The Noisemaker Book One in the Trilogy The Angels Shall Sing.

By Nikolas Ridout

A compelling story of love, friendship, compassion and war, and the courage of one boy. This is a book that no one who was once part of the British Empire should miss. “The Noisemaker” is one of the rare pieces of fiction that is based on hard cold facts. Written by rising South African author Nikolas Ridout, “The Noisemaker” is the first part of a trilogy called The Angels Shall Sing. Inspired by the troubled times faced by the South African farmers during the Second Boer War, the story paints the picture of a war-ridden country and its helpless citizens. The author successfully captures the horrors of war, and how it destroys lives of innocents. Here in this book, you will get to know of events that were never revealed in history books. “The Noisemaker” opens with giving us a peep into the everyday life of the farming community in Cradock, a small town in South Africa. Gone are the days when the peace prevailed on the streets of this town. Now a dark and ominous cloud keeps the sky covered as if to remind people of the war that is raging around them. A 16 year old boy is hanged in front of a shocked and frightened audience. The protagonist, a farm boy, watches in horror as his best friend’s once strong, lively body is engulfed by the cold calmness of death. Why was the teenage boy hanged? What will our protagonist do next? What sort of devastation does the war bring? Read on to find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikolas Ridout
• Release date: Nov 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311054296

Nikolas Ridout

Nikolas Ridout was born and raised in Rondebosch, Cape Town. He went to the Rondebosch Boys School, and began his career working for General Motors. He later found his niche in IT while working with IBM. After taking an early retirement from corporate life, Nick started teaching IT at college. Despite being an avid reader and writer, Nick never pursued writing as a profession until recently. As a young boy, he had heard tales of the Anglo-Boer War from his grandfather. Now, he brings those stories into life through his writing.

Book preview

Prologue

The Town Square, Cradock, (The Cape Colony), South Africa.

Friday, 8.50 am, 12th July, 1901.

If dark clouds were on the horizon this morning, even darker clouds had been shadowing events in this corner of the world for the past two years. Never before, in recent history, had so many been gathered to destroy so few. Just under a half a million men of the supposedly best and most advanced army the world had ever seen were shipped from England to South Africa to subdue slightly more than fifty thousand farmers; that is a ratio of 100 to 1, inconceivable military odds.

At the other end of the Town Square, the feint shout of commands, boots stamping, and palms slapping on rifles filtered through the early morning chirp of the birds in the nearby trees.

The cost in lives, in English blood, was astounding. At the end of the war over one hundred thousand men of Queen Victoria’s Imperial Forces, were dead or injured, mostly young men in the prime of life. Sadly, of the 107,000 Boer woman and children, under the age of sixteen, interned in concentration camps almost 30,000 died of disease and starvation. The 63,000 farms and houses destroyed and 40 towns rendered useless, attested to the ruthlessness of the campaign. The indigenous people were also hard hit, it is estimated that 19,000 were interned, nobody knew how many were missing or killed, who was counting, they were only blacks. The English Army, at this stage of the war, were still losing men at the rate of seven to one, a loss no nation could sustain for any length of time. A bugle call scattered the birds; orders rang out, fall in, line up, in columns of three. Horses snorted, trotting onto the square, kicking up little dust clouds.

Lord Kitchener of Khartoum, the hero of Omdurman, who’s Army, a few years earlier, had slaughtered thousands of Arabs, destroying town after town and killing all inhabitants, including woman and children, had taken control in South Africa, with direct orders from the London War Office to clean up. Nobody even guessed, at that stage, that the war would drag on for months and would deteriorate into a bitter guerrilla war, with claim upon counter claim of brutal atrocities. They could not have chosen a better broom, Lord K of K, was, to the South African Boers, Seth reincarnate, the Lord of Chaos, mentioned in the ancient texts of the Egyptians Book of dead in 1200 BC. He was as cold hearted and utterly ruthless as Alaric, the sacker of Rome, he was perfect for the job. The voices and the noise of approaching people could now be plainly heard, many people whispering, walking.

Meanwhile back at home, in London, the Press and the popular voice were all shouting at the cost of maintaining such a force 6000 miles away. This cost was equally astounding. The exchequer was spending over a million and half pounds a week at this stage, a phenomenal sum of money then. The Government of the day where having to lend money to finance the war. Little did the anxious families, eating breakfast thousands of miles away, know that this Sethian broom was going to sweep thousands of their young men into early graves and later, thousands of ounces of Boer gold into British coffers.

The townspeople of Cradock slowly gathered in the Town Square, hushed, silent, they had not had much choice in the matter. A printed order signed by the Commandant had been handed out the day before, shutting all businesses and shops and demanding that all persons assemble. Those that showed any unwillingness were sorted out and subtlety prodded into the Town Square by a detachment of determined Guards, with fixed bayonets. There was to be a hanging, the hastily erected wooden gallows stood at the West end of the Town Square, squat, evil, and ugly.

A scotch cart, wobbled onto the square, drawn by four bandits from the local jail, which even had a black flag flying at half-mast, arrived precisely on time. The young man on the back, hastily pushed, made to stand, as the scotch cart creaked to a stop. The local Dominee, Dominee de Klerk, (Dutch Reformed Church Minister) in his black gown and white tie walked up to one side. The young man, who had only been told the night before by Dominee de Klerk that he was due to hang today, was blanched white and pale with fear.

The handle bar moustached Sergeant Major, walked slowly up the steps and read out the death warrant. The young man dressed in dirty khaki was now half dragged, half pushed up the steps, tripping and falling with terror, he looked totally bewildered, Dominee de Klerk followed, trying to help, hand gently on the young man’s arm. The Sergeant Major put the noose around his neck. Dominee de Klerk, now visibly upset, feeling the boys legs shaking and not knowing whether to administer the last rights, and not wanting to, decided to recite The Apostles’ Creed his voice rang with emotion as he began, speaking Dutch;

‘Ik geloof in God, de Almachtige Vader…’ (I believe in God, the Father Almighty)

On close inspection, one could see that this was a nice looking young man. He was stout and of muscular build, a shortish young man with a compact body. He was well known and well liked in the town.

‘Maker of heaven and earth.’

The young man stood on the gallows his face turning left and right as though seeking, searching for something, someone.

‘And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.’

