Caught Red Handed
From The Great Boer Escape
by Willie Steyn
After three failed attempts, we decided that fate was against our escape by means of a tunnel, and we started considering other methods of escape. But first, for those of you who have never been prisoners of war, let me describe the Green Point Camp.
A barbed wire fence, five foot high, surrounded the entire camp. Beyond that was a second fence, seven foot high, made of galvanised iron, leaving an open space of approximately sixteen yards between the two fences. This was called the ‘Death Zone’, and any prisoner seen there ran the risk of being shot without warning. A third fence, beyond the first two, kept the public at a distance. The guards stood on high platforms, about as high as the outside fence, and at night the entire camp was lit with electric lights, making it seem like daylight.
Scaling the fence was a physical impossibility, so we had to think of another way out. Three of us – Tielman Roos, Piet Botha and I – were particularly good friends. After carefully surveying the camp for days on end, I noticed a spot in the outside fence where the ground was considerably lower than the bottom of the fence. The gap between them had been filled in with stones. It was exactly halfway between two guards in the Death Zone, so being spotted there would mean certain death.
We decided to draw lots for the dangerous task of removing the stones, to enable us to crawl through.
The lot fell on Roos.
He crawled through the barbed wire fence, and managed to cross the open area unnoticed. After what seemed like an eternity, he came crawling back and reported that he could remove the stones, but that there were two other wires that would have to be cut before we could get through.
Roos had done his job, so Botha and I drew lots for the next task.
This time it fell on me.
The first thing I needed was a pair of pliers with which to cut the wires. I knew someone who had smuggled a pair into the camp, so I asked him whether he would lend them to me. He had already got wind of what we were planning, however, and he refused to part with his pliers.
Eventually I was able to borrow a file from a jeweller.
I crawled through the barbed wire and moved towards the iron fence, constantly keeping an eye on the guards. Eventually I was able to start filing.
It was a laborious process, and to this day I do not know how I was not heard by the guards. The second wire was pulled so tight that when it snapped, it seemed that the noise must have been audible for a distance of about fifty yards.
We had wanted to have the job done by eight o’clock, in order to be able to escape and immediately mingle with the people walking in the street, so that even if the guards saw us, it would be impossible for them to fire into the crowd.
But it took so long to file through the wires with the blunt file that it was past eleven before I was able to crawl back and tell my friends that the opening was ready.
By now all was quiet, with no sound other than that of the guards walking up and down on their high platforms. There was nobody about on the street, and if we had left then, we would definitely have been spotted. We decided to wait until the following evening. The next day was a Sunday and, for the entire, endless day, we watched the opening we had made, wondering when it would be discovered.
At last night fell, and again we drew lots for who would be the first to escape. Again it was Roos. After shaking our hands, he crept through the wire and started crawling across the Death Zone.
Botha and I kept watch. The guards were at their posts on the platforms, rifles ever at the ready, as we followed their every move. Roos, of course, was also keeping an eye on them.
Suddenly one of the guards turned his head, as if he had heard something, and he seemed to look straight at Roos. Botha and I were ready to give the warning the moment he lifted his rifle, but he must have been deep in thought, for he gave no indication of having seen anything. Roos came crawling back to us. ‘Did you see that guard?’ he asked.
Nothing could convince Roos that the guard had not seen him, and that he had not been merely waiting to get a good shot at him once he was outside the fence, as had happened with a few other prisoners. So, after much deliberation, we decided to escape together.
This time I was the first to crawl through the wire, and I was about halfway through when Botha pulled me back, warning: ‘Careful, there they are!’
An officer and five or six of his men had seen us, and we were caught in the act.
He took our names and went into the Death Zone to inspect the opening we had made. Apparently he was most surprised, because we heard him exclaim: ‘Good God, how did they manage this? This hole is big enough for a wagon to pass through!’
An extra guard was placed at the opening, and we were sent back to our tent. There we were reproached from all sides for getting our fellow prisoners into trouble, and for causing them even more misery than they were already suffering.
Again one of our own men had betrayed us, and this was our last chance of escaping from Green Point – deportation to Ceylon or Bermuda was now a certainty, and everybody feared such a journey.
The following morning, on the 15th of November 1900, we were told to prepare ourselves for boarding the Catalonia by two o’clock the same day.
Op Heterdaad Betrap
Uit Die groot Boere-ontsnapping
deur Willie Steyn
Ná dié drie mislukkings besluit ons dat die noodlot teen ons inspanning is om ’n tonnel te grawe, en dat ons ’n ander manier moet bedink om te ontsnap. Maar voor ek verder gaan, laat my die kamp beskryf waarin ons ons bevind ter wille van diegene wat onbekend is met prisonierskampe.
’n Doringdraadheining van vyf voet hoog is om die hele kamp, en ’n entjie verder weg is daar ’n omheining van gegalvaniseerde yster van sewe voet hoog, met ’n ruimte van ongeveer sestien treë wat tussen die twee heinings oopgelaat is. Die oop gedeelte word “die doodsruimte” genoem, en enige krygsgevangene wat daar gesien word, loop die gevaar om onmiddellik, sonder enige waarskuwing, doodgeskiet te word. Daar bestaan ’n derde omheining behalwe die twee eersgenoemdes, om die publiek op ’n afstand te hou. Die brandwagte staan op hoë terrasse of platforms wat die hoogte van die buitenste heining is, en snags word die hele kamp verlig deur ’n elektriese lig wat alles soos daglig verlig.
