Come here, child, he boomed and Lothar shoved Sarah towards him. 'What is your name? Sarah Bester, Oom. So you are of the Volk? the tall dominie demanded. One of the true Afrikaner blood? Sarah nodded uncertainly.
And your dead mother and father were wed in the Reformed Church? She nodded again. And you believe in the Lord God of Israel? Yes, Oom. My mother taught me, Sarah whispered.
Then we cannot turn the child away, he told his wife.
Bring her in, woman. God will provide. God always provides for his chosen people. Trudi Bierman sighed theatrically and reached for Sarah's arm. So thin, and filthy as a Nama piccaninny. And you, Lothar De La Rey, the dominie pointed a finger at him. Has not the merciful Lord yet shown you the error of your ways, and placed your feet on the path of righteousness? Not yet, dear cousin. Lothar backed away from the door, his relief undisguised.
The dominie's attention flicked to the boy standing in the shadows behind Lothar. Who is this? ,My son, Manfred. Lothar placed a protective arm over the boy's shoulder, and the dominie came closer and stooped to study his face closely. His great dark beard bristled and his eyes were wild and fanatical, but Manfred stared directly into them, and saw them change. They warmed and lightened with the sparkle of good humour and compassion.
Do I frighten you, Jong? His voice mellowed, and Manfred shook his head.
No, Oomie, or not too much anyway. The dominie chuckled. Who teaches you your Bible, Jong? He used the expression meaning young or young man.
My father, Oom. Then God have mercy on your soul. He stood up and thrust his beard out at Lothar.
I would you had left the boy, rather than the girl, he told
him, and Lothar tightened his grip on Manfred's shoulder. He is a likely looking lad, and we need good men in the service of God and the Volk. He is well taken care of. Lothar could not conceal his agitation, but the dominie dropped his compelling gaze back to Manfred.
I think, Jong, that you and I are destined by Almighty God to meet again. When your father drowns or is eaten by a lion or hanged by the English, or in some other fashion punished by the Lord God of Israel, then come back here.
Do you hear me, Jong? I need you, the Volk need you, and God needs you! My name is Tromp Bierman, the Trumpet of the Lord. Come back to this house! Manfred nodded. I will come back to see Sarah. I promised her. As he said it the girl's courage broke and she sobbed and tried to pull free from Trudi's grip.
Stop that, child. Trudi Bierman shook her irritably. Stop blubbering. Sarah gulped and swallowed the next sob.
Lothar turned Manfred away from the door. The child is hard-working and willing, cousin. You will not regret this charity, he called over his shoulder.
That we shall see, his cousin muttered dubiously, and Lothar started back down the path.
Remember the Lord's word, Lothar De La Rey, the Thimpet of the Lord bugled after them. I am the Way and the Light. Whosoever believeth in me- Manfred twisted in his father's grip and looked back.
The tall gaunt figure of the dominie almost filled the kitchen doorway, but at the level of his waist Sarah's small face peered around him, in the light of the Petromax it was white as bone china and glistened with her tears.
Four men were waiting for them at the rendezvous. During the desperate years when they had fought together in guerilla commando, it had been necessary for every man to know the reassembly points. When cut up and separated in the running battles against the Union troops, they had scattered away into the veld and days later come together at one of the safe places.
There was always water at these assembly points, a seep in the rocky crevice of a hillside, a Bushman well or a dry riverbed where they could dig for the precious stuff. The assembly points were always sited with an all-round view so that a following enemy could never take them by surprise.
In addition, there was always grazing nearby for the horses and shelter for the men, and they had laid down caches of supplies at these places.
The rendezvous that Lothar had chosen for this meeting had an additional advantage. It was in the hills only a few miles north of the homestead of a prosperous German cattle-rancher, a good friend of Lothar's family, a sympathizer who could be relied upon to tolerate their presence on his lands.
Lothar entered the hills along the dried watercourse that twisted through them like a maimed puffadder. He walked in the open so that the waiting men could see him from afar, and they were still two miles from the rendezvous when a tiny figure appeared on the rocky crest ahead of them, wind-milling his arms in welcome. He was quickly joined by the other three and then they came running down the rough hillside to meet Lothar's party in the river-bed.
Leading them was Vark Jan', or Pig John', the old Khoisan warrior with his yellow wrinkled features that bespoke his mixed lineage of Nama and Berg-dama and, so he boasted, of even the true Bushman. Allegedly, his grandmother had been a Bushman slave captured by the Boers in one of the last great slave raids of the previous century. But then he was a famous har and opinion was divided as to the truth of this claim. He was followed closely by Klein Boy, Swart Hendrick's bastard son by a Herero mother.
He came directly to his father and greeted him with the traditional deferential clapping of hands. He was as tall and as powerfully built as Hendrick himself, but with the finer features and slanted eyes of his mother, and his skin was not as dark. Like wild honey it changed colour as the sunlight played upon it. These two had worked on the trawlers at Walvis Bay, and Hendrick had sent them ahead to find the other men they needed and bring them to the rendezvous.
Lothar turned to these men now. It was twelve years since last he had seen them. He remembered them as wild fighting men, his hunting dogs, he had called them with affection and total lack of trust. For like wild dogs they would have turned and savaged him at the first sign of weakness.
Now he greeted them by their old noms de guerre. Legs', the Ovambo with legs like a stork and Buffalo', who carried his head hunched on his thick neck like that animal. They clasped hands, then wrists and then hands again in the ritual greeting of the band reserved for special occasions, as after long separation or a successful foray, and Lothar studied them and saw how twelve years and easy living had altered them. They were fat and soft and middle-aged but, he consoled himself, the tasks he had for them were not demanding.
So! He grinned at them. We have pulled you off the fat bellies of your wives, and away from your beer-pots. And they roared with laughter.
We came the same minute that Klein Boy and Pig John spoke your name to us, they assured him.
Of course, you came only because of the love and loyalty you bear me, Lothar's sarcasm was biting, the way the vulture and the jackal come for love of the dead, not of the feast. They roared again. How they had missed the whip of his tongue.
Pig John did mention gold, the Buffalo admitted, between sobs of laughter. And Klein Boy whispered that there might be fighting again. It is sad, but a man of my age can pleasure his wives only once or twice a day, but he can fight and enjoy old companions and plunder day and night without end, and the loyalty we bear you is wide as the Kalahari, Stork Legs said, and they hooted with laughter and beat each other upon the back.
Still rumbling with occasional laughter, the group left the riverbed and climbed up to the old rendezvous point. It was a low overhanging shelf of rock, the roof blackened with the soot of countless campfires and the rear wall decorated with the ochre-coloured designs and drawings of the little yellow Bushmen who, before them, had used this shelter down the ages. From the entrance of the shelter there was a sweeping view out across the shimmering plains. It would be almost impossible to approach the hilltop undetected.