‘Peace,’ grunted Mark in the same language. ‘I am a poor man also.’ He dragged himself into shelter beside the Zulu, and the movement twisted his ankle and he gasped at the fresh pain.
‘Hau!’ the black man’s eyes caught the starlight as he peered at Mark. ‘You are hurt.’
‘My leg,’ Mark grunted, trying to ease it into a more comfortable position – and the Zulu leaned forward and Mark felt his gentle hands on the ankle.
‘You are without shoes?’ The man was surprised at Mark’s tom and bloodied feet.
‘I was chased by bad men.’
‘Ha,’ the Zulu nodded, and Mark saw in the starlight that he was a young man. ‘The leg is bad. I do not think the bone is broken, but it is bad.’
He untied the small pack beside him and he took out some article of clothing. Deliberately he began to tear the material into strips.
‘No,’ Mark protested sharply. ‘Do not destroy your clothes for me.’ He knew how each article of western clothing, however ragged and threadbare, was treasured.
‘It is an old shirt,’ said the Zulu simply and began to bind up the swollen ankle skilfully. When he had finished, it felt easier.
‘Ngi ya bone — I praise you,’ Mark told him, and then he shivered violently as the delayed but icy fist of shock clamped down on him; he felt nausea rise in his throat and he shivered again.
The Zulu took the blanket from around his own shoulders and placed it carefully over Mark.
‘No. I cannot take your blanket.’ The blanket smelled of smoke from a dung fire, and of the Zulu himself – the earthy African tang. ‘I cannot take it.’
‘You need it,’ said the Zulu firmly. ‘You are sick.’
‘Very well,’ Mark muttered, as another shivering fit caught him. ‘But it is a large blanket, big enough for two—’
‘It is not fitting.’
‘Come,’ said Mark roughly, and the Zulu hesitated a moment longer before drawing closer and taking up a fold of the woollen blanket.
Shoulder to shoulder, they sat on into the night, and Mark found himself dropping into a haze of exhaustion and pain, for the swollen ankle still beat like a drum. The Zulu beside him was silent, and Mark thought he slept, but as the train slowed after two hours’ hard run across the plateau, he whispered quietly,
‘This is Sakabula halt. It stops here for to let the other train pass.’
Mark remembered the desolate siding with its double loop of line. No buildings and only a signboard to identify it. He would have lapsed once more into half sleep, but something warned him, a strange sense of danger which he had developed so acutely in France.
He shrugged aside the blanket, and dragged himself up on his knees to peer ahead. The track came into the siding on a gentle curve, and the silver rails glittered in the lamp of the locomotive.
Far ahead was the sign-post of the halt, stark white in the beam from the locomotive, but there was something else. Parked on the track beside the halt was a dark vehicle, a heavy lorry, and its headlights still burned. In the puddle of yellow light Mark made out the dark shapes of waiting men. Alarm jarred his bowels and clutched at his chest with a cold cramping fist.
A motor lorry from Ladyburg could not have reached here ahead of them, but a telegraph message could have alerted—
‘I must go,’ Mark blurted, and with stiff fingers he hooked a sovereign out of his money belt and pressed it quickly into the Zulu’s hand.
‘There is no call for—’ the man began, but Mark cut him off brusquely.
‘Stay in peace.’ He dragged himself to the side of the car furthest from the waiting men, and lowered himself down the steel ladder until he hung just above the tracks.
He waited for the locomotive to slow down, groaning and creaking and sighing steam, and then he braced himself and dropped – trying to take most of his weight on his good leg.
He collapsed forwards as he struck the ground; ducking his head, he rolled on to his shoulders and, drawing up his knees, went down the embankment like a rubber ball.
In the dry pale grass beside the line, he did not rise but dragged himself on elbows and belly to a low dark thorn bush, fifty yards from the rails. Slowly he worked himself under its low spiny branches and lay face down, gritting his teeth against the dull beat of his ankle.
The train had halted with its van level with Mark’s hiding place; the guard climbed down, flashing his lantern, while from the head of the train a group of men, each one carrying a lantern, hurried back towards him, searching the open trucks as they came.
