat and suddenly Sean felt a twist of anger in his stomach that

 Ada should be there with them.

 "Mother. " He greeted her without smiling.

 "Hello, Sean. " And he could not fathom the tone of her voice nor her

 expression. Was it regret, or perhaps a reluctant rejection? For a

 long minute they held each other's eyes-until at last Sean had to

 break, because now, instead of anger, he felt guilty.

 But he did not understand the source of his guilt-it was only the

 sorrowful accusation in Ada's eyes that had given it to him.

 "Anna. " He greeted her and received in exchange a stiff nod.

 "Garry." Sean tried to smile. He made a movement to lift his right

 hand, but as he did so he knew it would be rejected, for the same

 accusation that he had seen in Ada's eyes was also in Garry's. He

 turned with relief to Michael.

 "Hello, Mike. You know you're going to get the pants thrashed off

 you?

 "I'm going to make you eat those words without salt! " and they

 laughed together easily, laughed with such obvious joy in each other

 that Anna moved restlessly in her seat and spoke sharply.

 "Can't we get this over with, Ronny?"

 "Yes," Ronny Pye agreed hastily. "Well, then. Where Is young Dirk?

 We'd better go and find him."

 In a group they left the women and moved through the crowd towards the

 stock pen where Dirk stood laughing with two girls that Sean recognized

 as daughters of one of the factory foremen.

 They were both looking up at Dirk and reacting with such unashamed

 adoration that Sean felt a lift of indulgent pride. Casually Dirk

 dismissed the girls and came across to meet them.

 All set, Pa."

 "So I see," Sean gruffed, and waited for Dirk to show courtesy to the

 men with him, but Dirk ignored them and spoke only to Ronny Pye.

 "Let's hear it."

 "Well, then. A contest between Garry Courten ey's colt Grey Weather

 and Sean Courtney's filly Sun Dancer. An honour match with no stake

 put up by the owners. Agreed?

 "Right," said Sean.

 Garry opened his mouth and then closed it firmly and nodded.

 He was sweating a little. He unfolded the handkerchief in his hand and

 wiped his forehead.

 "The distance approximately five miles around four points.

 The points being firstly the posts that have been erected on this

 field, secondly the northeastern boundary marker of the farm

 Theuniskraal. " Ronny pointed at the crest of the escarpment that

 stood above them, its slope golden with grass in the morning sun and

 smeared with streaks of dark green bush. "Thirdly, the No. 3 dip-tank

 of Mahobo's Kloof farm, which you can't see from here as it is behind

 those trees." Ronny's arm described a long arc along the crest of the

 escarpment and stopped pointing at the spires of a clump of saligna

 gums. "But both of you know it?" "Sure," agreed Dirk, and Michael

 nodded. "The fourth and finishing-point is the same as the

 starting-point-here. " He jerked his thumb at the two posts that

 fluttered gay with flags.

 Stewards have been posted at the Theuniskraal boundary and the

 dip-tank-make sure You pass on the far side of them.

 The judges are Messrs. Petersen, Erasmus and myself. All and any

 dispute regarding the running or interpretation of the rules will be

 decided by us. - . ." Ronny went on talking and Sean felt. his

 excitement mounting from his stomach and beginning to tingle along his

 forearms. It was taking a hold on all of them now, even Ronny's voice

 had an edge to it. Though Sean did not understand that the fox like

 eagerness of his face came from the knowledge that this was a contest

 in which he stood to gain more than any of them. But Garrick

 understood also, and his eyes watched Ronny's lips hypnotically.

 "That's it, then, " Ronny finished and then to the riders,

 "Get saddled up, and bring your horses to the start. " The judges

 walked away and left the four Courtneys standing together.

 "Sean Garry spoke first, his eyes were stricken. "I think you should

 know . . . " but he did not finish.

 "What?" Sean asked abruptly, and at the tone of his voice Garrick

 straightened up. The thing in his eyes changed shape, and became what

 Sean had never expected to see there-pride.

 "It doesn't matter. " Garry turned away and walked purposefully

 towards his horse, and there was a spring in his stride and a set to

 his shoulders.

 "Good luck, Mike." Sean punched his arm.

 "And the same to you." Michael started after Garrick, then stopped and

 turned back to Sean. "Whatever anyone else says, Sean, I know you

 didn't plan this. " Then he was striding away.

 "What the hell did he mean by that?" puzzled Sean, but Dirk cut into

 his thoughts.

 "Why did you have to do that, Pa? " he demanded.

 "What?" Sean looked at him uncomprehendingly.