His eyes were large as he stared around the town square, the people below were quiet, you could have heard a pin drop.

‘Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary.’

In the middle of the crowd of downcast faces, a young boy slowly raised his dusty veldt hat and held his head up. A shock of golden blond hair tumbled out, bleached white in spots by the sun, it framed his face, almost shoulder length, long tousled curls; he immediately stood out from the crowd.

‘Suffered under Pontius Pilate.’

The young boy was tall and spare of build with deep blue eyes. He looked more like a chocolate box portrait than real. Bright red lips and rosy cheeks completed the picture. Dressed in khaki shorts and a white shirt, he looked more like an English school boy than a Boer boy. He waved his veldt hat slowly over his head.

‘Was crucified, dead, and buried.’

The young man on the gallows eyes locked down on the boy and immediately his entire face lit up as though some unknown god had beamed down a celestial light. Tears began to flow now and he mouthed some urgent words across the square to his friend below, desperately trying to communicate with him.

‘He descended into Hell and on the third day, He rose again from the dead. He ascended into heaven…and, and, sits on the right hand of the Father Almighty…from thence…thence…thence.

’Dominee de Klerk was now openly crying, struggling to compose himself, looking at the Sergeant Major; literally begging him with his eyes. The Sergeant Major, thinking the Dominee had finished, not understanding the language, stood forward hastily and struggled with the young man, pulling the black hood of death over his head. He had literally only just stood back when the trap door slammed down with a crash; the entire crowd recoiled, sighing in horror.

Unfortunately, the training provided by Her Majesties Army did not include the niceties of hanging. They had no understanding of the necessity of a proper fall and a correct length of rope to ensure that the person’s neck broke properly. It took almost five minutes of thrashing and struggling for the fit and strong young man to choke to death on the end of that rope; a dark stream spreading in his dusty khaki pants as he pissed himself in agony, confirming the fact that he was dying.

No one in the crowd moved, too shocked, almost transfixed, by the evil deed that they had been forced to watch. The clouds now moved in and it began to rain, gently at first as through the Gods were at work trying to wash the iniquity that was there away. The young blond haired boy stood, the rain mingling with his tears. He was rigid with fright, horror filled blue eyes turned to the grey dark sky as though beseeching God.

The time was now 9.15 and the Sergeant Major came down off the gallows, cursing the rain and checked with his superior officer standing beneath. Colonel Revington-Smythe had a smirk on his face; his dark little eyes glinted. The local doctor approached the gyrating body on the rope; stethoscope to ears. The Sergeant Major put a hand out, steadying what was now a slack corpse by the shoulder. He swung it around. The rope creaked. Blood was seeping down from under the black hood, most bite their tongue off. The blood flowed down the dirty khaki shirt, dripped onto the ground, and slowly mingled with the puddles of rain, turning the water all frothy and pink. The blonde haired boy watched in abject horror, face slack, absolutely immobilized by hopeless revulsion. He seemed to come alive suddenly and now started to run, tripping almost, his shoulders shaking; he started pushing, struggling, barging, though the crowd; who were moving away. In the distance, thunder crashed, heralding a thunderstorm. The local Dutch doctor, turned, unable to speak, his mouth set with anger, nodded his head at the Colonel; the Colonel nodded back and smiled. Christopher van Heerden was dead, exactly one week to the day, after his sixteenth birthday.

The British Newspaper ‘Morning London’

(the court) ‘…which had only the most elementary of evidence. There was obviously no adequate evidence on which to convict him. He was a wry young man neither ruffian not brigand and clearly in no sense a ringleader. His death is quite incomprehensible unless we are to hang all rebels as such.’

(Snyman: Rebelverhore p61)

‘the poor, misguided young fellow who has gone to the gallows as a common murderer.’

(The editorial remarking on the execution. Midland News)

PROCLAMATION

‘…all subjects of His Majesty and all person residing in the Cape Colony who shall, in districts thereof in which martial law prevails, be actively in arms against him, or who shall actively aid or assist the enemy or commit any overt act by which the safety of His Majesty forces or subjects is endanger, shall immediately on arrest be tried by court martial, convened by my authority, and shall on conviction be liable to the severest penalties of the law.’

(General Lord Kitchener, April, 22nd, 1901.)

Chapter I

The Soldiers

The farm Goedgenoeg, six miles outside of Cradock.

Thursday, 05.30 am, 29th June, 1901. (16 days previously)

Little Xolani Njoloza (So-lar-nee In-joe-low-sah) sat shivering in the early morning cold. Small clouds raced across the dark sky, playing hide and seek between the stars and a half moon floating gently above the mountains. The stars winked at one another, knowing the game. Patches of grey early morning mist floated gently over the damp grass, trying softly to find somewhere to hide, before the sun came up. Sheep stood nattering and nusseling their lambs, making soft mehs and bleats. He shivered again as he pulled his blanket closer around him and stirred the dying embers of his little fire with a stick. Xolani was a shepherd and he, with his three elder brothers worked on the farm. His Father was Headman to a small community on the farm. They had their kraal about half a mile north of the main farmhouse. Xolani was now at the East side, the closest to Town. The farm was large by English standards, 40 000 acres, making it almost 6 miles long by about 10 miles wide.

Xolani looked at the skyline and frowned, white teeth showing in the dark. He felt the sound before he heard it. Vibrations, like someone running or stamping their feet close by. He stood slowly and strained his eyes, trying to see in the inky darkness. He knelt down and pushed his knobkerrie into the sand, then put his ear to the knob at the top. Horses coming, many horses. He jumped to his feet and ran to the other side of the pens that faced the road, listened. Then he ran as fast as he could through the long grass down towards the road. He saw something that put more fear in him than his Father could have put in him with the biggest stick.

The Rickman family had owned the farm since its inception. Rickman Senior had arrived in South Africa fifty years earlier. Originally, his name was Reichman but he had called himself Rickman, because he said no Englishmen could pronounce his name properly. One of the first group of German/Dutch Immigrants to the Cape, he had moved to Cradock, found a piece of ground that nested between the Fish River and some hills and he had declared that this was Goedgenoeg (good enough), hence the name. Born in Bavaria, his parents before him were market farmers, so farming was in his blood. He had duly married a South African Dutch Girl and had had a son whom he named, Johann, the German way of spelling the Dutch Johannes. Johann (Jan) grew to look like his Father, tall, well built, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and a typical German autocratic bearing. He had another son, but he had died when only two years old. He had sent klien Jan (little Jan) to Bishops, a new boarding school in Cape Town. When klien Jan finished school, he spoke English flawlessly. Then his Father had sent him home, to Bavaria, to meet his Grand Parents.