Om oor die heining te klim, is prakties onmoontlik en daarom gaan ek, Tielman Roos en Piet Botha wat besonder goeie vriende is, op ’n ander manier te werk. Ná ek die kamp vir ’n paar dae sorgvuldig deurgekyk het, merk ek eendag op dat die grond binne die omheining op een plek laer is as die ysteromheining wat bo-oor loop, en dat die opening met klippe opgevul is. Dit is presies tussen die twee brandwagte in die ruimte van die dood. Om daar gesien te word, beteken net een ding – die dood sonder twyfel.
Ons besluit dat dit aan die lot oorgelaat sal word wie van ons die gevaarlike onderneming sal uitvoer om die stene of liewer, die klippe te verwyder sodat daar ’n gat kan wees waardeur ons kan kruip.
Die lot van op Roos.
Hy kruip deur die doringdraad-omheining en gelukkig vir hom, gaan hy onopgemerk oor die oop ruimte, en ná ’n ruk wat vir ons soos ’n ewigheid lyk, kruip hy terug en vertel ons dat hy die klippe sal kan verwyder, maar dat daar ook twee drade langs die opening loop. Hulle sal eers geknip moet word voor ons kan deurgaan.
Roos het sy deel gedoen en dis nou my en Botha se beurt om lootjies te trek.
Dié keer val die lot op my.
Wat nou eerste gedoen moet word, is om ’n draadtang in die hande te kry en die drade te knip. Ek ken iemand wat ’n knyptang die kamp ingesmokkel het, en gaan nou dadelik na hom toe om dit te leen, maar hy raai wat my voorneme is en weier om dit vir my te gee.
Dis egter my geluk om ’n vyl van ’n juwelier te leen en daarmee spring ek aan die werk.
Ek kruip deur die doringdraad en beweeg stadig na die ysteromheining terwyl ek die brandwagte die hele tyd in die oog hou, en begin dan om die drade deur te vyl.
Die werk vorder maar baie stadig, en ek is steeds verbaas hoe dit moontlik is dat die brandwagte my nie hoor nie, want die tweede draad wat styf gespan was, breek met so ’n harde slag dat dit duidelik op ’n afstand van vyftig treë gehoor kan word.
Ons plan is om die taak so teen agtuur se kant te voltooi en om dan te ontsnap en met die mense op straat te meng, en naby hulle te loop sodat, al sien die wagte ons, hulle nie op ons sal skiet nie weens die nabyheid van die ander mense.
Ongelukkig neem dit egter so lank om die drade met ’n stomp vyl deur te vyl dat dit reeds ná elfuur is voor ek in staat is om terug te kruip om my vriende te vertel dat die opening gereed is.
Dit is nou doodstil op die straat en geen geluid kan gehoor word nie behalwe die geluide van die brandwagte se voetstappe op die uitkyktorings hoër op. As ons nou moet gaan, sal ons ongetwyfeld gesien word. Omdat daar niemand op straat is nie, besluit ons om tot die volgende aand te wag. Die volgende dag is Sondag en die hele lange eindelose dag is ons oë gevestig op die opening wat ons gemaak het om seker te wees dat dit nie raakgesien word nie.
Eindelik breek die aand aan en weereens word dit aan die lot oorgelaat om te besluit wie die eerste kans gaan kry om te ontsnap. Dit is weer Roos, en ná ek en Botha sy hand geskud het, kruip hy deur die draad en begin om oor die gevreesde ruimte van die dood te kruip.
Ek en Botha hou wag. Die brandwagte is op hulle hoë uitkykposte met hulle gewere voortdurend in gereedheid. Jy kan jou voorstel hoe ons met opgehoue asem hulle elke beweging dophou om te sien of hulle Roos dalk opmerk. Natuurlik hou Roos ook al hulle bewegings dop.
Skielik draai een van die wagte sy kop asof hy iets gehoor het en kyk reguit in Roos se rigting. Ek en Botha wag om alarm te maak sodra die wag dalk sy geweer oplig. Dit lyk egter of die wag net diep in gedagte is, want hy wys geen teken dat hy van Roos bewus is nie. Roos sien dit ook en kruip dadelik terug na ons toe. “Het julle die brandwag gesien?” vra hy.
Niks kan hom oortuig dat die soldaat hom nie gesien het nie, en maar slegs gewag het om ’n goeie skoot op hom te kry sodra hy buite die heining aanland, soos dit reeds met twee ander gevangenes gebeur het. Ná ons ’n rukkie beraadslaag het, besluit ons om te probeer om saam te ontsnap.
Hierdie keer is ek die eerste om deur die draad te kruip en ek is net mooi halfpad toe Botha my terugtrek en sê: “Pasop, daar’s hulle.”
’n Offisier met vyf of ses manskappe kom hier op ons afgestap en so word ons op heterdaad betrap.
Hy skryf ons name neer en stap daarna die doderuimte binne om persoonlik die gat wat ons gemaak het, te inspekteer. Sy verbasing is blykbaar groot, want ons hoor hom uitroep: “Liewe hemel! Hoe het hulle dit reggekry? Dit gat is groot genoeg om ’n wa deur te laat.”
’n Ekstra wag word by die gat geplaas en ons word na ons tent teruggestuur. Dáár word ons van alle kante af deur ons medegevangenes verwyt dat ons hulle in diskrediet bring en net veroorsaak dat hulle lewens nog verder versuur sal word.