 "Give him luck. Why did you have to give him luck? I'm riding for

 you-not him. I'm your son-not him!"

 The two riders moved together towards the start, and buzzing with

 excitement the crowd went with them.

 Sean walked beside Sun Dancer, with Dirk leaning attentively from the

 saddle to listen to him.

 "'rake it gently to the swamp, don't push her for she'll need all her

 steam in the mud. Michael will gain there, that colt is strong in the

 leg, but heavy. Follow him and let him break a path for you. Out of

 the swat rip you can catch up and pass him on the slope, push hard

 there. You must lead him to the top and hold your lead along the crest

 to the dip-tank.

 "All right, Pa."

 "Now, when you start down again keep well out beyond the Van Essen

 plantation on to hard ground.-that way you can cut the edge of the

 swamp. My guess is that Mike will come straight down and plough

 through the middle-but you must take the longer route-and use Sun

 Dancees speed against Grey Weather's strength. " They had reached the

 starting-posts and the crowd scattered and spread away to line the

 ropes. An open funnel of humanity faced the two horsemen, then the

 swamp with its deceptively lush papyrus grass concealing the glutinous

 mud holes Beyond it the great soar of the escarpment. A long course. A

 hard course.

 "Are both of you ready?" called Ronny Pye from the sidelines.

 "Clear the field, please, Sean."

 Sean put his hand on Dirk's knee.

 "Let's see what you can do, boy. " Then he ducked under the ropes into

 the crowd.

 Sun Dancer was skittering nervously, coming up on her back legs and

 throwing her head so that the mane flew red-gold in the sunlight.

 She was sweating in dark patches on her shoulders.

 Michael was circling Grey Weather, keeping him moving gently, leaning

 forward and patting his neck, talking to him so that he switched his

 ears, cocking them half back to listen.

 "Quiet, please, everybody! " Dennis was using a megaphone, and the

 buzz of voices descended into an expectant rusding.

 "You're under starter's orders now," he shouted at the riders.

 "Turn wide, and walk up together."

 They swung away from the posts, and came together. Dirk touched Sun

 Dancer with the spur and she jumped back thrusting her quarters into

 Michael's leg.

 "Keep your bloody animal under control," he snarled at Michael.

 "Don't crowd me!"

 "Are you nervous, Dirkie? " Obediently Michael wheeled his mount

 aside.

 "Damn you! -I'll show you whos nervous," and Sun Dancer threw her head

 in protest, as Dirk sawed her with the curb.

 "Come round, swing them round." Dennis's voice through the megaphone

 boomed distortedly.

 They turned in line and started walking up, twenty yards from the

 start, two horses with the sunlight glowing on their polished skins.

 Pale gold and dark red. The crowd sighed softly like wind in the

 grass.

 Ten paces and Sun Dancer was pushing forward, lengthening her stride,

 crabbing a little.

 "Hold your line! Keep together," Dennis cautioned them, and Dirk

 yanked her back roughly. The rims of his nostrils were flared and

 white with tension.

 Michael moved up beside him, holding his hands low. The big red colt

 stepping high in the exaggerated action of an animal under restraint.

 Quickening together over the last five paces, their riders hunching

 lower in the saddles, they came to the posts.

 "Go! " bellowed Dennis, and

 "Go! " roared a hundred voices.

 Still in line, matching each other's stride, they changed from a walk

 into an easy, free, swinging canter. Both Dirk and Michael rising

 slightly in their stirrups to hold them from headlong flight.

 Half a mile ahead lay the swamp and beyond it five miles of mountain

 and rough, rocky ground, of don ga and thombush.

 They cantered down between the yelling lines and out of the funnel into

 the open.

 The crowd broke and scattered to various points of vantage and Sean ran

 with them, un slinging his binocular-case, chuckling with excitement in

 the general confusion of shouts and laughter.

 Ruth was waiting for him beside the Rolls and he caught her around the

 waist and lifted her on to the bonnet.

 "Sean, you'll scratch the paintwork, " she protested, as she clutched

 at her hat and teetered dangerously on the high, round bonnet.

 "The hell with the paintwork, " he laughed as he climbed up beside her

 and she clung to him for support. "There they are!"

 Far out across the field the two horses ran down towards the bright

 green of the swamp. Sean lifted and focused his binoculars, and

 suddenly they were so close he expected to hear the drumming of the

 hooves. Grey Weather was pulling ahead, forcing powerfully with his

 great boulders lunging into each stride and Sun Dancer trailed him with

 her neck arched against the pressure of the bit. On her back Dirk sat

 upright with his elbows pressed into his flanks as he held her.