Xolani stood his dark eyes wide with fear. In the dim early morning light, moving like ungodly wraths through the patches of moonlight and mist, a troop of lancers and a column of mounted cavalry rode in precise closed order. Although Xolani was only ten years old and unused to the strange ways of the white man, he was nevertheless, very far from stupid. It did not take him long to realize that you do not send out fifty mounted troops to fetch produce from a farm.

Klein Jan had come back a two years later, a different man, with many brilliant ideas, which he had obtained overseas and he threw himself into farming with a zeal that soon had all the neighbours talking. He split the farm into four sections or compounds; he established orchids and started one the first farms fed by irrigation in the area. The top section, by the koppie (hill) he kept for ostriches. The main house, already large by ordinary standards, he had enlarged with a massive roofed stoep, (veranda) that circumnavigated the house, which effectively kept the hot African sun off the windows and walls. He redirected the spruit (spring) so that it flowed under a little bridge in a wild garden just in front of the stoep. He built windpompe (windmills that pump underground water). He installed a hand pump in the kitchen, making it the first farm in the area with running water.

Xolani ran flat out, his bare feet hardly touching the ground, he rounded the corner of the top compound and started down the dirt road towards the farmhouse. Breathlessly he ran until he got to the wild garden in front of the stoep where he skidded to a stop on the wet grass. He screamed at the top of his shrill 10-year-old voice in Xhosa; ‘Amajoni amanintsi ayezahe.’ (The soldiers are coming.) He knew Inwela Ezimhlophe (White hair, there is no word for blonde in Xhosa) his brother’s best white friend could speak Xhosa. It seemed like an eternity to him before the front door opened and Miss Beth appeared. The dog started barking.

Jan rebuilt the stables for the newly bought trap and horses, and he created battery hen houses. Like all farmers Jan needed a wife and as fate would have it, he met a young teacher in town, in church one night, she was playing the piano, Jan could sing, he fell deeply and desperately in love with her that first night. She was blond like him, with blue eyes like him and she had a face like an angel and an incredibly soft pink and white skin that only Northern woman seem to possess, but they had only one problem, she was English, from England. Born and raised in Wimbledon England she had her teacher’s degree by the time she was twenty, and had decided to come to South Africa on a government grant for two years. Her being English was a major problem in the mind of most of his Dutch friends, not to even mention his Mother and Father.

Xolani started babbling away in Xhosa. Beth went back through the front door and shouted.

‘Ricky come quickly please, something is wrong.’

Xolani knew this was good because he could explain to Inwela Ezimhlophe what he had seen. Ricky appeared a few moments later in a pair of shorts; eyes wide, he ran lightly down the stairs to Xolani, followed by Rudy, his golden Labrador. He spoke Xhosa.

‘I see you Xolani.’

‘I see you Inwela Ezimhlophe.'

‘You make big ingxolo (noise) tonight, Xolani.’

‘I see on the road many horses, many solders they come with long assegais and guns.’

‘How many Xolani?’

‘Amanintsi, Amanintsi.’ (Many, many.)

‘Show me fingers how many Xolani.’

However, Jan was in love and so was Elizabeth and soon against all opposition, they were married in the Dutch Reformed Church in town, Miss Elizabeth Tucker became, Mevrou Beth Rickman. One year later, she bore him a son. Frederick or Ricky as he became, had his Mom's angels face and big blue eyes, her soft pink and white skin and beautiful tousled blond hair, which his mother refused to cut. He had dimples on both cheeks, which appeared when he smiled. Two years later, they had a daughter, Rose, who grew to look almost the spitting image of her older brother.

By 1895 the farm had grown considerably with Jan’s long-term plantings coming in, and the cattle had almost doubled in numbers and they were now, the only suppliers of geese, turkeys, and ducks in the area. Groot Jan (Big Jan) Ricky's Grandfather, adored Ricky; they were constant companions from the moment Ricky could walk. They spent hours walking in the veldt chatting, every night Groot Jan would read stories to Ricky, in German. By the time Ricky was three he could speak German, English and Dutch. All of sudden, one day, Groot Jan announced he wanted to go back to Bavaria, to, as he said at the time, secure Ricky’s heritage. Groot Jan came back a few months later. Then tragedy struck, Groot and Klein Jan had gone hunting one weekend, and Groot Jan was badly mauled by a leopard and died a few days later. Ricky was heartbroken and Klein Jan was suddenly ‘klein’ no longer and he inherited the farm lock stock and barrel.

‘Mom there are lancers and mounted cavalry, this is just what Father and we discussed the other night. Xolani says they’re at least fifty on the road.’

Beth put her hands to her face. ‘I cannot believe it; surely they are not coming here, not at this time of the morning.’ Beth was surprised, although they had spoken about it and they had, of course, read the newspapers, they were friendly to the Army, she greeted them all when she was in the village and the Colonel had visited before at School. Jan had been, until recently, supplying the army with lots of produce, the army still owed them a lot of money.

In Xhosa Ricky spoke quickly to Xolani. ‘Come my little brother run with me to the trees and we should be able to see the road.’ Ricky and Xolani together ran to the trees in the road leading up to the path, Rudy the Labrador, chasing after them. Before they even arrived at the trees, Ricky could see the columns. First thing that Ricky noticed was that there were no ox-wagons; they were definitely not on a buying mission. Ricky put his hand on Xolani’s shoulder.

‘Xolani please go and warn your Father. Tell him the Army are coming, he will know what to do, next tell your brother to saddle Wind for me as fast as he can, I will meet him at the stables. Go now Xolani and tell your Father,’ he hesitated, looking for the right thing to say in Xhosa, ‘tell your Father he is a man and you are my brothers, I will do everything to make sure no harm comes to your family.’

