The Covenant (69 page)

Apart from the Madagascan, the Van Doorn slaves and Hottentots showed evidences of good treatment, and Saltwood said so, whereupon Van Doorn confessed: “We live at the edge of the world, Dominee. We spend years without seeing a predikant. We must have slaves to operate the farm. We must have Hottentots to run the cattle and sheep. We rely upon instructions from God and the direction we receive from this.” He indicated a huge old Bible, and when Saltwood took it in his hands, and pried open the brass clasps, and saw the heavy pages within, and the one on which Van Doorns had for a hundred and fifty years kept their family records, he was awed by the simple righteousness of this frontier Boer, and knew that if Van Doorn asked him to be a witness at his trial in Graaff-Reinet, he would out of simple decency have to at least testify as to his character.

He was little prepared for what Lodevicus asked him to do now: “Dominee, we live alone, terribly alone. Would you baptize our grandson?”

Saltwood stiffened. “At the mission you refused to pray with me.”

“I was a fool,” the old man said. “Wilhelmina, come in here!”

The smiling Wilhelmina came into the room, bowed to the missionary, and stood with arms akimbo. “Tell the dominee,” her husband said. “Tell him what I told you when I reached home.”

“From where?”

“From the mission,” he snapped. “When I got home from that visit to the mission.” When she stood bewildered, he said more gently, “When I told you I had refused to pray with him.”

“You said you were a damned fool, and you were.” Smiling at the visitor, she started to retire, but her husband said, “I’ve asked him to baptize the boy, and he’s agreed.”

“I do indeed,” Hilary said, and the little boy, struggling with a puppy, was brought into the room, and water was provided by one of the slaves, and the solemn rite was performed. But as it ended, Reverend Saltwood noticed that the little girl who had fetched the water lingered, twisting her fingers in her gray dress, and it was in this sanctified moment that he met the child Emma, daughter of the Madagascan.

She was ten that year, a bright child often perplexed by what she witnessed. Her face had that sooty-blackness which seemed almost blue, and was so attractive, as if God had said, “Emma, since you’re to be black, why not be really black?” Her face was composed of handsome interlocking planes, so that when she smiled, showing her white teeth, it broke into lovely patches of light and shadow. When she was six and living on the farm from which Lodevicus had purchased her parents, she had been instructed sketchily in Christianity by Simon Keer and had from him acquired a vision of a world somewhat different from the one the slaves knew. Now, as the Van Doorns took their baptized grandson out in the yard to resume play with his puppy, she lingered to ask Reverend Saltwood, “Can I come to your mission?”

“You are a slave, my child,” he said softly. “You belong to Baas.”

“Baas, he follow me, cut off my nose?”

“You know he wouldn’t do that. But you also know what happened to your father when he ran away. If you run away, you’ll be punished.” As he spoke he recalled the words of Jesus: “Suffer the little children to come unto me”—and he knew that he was being less than heroic in failing to support this child. But his reflections were broken by a shout from one of Van Doorn’s Hottentots: “Riders! Riders! From north!”

A bailiff from the Black Circuit sitting at Graaff-Reinet had come to inform Lodevicus that he must appear before that court. “For what?” the old man blustered, whereupon the nervous little Dutchman who had joined the English service puffed out his chest
and in faltering voice recited the charges: “Enforced slavery of Hottentots. Abuse of slaves. Murder of a slave.”

“By God, I will destroy that judge,” the old Boer cried, but the bailiff whispered in rapid Dutch, “Lodevicus Hammer, you have friends at Graaff-Reinet. Many Boers owe their farms to you. You’ll never hang.”

“But I’m to be dragged into a Kaffir court …”

“Please, Lodevicus, I’m just starting in my job. Don’t make trouble.”

It was humiliating, but the old fighter realized he must comply, so after giving orders to his son and bidding Wilhelmina farewell, he came to Saltwood and said humbly, “Dominee, you must ride with me.”

Despite his earlier resolution, Saltwood now faltered, and asked weakly, “Why?”

“To testify. You’ve seen me. You’ve seen my slaves.”