 "The little bugger is listening to advice," Sean growled. "I quite

 expected him to be using the whip already."

 Across the distance that separated them Sean could feel as a tangible

 thing Dirk's determination to win, he could see it in the way he held

 his shoulders, he could see it in the rigid lines of his arms.

 But what he did not see were the harsh lines of hatred in Dirk's face

 as he stared at Michael's back ahead of him.

 The beat of hooves changed its tone, no longer ringing on hard ground,

 but dulling as they reached the swamp. Now lumps of damp clay flew

 from Grey Weather's hooves and a piece hit Dirk's chest and sprayed

 dirt on the white silk of his shirt. Sun Dancer's gait altered as she

 felt the soft ground.

 "Easy, girl. Hey there, girl," Dirk whispered and held her firmly with

 his knees to give her confidence. The grass brushed his stirrups and

 ahead of him Grey Weather splashed into the first mud hole, plunged

 through it and into the swamp proper.

 The tall papyrus engulfed him.

 "The old man was right," Dirk smiled for the first time.

 Michael was forcing a path through the reeds, Battening them for Dirk

 to follow with half the effort. TWice Grey Weather sunk to his belly

 in potholes of black glue, rearing and struggling to free himself while

 Dirk skirted them.

 Both horses were shiny with mud, and their riders were soaked to the

 waist and splattered above. The swamp stank like an animal cage and

 marsh gas erupted sullenly as they disturbed it. Clouds of insects

 rose about them, a sakabula bird fled shrieking as they ploughed

 through the papyrus. One of the razor leaves lashed Michael's cheek

 and a thread of blood ran down his jaw washing the blobs of mud with it

 and dripped on to his shirt.

 Then suddenly the ground firmed under them, the solid papyrus broke

 into clumps, thinned and was left behind and Grey Weather led them out

 on to the first slope of the escarpment. He was running heavily now,

 and grunting with each stride, while Sun Dancer moved up beside him.

 "You're finished!" Dirk shouted at Michael as they drew level.

 "I'll see you at the finish-line," and he leaned forward in the saddle

 and gave Sun Dancer the spurs and the whip together.

 Without pressing his horse Michael angled him off towards the right,

 letting him move under slack rein to pick his own way and he began the

 first leg of a series of zigzags that would take him to the top.

 On the steep ground below the crest Dirk used the whip incessantly, and

 Sun Dancer went up in a series of scrambling leaps with the loose rock

 rolling under her hooves. The sweat had washed away the mud from her

 shoulders and she landed with less control at each jump. "Pull, you

 bitch. Pull!" Dirk shouted at her, and looked back in agony at

 Michael's sedate ascent. He was two hundred yards below and coming

 steadily.

 Dirk's movement caught Sun Dancer off balance and she landed awkwardly

 at the next jump, her hooves scrabbled and she started to fall. Dirk

 kicked his feet from the stirrups and jumped with the reins still in

 his hands. The instant he landed he leaned back on the reins to hold

 her, but she was down on her knees now, sliding back and she pulled

 Dirk down with her on to the level place below.

 They struggled together and when at last he got her on her feet she was

 trembling with terror, dust and pieces of dry grass Coated her muddy

 legs.

 "Damn you! Damn you, you clumsy bitch," whispered Dirk as he ran his

 hands over her hocks to check for damage. He glanced back at Michael

 and found him much closer now.

 "Oh, God!" he blurted, snatched up Sun Dancer's reins and ran at the

 slope dragging her after him. Dirk came out on the Crest with sweat

 pouring down his face and soaking through his shirt. Saliva had dried

 to a thick gummy froth in his mouth and he was panting harshly-but he

 had held on to his lead and Sun Dancer was over her trembling fit. She

 had recovered sufficiently to cavort a little as he mounted.

 "This way, Dirk!" The two stewards standing on the pile of stones that

 marked the Theuniskraal boundary were waving and shouting wild

 encouragement. Dirk clouted the spurs into her and was off again,

 galloping along the ridge, sweeping past them and on towards the clump

 of gums three miles ahead.

 "Catch him, Mike. Ride, man, ride!" Faint shouts behind him-and Dirk

 knew without looking back that Mike had reached the top and was chasing

 him. He rode on, grimly mourning the time lost on the ascent and

 hating both Sun Dancer and Michael for it. At this point he should

 have led by four hundred yards-not fifty.