Every time the Army had bought produce they had signed a chit; Beth had counted the slips, they had close on £1000 worth, Jan desperately needed another ox-wagon, but they did not have the money, it cost £30. Jan had been to the Dorp to see the Colonel in charge of the camp and had been told by the Colonel that a ‘an Officers signature was as good as a pound note’, Jan’s retort was that at least he could bank a pound note, he could not bank a chit. They were heading for a financial crisis. Then three weeks ago, the Army had requisitioned all their oxen and all three of their wagons, leaving them unable to deliver any supplies. Jan had been into the Dorp, to see the Colonel again, but his pleas had fallen upon deaf ears, in desperation he had applied for a loan at Standard Bank for £1000, using his farm as collateral, it had been refused. Jan had decided to go to Cape Town and complain to the GHQ. (General Head Quarters) Until then, they had no reason to dislike the Army. Caught up in a war that was not of their making, both Beth and Jan had done their best to help all and to cope with the daily changes and the worsening of the economy. Jan adored his wife and literally worshipped the ground his children walked on. He had never once hit or spanked his children; he maintained that violence begot violence.

They both turned and ran back, Xolani racing past to go to the Kraal. Ricky ran inside the front door and almost bumped into Ouma Marie, Rose, and his Mom. He looked at his Mom’s face and for the first time, he saw fear in her eyes. She tried to be a matter of fact as possible. ‘Now listen, just everyone listen, I don’t think anything is going to happen but just to be on the safe side we are going to pretend this is for real. I don’t think they would dare burn down a home while English people are in it, will they Ricky.’

‘Mom, they have burnt down at least thirty farms, the Cape Times said so.’

‘Young man, will everyone please calm down. First, we must get you away, Rose help your brother get ready and be as quick as you can, we probably only have about ten minutes before they are here. Ricky did you tell Xolani to get his brother to the stables.’

Ricky nodded.

‘Good boy: come Ouma Marie, we have lots to do.’

Rose blinked back the tears as she raced after Ricky down the passage, to his room. ‘Rick I don’t understand why you have to leave.’ Ricky was busy changing; his sister and he had no shyness having swum together and tanned together with nothing on since they were too small to remember. Nudity is an accepted part of African culture, there is no shame attached to it, as in the Western culture. She pulled his rucksack and his blanket roll from under his bed. Rudy, bouncing around with excitement, seeing the blanket roll, thought a camp was in the offering.

‘Mind Rudy. Damn it Rudy, MIND. Rosy Dad said the army were accusing local boys of running messages for the Rebels, if caught, we could be shot, or whipped, or put in jail, marshal law gives any army officer that right.’

‘That’s hideous, that makes them like God, they have the total control over everyone, even the right of life or death, surely that’s not right.’

‘Right or wrong, that is the law Rosy, but don’t worry I am sure everything will work out okay. I am going to camp up the berg for a week or so until this blows over. Dad will sort it out when he gets back.’

Ricky started packing clothes in his rucksack grabbing at things as fast as he could. Rose helping, folding things neatly for him. ‘Are you going to fetch Chris, Ricky?’

‘Yes, Dad went over the night before last to speak to Tannie Maggie, but keep it quiet, I've gone to Cape Town with Dad.’

‘Okay, I can keep a secret you know.’

‘I know you can little sister, I don’t think I have ever told you how much I care for you, I really…’

Ricky’s voice broke then and he coughed, he grabbed his shirt and struggled into it. ‘Come I must go, you will look after Rudy for me while I'm gone won’t you.’

Rudy was, to say the least, spoilt; he was Ricky’s constant companion. He followed Ricky like a shadow, often went to school with him. He slept on Ricky’s bed, considered himself part of the family, and everybody treated him that way. The three of them raced back to the kitchen. Beth and Ouma Marie were waiting with paper bags packed with food for him. Their faces were white in the soft light of the paraffin lamp. Ricky started stuffing the bags into his rucksack.

‘Ricky I have packed in everything I could think of and some extra for Chris, you know how they are struggling.’

‘Frederick,’ she always called him Frederick when she formally addressed him, ‘please remember our plan if anything goes wrong, you must go to the school. If Miss Johnson or I are not there and you cannot find us, then you must go to Dominee de Klerk. Do not forget the wall by the study.’

Beth had Rudy firmly by the collar. ‘Okay, my boy go now as quick as you can.’

Ricky hugged his Mom kissed her on the cheek, he kissed Ouma Marie who had not spoken a word the whole time, his kissed and hugged his sister, bent down and snuggled Rudy’s muzzle, then he turned and fled from the house, Rudy barking his annoyance at being left behind. He met Ayanda on his way to the stables with Wind, his half Arab Palomino gelding that his Dad had bought him for his fourteenth birthday, which was saddled and ready. Palominos are a soft tan colour with soft long blond manes; they are truly beautiful horses. Wind had the long legs of an Arab, and excitable eyes of a Palomino. He mounted at once and thrashing the reins, shouting, and waving thanks, he set off at a gallop for Chris’s farm, which via compound four was about five miles away.

The road was a white ribbon in the misty moonlight stretching out towards the little hill they called ‘The Koppie.’ Like all farmers' sons Ricky had learnt to ride virtually before he could walk, and he now used this ability. Ricky rode around the rocky outcrop and then he went up a small gully, which they used as a short cut through the koppie. Ricky rode carefully not using the path, sticking rather to the stony ground, trying not to leave tracks in case the soldiers tried to follow him.

Chris’s family were literally on the brink of destitution. Chris’s Father, Oom Hendrick, had been killed the year before in the war, and had left Tannie Maggie alone on the farm with Chris and two young girls to bring up with no visible means of support. Their farm over the last year had suffered, Beth, and Jan and other people from the church had clubbed together to supply food and clothes for the family. Chris hated the English with a passion beyond belief; he blamed them for everything that his family were now going through.

Ricky pulled up short at the farmhouse that had seen better days and Chris who was sitting on the stoep in candlelight, greeted him. ‘More Ricky, wat’s die haas?’ (What's the rush?)

He put his coffee cup down and stood up. It was unusual to see Chris sitting down so early in the morning; Ricky knew that he always had chores to do. Chris’s Mother was originally from Malmesbury, one of the oldest Dutch settlements in the Cape Colony. The Dutch that had moved there had developed an unusual local vernacular. Chris had inherited it from his Mother. Most ‘R’s’ were and are, still to this day, pronounced as a guttural ‘gh’ so that the greeting ‘More Ricky’ would have sounded more like ‘Mor-ger Ghicky.’ Ricky was used to it, and was accustomed to being called ‘Ghicky’ by Chris and his Mom.

