The babies were getting restless, though. Popi was crying. Niki pushed her breast into her daughter’s mouth. She made an attempt to suckle. But she soon spat the milk out because it had a painful taste.
Thirty minutes after midday. The women were led into the courtroom. And into the dock. The accused white men were already in the dock. But there were only four of them. The Reverend François Bornman was not among them. The attorney for the defence, Adam de Vries, was not there either. Prosecutor Christiaan Calitz looked bored. He was busying himself paging through a law report, without really reading anything. The usual spectators, including press people, filled the gallery.
“All rise!” announced the policeman who also acted as a court orderly, as Karel Bezuidenhout entered. Everybody stood up, and only sat down once the magistrate had taken his seat at the bench.
It was at this point that Adam de Vries rushed into the courtroom. He apologised as he bowed before the magistrate. He placed his black briefcase and files on his table.
“I spent this whole morning at the hospital in Bloemfontein,” said Adam de Vries breathlessly.
“How is he?” asked the magistrate.
“He will live,” said Adam de Vries, much to the relief of the magistrate, the prosecutor and the men in the dock. “But he will lose his eye.”
“You might have heard that one of the accused, the Reverend François Bornman, allegedly made an attempt on his life with a gun this morning,” announced the magistrate to the rest of the court. “He allegedly shot himself in the right eye. That is why the court had to start so late today.”
The women looked at one another with eyes full of question marks. Maria’s eyes had exclamation marks in addition to question marks. Her lover had failed in his bid to join Stephanus Cronje. The scoundrel was trying to escape responsibility. He had proved to be just as cowardly as Niki’s lover.
“Today we shall only deal with bail matters and then adjourn,” announced the magistrate.
“Your Worship,” said Adam de Vries, “on the instructions of my clients, I have arranged that the bail of fifty rands set by this court be paid for each one of the women charged with my clients.”
Christiaan Calitz shook his head in wonder. Karel Bezuidenhout squinted his eyes and looked at Adam de Vries closely. Also in wonder.
Outside the courthouse, we saw journalists crowding around Adam de Vries. They were firing questions at him, all at once. Why did his clients pay bail for the women? Was it an admission on their part that they knew these women and had had intimate relations with them? Why would they post bail for women who were allegedly framing them?
But Adam de Vries had a ready answer: “I arranged for their bail because I did not think it was fair that they should have to remain in custody because they did not have the money, while my clients were free because they could afford bail.”
“Is it not a coincidence that your clients are paying bail for the women only now that the women have indicated that they are withdrawing their admission of guilt and will not give evidence against the men?” asked one impertinent reporter.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” said Adam de Vries calmly.
“Dr Percy Yutar, the Attorney-General, reported that his office in Bloemfontein received a telephone call from Excelsior conveying the information that the women were no longer prepared to plead guilty, that they had briefed counsel and that they were to dispute the admissions,” said the reporter, with a flourish more typical of defence counsel.
“What are you insinuating?” asked Adam de Vries, finding the experience of being put on a witness stand by an upstart repugnant.
“It is not an insinuation, Mr de Vries,” said the persistent pest. “It is a question. Isn’t it rather strange that the men post bail for the women soon after the women have declared that they are no longer prepared to give evidence against them? How are the women able to afford to brief counsel?”
“I am not going to tolerate this line of insolent crossexamination,” said Adam de Vries, pushing his way out of the circle of vermin.
We saw the women walking away from the courthouse, back to the freedom of Mahlatswetsa Location and the neighbouring farms. Babies strapped on their backs. Excited friends and relatives jumping about. Fawning. Like dogs at the return of the master after a journey of many days. But Niki was not among them. We saw her being escorted to the police truck by a warder, Popi held close to her bosom. Nobody had paid any bail for her, as her lover had taken the easy way out. We saw Johannes Smit looking at her with a smirk on his face. And then giving her a silly wave. Rubbing it in that had she accepted his advances, she would have been walking home to Mahlatswetsa Location with the rest of the women. We saw Mmampe running to the truck as it drove away with Niki and Popi, shouting: “Don’t worry Niki, I will look after Viliki!” We heard Niki shout back through the meshed window: “Please do! I cannot thank you enough, Mmampe.”
THAT NIGHT, many families in Mahlatswetsa Location were celebrating the return of their daughters, wives and mothers. And of the light-skinned babies. But Niki’s shack was deserted. It was not the only home that was deserted, however. Stephanus Cronje’s home was deserted as well. A neighbour said that Mrs Cornelia Cronje and her son, Tjaart, were away. She did not know where they had gone. Maybe to her family in Zastron. A woman leaving the premises of Excelsior Slaghuis denied to the journalists that she was Mrs Cronje, and that she even knew her.
Cornelia Cronje disappeared immediately after the inquest. Soon after she gave evidence of how she had found the body of her husband upon returning home from work. She had testified that her husband had been released on bail after being charged with contravening the Immorality Act. He had driven her to the butchery the next morning and said goodbye normally before returning home. When she came back home that evening, she had found her husband’s wallet on a table beside her bed. As this was unusual, she had gone to his bedroom and knocked. No one had answered. She had tried to open the door, but it had been locked. She had called the gardener, who had used a lever to dislodge the door from its hinges. She had stood aghast at the discovery of the body. Her husband’s face was covered in blood and a shotgun was clenched between his legs. She had run to the house of a friend nearby and the friend had telephoned the police.
After the inquest, Cornelia Cronje had gone underground. Obviously she needed to get some breathing space away from the newspaper and television hounds that had practically camped outside her house and also outside her butchery.
There was another home that was deserted that night. That of the Reverend François Bornman. He was at the Universitas Hospital in Bloemfontein. His right eye was wrapped in thick bandages. His loyal wife was at his bedside. They were joined by the elders of the church in their dark suits.
He was not in any physical pain, he told his visitors. His pain was the pain of the heart. The pain of knowing that he had betrayed those he loved and those who loved him. It was the work of the devil, he said. The devil had sent black women to tempt him and to move him away from the path of righteousness. The devil had always used the black female to tempt the Afrikaner. It was a battle that was raging within individual Afrikaner men. A battle between lust and loathing. A battle that the Afrikaner must win. The devil made the Afrikaner to covertly covet the black woman while publicly detesting her. It was his fault that he had not been strong enough to resist the temptation. The devil made him do it. The devil had weakened his heart, making it open to temptation. And he had made things worse for himself in the eyes of the Almighty by attempting to take his own life. He was therefore praying every hour that God should forgive him.