 Directly ahead now was the gorge through which the Baboon Stroom

 dropped down the escarpment, its side choked with dark green river

 bush. Dirk found the path and turned away from the skyline aiming

 upstream at the ford. Without grass to muffle them Sun Dancer's hooves

 hammered in staccato rhythm on the hard-packed earth of the path, but

 also he could hear behind him like an echo the beat of other

 hooves-Michael was on to the path behind him. Dirk looked back under

 his own arm. Michael was so close that he could see the laughter lines

 creasing the corners of his mouth, and the mockery inflamed him.

 "I'll show him-l" And Dirk started with the whip again, cracking it

 across Sun Dancer's flanks and shoulders so that she jumped forward

 with a new urgency. Down the steep bank of the river and out on to the

 white sandbank, he plunged with Grey Weather's nose drawing level with

 his boot. Into the dark green water they rode abreast, throwing up a

 veil of spray that sparkled in the sunlight, slipping from their

 saddles to swim beside the horses through the deep, while the current

 moved them down towards the falls. Up into the saddles again the

 instant the horses found the bottom and splashed towards the far

 bank.

 Out on to the sand, with water streaming from sodden clothing, shouting

 with excitement as they raced for the narrow path that climbed the far

 bank. First man on to it would hold the advantage.

 I I Give way! I'm leading-give me way," screamed Dirk furiously.

 "Make your own way!" Michael laughed back at him.

 "You bastard!" Dirk used his knees and reins to thrust Sun J Dancer's

 shoulder into Michael, tying to force him clear.

 "None of that! " Michael warned him.

 "You bastard-I'll show you."

 They rode knee to knee now. Dirk sat up quickly and twisted his foot,

 placing his booted toe under Michael's instep. With a sudden vicious

 lift of his leg he slipped Michael's foot from the stirrup and threw

 him sideways. As he felt himself going over i Michael clutched

 desperately at the pommel, pulling the saddle with him so it slid on to

 Grey Weather's flank and the shift of weight forced the horse to

 disengage and slew away from the path.

 Michael went down on his shoulder into the sand and rolled with his

 knees drawn up against his stomach.

 "That's for you!" Dirk yelled in defiance as he went up the bank and

 out into the open veld again. Behind him in the riverbed Michael

 staggered to his feet, his wet clothing coated white with sand, and ran

 after Grey Weather who was trotting back towards the water with the

 saddle hanging under his chest.

 "The dirty little swine. My God, if only Sean knew!" Michael caught

 the horse before it started to drink, wrestled the saddle on to his

 back again and clinched the girth.

 "Now, I can't let him win! " He Jumped up on to Grey Weather and

 booted him towards the bank "I can't let him win."

 Two hundred yards ahead Dirks shirt was a white blob against the brown

 grass. As he rounded the dip-tank and pointed Sun Dancer's head at the

 ridge for the last leg, one of the stewards shouted: "What happened to

 Michael?"

 "He fell in the river," Dirk called back. "He's finished!"

 And his voice rang with triumph.

 "He's leading-Dirk's leading! " Sean stood on the Rolls with his

 glasses trained on the clump of gum-trees, and now he was the first to

 spot the tiny figure of the horseman as it showed on the crest of the

 escarpment.

 "Where's Michael?" Ruth asked.

 "He can't be far behind," Sean muttered and waited anxiOusly for him to

 appear. He had fretted while he watched Dirk's reckless ascent of the

 slope, and cursed him loudly for his brutal treatment of Sun Dancer.

 Then he had entreated him to get a bOOdY move on during the run along

 the ridge with Michael gaining steadily on him. When the two horsemen

 had veered away from the skyline to cross the Baboon Stroom they had

 disappeared from view and this was the first glimpse the spectators had

 received of either competitor since that moment.

 "The little idiot's riding too wide. I told him to cut the edge of the

 swamp-not ride round it altogether. " "Where's Michael?" Ruth

 repeated Sean swung the glasses back and scanned the crest with the

 first twinges of concern.

 "Not showing yet-he must have run into trouble."

 "Do you think he's all right? Has he been hurt?"

 "How should I know?" Sean's anxiety made him irritable, but

 immediately he was penitent and encircled Ruth's waist with his arm.

 "He can look after himself, that one. No sense fussing about him."

 Dirk was well down the slope now, leaving a thin trail of dust, for Sun

 Dancer skidded on her haunches most of the way,

 "Still no sign of Michael?" Ruth moved restlessly against him.

 "No. Not yet," Sean grunted. "Dirk can afford to miss the swamp-he's

 leading by a quarter of a mile."

 Suddenly a sigh of relief moved the crowd like a gust of wind through a

 field of wheat.

 "There he is!"

 "He's coming straight down the slope."

 "He can't make it unless he flies!"