Ricky waved. ‘Why are you up?’

‘I don’t know, couldn't sleep, something woke me and now you come riding like a spook is after you.’

Ricky dismounted quickly and explained about the soldiers.

Chris shouted to his mother. ‘Ma it’s happening by the Rickman’s, the soldiers are there.’

He turned to Ricky. Pointing to his chest. ‘You know inside I knew something was wrong, not like a dream but like a feeling, here inside.’

Tannie Maggie came bustling out with an old gown hastily pulled on, eyes wide with fear, face pale. She looked ill, grey hair hung in strands around her face. Ever since Oom Hendrick had died, she had seemed to let herself go.

‘More seun; tell me quickly ‘Ghicky’ what has happened.’

Ricky told them about the soldiers. She shook her head. ‘Ja, ja we are all prepared, your Father come here before he left for Cape Town and he, shame, he brought me some stuff for the house, you know, he and your mother are such good people, you are going to the Kloof not so, to that old hunting spot Oom Hendrick and your Dad found. Shame that this must happen so near to Chris’s birthday, we will have a party do you hear son, we will have a party.’

‘Ja Ma.’ Chris knew there was no money for any party; he was used to un-kept promises. He turned to Ricky. 'Give me two minutes, and I will be ready.’ Chris appeared two minutes later with a rucksack and a blanket roll. ‘Kom Jonge time to ride.’ He hugged and kissed his Mom, and ran from the house towards the stable, ten minutes later, barely visible in the soft early morning light; they were riding north towards the river and the Kloof.

Just after six o'clock, as the sky was lightening in the East, the entire division rode up to the Rickman’s farmhouse. The Officer in charge, Colonel Revington-Smythe held his hand up to stop the column and the column shuffled to a halt. He turned his horse around and spoke loudly to the Sergeant Major behind him.

‘Your parade, Sergeant Major.’

The Sergeant Major shouted out, ‘Sah’, and screamed an order; ‘Company Diiiiiiiiismount,’ he waited for a bit then screamed again, ‘Company One, form up in columns of three; Squadron Two, form up in open order.’

The bugle boy began blowing the commands.

Beth watched impassively from the stoep, as a young girl she had watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace many times, this little military tattoo did not frighten her, as she supposed that it was meant to. Colonel Revington-Smythe sauntered through the grass onto the steps of the stoep. Tall and skinny, impeccably dressed, he looked the epitome of a British Army Officer. Like most Officers of the day, he radiated a superabundance of ego that seemed to literally emanate from him. His black riding boots shone in the soft light seeping through the front door. He had a round florid face and sandy hair. Thin lips and little black eyes, destroyed what could have been an otherwise pleasant face.

‘Good Morning Mrs. Rickman.’ He spoke with an upper class accent, obviously Eton. In the class system of the day, very few working class persons ever became officers. Elitism was very much alive and more than well, it was flourishing. He had visited the school a few times, why he was interested in the School, still remained a mystery to Beth.

‘Good Morning Colonel you are getting your social calls in early nowadays.’ Having a degree and being a teacher and a principal put Beth, beyond being just middle class, although not at his level, she nevertheless did not have to be subservient.

‘I fear this is not a social call Madam, but a Military matter.’

‘Oh good, you have come to pay your account?’

Beth watched closely to see if her sarcasm would affect him. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face then and his eyes turned cold. ‘Madam I must inform you that you and your family are suspected of aiding and abetting the Rebel Boer forces and as such you are guilty of High Treason and as…’

She interrupted him, ‘your proof Colonel, where is your proof.’

‘Madam I need no proof, I act under orders of Lord Kitchener. As I was saying, I have ordered your possession seized and your farm to be destroyed and you and your family to be taken to a place of internment for the duration.’

‘I see, you would arrest an English woman with an English passport. I know for a fact the British Government has stopped all farm burning.’

‘Madam your nationality means nothing, in my eyes you are a criminal, and for your edification the Government is not in charge here, Lord Kitchener is.’

‘Colonel only over my dead body will you do these things.’

Both Ouma Marie and Rose now walked from the shadows of the front door onto the stoep in a show of frightened solidarity. Rose had Rudy by the collar; he growled his defiance, lips curled back, his teeth showing white in the moonlight. Rudy seemed determined to make it known that he did not like the Colonel.

‘Madam, out of politeness I would remind you that Marshall Law is in place and in terms of that Law I could have you arrested right now, merely for hindering me in my duty.’

‘Oh you swine, you absolute swine,’ Rose, remembering what Ricky had told her.

He glared at Rose. ‘Young lady you had better watch your tongue.’

He walked slowly up the steps and stood facing them, tapping his leg with his swagger stick. ‘Look I am frightfully sorry about this, I am only obeying orders, but we may perhaps come to some agreement.’

Beth frowned. ‘And what type of agreement would that be Colonel.’

‘I may be enticed to er, look the other way as it were.’

Beth, her face now bright red with anger, spoke just above a whisper. ‘And do tell me Colonel what type of enticement would it take for you to look the other way.’

‘Well, I think five hundred pounds should do it.’

Beth shook her head slowly, and then she went blood red. ‘You corrupt snivelling little cur you are not worthy of the uniform you wear, or the rank you bear; you Sir, are beyond contempt, you would profit from the misery of others and use your position to extort money from me?’

Just then, there was a murmur from the men formed up on the lawn, in the early morning light four black shadows moved silently onto the lawn, it was the elder Njoloza, Moses, Xolani’s Father, and his three eldest sons, in full warrior dress and holding their shields and the throwing assegais of the Xhosa warrior. The very regalness of the warriors and the way they stood with no fear and the way in which they had moved so quietly into place was enough to evoke fear in the heart of even the bravest man. Most Westerners think black African men are thin and scrawny; nothing could be further from the truth. The Xhosa, as a tribe, are big men, mostly well over six feet, and built to match.

Colonel Revington-Smyth swung around. ‘Oh Heavens this is all I bloody well need.’