Hulle is almal bang vir die seereis wat natuurlik saamgaan met die deportasie na Ceylon of Bermuda.
Ons is weer deur een van ons eie mense verraai, en dit was ons laaste kans om uit die Groenpuntkamp te ontsnap.
Die volgende oggend, 15 November 1900, kry ons die berig om ons gereed te hou om tweeuur aan boord van die Catalonia te gaan.
Young Man in Love
From Jurie Steyn's Post Office
by Herman Charles Bosman
‘You won’t listen to me,’ Oupa Bekker said. ‘You never let me finish what I’m trying to say. Always, you just let me get so far. Then somebody says something foolish, and so I can’t get to the important thing.
‘Now, what I wanted to say is that At Naudé is quite right. And Johnny Coen will come here. He’ll come this afternoon because he wants to know what we think. A young man in love is like that. He wants to know what we’ve got to say. But all the time he’ll be laughing to himself, secretly, about the things we’re saying. A young man in love is like that. And his titivating himself – with the short blade of a pocket knife and a handful of dry grass – well, you’ve no idea how vain a young man in love can be.
‘And he’s not making himself all stylish for the girl’s sake, but for his own sake. It’s himself that he thinks is so wonderful. He knows less than anybody what she’s like – the girl he’s in love with. And it’s only the best kind of pig’s fat he’ll mix with soot to shine his bought shoes with. Because he’s in love with the girl, he thinks he’s something. Oh yes, Johnny Coen will come here this afternoon all right. And what I want to say –’.
At this point, Oupa Bekker was interrupted once more. But because it was Jurie Steyn who broke in on his dissertation, Oupa Bekker yielded with good grace. The post office we were sitting in was, after all, Jurie Steyn’s own voorkamer. There was something of the spirit of old-world courtesy in the manner of Oupa Bekker’s surrender.
‘– you, Jurie Steyn,’ Oupa Bekker said. ‘You talk.’
Several of us looked in the direction of the kitchen. We were relieved to see that the door was closed. This meant that Jurie Steyn’s wife had not heard the low expression Oupa Bekker had used.
‘What I’d like to say,’ Jurie Steyn said, ‘is that I had the honour to drive Juffrou Pauline Gerber to her home in my mule-cart, that day she arrived here at my post office, getting off from the Government lorry and all –’.
‘What do you mean by “and all”?’ Gysbert van Tonder demanded.
Jurie Steyn looked around him with an air of surprise.
‘But you were all here,’ Jurie Steyn declared. ‘All of you were here. Maybe that’s what I mean by and all. I’m sure I don’t know. But you did see Pauline Gerber. You, each one of you, saw her. When she alighted here that day from the Zeerust lorry, on her return from the Cape finishing school. You saw the way she walked around here in my voorkamer, picking her heels up high – and I don’t blame her. And her chin up in the air. And as pretty as you like. You all saw how pretty she was, now, didn’t you? And the way she smelt. Did you smell her? You must have. It was too lovely. It just shows you the kind of perfume you can get in the Cape.
‘And I’m sure that if a church elder smelt her – even if he was an Enkel Gereformeerde Church elder from the furthest part of the Waterberge, I’m sure that the Waterberg elder would’ve known that Pauline Gerber had class – just from smelling her, I mean. I’m sure that the scent that Pauline bought at the Cape must have cost at least seven shillings and sixpence a bottle.
‘Take my wife, now. I once bought her a bottle of perfume at the Indian store at Ramoutsa. And I can assure you – you can smell the difference between my wife and Pauline Gerber.’
Chris Welman, who had not spoken much so far, hastened to remark that there were other ways, too, in which you could tell the difference.
It was an innuendo that, fortunately, escaped general attention.
For it was at that moment that Johnny Coen came in at the front door of the post office. In one way it was the Johnny Coen we’d always known; and yet it also wasn’t him. Somehow, in some subtle fashion, Johnny Coen had changed.
After greeting us, he went and sat on a riempie chair, and he sat very upright.
From his manner he seemed almost unaware of our presence as he whittled a matchstick to a fine point, and commenced scraping out the grime from under one of his fingernails.
Gysbert van Tonder, who always liked getting straight to the point, was the first to speak.
‘Nice bit of rain you’ve been having out your way, Johnny,’ Gysbert remarked. ‘Your dams must be pretty full.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Johnny Coen answered.
‘Plenty of water in the spruit, too, I’d imagine,’ Gysbert continued.
‘Yes, that’s very true,’ Johnny Coen replied.
‘New grass must be coming along nicely in the vlakte where you burnt,’ Gysbert van Tonder went on.
‘Yes, very nicely,’ Johnny agreed.
‘What’s the matter with you, man – can’t you talk?’ Gysbert demanded. ‘You know very well what I’m trying to say. Have you seen her at all since she’s been back?’
‘I saw her yesterday,’ Johnny Coen said, ‘on the road near their house. I had to go quite a long distance out of my way to be passing by there, at the time.’
Gysbert van Tonder made a swift calculation: ‘About eleven miles out of your way, counting in the short cuts through the withaaks,’ he announced. ‘Did she have much to say?”
Johnny Coen shook his head. ‘Please don’t ask me,’ he almost implored Gysbert, ‘because I really can’t remember. We did speak, I know. But after she’d gone, there was nothing we said that I could recall. It was all so different after she had gone. I wish I could remember what we said. What I said must have all sounded so foolish to her.’
