'If it were to happen,' General Beyers asked carefully, 'would the others join us?'

De Groot was sure that the great hero De Wet would support Germany, and so would others. 'The man we'd have to fear is that young upstart Jan Christian.'

'Who is he?' Detlev broke in.

's.m.u.ts,' De Groot said. 'A brave general, but I despise his politics.'

After this informal meeting, De Groot walked the boy around Johannesburg, pointing to the large buildings dominated by the English business leaders. When they came to one group of important offices he made Detlev stand there and read off all the names of the lawyers, the insurance men, the business negotiators, and when the boy reached frank saltwood, agent frank saltwood, agent, he said, 'That was the spy who burned our farms. Never forget.' And once more the boy symbolized the contradictions in which nations and people find themselves, for he said, 'Mrs. Saltwood saved my life.'

The most important lesson General de Groot taught Detlev came not from what he said but from what he did. When the English government released the captured Boers who had been interned in distant places like Ceylon, Bermuda and St. Helena, from the latter island came a great hulking man, taller than De Groot, on whose sloping shoulders rested a heavy burden. He was General Pieter Cronje, who in 1900 had surrendered at Paardeberg his entire army of nearly four thousand troops, the most disastrous loss in the war.

A photographer had happened to catch a stunning shot of the surrender, from which an artist working for the Ill.u.s.trated London News Ill.u.s.trated London News made a most effective sepia wash, which eventually was seen throughout the world, becoming the traditional depiction of Boer-English relationships. There came Cronje, looking six feet seven, in rumpled field trousers, vest, coat and overcoat, bearded, dirty, and wearing a huge broad-brimmed hat. Waiting for him stood little Lord Roberts, one-eyed, one hundred and thirty pounds, bristling mustache, all spit-and-polish boots and leatherwork, jaunty expeditionary cap at a sharp angle. 'The Giant Surrendering to the Midget' the picture was sometimes called. made a most effective sepia wash, which eventually was seen throughout the world, becoming the traditional depiction of Boer-English relationships. There came Cronje, looking six feet seven, in rumpled field trousers, vest, coat and overcoat, bearded, dirty, and wearing a huge broad-brimmed hat. Waiting for him stood little Lord Roberts, one-eyed, one hundred and thirty pounds, bristling mustache, all spit-and-polish boots and leatherwork, jaunty expeditionary cap at a sharp angle. 'The Giant Surrendering to the Midget' the picture was sometimes called.

The copy which General de Groot kept on the wall of his house showed signs of having been spat upon; it was also punctured where the old man had thrown a fork at it. This version was t.i.tled 'Cronje Meets His Master,' and when De Groot explained its significance to Detlev he said, 'A man should rather die with six bullets in his belly than face such a moment. Don't ever surrender.'

Detlev was surprised, therefore, when he looked up one morning at the farm and saw the gigantic figure of General Cronje waiting on the stoep. It could be no one else, and when the deep voice rumbled, 'Waar is die generaal?' Detlev replied, 'He lives at the house.' He led Cronje to De Groot's place and was present when the two generals met. They did not embrace in the French manner, but stood respectfully apart, inclining their heads slightly out of mutual respect.

'Come in, Cronje,' De Groot said, ushering him into the spa.r.s.ely furnished room. 'How was St. Helena?'

'Napoleon died there. I didn't.'

'What happened at Paardeberg?'

The general seated himself uneasily on an upended box and shrugged his shoulders. 'From babyhood we were taught "When you face trouble, go into laager." I faced trouble, Kitchener hammering at me like a madman, Roberts waiting. So I went into laager, but the old rules no longer applied. Not when they had cannon to rim the laager and blow its insides to bits.'

'Now, that's curious,' De Groot said. 'My family lost its life against Mzilikazi because it didn't go into laager. You lost everything because you did.'

'Times change.' He shook his head, then got down to business. 'Paulus, you're living like a pig. Things aren't good for me, either. But we both have a chance to earn a lot of money.'

'How?'

'Have you ever heard of St. Louis? The American city?'

'No.'

'I'm told it's important, bigger than Cape Town.'

'What's it got to do with us?' De Groot asked suspiciously. 'They're having a large World's Fair. Biggest of its kind.'

'Yes?'

