“We can shoot you for doing that,” the veldkornet said. “It’s contrary to military law.”
“I wish I knew something about military law,” Stephanus answered. “Then I would draw up a peace treaty between Stephanus van Barnevelt and England.”
Some of the men laughed again. But Floris shook his head sadly. He said the Van Barnevelts had fought bravely against Spain in a war that lasted eighty years.
Suddenly, out of the darkness there came a sharp rattle of musketry, and our men started getting uneasy again. But the sound of the firing decided Stephanus. He jumped on his horse quickly.
“I am turning back,” he said, “I am going to hands-up to the English.”
“No, don’t go,” the veldkornet called to him lamely, “or at least, wait until the morning. They may shoot you in the dark by mistake.” As I have said, the veldkornet had very little authority.
Two days passed before we again saw Floris van Barnevelt. He was in a very worn and troubled state, and he said that it had been very hard for him to find his way back to us.
“You should have asked the kaffirs,” one of our number said with a laugh. “All the kaffirs know our veldkornet.”
But Floris did not speak about what happened that night, when we saw him riding out under the starlight, following after his son and shouting to him to be a man and to fight for his country. Also, Floris did not mention Stephanus again, his son who was not worthy to be a Van Barnevelt.
After that we got separated. Our veldkornet was the first to be taken prisoner. And I often felt that he must feel very lonely on St. Helena. Because there were no kaffirs from whom he could ask the way out of the barbed-wire camp.
Then, at last our leaders came together at Vereeniging, and peace was made. And we returned to our farms, relieved that the war was over, but with heavy hearts at the thought that it had all been for nothing and that over the Transvaal the Vierkleur would not wave again.
And Floris van Barnevelt put back in its place, on the wall of the voorkamer, the copy of his family tree that had been carried with him in his knapsack throughout the war. Then a new schoolmaster came to this part of the Marico, and after a long talk with Floris, the schoolmaster wrote behind Stephanus’s name, between two curved lines, the two words that you can still read there: “Obiit Mafeking.”
Consequently, if you ask any person hereabouts what “obiit” means, he is able to tell you, right away, that it is a foreign word, and that it means to ride up to the English, holding your Mauser in the air, with a white flag tied to it, near the muzzle.
But it was long afterwards that Floris van Barnevelt started telling his story.
And then they took no notice of him. And they wouldn’t allow him to be nominated for the Drogevlei School Committee on the grounds that a man must be wrong in the head to talk in such an irresponsible fashion.
But I knew that Floris had a good story, and that its only fault was that he told it badly. He mentioned the Drogevlei School Committee too soon. And he knocked the ash out of his pipe in the wrong place. And he always insisted on telling that part of the story that he should have left out.
STARLIGHT ON THE VELD
IT WAS A COLD NIGHT (OOM SCHALK LOURENS SAID), the stars shone with that frosty sort of light that you see on the wet grass some mornings, when you forget that it is winter, and you get up early, by mistake. The wind was like a girl sobbing out her story of betrayal to the stars.
Jan Ockerse and I had been to Derdepoort by donkey-cart. We came back in the evening. And Jan Ockerse told me of a road round the foot of a koppie that would be a short cut back to Drogevlei. Thus it was that we were sitting on the veld, close to the fire, waiting for the morning. We would then be able to ask a kaffir to tell us a short cut back to the foot of that koppie.
“But I know that it was the right road,” Jan Ockerse insisted, flinging another armful of wood on the fire.
“Then it must have been the wrong koppie,” I answered, “or the wrong donkey-cart. Unless you also want me to believe that I am at this moment sitting at home, in my voorkamer.”
The light from the flames danced frostily on the spokes of a cartwheel, and I was glad to think that Jan Ockerse must be feeling as cold as I was.
“It is a funny sort of night,” Jan Ockerse said, “and I am very miserable and hungry.”
I was glad of that, too. I had begun to fear that he was enjoying himself.
“Do you know how high up the stars are?” Jan asked me next.
“No, not from here,” I said, “but I worked it all out once, when I had a pencil. That was on the Highveld, though. But from where we are now, in the Lowveld, the stars are further away. You can see that they look smaller, too.”
“Yes, I expect so,” Jan Ockerse answered, “but a school-teacher told me a different thing in the bar at Zeerust. He said that the stargazers work out how far away a star is by the number of years that it takes them to find it in their telescopes. This school-teacher dipped his finger in the brandy and drew a lot of pictures and things on the bar counter, to show me how it was done. But one part of his drawings always dried up on the counter before he had finished doing the other part with his finger. He said that was the worst of that dry sort of brandy. Yet he didn’t finish his explanations, because the barmaid came and wiped it all off with a rag. Then the school-teacher told me to come with him and he would use the blackboard in the other classroom. But the barmaid wouldn’t allow us to take our glasses into the private bar, and the school-teacher fell down just about then, too.”
“He seems to be one of that new kind of school-teacher,” I said, “the kind that teaches the children that the earth turns round the sun. I am surprised they didn’t sack him.”
“Yes,” Jan Ockerse answered, “they did.”
I was glad to hear that also.
It seemed that there was a waterhole near where we were out-spanned. For a couple of jackals started howling mournfully. Jan Ockerse jumped up and piled more wood on the fire.
“I don’t like those wild animal noises,” he said.
“They are only jackals, Jan,” I said.
“I know,” he answered, “but I was thinking of our donkeys. I don’t want our donkeys to get frightened.”
Suddenly a deep growl came to us from out of the dark bush. And it didn’t sound a particularly mournful growl, either. Jan Ockerse worked very fast then with the wood.
“Perhaps it will be even better if we make two fires, and lie down between them,” Jan Ockerse said, “our donkeys will feel less frightened if they see that you and I are safe. You know how a donkey’s mind works.”
The light of the fire shone dimly on the skeletons of the tall trees that the white ants had eaten, and we soon had two fires going. By the time that the second deep roar from the bush reached us, I had made an even bigger fire than Jan Ockerse, for the sake of the donkeys.
Afterwards it got quiet again. There was only the stirring of the wind in the thorn branches, and the rustling movement of things that you hear in the Bushveld at night.
Jan Ockerse lay on his back and put his hands under his head, and once more looked up at the stars.
“I have heard that these stars are worlds, just like ours,” he said, “and that they have got people living on them, even.”
“I don’t think they would be good for growing mealies on, though,” I answered, “they look too high up. Like the rante of the Sneeuberge, in the Cape. But I suppose they would make quite a good horse and cattle country. That’s the trouble with these low-lying districts, like the Marico and the Waterberg: there is too much horse-sickness and tsetse-fly here.”
“And