Gysbert van Tonder was not going to allow Johnny Coen to get off that easily.
‘Well, how did she look?’ Gysbert asked.
‘I also tried to remember that, afterwards,’ Johnny Coen declared. ‘How she looked. What she did. All that. But I just couldn’t remember. After she’d gone, it was as if it had all been a dream, and there was nothing that I could remember. She was picking yellow flowers, there by the side of the road, to stick in her hair. Or she was carrying a sack of firewood over her back for the kitchen fire. It would’ve been all the same to me, the way I felt. But I don’t know. Afterwards, all I was able –’.
‘That’s what I was trying to explain to them, Johnny,’ Oupa Bekker interjected, ‘but they never let me finish anything I start to say. They always –’.
‘Afterwards,’ Johnny Coen repeated, ‘after she’d gone, that is, there was a kind of sweetness in the air. It was almost hanging in the air, sort of. At one stage I even thought it might be a kind of scent, like what some women put on their clothes when they go to Nagmaal. But, of course, it couldn’t have been that. Pauline wouldn’t wear scent … I mean, she’s just not that kind.’
‘What I wanted to say earlier on, when you all interrupted me,’ Oupa Bekker declared, then – with an air of triumph – ‘is that a young man in love is like that.’
Verliefde Jongman
Uit Jurie Steyn's Post Office
deur Herman Charles Bosman
“Julle wil nie na my luister nie,” het Oupa Bekker gesê. “Julle laat my nooit klaarmaak wat ek besig is om te sê nie. Julle laat my altyd net tot só ver gaan. Dan sê iemand iets doms, en so kan ek dan nie by die belangrike ding uitkom nie.
“Nou wat ek wou gesê het, is dat At Naude heeltemal reg is. En Johnny Coen kom hiernatoe. Hy kom vanmiddag hiernatoe, want hy wil weet wat ons dink. ’n Jong man wat verlief is, is mos so. Hy wil weet wat ons het om te sê. En die hele tyd sal hy in sy mou lag, in die stilligheid, oor die dinge wat ons sê. ’n Verliefde jongman is so, net so. En hy sal homself mooimaak en optooi met die kort lemmetjie van sy sakmes en ’n handvol droë gras – ja-nee, julle het geen idee hoe ydel ’n jong verliefde man kan wees nie.
“En hy maak homself nie stylvol vir die meisie se onthalwe nie, maar vir homself. Dis hy homself wat dink hy is so wonderlik. Hy weet minder as enigiemand anders hoe sy is, hierdie meisie op wie hy verlief is. En hy sal net die beste soort varkvet met roet meng om sy gekoopte skoene mee blink te maak. En omdat hy verlief is op die meisie, dink hy hy’s iets. O ja, Johnny Coen sal vanmiddag hier omkom, so waar. En wat ek wil sê –”.
Op hierdie tydstip is Oupa Bekker weereens in die rede geval. En omdat dit Jurie Steyn was wat op sy diskoers inbraak gemaak het, het oupa Bekker op beleefde wyse toegegee. Die poskantoor waarin hulle gesit het, was tog darem maar Jurie Steyn se eie voorkamer. Daar was iets van die gees van ouwêreldse hoflikheid in die manier wat Oupa Bekker die stilswye bewaar het.
“– jou dan, Jurie Steyn,” het Oupa Bekker gesê. “Praat jy dan maar.”
’n Hele paar van ons het in die rigting van die kombuis gekyk. Ons was verlig om te sien dat die deur toe was. Dit het beteken dat Jurie Steyn se vrou nie die platvloerse uitdrukking wat Oupa Bekker gebruik het, gehoor het nie.
“Wat ek graag wil sê,” het Jurie Steyn gesê, “is dat ek die eer gehad het om juffrou Pauline Gerber in my muilwaentjie na haar huis toe te dryf daardie dag toe sy hier by my poskantoor aangekom het, toe sy van die regeringslorrie afgeklim het en alles –.”
“Wat bedoel jy met ‘en alles’?” het Gysbert van Tonder op aangedring.
Jurie Steyn het met ’n uitdrukking van verwondering om hom rondgekyk.
“Maar julle was almal hier,” het Jurie Steyn uitgeroep. “Alles het hier gebeur. Miskien is dit wat ek bedoel met ‘en alles’. Ek is seker ek weet nie. Maar julle het Pauline Gerber gesien. Julle, elkeen van julle, het haar gesien. Toe sy daardie dag, met haar terugkoms van die afrondingskool in die Kaap hier van die Zeerust-lorrie afgeklim het. Julle het gesien op watter manier sy hier in my voorkamer rondgeloop het, hoe netjies hoog sy haar hakkies gelig het – en ek neem haar nie kwalik nie. En haar ken in die lug. En so pragtig soos kan wees. Nou ja, julle het gesien hoe mooi sy was, nie waar nie? En hoe sy geruik het. Het julle haar geruik? Julle moes. Dit was te lieflik lekker. Dit wys jou watter soort parfuum jy in die Kaap kan kry.
“En ek is seker as ’n kerk-ouderling haar ruik – selfs al sou hy ’n Enkelgereformeerde-ouderling vanuit die verste deel van die Waterberge wees, is ek seker dat die Waterberg-ouderling sou geweet het, Pauline Gerber het styl – net deur haar te ruik, jy weet. Ek is seker die reukwater wat Pauline in die Kaap gekoop het, het ten minste sewe sjielings en sikspens ’n bottel gekos.
