Michael Dun - 8. Chapter 8

Flat roofed buildings spread from a point that became an entire continent. Michael smiled at Charlie as they surveyed the scene. An angry mountain roared at them as they rounded the bay. To the far right, Devils Peak stretched a long neck towards the sky. Table Mountain, like some ghostly apparition, filled the horizon. Clipper ships, tall masts and bloated sails, steamers and fishing boats, all packed with dark people wearing vests, cotton trousers and hats. The liner sailed into the harbour, passing huge wooden derricks working the ships, and docked amid trumpets blowing. The mass of people on the quay waved frantically and some passengers threw flowers to waiting relatives. Peter sidled up to Michael and told him to think about his offer. Perhaps they could come to some kind of an arrangement. Again, Peter walked away, angry, cursing Michael for once again refusing.

Michael, filled with wonderment at the sight of this small city sprawled beneath a magnificent mountain, pointing excitedly at the Cape Coloreds and Indians mingling on the docks. The air, clammy with a boiling meat smell to it, clung to their clothes and skin. Charlie stood beside him, smiling at Africa. The two had made it together under severe restrictions, amplified by Peter Sheffield’s intrusion on their lives. A silent rule bonded them against adversity, an unspoken rule among themselves.

Beneath it all there was the business of spying. The Colonial office paid Michael a handsome wage, but he had enough money. Could it be ego? Or the privilege of working for Queen and country? Or, the exotic feeling of being someone special? He did not own a weapon, and had never received formal training in the art of spying.

Despite the reasons, the decision to do this did not disturb him.

After the bustle at the harbour, they needed a good night’s rest and they found themselves heading in the direction of a fish market. Michael discussed with Charlie in detail how he would love to know where he was. A fish market in Africa; but where? Charlie did not have the courage to ask anyone anything at that moment. Michael finally stopped a young man coming out of the market and asked him.

The man had a strange, nasal like voice and the pronunciation of the “r” stood out with a grating “g”.

“Rogge Baai, Mijneer.”

Not high Dutch but Afrikaans, Michael had never heard Afrikaans before. Nevertheless, English or Afrikaans: coloured or not, the man understood them. He tried to say Rogge but could not manage the back of the tongue on the top palate. It came out like rokke, and the R was flat.

“We are English my good man. We do not understand your language.”

“I speak English very very quick and good. You are British. When did you come?”

“Just now, young chap.”

“You are seeking a place to stay for the night before moving on? Where do you go to?”

“The Republic of the Transvaal.”

“The place rich in Gold. Fortunately for me, the only gold I have is my happiness, Meneer. You know. That is all I need. Ja, well. Ek weet this place you can sleep for the night. Woodstock. Daar is a mission and they accept all kinds of people from everywhere. Ek’s op pad s’ntoe.”

“What is your name, young man?” Michael asked.

“My naam? Dalton Peters, Meneer”.

“We shall walk with you, sir.” Michael insisted.

Dalton Peters, it turned out, had five oxen and a wagon to his name. He sometimes sold vegetables on the wayside to purchase rations for his travels. Sometimes he would stop at a wine farm and seek work for a short while. However, he dreamed of going to the Republic of the Transvaal, to the New Eldorado where there was the chance to make a fortune. They got to the mission, tired, yet relieved and set up with Dalton. The journey had begun and the learning curve was young. Dalton noticed they traveled without weapons or luggage. The drifters he met carried rifles and ammunition and owned golden brown horses and bags over their shoulders

“Where can we purchase a wagon and supplies, Mr. Dalton?” Michael asked.

“I was wondering why you should wish to purchase one when there is one available for hire. The owner comes with it.”

“Do you really mean that?”

Dalton insisted. Then began to speak about the gold fields as though he had been there before.

Struben’s valley was not the right place to prospect for gold. Prospectors were striking it rich on a new field, not yet proclaimed, some miles east of Struben’s battery, on a place called the Rand. Struben was making a fortune by crushing the ore for virtually all the prospectors from near and far. He said, “You could walk, which would take several months, even years. You could purchase a horse or two and an ox-wagon and try to get there by road. I have seen many prospectors come and go. Some remain in Cape Town because they have no money to continue. The journey is expensive, however, my wagon is ready for the road, including four oxen.”