Mark could see they were all armed, and their voices carried loudly as they called explanations to the driver and fireman who leaned from the cab of the locomotive.
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘You’ve got a fugitive from justice aboard.’
‘Who are you?’
‘We’re special constables.’
‘Who’s the fellow?’
‘He robbed a bank—’
‘He killed four men in Ladyburg—’
‘He jumped your train on the escarpment—’
‘Don’t take any chances, you fellows, the bastard is a killer—’
They came swiftly down the train, talking loudly and calling to each other to bolster their courage, and at the last moment Mark remembered the Zulu. He should have warned the man, but he had been too concerned with his own danger. He wanted to shout now, warn him to run, but he could not bring himself to do it. The Zulu would be all right, they would not shoot when they saw he was a black, they might slap him around a little and throw him off—
The Zulu darted out from between two of the boxcars from where he had climbed down on to the coupling. He was a dark flitting shape, and somebody yelled a warning. Immediately there was a shot.
Mark saw the dust from the bullet fly in the lamplight, and the Zulu swerved and ran directly out into the open grassland. Half a dozen shots ripped the night, the muzzle flashes were angry red blooms in the night, but the Zulu ran on.
One of the men on the track dropped to his knee, and Mark saw his face white and eager in the light of the torches. He aimed deliberately, and his rifle kicked up sharply.
The Zulu collapsed in the grass without a cry, and they raced forward in an excited pack to gather around his body.
‘Oh, Jesus, it’s only a black.’ There was confused angry discussion and argument for five minutes, and then four of them took an arm and leg each and carried the Zulu between them to the parked lorry.
The black man’s head lolled back, almost sweeping the earth, his mouth gaped open and the blood that dripped from it was black as tar in the lamplight and his head swung loosely to the uneven stride of the men who carried him. They lifted him into the back of the lorry.
The north-bound train came thundering through the siding, its whistle shrilling on a high piercing shriek, and then it was gone on its way to Ladyburg.
The men climbed into the lorry and the engine fired, and it moved away with its headlights sweeping sky and earth as it pitched over the bumpy track.
The stationary train whistled mournfully and it began to roll forward, rumbling slowly over the tracks. Mark crawled out from his hiding-place beneath the bush, and hopped and stumbled after it, catching it just before its speed built up.
He crawled over the sugar bags into the lee of the steel side, and found the Zulu had left his blanket. As he wrapped it around his icy body, he felt the guilt flood over him, guilt for the man’s death, the man who had been a friend — then the guilt turned to anger.
Bitter corrosive anger that sustained him through the night as the train rushed southwards.
Fordsburg is a squalid suburb of Johannesburg, three hundred miles from the golden grassy hills of Zululand and the beautiful forested valley of Ladyburg. It is an area of mean cottages, tiny workers’ houses of galvanized iron on timber frames, each with a bleak little garden. In some of the gardens there were brave and defiant shows of bright blooms, barbeton daisies, cannas and
flaming red poinsettia, but in most of them the bare untended earth, patched with blackjack and khaki-bush, told of the tenants’ indifference.
Over the narrow streets and crowded cottages, the mine dumps held majestic sway, towering table-topped mountains of poisonous yellow earth from which the gold had been extracted. The cyanide process of extraction ensured that the earth of the dumps was barren and sterile. No plants grew upon them, and on windy days the yellow dust and grit whipped over the grovelling cottages beneath them.
The dumps dominated the landscape, monument to the antlike endeavours of man, symbols of his eternal greed for gold. The mine headgears were spidery steel structures against the pale cloudless blue of the highveld winter sky. The huge steel wheels on their heights spun endlessly, back and forth, lowering the cages filled with men deep into the earth, and rising again with the ore bins loaded with the gold-rich rock.
Mark made his way slowly down one of the narrow, dusty streets. He still limped slightly, and a cheap cardboard suitcase carried the few possessions he had. bought to replace those he had lost on the escarpment.