“Kyk nou byvoorbeeld na my vrou. Wel, op ’n keer het ek vir haar ’n bottel laventel by die Indiërwinkel op Ramoutsa gekoop. En wat ek vir julle sê is dit: Jy kan die verskil ruik tussen my vrou en … Pauline Gerber.”
Chris Welman wat tot dusver nog nie gepraat het nie, het gou opgemerk dat daar ook ander maniere was waarin mens die verskil kon sien.
Dit was ’n insinuasie wat, gelukkig genoeg, die algemene aandag ontwyk het.
Want juis op daardie oomblik was dit Johnny Coen in lewende lywe wat by die voordeur van die poskantoor sy opwagting gemaak het. Op ’n manier was dit die Johnny Coen wat ons altyd geken het. Maar tog ook was dit nie hy nie. Johnny Coen het op ’n subtiele manier ’n verandering ondergaan.
Na hy ons gegroet het, het hy vir homself ’n plek op ’n riempiestoel gekry, en daar heel regop gesit.
Op dié manier het dit gelyk of hy heeltemal onbewus was van ons teenwoordigheid terwyl hy met ’n vuurhoutjie, wat hy skerp gemaak het, begin het om die aanpaksel onder sy vingernaels uit te krap.
Gysbert van Tonder wat altyd daarvan gehou het om op die man af oor dinge te praat, was die eerste aan die woord.
“Die reën het nogal mooi daar by jou kant afgekom, Johnny,” het Gysbert opgemerk. “Ek vermoed jou damme is seker nou lekker vol.”
“O ja, inderdaad,” het Johnny Coen geantwoord.
“Heelwat water in die spruit ook, sou ek dink,” het Gysbert aangegaan.
“Ja, dit is nogal so,” het Johnny Coen geantwoord.
“En daar waar jy die vlakte gebrand het, is die nuwe gras seker mooi aan die uitloop,” het Gysbert van Tonder aangegaan.
“Ja, baie mooi,” het Johnny saamgestem.
“Wat is verkeerd met jou man – kan jy nie praat nie?” het Gysbert daarna met mening volgehou. “Jy weet baie goed wat ek probeer sê. Het jy haar al gesien van dat sy terug is?”
“Ek het haar gister gesien,” het Johnny Coen gesê, “langs die pad naby haar huis. Ek moes ’n hele ompad ry om toe dáár verby te kon gaan.”
Gysbert van Tonder het ’n vinnige berekening gemaak. “Dis net ’n kwessie van omtrent elf myl uit jou pad uit, as jy die kortpad deur die withaakbosse byreken,” het hy aangekondig. “Het sy baie gehad om te sê?”
“Moet my asseblief nie vra nie,” het hy Gysbert amper gesmeek, “want ek kan regtig nie onthou nie. Ons het met mekaar gepraat, dit weet ek. Maar na sy daar weg is, kon ek glad nie onthou wat ons gesê het nie. Alles was so anders toe sy nie meer daar was nie. Ek wens ek kon onthou wat ons gesê het. Wat ek gesê het, moes seker vir haar so simpel geklink het; so waar.”
Gysbert van Tonder was nie van plan dat Johnny Coen hom so maklik gaan ontduik nie.
“Nou ja, hoe’t sy gelyk?” het Gysbert gevra.
“Dis wat ek ook probeer onthou het – daarna,” het Johnny Coen te kenne gegee. “Hoe sy gelyk het. Wat sy gedoen het. Al daai dinge. Maar ek kon net nie onthou nie. Na sy daar weggegaan het, was alles net asof dit ’n droom was, en was daar niks wat ek as ’n feit kon onthou nie. Sy was daar langs die pad besig om geel blomme te pluk, so waar, om in haar hare te steek. Of sy het ’n sak vuurmaakhout op haar rug gedra vir die vuur in die kombuis, so waar. En vir my sou daar geen verskil gewees het nie – die manier hoe ek gevoel het. Maar ek weet nie. Al wat ek daarna –”.
“Dis wat ek aan hulle wou verduidelik het, Johnny,” het Oupa Bekker hom in die rede geval, “maar hulle laat my nooit klaarmaak met dit wat ek begin sê nie. Hulle sal altyd –”.
“Daarna,” het Johnny Coen herhaal, “na sy weg was, jy weet, was daar ’n soort van soetigheid in die lug. Dit was amper asof dit in die lug gesweef het, soort van. Eers het ek gedink dis ’n soort reukwater, dit wat sommige vrouens op hulle klere sit wanneer hulle Nagmaal toe gaan. Maar natuurlik het ek geweet dat dit nie so kon wees nie. Ek bedoel, ek weet Pauline sou nie laventel aan haar self sit nie, ek bedoel. Sy’s nie daai soort nie.”
“Wat ek vroeër wou gesê het, toe julle almal my in die rede geval het,” het Oupa Bekker ewe selfvoldaan aangekondig, “is dat ’n verliefde jongman presies só is.”