'They've seen the drawing of me and Lord Roberts. They've sent a man here, untold funds. He wants me to collect a small commando of Boers who can ride well and shoot from the saddle. Blanks, of course. They'll have American soldiers dressed like Englishmen, and in a big arena you and I will come in riding and shooting. There'll be a mock fight, and then there'll be a tableau.'

'A what?'

'Everybody stops . . . dead still. And the audience sees that it's a representation of my surrender to Lord Roberts.'

De Groot simply sat there, arms folded, legs spread apart, staring at his old companion. Cronje had helped storm Majuba back in 1881. He was a verified hero, but he was also the man who had behaved poorly at Paardeberg. If such a tragic twist in fortune had been forced upon De Groot, he would have shot his brains out. Cronje was proposing to go to St. Louis, wherever that was, and ride his pony into an arena firing blank cartridges, and then surrender again, twice a day, six days a week, to Lord Roberts.

Slowly the old man rose, indicating that Cronje must do the same. Sternly he edged the huge warrior to the hut doorway, where he said, 'Piet, dear comrade, as you can see, I need the money. But there's never been a time in my life when I fired blank cartridges, and I'm too old to learn.'

Cronje had no trouble in conscripting other fine hors.e.m.e.n, who went to St. Louis and put on an exhibition that dazzled the locals, improving considerably their estimation of Boers. But whenever the band stopped dramatically, and two small cannon roared, and the lights came on, General Cronje stepped forward in the costume he had worn in the photograph and surrendered to a taut little major on detached duty from Fort Sill who wore a fake mustache and a replica of an English uniform.

When photographs of this tableau filtered back to South Africa, they caused anguish, but in St. Louis the approval was so marked that Cronje's contracted salary was raised. General de Groot found one of these photographs and tacked it to the wall, beside the original version.

'Remarkable,' he told Detlev when the boy first compared the two. 'How could they get the surrender so accurate?' Detlev was afraid the old man was going to tear the wall apart, so strained became the muscles on his neck, but all he did was tap the two pictures gently, as if they were of value. 'Never surrender, Detlev,' he said. 'Not even in play.'

The people at Vrymeer were so obviously concerned about Detlev's education that Mr. Amberson fell into the habit of riding out from Venloo now and then to report on their boy's progress, and as he sat in the kitchen at the farm, Detlev noticed two things about him. Unlike the hefty Boer farmers of the area, this thin young man could sit in a chair, twist his left leg over his right knee, and then hook his left toe under his right ankle, as if he were made of rubber. Detlev could imitate this, but none of the chubby larger boys could, and certainly none of the elders. Also, Mr. Amberson was interested in everything, and that was why Vrymeer acquired an additional beauty which made it somewhat different from the other farms.

'They have a new system now,' he said with some excitement. 'They come from Australia, mostly.'

'What does?' the general asked suspiciously. He did not like Mr. Amberson, but Detlev noticed that he appeared whenever the tall Englishman visited, because he enjoyed arguing with him.

'The trees. The government are importing millions of trees to spruce up the veld.'

'Who pays for them?'

'I think they're free. Eucalypts, I believe, and something they call wattle.'

'Free?'

'Yes, but you must plant them. That's only fair.'

Mr. Amberson used that phrase a good deal, for he saw many things in life that could be adjudicated easily on that principle: 'It's only fair.'

'Is it fair for you to make our boys learn English?' De Groot asked, as usual.

'I've learned Dutch.' He coughed modestly. 'Such as it is. I do this out of respect. But Detlev must learn English for a better reason. Because the world runs on English, that's why.'

On this basic point he would make no concessions. English was the language of the great world, and provincial Boers stuck off in their corner must learn it, if they presumed to partic.i.p.ate in world affairs. On all else he was conciliatory, granting that the Boers probably won the war through their obstinate heroism and conceding that Dutch cooking was much better than English. He was really rather a likable chap, and when he sat with his legs twisted in knots, rocking back and forth on his haunches, arguing abstruse points, he lent a touch of congeniality and culture to what was otherwise a dull existence.

The farm was in good condition now. With help from Nxumalo's people, all buildings were roofed; the Herefords were maturing; the wool clip was coming in at a satisfactory level; and the black farmworkers had gouged out two small lakes, or catchments, below the big lake, so that on sunny days the three bodies of water shone like a necklace of jewels. Detlev was especially pleased with them, for he saw that by this device the water that came down from the hills behind the farm was used three timesfour, really: 'It runs past the house as a stream, then builds our big lake, then goes on to make the two smaller ones for the cattle.'