“Stroke of luck I’d say, Charlie?

Charlie smiled. Indeed they had struck a wave of luck and this could mean the journey would be a good one.

“We will pay your costs, it is as much as we can do to help.” Michael said, Dalton thought for a moment.

“Then we have a deal, sir”. Dalton smiled and exposed a mouth missing several teeth.

The mission was a round boma made from reed and grass. Inside, the buildings were of mortar and rock. Several people shared one room and some slept outside in tents made from natural vegetation, or sheets of cloth strung between four pegs. They sat beside the fireside by Dalton Peter’s tent listening to the waves slapping the shore. Michael knew very little of this land’s history and there were no libraries in the veldt. He knew he would understand more about the culture and economic conditions, the different tribal groups that inhabited the place, the fight for possession of land between British, Boer and Zulu – if he read more. He had much to learn, and when he finally understood the issues facing this land and her people, he would be at ease. The next morning, after Dalton had fed his guests a mug of coffee, he led them to his wagon on the far side of the mission.

The wagon frame was made of wood, solid and supportive. The wheels, he explained, had just been replaced. They walked a little farther into a field of turf grass where Dalton pointed out his four animals. “Beautiful beasts they are, Meneer. “These animals pull things like wagons and farm ploughs. They are not suited for eating or milking.”

"So, tell me young chap, these cows, what do you do with them when they die?"

“That’s when we eat them, Meneer”.

They walked into Cape Town on the slopes of Table Mountain. Cape Malay Indians dressed in saris and white robes paraded the streets selling dogs and chickens. Before the day was over, they tasted curry and rice for the first time, bought two pounds of tobacco, five pounds of rice, three barrels filled with water, a case full of eating and drinking utensils, three sets of clothes (one for each person), and five pounds of maize. They agreed to find firewood as they camped along the way. They bought eight blankets, newspapers, pens, paper and envelopes, and two rifles with five boxes of ammunition. Dalton had a rifle in the wagon. He never traveled without one.

The following morning the three inspanned the wagon and within an hour of dawn, set out into a wilderness they did not know or understand. Around the Black Mountains ZwartBergen to Worcester, Stellenbosch, Cradock, and finally across the Snow Mountains (Sneeuwberge) onto the Karoo plateau.

Michael and Charlie liked to sit beside Dalton, who handled the reigns, purely to keep him company. Rocks and strange plants surrounded the road. Solitary trees became skeletons in the crippling heat of day that served as proof of the hostility here. Wonderfully strange creatures roamed the plains, antelope, wildebeest, and thousands of gazelle.

At nightfall they camped just before Colesburg beside a half circle of bush. Michael jumped off the wagon, extended a hand to Charlie and led him into the darkening veldt.

“You have been tense for many miles, Charlie. You can tell me.”

Charlie was scared the adventure would yield little reward. Charlie’s analysis was that they understood themselves, knew their limitations, but was that enough? They had to support each other without luxuries, even if their claims were unsuccessful. They would have to continue with their lives.

The sounds of hyenas and baboons, calling, in their familiar, but shrill voices, filled the night. The clean moon hung brighter and closer than ever before.

By the time they returned to the wagon, Dalton had made a fire and offered them each a mug of whiskey. The cold ate through their blankets, so they sat huddled together.

Michael asked, “Our behavior, does it bother you, Dalton?”

Smiling, Dalton said, “I had to get used to it at first, but now I do not even think about.”

Michael asked him if he had ever been in love, and a warm smile passed over his eyes. Her name was Elena, drowned seven years ago. They did everything together. If she did not eat, Dalton would not eat. Went to bed at the same time, woke up at the same time. Then she died.

Michael offered his sympathies. Charlie nodded. Dalton continued how very special his wife was because she had brought him to love.

“Charlie and I love each other the same way.”

Dalton had heard of people like them. He was not afraid, but curious

“We are labeled insane, you do know that?”

“What is insanity but the mind, hey. Ag, Meneer, you do not trouble me at all. Those troubled by your way can always make a change, you know. If they do not like it, so be it.”

“Wonderful pearls of wisdom, Dalton, but where we come from it is a crime.”