The Worst of Times, the Best of Times
From Commando – Of Horses and Men
by Deneys Reitz
As I still had a limp, I gradually fell behind and, to make matters worse, my poor little mare was delivered of a stillborn foal. With this travail coming upon her, she had borne the long treks so unfalteringly that I had not even known that there was anything wrong with her, but now her strength was gone. After a while she staggered to her feet and, as I could not risk remaining in too close proximity to the English camps, whose fires were still visible in the distance, I led her slowly forward. By this time the rest of our men had long since vanished into the darkness, and I had to plod on alone for an hour or two, dragging my horse behind me, until she could go no further, when I decided to halt until morning. It was bitterly cold – so cold that earlier in the evening I had heard men say that it was the coldest night they had ever known. As I could find no fuel for a fire, I wrapped my blanket around my shoulders and sat with chattering teeth until sunrise. When it grew light, I found myself on a cheerless expanse, with a view that extended for many miles, but there was no sign of the commando.
By a distant thorn tree, however, I found four of my German friends, huddled together against the cold. They said that they had missed me during the night and, knowing that I was crippled, they had generously remained behind to wait for me.
After collecting what fuel we could in such barren country, we built a small fire to fry some meat, and then set out on the spoor of the commando, making slow progress, for my companions’ horses were not in very much better condition than my own. By nine or ten o’clock in the morning, ominous pillars of dust rising in the rear warned us that the English columns of last night were returning in our direction.
The troops were not as yet in sight, but considering the state of our animals, we stood a poor chance of keeping ahead of them once their scouts topped the skyline, so we hurried on as best we could. Just as we were beginning to see an occasional horseman far behind us, we providentially came upon the Harts River. It was more of an earth-crack across the plain than a river. No trees stood on its edge, and fifty yards off the banks were invisible, but it was our salvation, for we and our horses were hardly out of sight in the dry bed below when the troops came swarming towards the river. All went well, however. The English, when they reached the bank, set to digging gradients for their guns and wagons, and, although it was hours before they got their transport through, during which time we anxiously peered over the top in fear of discovery, we had the satisfaction, before dark, of seeing the tail of their convoy vanish over the horizon.
This was good as far as it went, but the question was how to catch up again with our own people, though the fact of being temporarily cut off was not of vital importance, having regard to the fluid nature of guerrilla warfare, and we were not greatly troubled on that score, our worst anxiety being the weak state of our horses.
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The four Germans were a mixture. The eldest, Herman Haase, was a man of about forty-five, in looks the typical sausage-eater of the English comic papers, but, as I found out, a kindly, good-natured gentleman, a Johannesburg merchant, who had been in the field from the beginning. He was the last man one would have suspected of a liking for war, as his talk was all of his wife and family, and of the joys of home life.
Next came W Cluver, a clever, cynical Berlin student, who told me many interesting things of life in the old world. Then there was Pollatchek, also a Berlin student, who had come out to fight for the Boers, as on a crusade. He told me that his initial ardour had long since evaporated, but that he liked the life of adventure, and so had remained – a pleasant, cheerful fellow whom I grew to like very much.
Lastly, there was a farmhand named Wiese, a clumsy, slow-witted rustic, but brave enough. With these four men my lot was now cast. Wiese and Cluver did not get very far, but with Haase and Pollatchek I was long associated, although they turned back in the end.
Our preparations for going to the Cape were quickly made. We slaughtered a stray sheep, and cut the meat into strips for drying in the wind (as we had no salt), and we ground a quantity of maize into meal in a small coffee-mill that Haase carried on his saddle-tree, and next morning we started.
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For several days we were unable to travel in a direct line, for we found the countryside alive with British troops moving in all directions, and we calculated that we saw twenty-five thousand of them before we got clear. It was plain from the way in which they swept forward on an enormous front that they were conducting another of their drives, but as we did not see a single burgher, or the vestige of a commando during all this time, they must have had little to show for their activity. Clearly General De la Rey was resorting to his usual tactics of avoiding these huge concentrations of troops by scattering his men until the blow was spent.
My knowledge of veldcraft brought our party safely through to the Vaal River, for my early experience was of value, and we threaded and twisted successfully between the enemy columns, never having occasion to fire a shot. Once we were held up for half a day while a body of English troops camped within hail of where we lay hidden in a patch of thorn. Another time Cluver and I tried to ambush two officers, but he showed himself too soon and they got away. In the course of these operations we had to jettison Heinrich Wiese. His horse gave in and he himself had blistered feet, so we abandoned him near an English column, where he was sure to be picked up and cared for.
My leg was on the mend, but we suffered a great deal from cold at night. Otherwise, we almost grew to enjoy the excitement of dodging the enemy forces and patrols, and the Germans said that it was the best time they had had in the war.
Die Slegste van Tye, die Beste van Tye
Uit Kommando – Van Perde en Manne
deur Deneys Reitz
Omdat ek nog steeds mank geloop het, het ek stadigaan agtergeraak. Om dinge nog erger te maak, het my klein merrie geboorte geskenk aan ’n doodgebore vulletjie. Ten spyte van die baringsnood wat op haar gewag het, het sy die trek so onwrikbaar verdra, dat ek nie eens daarvan bewus was dat iets met haar verkeerd was nie. Maar toe was sy gedaan. Na ’n rukkie het sy op haar voete gestrompel. Omdat ek dit nie kon waag om so naby aan die Engelse kampe te bly nie – hulle vure was nog in die verte sigbaar – het ek haar stadig vorentoe gelei. Teen daardie tyd het die res van ons manskappe in die donker verdwyn en ek moes nog vir ’n uur of twee in die donker alleen aanploeter. Ek het my arme perd agter my aangesleep totdat sy nie ’n voet verder kon versit nie. Ek het besluit om daar halt te roep tot die volgende môre. Dit was bitterkoud – so koud dat ek vroeër daardie aand van die manne hoor sê het dat dit die koudste nag was wat hulle ooit ervaar het. Omdat ek geen vuurmaakhout kon vind nie, het ek my kombers om my skouers gevou en daar al bibberend en bewend tot die volgende dag gesit. Met die aanbreek van die daeraad, het ek gevind ek was op ’n droewige wye vlakte wat myle ver gestrek het sonder enige teken van die kommando.