“But the charge of murder—”

“Ask the slaves.” And Lodevicus was so obviously shaken by his arrest that Hilary wanted to help in some way. Certainly he could testify that by Boer standards, the De Kraal slaves and Hottentots were reasonably treated, and he was willing to say so to the court, but he was not willing to be called on to aid any man charged with murder. Van Doorn, seeing his hesitation and guessing as to its cause, said again, “Ask them.”

So Hilary took the girl Emma aside. “Do you know who God is?”

“I do,” she said in a childish voice.

“And do you know what hell is?”

“Master Keer, he tell me.”

“And do you know that if you don’t tell the truth, you will go to hell?”

“Master Keer tell me.”

“The old baas, has he ever killed a slave?”

The little girl’s dark face froze into a scowl, her soot-black features betraying her agitation. Finally she said, moving nervously from foot to foot, “He beat my father. Sometimes he thrash my mother. But he never kill nobody.”

“Do the slaves ever talk at night, Emma?”

“All the time.”

“Do they ever speak of a killing? Long time ago? When the old baas angry?”

“No killing.”

Saltwood was impressed by the girl’s willingness to speak but also by her obvious fear, so he asked abruptly if she would fetch her parents, and when they appeared, as nervous as their daughter, he asked them in their dialect, “Has Baas ever killed a slave?”

They looked at each other, then at their daughter, after which the husband said, “He beat me too much. He beat my wife sometimes.” He showed Saltwood the scars that he had shown before. They were gruesome and deep.

“But has he ever killed a slave?”

“No.” When he said this, his wife tugged at his shirt sleeve and they whispered for a while.

“What’s she saying?” Hilary asked Emma.

“About the other time.”

“What other time?”

And the father told in broken, agitated words that on another farm, where they had lived prior to being purchased by Van Doorn, the master had killed a slave, and had been arrested at the insistence of Simon Keer, and had been fined two pounds. Also, his right to own other slaves was taken away, which was why these Madagascans had been sold to De Kraal. There had been murder, but never by Van Doorn.

“Does your father know who God is?” Hilary asked the little girl.

“No.”

“Then he does not know what hell is, either?”

“No,” the girl said. “But he knows what true is. There was no murder.”

Saltwood went to the door and called to Van Doorn: “I’ll ride with you.”

The Black Circuit at Graaff-Reinet was an explosive affair. Inspired by Simon Keer’s incendiary reports, a score of indictments had been issued based on the accusations of missionaries, Hottentots and Coloureds, all charging the Boers with gross abuses. Granted, there had been serious evils: Hottentots had been forced to work on after their legal contracts had expired; their women and children had been threatened with violence if they left; slaves had been excessively flogged; there had been murder.

But many of the charges were wild, without foundation, so that
what should have been a serious judicial inquiry became a shambles. The countryside rallied so strongly in support of the Boers, and perjured itself so willingly, that no demonstrable lawbreakers could be found guilty, while dozens of reasonably honest frontiersmen like Lodevicus van Doorn were publicly humiliated by being forced to stand in the dock and answer to preposterous accusations.

Three Hottentots were brave enough to testify against Van Doorn, but what they said was so chaotic that the court had to be suspicious, and when Reverend Saltwood stepped forward to defend him, the court had to be attentive. The verdict was “Not guilty,” but this absolved nothing, for the Boers who had been so abused by the English courts would never forget their humiliation. Thus the Black Circuit joined that growing list of grievances, some real, some fancied, which would be recited in every Boer family for the next century and a half.

The English were mortified that one of their own ministers had given testimony enabling a Dutchman to escape punishment: “He was guilty as sin, you know. Indictment said so.” A rumor was floated that Saltwood had defended the Boer in anticipation of favors to come: “Perjured himself, of course. They’re taking up a collection for him right now, among the Boers.” It was agreed that Hilary Saltwood must be ostracized insofar as the English community at the Cape was concerned: “From now on he’s the darling of the Boers.”

How wrong they were! The Van Doorn–Saltwood armistice lasted only two days, for when they rode back to De Kraal, Wilhelmina van Doorn met them at the gate, crying, “Lodevicus! Emma’s run off.”

“Get her back.”

“We don’t know where she’s gone.”

“Set the Hottentots tracking. They’ll find anything.”

Saltwood found it difficult to visualize that little child in her gray dress running anywhere, but if she was indeed gone, he was fairly sure why: “Probably went to the mission.”