“How can loving be a crime, Meneer?”

“Men are not allowed to love each other the way we do. Therefore it is a crime in society and we are locked away, labeled insane and incurably so. We do not feel threatened here in this great wilderness. Here we are free, able to wrap our arms about each other or hold hands or even dance. We have never known such freedom.”

“Meneer is lucky to be free.” Dalton said sadly. “I am Coloured. Our voices are ignored. We do not exist, except as slaves, and we are proud. However, that does not trouble me, Meneer. I have my hands and I have my brain and that is all it takes to be my kind of human. You have each other. Be glad of it and do not trouble over it. Tomorrow is another day”.

Before Michael retired, his last thoughts were about Dalton Peters.

A remarkable chap. Quite remarkable.

Michael woke to a cloudless morning. A heap of hot ash smoldered and he boiled a pot of water in the embers for coffee. He did not make it too hot, always lukewarm. A lonely hill appeared out of the receding darkness and he looked across a plane that formed part of the foreboding landscape of a vast thirst-land, the Karoo. To the west, a mass of gray clouds drew closer and thunder rolled away harshly. Then it passed. Rain never fell on this road that formed the steps to the Witwatersrand. Here lived desolation, where the physically strong had a chance to survive, the weaker will had little chance. Here, in this ancient Karoo where the Kwagga once lived, life is not protected from the heat of the day or the cold of the night.

By the time Michael had prepared the coffee, Charlie and Dalton had joined him. Michael offered both a mug each and Dalton turned his head to face the flat horizontal landscape.

“Not a tree in sight. Just sand, scrub and more sand.” He remarked. “But we must hurry before it gets too hot. Early in the morning is the best time for travel in this Karoo.”

They reassembled the cattle and spanned the rigging over their strong bodies to tow the wagon and within the hour were on their way towards Colesburg where they would stop for supplies, the Orange River, beyond that Kimberley, and finally the Witwatersrand.

The cattle trundled away slowly, straining at the weight of the wagon.

Then tragedy struck.

The wagon fell forward and Michael was thrown sideways off the carriage. Dalton Peters fell beneath the wooden beam onto the hard ground and got tangled in the reigns. The wheels of the wagon rode over him and he got caught, twisted in the reigns and jettisoned across the veldt. Inside the wagon, Charlie fell forward and clashed with falling boxes. Then a large water barrel rolled off a box and crashed against his forehead, rendering him unconscious.

The cattle stopped.

Michael forced his body, which seemed to be broken in several places, to move into a standing position. Then he looked around him and realised that Charlie was in danger. He limped towards the wagon lying tilted on its side, and unscrambled the jigsaw of boxes and barrels to get at Charlie. He dragged his moaning friend out of the wagon and when he came around his first thoughts were of Dalton Peters. They found him tangled in leather straps, face down in the dirt, quite still. Blood from a gash on his head stained the sand a dark brown. The oxen stood six yards away eating the morning grass of the earth. Michael dropped to his knees, felt Dalton’s pulse, then solemnly declared him dead.

He untangled the corpse and asked, in a slow, deliberate tone, “How is this possible, Charlie?”

“He must have hit his head on a rock. He’s seriously hurt. Are you sure he’s dead then, Michael?”

“See for yourself. He is not breathing. There is a gash on his head. His eyes are open, but lifeless. Yes, I am sure he is dead, Charlie.” Michael retorted.

“What do we do about it?”

Michael thought for a moment. “I suppose we could tell the authorities in Colesburg but will they believe that it was an accident? Or we could bury him here, fix the wagon and be on our way. Forget about it.”

“I think we should tell them, the authorities, I mean.” Charlie suggested.

“And risk going to jail, perhaps stand trial for something we did not do?” Michael exclaimed.

“We did not do anything, Michael!” Charlie replied.

Michael was silent for a moment. He realised he was being irrational. They would have to tell the authorities. He reminded Charlie of the Boer’s intense hatred of the English.

“It is a risk we must take, Michael. Dalton deserves that much.” Charlie smiled. Dalton Peters had taught them so much, including respect. This was his last lesson.