By ’n doringboom in die verte, het ek vier van my Duitse vriende gevind waar hulle bymekaar gedrom het teen die koue. Hulle het gesê dat hulle in die nag agtergekom het ek was nie daar nie. Hulle was bewus daarvan dat ek mank geloop het en hulle was so gaaf dat hulle goedgunstiglik agtergebly het om vir my te wag.
Nadat ons alle moontlike vuurmaakhout in die barre omgewing opgetel het, het ons ’n klein vuurtjie aan die gang gekry en ’n bietjie vleis gebraai. Ons het die spore van die kommando gevolg, maar die vordering was baie stadig, want my kamerade se perde was nie in ’n veel beter kondisie as my eie nie. Teen nege- of tienuur die volgende oggend, het daar onheilspellende stofpilare agter ons die lug ingestyg. Dit het ons gewaarsku dat die Engelse kolonne van die vorige aand besig was om in ons rigting terug te keer.
Ons kon die troepe nog nie sien nie, maar as mens die toestand van ons perde in ag sou neem, was daar min kans om voor hulle te bly wanneer hulle verkenners eers op die gesigseinder sou verskyn. Ons het dus maar so goed as moontlik aangestoot. Net toe ons so af en toe ’n perderuiter ver agter ons gesien het, het ons genadiglik die Hartsrivier bereik. Dit was meer ’n barre stuk sand oor die vlakte as ’n rivier. Daar het geen bome op die wal gegroei nie, en van vyftig treë af, kon mens glad nie die walle sien nie. Dit was ons redding. Skaars was ons en ons perde buite sig op die droë bedding, of die troepe het in hulle hordes by die rivier aangekom. Alles het egter goed afgeloop. Toe die Engelse die wal bereik het, het hulle begin om ’n helling vir hulle kanonne en waens te grawe. Dit het hulle ure geneem voordat hulle hul transport deurgekry het, waartydens ons, bevrees dat ons ontdek sou word, oor die wal geloer het. Ons het egter voor donker die bevrediging gesmaak om die stert van die konvooi oor die horison te sien verdwyn.
Dit was alles goed en wel, maar die vraag het gebly, hoe sou ons weer ons mense kon inhaal. Om tydelik afgesny te wees, was nie noodwendig so belangrik nie, en dit het ons nie veel gepla nie, maar as gedink word aan die wisselvalligheid van guerilla-oorlogvoering, was ons grootste angs die swak toestand van ons perde.
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Die vier Duitsers was ’n interessante mengsel. Die oudste, Herman Haase, was ’n man van omtrent vyf en veertig. Hy het gelyk soos die tipiese Duitse wors-eter van die Engelse strokiesprente, maar soos ek uitgevind het, ’n goedgeaarde heer en Johannesburgse handelaar wat van die begin van die oorlog af in die veld was. Hy was die laaste persoon wat mens kon verwag ’n voorliefde vir oorlog sou hê. Hy het net die hele tyd gepraat van sy vrou en familie en die genietinge van die huislike lewe.
Die volgende was W. Cluver, ’n skrander, siniese Berlynse student wat my baie interessanthede van die lewe in die ou wêreld vertel het. Verder was daar Pollatchek, ook ’n Berlynse student, wat uitgekom het om vir die Boere te veg, amper asof op ’n kruistog. Hy het my vertel dat sy aanvanklike geesdrif lank gelede reeds verdwyn het, maar hy het van die lewe van avontuur gehou en hy het dus gebly. Hy was ’n aangename, vrolike kêrel van wie ek baie leer hou het.
Die laaste was ’n boerekneg genaamd Wiese. Hy was ’n onhandige, dommerige plaasjapie, maar heel dapper. Saam met dié vier manne was ek toe aan die noodlot, oorgelaat. Wiese en Cluver het dit nie ver gemaak nie, maar ek was lank saam met Haase en Pollatchek, hoewel hulle ook teen die einde omgedraai het.
Ons het gou voorbereidings getref om Kaap toe te gaan. Ons het ’n verdwaalde skaap geslag en die vleis in repe gesny om winddroog te word (ons het mos nie sout gehad nie). Ons het ’n hoeveelheid mielies tot mieliemeel gemaal met behulp van ’n klein koffiemeul wat Haase in sy saalsak saam met hom gedra het. Die volgende oggend het ons die pad gevat.
~
Vir ’n hele paar dae was dit nie moontlik vir ons om in ’n reguit koers te ry nie, want ons het agtergekom dat die wêreld vol Britse soldate was wat in alle rigtings beweeg het. Ons het uitgewerk dat ons seker vyf en twintigduisend van hulle moes gesien het voordat ons daardie gebied ontruim het. Dit was duidelik met die vee-manier wat hulle vorentoe beweeg het, dat hulle weer met een van hulle dryftogte besig was. Omdat ons egter nie ’n enkele burger of enige teken van ’n kommando gesien het nie, het dit gelyk of hulle poging nie juis veel vrugte afgewerp het nie. Generaal De la Rey moes weer een van sy taktiese bewegings uitgevoer het om die groot saamtrek van troepe te vermy deur sy manne te verdeel wat die Britte se slaankrag uitgeput het.