It was to the north sh.o.r.es of these attractive lakes that Mr. Amberson brought the thousand saplings when they arrived at Durban from Australia. They were, as he predicted, mostly eucalypts, those s.h.a.ggy-barked wonderful trees whose leaves when crushed had a minty odor. But he also delivered some two hundred wattles, the bushlike trees whose golden flowers would adorn the landscape.

'That many trees is a monstrous task,' he warned the men, and to help them with the planting he excused his entire school one Thursday and Friday, bringing all the boys out to work by the lakes. 'Practical learning' he termed it, and he worked hardest of all, dashing here and there to satisfy himself that the trees were in line. The only charge to the Van Doorns for this unusual service was a barbecue for the lads, and it was after the boys and their teacher had returned to Venloo that Detlev first voiced his suspicion. The two older men were sitting in the kitchen while Johanna cleaned up, and when she left the room, Detlev said quietly, 'I think Mr. Amberson is in love with Johanna.'

'What did you say?'

'He comes here to argue with you, General de Groot, but he really comes to be with Johanna.' He mimicked the way in which the Englishman p.r.o.nounced her name, not Yo-hon-na, like a Boer, but Jo-hann-a, in the English manner.

This news was so frightening that General de Groot whispered 'Shhhhhh' lest Johanna hear that they were discussing her indiscretion, and when she returned to the kitchen six eyes studied her cautiously. When she left again, De Groot snorted: 'Unthinkable! A Boer girl in love with an English . . .'

'I didn't say that,' Detlev protested. 'I said he was in love with her.'

'A fine girl like Johanna,' the general said. 'She'd never do a thing like that.' He uttered the words with such contempt that he might have been speaking of prost.i.tution.

'She is twenty-six,' Jakob said thoughtfully. 'She's a precious girl and ought to be finding herself a man.'

'You need her here,' De Groot said, meaning that he needed her.

'She mustn't wait much longer, though,' Jakob said. 'But I agree I don't want an Englishman in my family.'

Everything these three male spies saw in the next weeks confirmed their suspicion that Johanna van Doorn was falling in love with an Englishman, and one weekend when he appeared at the farm to inspect the young eucalypts, General de Groot bearded him: 'Young man, did you come here to see the trees, or did you come to see Johanna?'

Mr. Amberson blanched, then turned bright red. 'Well, I . . .'

'It would be better if you didn't come here any more.' When the young man started to defend himself, Jakob entered the discussion: 'Yes, it would be better if you stayed away.'

'But . . .'

'Starting now,' the general said firmly, and the two men remained at Amberson's side, edging him toward his horse. The general said, 'We don't want an Englishman making up to one of our girls. Now get!' And he slapped the horse, sending the long-legged teacher back toward Venloo.

At lunch, when it appeared that Mr. Amberson would not be joining the family, Johanna asked why, and the general said bluntly, 'We don't want him fooling around with a decent Boer girl.'

Johanna blushed, but did not retreat. 'Did you send him away?'

'We did,' the general snapped.

'Who are you to send people away, General de Groot? You're a guest here.'

'I am the protector of this house,' he said firmly.

'I don't want your protection.' She wanted to cry. Badly she wanted to weep, for there were no young men in Venloo, and Mr. Amberson had proved himself to be a generous, understanding human being. The war was over; the camps were over; and she felt a great urge to get on with life, to start a farm of her own with children of her own, and if no one else came along, she was prepared to marry an Englishman, repulsive though it seemed.

But the three men in her family would not allow it. Detlev spoke for them all when he said, 'Johanna, you can wait.'

This observation surprised her. 'But you like him best of all. You brought him here.'

'As a teacher,' the boy said. 'Yes, he is a fine teacher.'

'Unthinkable,' General de Groot p.r.o.nounced as the final verdict, and Mr. Amberson was seen at Vrymeer no more.

At school he betrayed not a single indication of his disappointment; if anything, he treated Detlev with added consideration, which was natural, since this boy was one of the best. In numbers and history and clear handwriting he received good marks, and Mr. Amberson gave him much encouragement, stopping by Mrs. Scheltema's sometimes at night to a.s.sign him further tasks so that he could excel.