 Sean swung his glasses from Dirk to Michael and back, estiInating their

 spin and positions, allowing for Michael's delay in the swamp, but

 setting against that the additional distance that Dirk had to cover.

 "It's going to be close-" he decided aloud. "Dirk's got the edge, but

 it's going to be very close."

 Ada did not see it that way. Dirk was leading and Dirk was going to

 win. She looked across at Garrick. He stood beside the finishing-post

 a hundred yards away, but even at that distance there was no mistaking

 the droop of his shoulders and the air of misery that surrounded him

 like an aura of defeat. Sun Dancer's hooves were slashing his LIFE to

 threads.

 Unable to bear it a moment longer, Ada jumped down from the carriage

 and ran through the crowd to where Sean stood like a triumphant

 colossus on the bonnet of the Rolls.

 "Sean." She reached up and touched his leg, but he was so engrossed he

 did not feel or hear her.

 "Sean," she shouted and tugged at his trouser-leg.

 "Mother?" He turned vaguely to look down at her.

 "I must talk to you," Ada shouted above the sound of the crowd that was

 rising with excitement.

 "Not now. They're coming in to the finish-climb up here where you can

 see it. " "Now. I must speak to you now. Come down this instant!"

 Her tone shocked him, for a second he wavered and peered furtively back

 at the race. Then he shrugged with resignation and jumped down beside

 her.

 "What is it? Please be quick-I don't want to miss-" "I'll be quick. "

 Sean had never seen such a cold fury on her before. "I wanted to say

 that I never thought I'd see that day when I had nothing left for you

 but contempt. Thoughtless you've been often-but never downright

 merciless."

 "Mother, . He was bewildered.

 "Listen to me. You set out to destroy your brother and you've done it.

 Well, I hope you have the pleasure of it. You've got Theuniskraal now.

  Enjoy it, Sean. Sleep well at night."

 "Theuniskraal! What do you mean?" He shouted at her now in his

 confusion. "I didn't wager for the farm!"

 "Ah, no," Ada scoffed at him. "Of course you didn't-you let Ronny Pye

 do that for you. " "Pye? What's he got to do with it?"

 "Everything! He helped you plan it. He helped you provoke Garry into

 this stupidity. He holds the mortgage on Thetmiskraal.

 "But . Slowly the enormity of it all began to shape up in Sean's

 mind.

 "You took his leg-now take Theuniskraal, but pay for it with my love."

 She looked steadily into his eyes, but the pain was there clouding her

 own. "Good-bye, Sean. We won't speak to each other again." And she

 walked slowly away. She walked like an old woman at last, a tired and

 worn old woman.

 Sean understood and began to run towards the finishing line.

 He drove through the crowd like a shark through a shoal of sardines.

 Over their heads he saw the two horsemen galloping in across the

 field.

 Dirk was leading, standing in the stirrups to thrash Sun Dancer with

 the whip. His black hair fluttered in the wind, and his shirt filthy

 with thrown mud. Under him the filly danced on flying hooves and the

 beat of them druninted above the rising roar of the crowd. Her body

 was black and shiny with sweat, and froth flew from her gaping pink

 mouth to form white lace on her chest and flanks.

 Fifty hopeless yards behind her plunged the colt with Michael flogging

 his heels into him with despair. Michael's face was twisted in an

 agony of frustration. Grey Weather was finished, his legs loose with

 exhaustion and his breath sawing hoarsely with each stride.

 Sean tore his way through the press of bodies that lined the guide

 ropes. He reached the front rank and shouldered two women from his

 path. Then he stooped and ducked under the rope into the open.

 Sun Dancer was almost up to him, hammering down in a crescendo of

 hooves, her head nodding with each stride.

 Dirk! Stop her!" roared Sean.

 "Pa! Pa! Get out of the way Dirk screamed back at him, but Sean

 sprang to intercept him.

 "Pa! Sean was in front of him, crouching with arms extended. Too

 close to swing Sun Dancer's head away from him, too late to stop her

 charge.

 "Jump, girl, jump," shouted Dirk and gathered the horse with his knees,

 feeling her respond with a bunching of her quarters; feeling her lift

 her forelegs against her chest and drive upwards in a high parabola.

 But sensing also the sluggishness of her exhausted body and knowing she

 had not gone high enough to clear Sean's head.

 An aching moment as Sun Dancer lifted clear of the ground, the

 horrified groan of the crowd as her forelegs smashed into Sean and she

 twisted in the air, falling. Dirk thrown, his stirrup leathers parting

 like whip cracks. Then all of them down together in the grass. Shrill

 screams of women in the crowd.