Beth stood transfixed by the scene below her, as a schoolchild she had heard of the Xhosa wars but she had never experienced a Xhosa warrior in full war dress. Ayanda, the eldest son, spoke in good English and he addressed himself to the Colonel. ‘I speak on behalf of my Father. What say you little white man, what do you seek on our lands?’

Colonel Revington-Smythe looked a bit dumbfounded, mainly because no one would ever have dared to address him in that manner. He was shocked; a black that spoke English with a London accent? He also had no idea all how many Xhosa hid in the darkness. It was temporally, at least, a perfect Mexican stand-off. Fear however got the upper hand and the Colonel hastened over to his Sergeant Major who immediately screamed an order to his men to order arms. Most of the men looked confused. They were ‘at ease’, it was an incorrect command. Adding to the confusion it was dark and the lawn was wet with dew and slippery. The bugle boy, now also confused began blowing the stand to your horses. In addition, there was not enough room to gather in the garden, some horses dunked in the muddy spring started floundering, and some men fell into the water. Utter confusion reigned and in spite of the seriousness of the situation, they were in, Beth and Rose began to giggle like schoolgirls. After about five minutes, a semblance of order prevailed and the Colonel addressed himself to Ayanda.

‘I come under orders to er…take this place in the name of the Great Queen overseas, your er,’ he dried up then, seeing from Ayanda’s half smile that he was making a complete idiot of himself. The Colonel then half turned as if to speak to his Sergeant Major.

Ayanda’s voice cut like a knife through the early morning air. ‘If you give your men the order to shoot, you will die first and don’t give me that crap about the Great White Queen over the ocean; I have my own King who has many Queens. Go away, little white man, go back to the sea where you came from.’

Beth half smiled, she knew Ayanda had learnt the English and the swear words from Ricky. The Colonel was speechless; belittled in front of his own men and sworn at by a socially inferior black was far more that his upbringing could ever, would ever, permit. He stood for a bit, starring at Ayanda, his face drained suddenly, a white mask of anger, and then he fell flat on the ground and screamed in a high falsetto voice, ‘Company LOAD AND FIRE. LOAD AND FIRE.’

The first assegai took the Sergeant Major, who was behind the Colonel, in the throat, he fell to the ground screaming and gurgling, choking to death, drowning in his own blood, another lodged in the collarbone of a trooper. Then the Xhosas attacked, the other two using their spears as stabbing swords and pushing the soldiers down with their shields. There was a tangle of bodies, some falling, and some dying, some trying to bring their rifles to bear. Eventually some of the troopers began shooting, some trying to fix bayonets, some shooting from the hip, at almost point blank range. It was all over in less than two minutes. All the Xhosa lay, scattered on the ground, riddled with bullets. Six soldiers lay dead, including the Sergeant Major, five other were wounded, three seriously. As the smoke from the cordite cleared, the scene resembled a strange spectacle, dead and dying lying in the foreground, some of the troop had fallen flat, some were on one knee in the classic army shooting position, all had their rifles raised. They looked like some giant outdoor waxwork display, waiting for the main attack.

It never came. In the extreme front, the Colonel lay on the ground, arms over his head, the back of his uniform covered in blood. A good three minutes passed. Slowly the Colonel raised his head, surveying the carnage before him. His entire uniform in the front was dirty, covered in mud, blood mingled darkly down his body. He stood slowly, shouting. ‘Officers, Sergeants to me. Corporals, attend to the wounded.’

The men broke rank and trotted over and he began issuing orders. When he finished he looked up at the three women huddled on the stoep, he walked slowly up the steps to them. They all stood speechless; shocked almost rigid by what had just happened. The first golden rays of the morning appeared in the sky, beginning to touch the rooftops of the farmhouse and the outhouses.

‘You have ten minutes to collect your possessions, if you disobey you will be forcibly removed by my men, and I will not be held responsible for your safe passage.’

A Sergeant trotted up and saluted. ‘We’re ready Sir.’

‘Good Sergeant, give them,’ as he waved his swagger stick at the woman, ‘give them ten minutes then raze this building.’

‘Oh my Heavens no please, please,’ Beth clutching her skirt, knuckles white, anguish in her eyes.

The Sergeant spoke. ‘Are you hurt Sir?’

‘No Sergeant it is someone else’s blood, you may start on the outhouses and the barn and the stables, now if you will. Please do remove the horses’ first Sergeant, we need them. Then move to the black camp. Teach them a lesson.’

Beth crying now, begged, her shoulders slumped. ‘Please, for pities sake.’

The Colonel swung back. ‘The boy, Madam, the blond boy, the good-looking one, where is he.'

Beth stuttered, confused. ‘He went with his Father to Cape Town.’

‘You lie, you bitch there is no bloody way he was with his Father, and I have just lost some bloody good men because of you,’ he spat at her from his thin bloodless lips.

Beth shocked, taken aback by his rudeness and bad language, brain numb with fear, shook her head from side to side, denying what she was hearing and witnessing, she looked at Rose, trying to understand. How did he know that Ricky was not with Jan? Instinctively Rose, thinking of her brother, looked at the Koppie, and the Colonel noticed her eye movement.

‘I bloody know, he has gone to the van Heerden place to hide,’ he paused for a second, and then swung around, pointing his swagger stick at one of his men. ‘Corporal Johnson, take five of your best men and a tracker, and ride as fast as you can along that path to that hill, arrest and bring to me personally anyone you find, we are especially interested in young Boer spies, and Corporal, do try and hurry up, there’s a good fellow. I rather suspect I shall have more work to do before the day is done.’ He spoke softly. 'Oh Corporal, do try not to damage the goods.’

Beth broke down as realization of her plight began to filter through the fear, and then she bowed her head and began quietly to sob.

The Colonel extended his swagger stick and putting it under Beth’s chin, slowly lifted her head and starred into her face. He smiled. ‘You will pay dearly for your lies and your lack of cooperation today, Mrs. Rickman.’

