LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Heavens, Ben,” Reitz says softly, “what have we got here?”

      Ben makes no reply but his nostrils flare nervously, a sign that he is ill at ease.

      At first they are hardly able to focus on anything but the food. Even Abraham has to be cautioned by Willem to eat more slowly.

      “Slow down,” says Gert Smal, “or the lot of you will be throwing up all night.” Every now and then he fills his tin mug from a bottle.

      “Been hungry lately?” Reuben asks. And he throws a bone at the dog that slinks from the shadows to pick it up before returning to her place at Gert Smal’s feet. “Yes,” he says, “hunger can certainly gnaw at a man’s guts. You can’t tell me anything about hunger!”

      When they have finished eating, Japie Stilgemoed moves closer to the fire and reads from the Bible. He reads from Job, chapter twenty-seven, verses one to twenty-three: Job maintaining his innocence before God; Job pointing out to his friends how little resemblance there is between him and a wicked man; Job acknowledging that the righteousness of God is often revealed in the downfall of the wicked, although this does not pertain to him, for he is not wicked.

      After the Scripture reading he prays – a bashful but sincere prayer. He thanks God that the newcomers have reached them safely, and he prays that God will soon reunite them all with their loved ones. They sing a hymn. Willem especially is in full voice tonight – his singing is filled with gratitude and praise.

      Then Gert Smal brings out another bottle, and pours them each a generous measure of brandy. (They dare not refuse this token of hospitality. And Reitz, for one, feels no inclination to do so.)

      Young Abraham has a coughing fit and Willem pats his back and wipes his mouth carefully. Before long a feeling of well-being spreads through their bodies, and Reitz does not decline when the bottle makes the rounds again and again.

      “The general,” says Gert Smal, “never has a shortage of firewater. Spoils of war,” he adds with a sanctimonious sneer. “The general has no qualms about taking what’s his due.”

      Whereupon he inquires how they ended up in Senekal’s wagon laager, all the while looking at them askance, as if he has no great interest in their reply, the prominent, heavy fold between his eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. He takes frequent swigs from his mug.

      At the beginning of the war Reitz joined the Johannesburg commando under Commandant Ben Viljoen, but after the battle of Donkerhoek he ended up with the Lichtenburg Commando led by Commandant Celliers, where he met his friend Ben. They were in the Northern Free State with the men of the Kroonstad Commando for a while. Under the leadership of Commandant Nel they moved as far as Kimberley, but the battle of Slangfontein resulted in their joining up with Commandant Senekal.

      Ben initially joined the Winburg Commando under Commandant Vilonel, before he ended up in the Lichtenburg Commando with Reitz.

      Willem fought in the Middelburg Commando under the leadership of Commandant Fourie before joining Commandant Senekal’s laager. Then his good friend Frederik Fouché was killed in the battle of Droogleegte, and since then Willem has taken his friend’s younger brother under his wing. He points at young Abraham, who is staring fixedly into the flames.

      “Scutties,” Abraham says tonelessly.

      “Celliers, Vilonel and Fourie can all go to hell,” says Gert Smal.

      “And may we ask,” Willem inquires politely, “what byways brought you men here to the general’s camp?”

      Gert Smal spits out the piece of twig on which he has been chewing. He takes a swig from the bottle. Laughs curtly.

      “Old Japie over there,” he says, pointing at Japie Stilgemoed, “is a bit hard of hearing – a shell exploded right next to him. He had the runs for a long time. He was so emaciated and weak, he wasn’t fit for anything.”

      Japie Stilgemoed listens attentively; nods in agreement.

      And is he quite recovered now? Willem asks solicitously.

      Yes, oh yes, he’s much better, says Japie Stilgemoed, and looks the other way.

      “Old Kosie,” and Gert Smal points summarily at Kosie Rijpma, “used to be a predikant in the women’s camp not far from here before he went off his head. We found him wandering in the veld – batty. No one could make head or tail of his blathering. He’s still not all there half the time.”

      Kosie Rijpma stares impassively; does not refute the information.

      “Poor man,” Willem remarks sympathetically.

      “Spibush,” young Abraham says tonelessly.

      “Reuben lost his leg at Dwarslêersbos,” Gert Smal continues. “Now he’s no use whatsoever in the field.”

      Reuben nods.

      “Bends,” says young Abraham. He appears pale and restless. Willem looks worried.

      “There now, boy,” he says, trying to persuade him to take a sip of water.

      Not a word from Gert Smal about his own movements, Reitz notices.

      Gert Smal is gradually warming up, helped along by his inebriation. If he happens to forget a name or a place, he snaps his fingers at where Ezekiel keeps to the shadows, and the missing fact is immediately forthcoming.

      “To hell with Piet Joubert,” Gert Smal says. “He should have chased the English into the sea, right at the beginning, when we still had the advantage of mobility. The siege of Ladysmith was a farce! Our men could have been put to better use. Joubert should have given chase at Nicholson’s Nek. The Free Staters were the best snipers – the Heilbron commando alone could have whipped the Khakis’ arses at Nicholson’s Nek! By the end of April the men had lost heart. They were starting to go home. They had no more drive. They’d been lying around for far too long, waiting for action. Joubert made them lie around, bored stiff, when they were still full of dash – when he should have let them loose to chase the enemy into the sea!”

      Thus and in that vein Gert Smal holds forth, with Reuben now and again adding something. Japie Stilgemoed has little to say and Kosie Rijpma does not utter a word, and the two of them are the first to get up and go to their shelters.

      Not only is Seun’s speech impaired by his cleft palate, Reitz notices, but he also seems rather slow on the uptake. He communicates – only with Ezekiel and Gert Smal – by means of signs and unintelligible sounds.

      Drowsy from the heat of the fire, the food and the drink, Reitz finds it difficult to focus on the conversation; he barely makes an effort to follow what Gert Smal is saying.

      Later, when Gert Smal’s eyes are fixed and glassy, when his language has steadily become more uncouth, Willem – ever tactful, as they have come to know him – speaks on behalf of them all: “And may we ask where the general is at the moment?”

      “You may ask, Neef,” Gert Smal replies, “but I can’t tell you, because the general’s movements are secret. All I can say is that he’s out on a little punitive expedition with a group of men. They’ve gone to give those damned fat-arsed Khakis a bloody good thrashing.”

      Much later, in the small hours, when the night air is cool and fragrant, the chirping of crickets deafening, the cool rustling of poplar trees down at the river barely audible and the stars are shooting furiously across the dark sky, when Willem and Abraham have already turned in and Reitz and Ben are decidedly the worse for drink (though not unpleasantly so), Gert Smal suddenly declares: “Tomorrow we’re going up the kloof to fetch honey. You two are coming along,” and he points at Reitz and Ben.

      They reach their beds just in time, grateful for the grass bedding on the ground. They are scarcely aware of the night chill and the early morning dew, they sleep as never before, sleep like logs, under the swirling and pitching of the stars.

      *

      The next morning both Reitz and Ben wake with

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