The clothes he wore were an improvement on the shapeless demobilization suit that the army had given him. His flannels were neatly creased and the blue blazer fitted his good shoulders and narrow flanks, the open-necked white shirt was snowy clean and set off the smooth brown skin of his neck and face.
He reached the cottage numbered fifty-five on the gate, and it was a mirror image of those on each side and opposite. He opened the gate and went up the short flagged path, aware that somebody was watching him from behind the lace curtain in the front room.
However, when he knocked on the front door it was only opened after a delay of many minutes, and Mark blinked at the woman who stood there.
Her dark short hair was freshly combed, and the clothes she wore had clearly been hastily put on in place of dowdier everyday dress. She was still fastening the belt at her slim waist. It was a dress of pale blue with a design of yellow daisies, and it made her appear young and gay, although Mark saw at once that she was at least ten years older than he was.
‘Yes?’ she asked, tempering the abrupt demand with a smile.
‘Does Fergus MacDonald live here?’ He saw now that she was good-looking, not pretty, but fine-looking with good bones in her cheeks and dark intelligent eyes.
‘Yes, this is Mr MacDonald’s house.’ There was a foreign inflection in her voice that was intriguing. ‘I am Mrs MacDonald.’
‘Oh,’ he said, taken by surprise. He had known Fergus was married. He had spoken about it often, but Mark had never really thought about his wife before — not as a real flesh and blood woman, and certainly not one like this. ‘I am an old friend of Fergus’ from the army.’
‘Oh, I see—’ she hesitated.
‘My name’s Mark, Mark Anders.’ Instantly her attitude changed, the half smile bloomed and lit her whole face. She gave a small gasp of pleasure.
‘Mark, of course, Mark.’ She took his arm impetuously and drew him over the threshold. ‘He has spoken of you so often – I feel I know you so well. Like a member of the family, like a brother.’ She still had his arm, standing close to him, laughing up at him. ‘Come in, Mark, come in. I am Helena.’
Fergus MacDonald sat at the head of the deal table in the dingy kitchen. The table was covered with sheets of newsprint instead of a cloth and Fergus hunched over his plate, and scowled angrily as he listened to Mark’s account of his flight from Ladyburg.
‘The bastards, they are the enemy, Mark. The new enemy.’
His mouth was filled with potato and heavily spiced boerewors, thick farmer’s sausage, and he spoke through it.
‘We are in another war, lad – and this time they are worse than the bloody Hun.’
‘More beer, Mark.’ Helena leaned across to fill his tumbler from the black quart bottle.
‘Thank you.’ Mark watched the foaming head rise in his glass, and he pondered Fergus’ statement.
‘I don’t understand, Fergus. I don’t know who these men are, I don’t know why they tried to kill me.’
‘They are the bosses, lad. That’s who we are fighting now. The rich, the mine-owners, the bankers, all those who oppress the working man.’
Mark took a long swallow of his beer, and Helena smiled at him from across the table.
‘Fergus is right, Mark. We have to destroy them.’ And she began to talk. It was strange confusing talk from a woman, and there was a fanatical light in her dark eyes. The words had a compelling power in her clear articulate voice with its lilting accent, and Mark watched the way she used her hands to emphasize each point. They were neat strong hands with gracefully tapered fingers and short nails. The nails were clean and trimmed but the first two fingers of her right hand were stained pale yellow. Mark wondered at that, until suddenly Helena reached across and took a cigarette from the packet at Fergus’ elbow.
Still talking, she lit the cigarette from a match in her cupped hands, and draw deeply before exhaling forcibly through pursed lips. Mark had never seen a woman smoke before, and he stared at her. She shook her head vehemently.
‘The history of the people’s revolt is written in blood. Look at France, see how the revolution sweeps forward in Russia.’
The short dark shining curls danced around her smooth pale cheeks, and she pursed her lips again to drag at the cigarette, and in some strange fashion Mark found the mannish act shocking – and exciting.
He felt his groin clenching, the tight swollen hardening of his flesh, beyond his reason – far beyond his control. His breathing caught with shock and embarrassment, and he leaned back and slipped one hand into his trouser pocket, certain that both of them must be aware of his shameful reaction, but instead Helena reached across the table and seized his other wrist in a surprisingly powerful grip.