 Sun Dancer struggling up again with a foreleg swinging loosely from the

 knee, whinnying in the pain of broken bone.

 Sean on his back, his head twisted to the side and blood from his torn

 cheek dribbling into his nose and mouth so that his breathing snored

 hoarsely.

 Dirk with the skin smeared from elbows and one cheek, crawling towards

 Sean, kneeling beside him, raising both hands clenched, hammering down

 with them so that his fists splattered the blood, beating them into the

 chest and slack, unconscious face of his father.

 "Why did you? Oh, God, I hate you." Shock and fury and despair.

 "For you! You stopped me, you stopped me."

 Michael dragging Grey Weather down on his haunches, flinging from the

 saddle, running to them, holding Dirk's arms, dragging him off,

 fighting him.

 "Leave him, you little bastard."

 "He didn't want me to. He stopped me. I hate him. I'll kill him.

 The crowd surging forward, flattening the guide ropes, two men helping

 Michael hold Dirk, the rest of them ringing Sean's body.

 The cries and questions.

 "Where's Doc Fraser?"

 "Jesus, he's badly hurt!"

 "Catch that horse. Get a gun."

 "What about the bets?"

 "Don't touch him. Wait .

 "Got to straighten his arm.

 "Get a gun. For Christ sake, get a gun."

 Then a new silence on them, their ranks opening quietly and Ruth coming

 through to him running-Mbejane behind her.

 "Sean." She knelt beside him, clumsy in her pregnancy.

 "Sean," she began again, and the men about her could not look at her

 face.

 -Mbejane, bring him to the car," she whispered.

 He slipped the monkeY-skin cloak from his shoulder and let it drop,

 stooped over Sean and lifted him. The great black muscles of his chest

 and arms swelled, and he stood with his legs braced wide against the

 weight.

 "His arm, Nkosikazi. " She arranged the hanging arm comfortably across

 his chest.

 - "Bring him, " she ordered and together they walked through the crowd.

 Sean's head lolled against Mbejane's shoulder like that of a sleeping

 child. Mbejane laid Sean gently on the back seat with his head in

 Ruth's lap.

 "My daddy," Storm kept repeating, her face screwed up with horror at

 the blood and her tiny body trembling like that of a frightened

 rabbit.

 "Will you drive us please, Michael?" Ruth looked up at him as he stood

 beside the Rolls. "Take us to Protea Street."

 With Mbejane loping alongside, the big car bumped across the field

 through the throng of anxious watchers, then swung on to the main road

 and moved away towards Ladyburg.

 While about him the crowds scattered slowly and drifted to their

 carriages, Dirk Courtney stood alone and watched the Rolls disappear in

 its own blown dust.

 Waves of reaction shivered up his legs and turned to heavy nausea in

 his gut. The open gravel rash on his face burned like acid spilled

 upon the skin.

 "You'd better go in and have Doc Fraser put something on your face."

 Coming from his carriage with a heavy service revolver, Dennis Petersen

 paused beside him.

 "Yes," Dirk answered dully, and Dennis walked on to where two native

 grooms held Sun Dancer. Unsteadily on three legs, but quiet now, she

 stood between them with her head hanging dejectedly.

 Dennis touched the muzzle of the revolver to her forehead, and at the

 shot she recoiled violently and dropped, shuddering.

 Her legs stiffened in one last convulsion, then she lay still.

 Watching, Dirk shuddered in sympathy and then leaned forward to vent

 his nausea in the grass. It came up sour and scalding hot. He wiped

 it from his mouth with the palm of his hand, then he began to walk.

 Without direction, blindly, from the field towards the escarpment.

 Over in his mind, keeping pace with his legs like the refrain of a

 marching song: He doesn't want me. He doesn't want me.

 And then savagely: f hope he dies. Please let him die.

 I

 "Please let him die." Anna Courtney said it softly, so that Garry

 standing below her seat in the buggy did not hear her. He stood with

 his shoulders hunched, and his head thrust forward in thought, hands

 hanging at his sides slowly folding and unfolding, then he raised one

 of them and squeezed the fingers into his closed eyelids.

 "I'm going to him," he said. "God help me, but I'm going to him.

 " "No! I forbid it. Leave him-let him suffer as I suffered."

 Slowly, bewildered, Garry shook his head.

 "I must. It's too long, too much. I must. Pray God it's not too

 late.

 "Let him die." Then suddenly it snapped in her head, broke under the

 weight of the hatred so long sustained.

 She rose screaming in her seat. "Die! Damn you. Die!" And Garry

 uncovered his eyes, and looked at her in alarm.