An hour later Beth, Ouma Marie, and Rose roughly pushed into a Cape Cart, bounced down the dusty dirt track though the dark smoke. They huddled together, holding one another; a few pitiful possessions scatted at their feet around them. Forced to ride away from four generations and a hundred years of hard work and everything they owned and cherished, burning in the early morning sunlight. Beth glanced back, hands over her ears in an attempt to drown the crashes of gunfire as the soldiers shot the cattle and the sheep. Between the bangs, you could plainly hear the little lambs, now splattered with blood, bleating for their mothers. The cows, waiting patiently for their now overdue early morning milking, bellowed in agony as bullets fired at almost point blank range, slammed into their bodies; then they collapsed in death spasms, milk squirting from their distended udders, mixing with the blood. There were huge bangs, suddenly, deafening, bright flashes, and then plumes of grey smoke. Grotesquely pieces of dismembered sheep flew into the air, legs, and heads. The soldiers were casually throwing dynamite into the bloody seething mess of screaming cattle and sheep. The stable dramatically disintegrated, fire pouring upward, wood and glass flying through the air. Other soldiers were chucking their furniture and possessions out onto the path. Further up the road, out of the Kraal and the huts of the Njoloza family, the people ran, terror stuck, into the veldt, with a few laughing soldiers taking pot shots at them to hasten them on. Soon all the huts were burning.

All the farm buildings blazed now, thick plumes of black ugly smoke came from the main house, spiralling upwards, twisting and turning, being caught by the early morning breeze and then wafting downwards gently over the scene, almost trying to hid this obscenity. The proud Xhosa warriors lay bloodied and dead, their bullet-riddled bloody bodies already covered in hungry flies. In a neat row, to one side, the Army dead lay, dark red blood soaking into the dry African soil. Ricky’s Golden Labrador, Rudy, lay on the front steps, near the front door that he had so vainly tried to protect. Brave and defiant to the last breath shot and bayoneted to death, giving up his life for his love and his duty. His long blond fluffy coat covered in blood, his once smiling, happy brown eyes open, lifeless, staring at the hills he had loved, a grimace of death on his bloodstained lips. The flames licked at the body, beginning to burn it like some ancient sacrifice, a sacrifice to man’s vengeance. It was an evil sight, a scenario straight out of the Divine Comedy, a modern day ‘Dante’s Inferno’. It was as though Virgil had written the scene, truly a glimpse of Hell.

Sergeant Coombes of the 7th Dragoon Guards, in a letter to his wife dated 2nd July 1901.

‘‘We are out nearly every other day now, burning farms, foraging, bringing in suspected farmers & spies & making things generally difficult for brother Boer. I cannot say it is nice work we are on, but of course it has to be done, I don’t mind when there are no children. However, I am only obeying orders...we cleared out the farm of all stock, about 450 head of cattle, 1500 sheep, & no end of poultry. Plenty of fresh veg too. The cattle & sheep…but we kept the poultry, the consequence is, that the troops are on, or have been on turkey, chicken, ducks, geese &c. I’m dining late tonight & turkey is the ‘piece-de-resistance.’ Holding Xmas a bit early isn’t it?’’

(Lord Carver: National Army Museum. The Boer War)

Within 10 miles we (the English) burned not less than six farm homesteads. Between 30 and 40 homesteads were burned and totally destroyed between Bloemfontein and Boshoff. Many others were also burned down. With their houses destroyed, the women and children were left in the bitter South African winter in the open.

(The Cape Argus, 21 June)

Chapter 2

The Friend

The Veldt, outside Cradock.

Thursday, 06.15 am, 27th June, 1901. (14 days previously)

Chris and Ricky heard the gunfire in the distance at the same time, but Ricky reacted faster, he dragged Wind to a shuddering, bucking halt. Chris drew his horse up a bit further away. Ricky shouted. ‘Chris it is coming from the farm! Oh hell something’s happening Chris. Chris I’ve got to go back, something’s gone wrong.’

‘Wait Ricky, wait.’

Chris rode over next to Ricky and they stood together in the early morning light, staring into the distance, listening, straining their ears. ‘Ricky, you can’t go back, what are you going to do, rush fifty armed men with your fists.’

‘But I have to, you don’t understand, Mom and Rose, what’s going to happen to them, the farm…’

He picked up his reins, but for once Chris was too fast for him, he ripped the reins out of Ricky’s hand. Wind took fright and reared, throwing Ricky off, Ricky landed on his back, winded, and Chris fought to control his own horse and Wind. He dismounted quickly and shouted at the horses. Chris turned and saw a blond streak racing towards him. ‘Ricky, for Heaven’s sake RICKY!’ He was trying to duck the blows, but they were coming to fast. ‘Jissis Ricky! Bedaar, bedaar in Hemels naam!’ (Calm down in Heaven’s name.)

Ricky stopped his attack. Chris shouted. ‘Think mun, think, no matter what happens there is nothing you or I can do right now, nothing, we can’t go and fight the whole bladdy army, think mun think, you will get yourself killed for nothing mun, nothing.’ Chris grabbed Ricky’s shoulder. ‘Ricky look at me, I said look at me, damn you, you can’t go back, if you do you are vrek, dead, they will shoot you, mun.’

Ricky swung his head and looked Chris in the eye; Chris shocked, instantly stepped backwards suspecting another attack. Ricky sighed then looked away, and hung his head, looking at the ground for a long time, and then he took his reins very gently from Chris’s hands, swung up onto Wind, and clicked him forward. Chris mounted his horse and followed. They rode towards the river; it took them just over half an hour to reach it. In the distance, they could still hear shooting, dull thumps echoed and re-echoed up the Kloof, bouncing off the cliffs. Ricky rode, back stiff; eyes forward, not looking behind at all. They did not speak. They got to the reeds by the river, rode down on to the soft white sand, and squished through the red brown mud, leaving a false trail. The river was low, the winter rains had not yet begun, it was just a stream. Long banks of pure white river sand stretched for as far as the eye could see to the West, to the East the river curled through kloofs of brown stone, rugged, carved by time and water.

‘Ricky we go upstream, then double back.’

Ricky said nothing, merely reined Wind into the water. They splashed upstream, letting the horses drink, then turned around and went back. When they got to a rocky bank on the opposite side, Chris dismounted and led his horse up over the rocks, walking slowly and carefully. Both had tracked spoor many times and the last thing they wanted was the Army Scouts tracking them. They walked slowly over the rocks back downstream trying to boulder hop as best as possible. At least they would break their spoor to all but the most expert tracker. Chris weaved through the wagabietjie thorn trees, and then turned up a stone screed that turned into a long ravine, which wound its way up the mountain. The ravine was dry; the rains were late this year. Chris let Ricky lead the way.