* * * 

The sheriff was a giant of a man with a bald head and a long blonde moustache. He had a short swagger and a harsh voice. Michael related how the incident happened and expected him to be excited.

“We do not care very much for Kaffirs in these parts, Mr. Dun. And you cannot bury him here. You will have to take him with you and bury him elsewhere, in the veldt somewhere.”

Michael’s temper could not stand the racist onslaught, but he tightened his fists instead. Charlie thanked the sheriff and led Michael out the door. The buildings were of mortar, rock and corrugated iron, mostly flat roofed dwellings. The main street was wide and farmers gathered about purchasing supplies and trading cattle on the auction sales. The local townsfolk carried guns with them and the women walked beneath different coloured parasols, frilly cotton blouses and long skirts with large hats.

The Colesburg Hotel served as the local watering hole as well as a place to stay the night. The bar was hot and musty with a couple of drunk Boers making a noise. Michael and Charlie sat away from this raucous crowd, but the moment they sat down Michael touched Charlie’s hand for a moment too long.

A thickset, curly haired Boer approached them and in Afrikaans shouted some strange things at them. Michael swallowed hard as the Khaki clad man thumped the table with his fist.

“We…we are English. Sorry, we do not understand your language.” Michael grinned.

“Engelsmanne, kerels!” The red faced farmer turned to his companions at the bar and called them over.

“Your kind are vermin! We hang people like you.”

Both were silent. Nothing that they could say would change this Boer’s mind. Michael had broken one of the silent rules: Never touch in public.

"Stand away from them.” A voice shouted from the back of the crowd.

Everyone turned to watch as three men armed with guns came forward. “Move away from those men. If you do not, I will shoot your kneecaps to pieces, it is as simple as that, chapsy.The curly haired Boer returned to his companions who had slunk back to the bar.

Mr. Peter Sheffield turned to look into the eyes of Michael Dun. “A spot of bother? Fancy meeting you here, chapsy. I think we ought to leave right away before something happens and we become outlaws before we even get started.”

The five men slipped out of the bar hurriedly. Outside, Michael told Peter about the accident. Peter offered his condolences and reminded Michael where he was, in Africa, where death, adventure and mystery are synonymous.

“I think we should leave town.” Peter suggested.

“No, we shall remain and purchase a wagon and supplies.

Peter offered his wagon, but Michael refused.

“Once again you refuse my help. That is your choice, Mr. Dun. I should like to advise you once again it is the wrong choice.”

* * *

Michael purchased a wagon from the local dealer. The man called it a Kakebeen or Jawbreaker, because of its versatility. Given harsh conditions the wagon could be dismantled and carried upon the backs of horses or oxen across rivers, streams, and even skid down mountains. It was a tented wagon that made a comfortable home, safe from dangerous animals, and useful in defending the camp as part of a lager. It was made from stinkwood and the only tools needed were a hammer, nails and bolts. The owner had eight horses to spare and Michael bought all of them.

They loaded their supplies and by late afternoon were on their way out. A little way out of town, Michael halted the horses, disembarked, and strolled slowly into the path of the wagon. He raised his arms as slowly as a bird in slow flight, then raised his right leg and twisted his wrists in the air. He shuffled his feet about in a slow, deliberate dance of freedom. Moving his hands, his body, his feet and his soul.

Charlie watched and he wanted to learn. Michael told him he had learnt this form of meditation during an extended holiday in Japan.

“It is called Tai – Chi, a slow meditative movement. It regains lost vitality.”

“Will you teach me?”

"It will be a pleasure.” Michael said, taking his hand, leading him into a world where his restless spirit would be free. A spirit content with the earth, sky and ocean. He felt suddenly alive. At first, Charlie forced his movements, but patience was the key. Michael assured him that by the time they reached Kimberley, Charlie would have perfected several forms. His mind would be thoroughly relaxed and time would become isolated in one purpose, the dance.

The days were hot and desolate with magnificent thunderstorms at night. At times the days were windswept and Michael grew a beard which he kept well trimmed. Charlie developed a brown tan during the hot, shirtless days. His black hair bleached fair from the harsh rays of the sun. Supplies were running low; a pound of maize and a barrel of water remained from their stopover in Colesburg.

Thankfully, Kimberley was a day away.