 "Compose yourself, my dear!"

 "Die! Die!" Her face was blotched with flaming spots of red, and her

 voice squawked as though she were being strangled.

 Garry scrambled up beside her and flung his arms around her

 Protectively.

 "Get away from me. Don't touch me." She screamed at him; fighting

 from his embrace. "Because of you I lost him. He was so big, so

 strong. He was mine-and because .

 "Anna, Anna. Please don't." He tried to soothe her raving.

 "Please stop it, my dear."

 "You, you crawling, crippled thing. Because of you." And suddenly it

 had to come out, like pus from a canker. "But I paid you back. I took

 him from you also-and now he's dead. You'll never have him. " She

 laughed, gloating, demented.

 "Anna. Stop it."

 "That night-do you remember that night. Will you or he ever forget it?

 I wanted him, I wanted him big like a bull on top of me, I wanted him

 rutting deep like it was before-I begged him. I pleaded-but because of

 you. Because of his crippled little weakling brother.

 Christ, I hated him! " She laughed again, a shriek of pain and

 hatred.

 "I tore my clothing and bit into my own lips, as I had wanted him to

 do. When you came-I wanted you to ... but you, I had forgotten you

 were only half a man!

 I wanted you to kill him-kill him! Pale, so that the sweat on his face

 shone like water on white marble, Garry pulled away from her with

 loathing.

 "All this time I thought he-I believed you." And he half fell from the

 buggy, leaning against it for a moment to steady himself.

 ". . . All this time wasted. " Then he launched himself and began to

 run, his bad leg jerking and catching under him.

 "You want a lift, Garry?" Dennis Petersen drew level with him and

 called down from the car rage

 "Yes. Oh, yes. " Garry caught the handrail and dragged himself up

 beside Dennis. "Take me to him, please, as fast as you can.

 Silent, deserted, the great house crouched over her. Dark with

 shutters closed against the sun, brooding and immense, smelling musty

 as though old passions had died within its walls.

 Anna stood alone in the huge central room and screamed its name.

 "Theuniskraal!

 And the thick stone walls smothered the sound of her madness.

 "He is dead! Do you hear me? I took him away from all of you. " And

 she shrieked in triumphant laughter, with the tears greasing her

 cheeks. "I won! Do you hear me! I won!" And her grief distorted the

 laughter She picked up the heavy glass lamp and hurled it across the

 room; it burst and the paraffin sprayed wide, glistening on the walls

 and soaking into the carpet.

 "Theuniskraal! Hear me! I hate you also. I hate him. I hate you

 all-all of you."

 She raged through the room tearing down the gilt-ri-amed pictures and

 smashing them so that the glass sparkled like tiny jewels in the gloom;

 she used a chair to smash in the front of the display cabinet and wreck

 the old china and glassware in it; she swept the books from the shelves

 into fluttering heaps, and threw their torn pages in the air.

 "I hate! " she screamed. "I hate! " And the great house waited

 silent. Exhausted with worn-out emotions-old and sad and wise.

 "I hate you-all of you." And she ran out into the passage, through the

 kitchens to the pantries. On the lowest shelf stood a four-gallon drum

 of methylated spirit and she panted as she struggled with the stopper.

 The stopper came out, the clear liquid welled and ran down the metal

 sides, and she picked the drum up across her chest and stumbled back

 into the kitchen. It spilled down her skirts, soaking in, drenching

 the heavy cloth.

 forming a spreading pool on the stone flags.

 "I hate!" She laughed and stumbled, staggering off balance, still

 clutching the drum she fell against the kitchen range. Hot metal

 scorched her clothing and burned through to the flesh of her hip, but

 she did not feel it. Her sodden skirts brushed over the fire-box, a

 tiny point of flame caught and grew. So when she ran on into the house

 a fiery train swept behind her.

 Back in the central room, she poured from the drum over the books and

 the carpet, laughing as she splashed the long-draped velvet curtains.

 Oblivious of the flames that followed, until her petticoats caught and

 burned against her legs. Then she screamed again at the agony of her

 tortured flesh and brain. She dropped the metal drum and it exploded,

 showering her with liquid blue flame, turning her hair and her face and

 her whole body into a living torch, a torch that fell and writhed and

 died before the flames reached the thatch of the roof of "heuniskraal.

 They faced each other across the waist of the bow, and the bright

 sunlight threw their shadows along the filthy planking of the deck. TWo

 tall young men, both dark-haired and burned rich brown by the sun, both

 with the big Courtney nose-both angry. From the poop three of the Arab

 crew watched with mild curiosity.