In the distance, plumes of black smoke were rising, and spreading across the plain, blown gently by the early morning breeze. Ricky turned to look, wobbled, and then suddenly, went down on his knees. Chris secured his horse’s reins to a bush, rushed over to Ricky, and sat on his hunches next to him. Ricky was staring into the distance, tears streaming down his cheeks. They looked at one another, eyes red, Chris put his arm around Ricky’s shoulder and Ricky buried his face in Chris’s shirt, hugging him, Chris could feel him sobbing.

Eventually Ricky moved, wiping his eyes with his shirtsleeves. ‘I am sorry. I was trying so hard to be brave.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Also about just now, hitting you.’

‘It’s okay, really.’

‘It can’t be happening, they would never do that, my Mom she’s English, and the shooting.’

‘They were probably shooting the sheep, the cattle they will steal.’

‘Can you see if your place is, is…’

‘No, don’t see any smoke from that side.’

‘And, and the bangs.’

Chris looked down. ‘Er that’s dynamite, they er, dynamite the barns, the houses.’

‘Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, this can’t be happening. Chris, Chris.’

He sat shaking his head not accepting what he was seeing, had heard, and was feeling.

Chris waited for ten minutes. ‘Come we must move…’

Ricky nodded slowly and they stood and started out, up the ravine. The path turned out a gully onto a little grass slope. They moved across the grass slope to an imposing rock formation in front of them. Rugged brown crags stood massively, at least three hundred feet high and dissecting it in the middle was a crack as if the rock had split open, looking almost like a over baked broken bread roll; they made for the narrow crack at the base; this was ‘Die Kloof.’

Inside it was an amphitheatre, a natural garden, almost a little Garden of Eden, completely unspoiled by man. Fruit trees grew wild, presumably from pips left down the years. Peach trees and apple trees. Up at the top a wild fig tree grew with big plum trees on either side, down at the bottom they had once cleared a patch of ground, and planted vegetables, these now grew almost wild at different spots. Always when they came here they talked in whispers, it was so beautiful it had that effect on you. The path wound its way up to the cave on the right hand side. They had walled in the open front of the cave with carefully packed stones down the years, only leaving one part in the front open. Amongst the trees at the top, they had created a paddock for the horses with a little wooden gate and old branches washed down by the river. The grass was thick in the paddock, having been fertilized many times during the years. They unpacked their horses and unsaddled them, taking it in turns to carry their rucksacks, saddles, and bedrolls back down to the cave. Chris dumped his bedroll on the floor of the cave, started unpacking. ‘I will water them now, let me just see what’s all here.’

Ricky dumped his bedroll and knapsack. ‘I’m just going up to the pool.’

The pool, about thirty feet across, was at the top, in the North, it was a natural spring which cascaded down a little water fall and tumbled, sparking and glinting into the pool. The water was crystal clear; you could see every stone on the bottom. Ricky sat down at the water’s edge, on a big flat rock. He looked next to the pool; on the right were the five little oak trees he had planted from acorns he had brought back from Cape Town.

Chris picked a branch, swept the cave out, collected the old metal trough from the back of the cave, and watered the horses. He had, since his Father died, become the man of the house and all the chores that a farmer normally has, had fallen to Chris. He laid out their blanket rolls and collected dry wood at the back, stored previously; he did not want to light a fire now, but he would later when it was dark, smoke would attract attention. At the back of the cave, he retrieved the box with the paraffin lamp and a spare bottle of paraffin. He filled the lamp and trimmed the wick. Later Chris walked over to the pool. Ricky was still sitting on the rock, except now he was throwing little stones in the water.

Chris sat next him; head turned looking at him, ‘Are you hungry.’

‘No thanks Chris, I don’t think I feel like eating.’

Ricky picked up another stone and threw it in the water; it bounced once, and then sank. Chris had brought a piece of biltong (South African jerked meat) with, and he cut himself a small piece. He chewed slowly, cut another piece, and offered it to Ricky. Ricky shook his head. Chris spoke softly.

‘I’ll start a fire later, when it gets dark, smoke you know.’ Chris waited for a reply got none, went on. ‘We go for a swim later.’ Chris hoping that it would cheer Ricky up.

Ricky just nodded. Chris looked at his friend, thinking. Whenever they went camping, last thing in the evening and first thing in the morning, Ricky was at the pool with a bar of Pears soap and a towel and a toothbrush. He would strip and wash his hair and everything, Chris never bothered that much. Ricky was better on a horse than he was, faster. Chris had seen Ricky shoot rabbits and dassies (a small rodent, like a gopher, about the size of a rabbit) with a handgun, from fifty paces; he did not know anyone that could do that. During the previous year’s camp, they had hunted Springbok; Chris had shot a buck from 100 yards out of a hide, rifle resting on a log. Everyone had congratulated him. A few days later while walking through the veldt, early one morning, they had seen a group of Springbok at least 300 yards away near a spring, in long grass. Ricky had shot, with the Mauser, over open sights, from his shoulder. They could just see the large buck bouncing through the long grass. They had all laughed, Oom Jan had been a bit cross; he had said that he did not feel like tracking a wounded buck all day. When they approached, in the grass, they found the buck, dead, cleanly shot through the head. It had been a fireside discussion for many nights. Chris knew it was not a fluke. Ricky never boasted about anything he could do. When complimented, Ricky would bow his head, look at the floor, shuffle his feet, and make out as if it was nothing. Ricky turned, looked at Chris. ‘What you thinking about.’

‘Ag stuff, you know, you, me, my Dad, your Dad, the camps we’ve done. And you, what you thinking.’

‘Oh my Mom, if they’re all right, the farm, my Dad.’

‘The Army has probably taken them to a camp, you know that don’t you.’

‘Yes, the bloody bastards would do that, what I want to know is why, why us, I mean we were good to them, my Dad supplied them produce, it’s not as if he was part of a Kommando, and my mother is English, born in England, why, why…’

‘I was the same when my Dad got killed, you know.’

‘How the same?’

‘Ag, asking why, why us, why me, there is no answer. There is no why…’

‘Bull, there has to be an answer, there has to be a why, I have to go and see what has happened, I have to know what is left. Maybe I can talk to the Army, that Colonel chap who is in charge. I could go to the Magistrate, speak to him. Rudy might still be there,