‘We know our enemy, we know what must be done and how we must do it, Mark.’
Her fingers seemed to burn like heated iron into his flesh, he felt dizzy with the force of it. His voice was hoarse as he forced himself to reply.
‘They are strong, Helena, powerful—’
‘No, no, Mark, the workers are strong, the enemy are weak, and smug. They suspect nothing, they wallow like hogs in the false security of their golden sovereigns, but in reality they are few and unprepared. They do not know their own weakness — and as yet the workers do not realize their great strength. We will teach them.’
‘You’re right, lass.’ Fergus wiped the gravy from the plate with a crust of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. ‘Listen to her, Mark, we are building a new world, a brave and beautiful new world.’
He belched loudly and pushed his plate away, leaving both elbows on the table. ‘But first we have to tear down and destroy this rotten, unjust and corrupt society. There will be hard fighting, and we will need good hard fighting men.’ He laughed harshly and slapped Mark’s shoulder. ‘They’ll call for MacDonald and Anders again, lad, you hear me.’
‘There is nothing for us to lose, Mark.’ Helena’s cheeks were flushed. ‘Nothing but our chains — and there is a whole world to win. Karl Marx said that, and it’s one of the great truths of history.’
‘Helena, are you,’ he hesitated to use the word, ‘are you and Fergus-well I mean, you aren’t Bolsheviks are you?’
‘That’s what the bosses, and their minions, the police, call us.’ She laughed contemptuously. ‘They try to make us criminals, already they fear us. With reason, Mark, we will give them reason.’
‘No, lad, don’t call us Bolsheviks. We are members of the communist party, dedicated to universal communism. I’m the local party secretary and shop steward of the mineworkers’ union for the boilermakers’ shop.’
‘Have you read Karl Marx?’ Helena demanded.
‘No.’ Mark shook his head, dazed and shocked, but still sexually excited by her to the edge of pain. Fergus a Bolshevik? A bomb-throwing monster? But he knew he was not. He was an old and trusted comrade.
‘I
will lend you my copy.’
‘Come on, lass,’ Fergus chuckled, and shook his head. ‘We are going too fast for the lad. He’s got a right barmy look right now.’ He leaned over and placed an affectionate arm around Mark’s shoulders, drawing him close. ‘Have you a place to stay, lad? A job? A place to go?’
‘No.’ Mark flushed. ‘I haven’t, Fergus.’
‘Oh, yes you have,’ Helena cut in quickly. ‘I have fixed the bed in the other room – you’ll stay there, Mark.’
‘Oh, but I couldn’t—’
‘It’s done,’ she said simply.
‘You’ll stay, lad.’ Fergus squeezed him hard. ‘And we’ll see about a job for you tomorrow — you’re book-learned. You can read and write and figure, it will be easy to fix you. I know they need a clerk up at the pay office, and the paymaster is a comrade, a member of the party.’
‘I’ll pay you for lodging.’
‘Of course you will,’ Fergus chuckled again, and filled his glass to the brim with beer. ‘It’s good to see you again, son,’ and he raised his own glass. ‘Send down the line for MacDonald and Anders – and warn the bastards we are coming!’ He took a long swallow, the pointed Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, then wiped the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand.
The regimental chaplain had called it the ‘sin of Onan’, while the rankers had many more ribald terms for it, ‘toss the caber’ or ‘visit Mrs Hand and her five daughters’. The chaplain had warned of the dire consequences that it would bring – failing sight, and falling hair, a palsied shaking hand and at last idiocy and the insane asylum. Mark lay in the narrow iron bed and stared with unseeing eyes at the faded pink rose-pattern wallpaper of the tiny room. It had the musty smell of being long closed, and there was a wash-basin in an iron frame with an enamel basin against the far wall. A single unshaded bulb hung on a length of flex from the ceiling, and the white plaster around it was fly-speckled; even at the moment three drowsy flies sat on the flex in a stupor. Mark swivelled his attention to them, trying to put aside the waves of temptation that flowed up through his body.