 "So you won't come home, then?" Michael asked. "You're going through

 with this childishness?"

 -Why do you want me to?"

 "Me? Good God, if I never see you again it would be too soon.

 Ladyburg will be a cleaner town without you.

 "Then why did you come?"

 "Your father asked me.

 "Why didn't he come himself?" Dirk's bitterness echoed in his voice.

 "he's still a sick man-his head. Hurt badly."

 "If he wanted me, he would have come."

 "He sent for you, didn't he?"

 "But why did he want you to win, why did he stop me? "Listen to me,

 Dirk. You're young yet. There are many things you don't understand.

 " "Don't I! " And Dirk threw back his head and laughed scornfully.

 "Oh, I understand all right. You'd better get off this boat, we're

 just about to sail."

 "Listen, Dirk . . ."

 "Get off. Run back to him-you can have my share."

 "Dirk, listen to me. He said if you refused to come-then I was to give

 you this." From inside his coat Michael drew an envelope and offered

 it.

 "What is it? "I don't know-but I expect that it's money.

 Dirk came slowly across the deck and took the envelope from him.

 "Have you a message for him?" Michael asked, and when Dirk shook his

 head he turned and jumped down on to the wooden jetty. Immediately a

 bustle began behind him as the Arab crew cast off the lines.

 Standing on the edge of the jetty, Michael watched the stubby little

 craft drift out on the waters of Durban Bay.  He could smell the stench

 of her bilges, her sides were streaked with human filth, and the single

 sail that rose slowly as the crew hoisted the long teak boom was

 stained and patched like a quilt.

 The wind took her and the pregnant belly of the sail bulged Out, she

 heeled and thrust forward through the chop of dirty green water-headed

 towards the bar, where a low surf broke In languid lines of white.

 The two half-brothers stared at each other across the widening gap.

 Neither of them lifted an arm or smiled. The dhow bore away.

 Dirk's face was a tiny brown fleck above the white tropical suit, then

 suddenly his voice.

 "Tell him . . . 11 Small in the distance. "Tell him . and the rest

 of it was lost on the wind, in the soft lap and sigh of the wavelets

 beneath the jetty.

 Below where they sat on the lip of the escarpment, the walls of

 Theuniskraal stood up like smoke-browned tombstones marking the burial

 ground of hatred,

 "About time you started rebuilding," Sean grunted, "you can't stay on

 at Protea Street for ever. " "No." Garry paused before going on:

 "I've picked out the new site for the homestead-there, beyond the

 number two dip.

 Both of them looked away from the roofless ruins, and they were silent

 again until shyly Garry asked,

 "I'd like you to have a look at the plans. It won't be as big as the

 old house now that there is just Michael and I. Could you . . . ?"

 "Good," Sean cut in quickly. "Why don't you bring them across to Lion

 Kop tomorrow evening? Ruth will want you to stay for dinner."

 "I'd like that."

 "Come early," said Sean, and started to stand up from the rock on which

 he sat. He moved heavily, awkwardly-and Garry jumped up to help him.

 Hating the weakness of his slowly Mending body, Sean would have brushed

 Garry's eager hands away. But he saw the expression on his brother's

 face and instead he submitted meekly.

 "Give me an arm over the rough ground, please." He spoke gruffly.

 Side by side, with Sean's arm across Garry's shoulder, they moved to

 where the buggy waited.

 Ponderously Sean climbed up and settled himself into the padded leather

 seat.

 "Thanks." He gathered up the reins and smiled down at Garry, and Garry

 flushed with pleasure and looked away to the infinite lines of young

 wattle trees that covered the hills of Theuniskraal.

 "Looks good, doesn't it?" he asked.

 "You and Michael have done wonders up here," Sean agreed, still

 smiling.

 "Courtney Brothers and Son. " Softly Garry spoke the name of the new

 company which had merged the lands of Theuniskraal and Lion Kop into

 one vast estate. "Now at last it is the way it should have been long

 ago."

 "Until tomorrow, Garry." Sean flipped the reins and the buggy rolled

 forward, rocking gently over the uneven Surface of the new road.

 "Until tomorrow, Sean," Garry called after him, and watched until the

 buggy was lost to sight among the blocks of dark mature wattle, Then he

 walked to his horse and mounted. He sat a while watching the distant

 ranks of Zulu labourers singing as they worked. He saw Michael moving

 on horseback amongst them, stopping occasionally to lean from the

 saddle and urge them on.

 And Garry began to smile. The Smile smoothed away the lines from

 around his eyes. He touched the horse with his spurs and cantered down

 to join Michael.