My kennis van die veld en die vernuf om daar te oorleef, het ons goed te staan gekom en veilig tot by Vaalrivier gebring. My vorige ervarings was waardevol en ons het suksesvol deur die Engelse kolonne gekronkel en gevleg sonder dat dit eenmaal nodig was om ’n skoot te skiet nie. Daar was ’n geleentheid waar ons vir ’n halwe dag in ’n doringbos, binne skree-afstand van ’n Engelse groep wat afgesaal het, moes wegkruip. Op ’n ander keer het ek en Cluver probeer om twee Engelse offisiere in ’n lokval te lei, maar hulle het ons te gou opgemerk en het weggekom. Terwyl daardie gebeure aan die gang was, moes ons vir Heinrich Wiese aan die noodlot agterlaat. Sy perd het ingegee en hy het blare onder sy voete ontwikkel. Ons het hom naby ’n Engelse kolon agtergelaat waar ons seker was dat hy opgetel en versorg sou word.
My been het mooi herstel, maar ons het nog bitter swaar gekry in die koue nagte. Verder het ons die opwinding van om uit die pad van die Engelse magte en patrollies te bly, amper begin geniet. Die Duitsers het gesê dat dit die lekkerste tyd was wat hulle in die oorlog gehad het.
The Selons-Rose
From Unto Dust
by Herman Charles Bosman
Any story (Oom Schalk Lourens said) about that half-red flower, the selons-rose, must be an old story. It is the flower that a Marico girl most often pins in her hair to attract her lover. The selons-rose is also the flower that here, in the Marico, we customarily plant upon a grave.
One thing that certain thoughtless people sometimes hint at about my stories is that nothing ever seems to happen in them. Then there is another kind of person who goes even further, and he says that the stories I tell are all stories that he has heard before, somewhere long ago – he can’t remember when exactly, but somewhere at the back of his mind he knows that it is not a new story.
I have heard that remark passed quite often – which is not surprising, seeing that I really don’t know any new stories. But the funny part of it is that these very people will come around, say, ten years later, and ask me to tell them another story. And they will say, then, because of what they have learnt of life in between, that the older the story, the better.
Anyway, I have come to the conclusion that with an old story, it is like with an old song. People tire of a new song readily.
I remember how it was when Marie du Preez came back to the Bushveld after her parents had sent her overseas to learn singing, because they had found diamonds on their farm, and because Marie’s teacher said she had a nice singing voice. Then, when Marie came back from Europe – through the diamonds on the Du Preez farm having given out suddenly – we on this side of the Dwarsberge were keen to have Marie sing for us.
There was a large attendance, that night, when Marie du Preez gave a concert in the Drogedal schoolroom. She sang what she called arias from Italian opera. And at first things didn’t go at all well. We didn’t care much for those new songs in Italian. One song was about the dawn being near, goodbye beloved, and about being under somebody’s window – that was what Marie’s mother told us, in quick whispers, it was. Marie du Preez’s mother came from the Cape and had studied at the Wellington seminary. Another song was about mother see these tears. The Hollander schoolmaster told me the meaning of that one. But I don’t know if it was Marie’s mother that was meant.
We didn’t actually dislike those songs that Marie du Preez sang. It was only that we weren’t moved by them.
Accordingly, after the interval, when Marie was again stepping up onto the low platform before the blackboard on which the teacher wrote sums on school-days, Philippus Bonthuys, a farmer who had come all the way from Nietverdiend to attend the concert, got up and stood beside Marie du Preez. And because he was so tall and broad it seemed almost as though he stood half in front of her, elbowing her a little, even.
Philippus Bonthuys said he was just a plain Dopper. And we all cheered. Then Philippus Bonthuys said that his grandfather was also just a plain Dopper, who wore his pipe and his tobacco-bag on a piece of string fastened at the side of his trousers. We cheered a lot more, then. Philippus Bonthuys went on to say that he liked the old songs best. They could keep those new songs about laugh because somebody has stolen your clown. We gathered from that that Marie’s mother had been explaining to Philippus Bonthuys, also in quick whispers, the meanings of some of Marie’s songs.
And before we knew where we were, the whole crowd in the schoolroom was singing, with Philippus Bonthuys beating time, My Oupa was ’n Dopper, en ’n Dopper was Hy. You have no idea how stirring that old song sounded, with Philippus Bonthuys beating time, in the night, under the thatch of that Marico schoolroom, and with Marie du Preez looking slightly bewildered but joining in all the same – since it was her concert, after all – and not singing in Italian, either.
We sang many songs, after that, and they were all old songs. We sang Die Vaal Hare en die Blou Oge and Daar Waar die Son en die Maan Ondergaan and Vat Jou Goed en Trek, Ferreira and Met My Rooi Rok Voor Jou Deur. It was very beautiful.
We sang until late into the night. Afterwards, when we congratulated Marie du Preez’s mother, who had arranged it all, on the success of her daughter’s concert, Mevrou Du Preez said it was nothing, and she smiled.
But it was a peculiar sort of a smile.