As soon as he uttered these words he knew they were ill-advised, for Van Doorn’s look of petty irritation turned to one of hatred: “She cannot do that.”

“But if she wants to know about Jesus.”

“I teach my slaves and Hottentots all they need to know about Jesus.”

“But, Mijnheer van Doorn—”

“Don’t Mijnheer me!”

“Obviously, this child hungers for Jesus. It’s been four years since she heard about him and still she—”

“Where did she hear about Jesus?”

“At the other farm. From Simon Keer.”

What a sad mistake to have spoken that name! Van Doorn began shouting Dutch phrases so fast that Hilary could not follow, then jutting his white-whiskered face forward and growling, “Any slave of mine has dealings with Simon Keer, I’ll beat her till she’s—”

He stopped, aware of the dreadful thing he had been about to say, and aware also that his new friend, Saltwood, knew how the sentence would have been completed. It was then, at the moment of their triumphant return from the Black Circuit, that the veil dropped between these two men.

Saltwood was first to speak: “If Emma has run to Golan, she will have my protection.”

“If my slave is at your mission, you can be sure I’ll come and take her.”

“Van Doorn, don’t fight the law.”

“No law gives you my slave. I paid good money for her. She belongs here.”

“She belongs in the care of Jesus Christ.”

“Get out!” Throwing open the door, he ordered Saltwood to be gone, but when the latter headed for the hill, he summoned two Hottentots and directed them to speed west, keep out of sight, and fetch the slave girl Emma from the mission.

Saltwood, anticipating such a maneuver, traveled at forced speed, but when he reached Golan he found the place in an uproar, for the Hottentots had preceded him and were in the process of carrying off the little girl, who was weeping and struggling in their arms.

Without hesitating, Saltwood dashed to his quarters, grabbed his gun, and confronted the kidnappers: “Drop your hands. Back on your horses and ride home.”

“Baas say bring Emma.”

“I say take your hands off her.”

“No! She belong us.”

At this moment Emma broke loose and ran to Saltwood, throwing herself at him, and when he felt this child seeking his protection, he determined to rescue her at any cost; and as the Hottentots reached out to seize her, he fired his gun over their heads, frightening
them and terrifying himself. Fortunately, the two brown men scuttled to their horses and galloped away, for had they lunged at Saltwood again, he would have been quite incapable of firing at them, even had his gun contained a second chamber.

Hilary now placed the child with Saul’s family, where she began learning the alphabet, the catechism and the refulgent promises of the New Testament. She proved an able student, as gifted in singing as in sewing, and before long it was her glowing black face and gleaming teeth that showed in the front rank of the mission choir.

She was practicing under the trees one evening when Lodevicus van Doorn rode in like a white-haired avenging angel, two guns resting carelessly on his saddle. “I’ve come to fetch you, Emma,” he said quietly.

“She will not go,” Saul said, trembling at the sight of the menacing guns.

“If you try to stop me, Kaffir, I’ll blow your head off.” Lodevicus did not touch either of the guns, but he did move his horse closer to Emma.

With a dignity many of the blacks acquired at the mission, old Saul moved to protect the child, whereupon Lodevicus raised one of his guns.

“For God’s sake!” a voice cried from one side. “Are you mad?”

It was Saltwood, coming to lead the choir. Unarmed, he walked directly to the muzzle of the gun, looked up at Lodevicus, and ordered: “Ride back to De Kraal.”

“Not without my Madagascan.”

“Emma lives here now.”

“I have an order from the court at Graaff-Reinet which says—”

“Such orders apply to runaway slaves, not to little girls seeking Jesus.”

Van Doorn’s neck muscles stood out like the vines of a squash. “You goddamned meddler …”

“Old friend,” Saltwood said quietly, “get off that horse and let’s talk.”

“I’m going to take my slave.”

“Come here, Emma,” and the little girl in her blue mission dress ran to clasp her protector.

Van Doorn was infuriated. Emma was his property, worth a great deal of money, and he had a proper order directing her return. If he shot this Englishman now, the frontier Boers would support him and
to hell with the English, but as he raised his gun, Saul stepped quietly in front of the missionary and the child, extending his arms to protect them, and there was something in this gesture which caused the Boer to hesitate. If he fired now, he would have to kill three people, and one of them a little girl. He could not do such a thing.