With your approval, naturally, I will recruit and train a small elite striking force of our stormjagters. We will raid the government arms and ammunition dumps and seize what we need, the same with money.
We will take it from the banks. The enormity of the concept, the boldness and sweep of it, amazed them. They stared in silence and Manfred went on.
We will act swiftly and ruthlessly, seize the arms and distribute them. Then at a given signal we will rise, forty thousand patriots, to seize all the reins of power, the police and the army, the communications system, the railways, the harbours. In all of these we have our people already in place.
All of it will be done at the prearranged signal., What will that signal be? asked the commander of the O B.
It will be something that will turn the entire country on its head, something staggering but it is too early to speak of it. It is necessary only to say that the signal has been chosen and the man who will give the signal., Manfred looked at him steadily, seriously. I will have that honour. I have trained for the task, and I will do it alone and unaided.
After that it will only remain for you to take up the reins, to swing our support to the side of the victorious German army, and to lead our people to the greatness that has been denied them by our enemies. He was silent then as he studied their expressions, and he saw the patriotic fervour on their faces and the new light in their eyes.
Gentlemen, do I have your approval to proceed? he asked, and the commander looked at each of them in turn, and received a curt nod of the head.
He turned back to Manfred. You have our approval and our blessing. I will see that you have the support and assistance of every single member of the brotherhood. Thank you, gentlemen, Manfred said quietly. And now if I may give you the words of Adolf Hitler himself from the great book Mein Kampf, "Almighty God, bless our arms when the time is ripe. Be just as Thou has always been.
judge now whether we be deserving of freedom. Lord, bless our battle."
Amen! they cried, leaping to their feet and giving the O B salute of clenched fist across the chest. Amen! The green Jaguar was parked in the open, beside the road where it skirted the top of the cliff. The vehicle looked abandoned, as though it had stood here for days and weeks.
Blaine Malcomess parked his Bentley behind it and walked to the cliff's edge. He had never been here before, but Centaine had described the cove to him and how to find the pathway. He leaned out now and looked down the cliff. It was very steep but not sheer; he could make out the path zigzagging down three hundred feet to Smitswinkel Bay, and at the bottom he saw the roofs of three or four rude huts strung out along the curve of the bay, just as Centaine had described.
He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it onto the front seat of the Bentley. The climb down the pathway would be warm work. He locked the door of the car and set off down the cliff path. He had come, not only because Centaine had pleaded with him to do so, but because of his own affection and pride and sense of responsibility towards Shasa Courtney.
At various times in the past he had anticipated that Shasa would be either his stepson or his son-in-law. As he climbed down the pathway he felt again the deep regret, no, more than regret, the deep sorrow, that neither expectation had been fulfilled thus far.
He and Centaine had not married, and Isabella had been dead for almost three years now. He remembered how Centaine had fled from him on the night Isabella died, and how
for many months afterwards she had avoided him, frustrating all his efforts to find her. Something terrible had happened that night at Isabella's deathbed. Even after they had been reconciled, Centaine would never talk about it, never even hint at what had taken place between her and the dying woman. He hated himself for having put Centaine in Isabella's power. He should never have trusted her, for the damage she had done had never healed. It had taken almost a year of patience and gentleness from Blaine before Centaine had recovered from it sufficiently to take up again the role of lover and protectress which she had so revelled in before.
However, she would not even discuss with him the subject of marriage, and became agitated and overwrought when he tried to insist. It was almost as if Isabella were still alive, as if she could from her long-cold grave assert some malevolent power over them. There was nothing in life he wanted more than to have Centaine Courtney as his lawful wife, his wife in the eyes of God and all the world, but he was coming to doubt it would ever be so.
Please Blaine, don't ask me now. I cannot, I just cannot talk about it. No, I can't tell you why. We have been so happy just the way we are for so many years. I can't take the chance of mining that happiness. I am asking you to be my wife. I'm asking you to confirm and cement our love, not to ruin it. Please, Blaine. Leave it now. Not now. When, Centaine, tell me when? I don't know. I honestly don't know, my darling. I only know I love you so. Then there were Shasa and Tara. They were like two lost souls groping for each other in darkness. He knew how desperately they needed each other, he had recognized it from the very beginning, and how close they had come to linking hands. But always they failed to make that last vital contact, and drifted, pining, apart. There seemed to be no reason for it, other than pride and pigheadedness, and without each other they were diminishing, neither of them able to fulfill their great promise, to take full advantage of all the rare blessings that had been bestowed upon them at birth.
TWo beautiful, talented young people, full of strength and energy, frittering it all away in a search for something that never existed, wasting it on impossible dreams or burning it up in despair and despondency.
I cannot let it happen, he told himself with determination. 'Even if they hate me for it, I have to prevent it. He reached the foot of the path and paused to look around.
He did not need to rest, for although the descent had been arduous and although he was almost fifty years old, he was harder and fitter than most men fifteen years younger.
Smitswinkel Bay was enclosed by a crescent of tall cliffs; only its far end was open to the wider expanse of False Bay.
Protected on all sides, the water was lake-calm and so clear he could follow the stems of the kelp plants down thirty feet to where they were anchored on the bottom. It was a delightful hidden place and he took a few moments longer to appreciate its tranquil beauty.
There were four shacks built mostly of driftwood, each of them widely separated from the others, perched upon the rocks above the narrow beach. Three were deserted, their windows boarded up. The last one in the line was the one he wanted, and he set off along the beach towards it.
As he drew closer he saw the windows were open, but the curtains, faded and rotted by salt air, were drawn. There were crayfish nets hanging over the railing of the stoep and a pair of oars and a cane fishing-rod propped against one wall. A dinghy was drawn up on the beach above the highwater mark.
Blaine climbed the short flight of stone steps and crossed the stoep to the front door. It was open and he stepped into the single room.
The small Devon stove on the far wall was cold, and a frying pan stood on it, greasy with congealed leftovers. Dirty plates and mugs cluttered the central table, and a column of black ants was climbing one leg to reach them. The wooden floor of the shack was unswept, gritty with beach sand. There were two bunks set against the side wall, opposite the window. The bare boards of the upper bunk were without a mattress, but in the lower bunk was a jumble