What he did to sublimate his rather strong feelings toward Johanna revolutionized Venloo; it would not be the same after that summer. The metamorphosis started slowly, with his bringing an ovoid football to the school and telling the bigger boys, 'You must play rugby. And one day, even though you come from this small town, you may be famous like Paul Roos.'

Up to then the Boers of this little community knew little of the vigorous game that was sweeping the country. Before the war they had heard of the visits of teams from England, first in 1891, when the visitors won every match, and again in 1896. But it had remained an exotic game played princ.i.p.ally in the Cape.

Through rugby Mr. Amberson endeared himself to the locals. Day after day he went onto the playing field, in boots, knee-length socks, short pants and jersey, to go up against the strongest boys in his school. They would race up and down the area, bend down in scrums, and play till they were exhausted. 'My word,' he often said as the games ended, 'that was a good effort. Boys, you're becoming first rate, absolutely world cla.s.s.'

Older men in the community ridiculed the schoolmaster: 'He's a man among boys and a boy among men.' But when he suggested that the older youths, those now out of school, also form a team, he a.s.sured them that he was prepared to play with them, and now the entire male population of the town came out to watch the gladiatorial games.

He was remarkable, a tall, somewhat frail fellow who showed no fear of slamming into the biggest and toughest of the local Boers. Some boy would break loose with the ball and be on his way to a score when Amberson would detach himself from the pack, fly across the field, and tackle the brute with bone-crunching force, knocking the ball loose, then scrambling to his feet and running with it himself until some mighty Boer brought him down.

At the end of a game he would sit on the sidelines, panting, his body bruised, his mouth showing flecks of blood, and the hefty men would come by and slap him on the shoulder and say, 'You know how.' And he would reply, 'It was a mighty game.'

His princ.i.p.al interest, however, remained the boys in his school, and he was delighted when Detlev showed signs of becoming a first-cla.s.s stand-off halfback, the capable lad who received the ball from the scrum half and pa.s.sed it along to the speedier backs.

He had a natural apt.i.tude for the game, and while he did not love it with the pa.s.sion Mr. Amberson exhibited, he did appreciate the fellowship, considering it an attribute to a good life. This was helpful, because South Africa was in the process of becoming one of the world's fanatic sports centers, and if a boy like Detlev ever made a national team, his future would be a.s.sured.

It was this mania for sports which made it necessary for Frank Saltwood to issue an edict which went far in determining the social structure of his country. Like all Englishmen, he was dotty about games and served as chairman of the board governing cricket. He was a good player himself, having been a sometime member of the Oxford eleven, and in South Africa, had dedicated his spare time and surplus funds to encourage the game. Whenever a team was chosen to play visitors from Scotland and Wales, he was apt to serve as manager of the tour, ensuring that his men comported themselves within the grand traditions. He was insistent on this: 'Cricket is the game of gentlemen, and its rules apply even more to life than to the playing field. I like to see men extremely energetic, but within the set rules.'

This posed a dilemma in the postwar years when the great clubs of England extended an invitation to their former enemies to come home and play a set of gala matches; more than anything else, this would make the peace treaty a conclusive fact to families who had lost sons in the war. But a serious problem arose, in the person of Abu Bakr Fazool, a Coloured Muslim gentleman from Cape Town who was probably the best bowler in the world. When C. Aubrey Smith, himself a stalwart bowler and future motion picture star, captained his cricket team on a tour of South Africa, he said of Fazool, 'Has the fastest riser I've ever seen. Much better at the tricky stuff than I am.' He promised Fazool that if the latter ever came to England, he'd find a place for him on one of the county teams.

So now the question was: Should Abu Bakr be a member of the team visiting England? And at first it was a.s.sumed throughout South Africa that he should. Local enthusiasts predicted that he would mow down the English batters; but gradually people in rural areas began deploring the possibility that a Coloured might represent South Africa abroad, and articles appeared in the better papers, asking: 'Have the board really sorted this thing out?'

The burden fell squarely on Frank Saltwood, and had he stood before his board and said, 'We would appear stupid before the world if we omitted Abu Bakr,' they would have agreed, but after he had studied the matter from all angles, he became cautious and gave the board members craven advice: 'It is acknowledged here and abroad that Abu Bakr Fazool is perhaps the best bowler alive today. As C. Aubrey Smith said at the end of his successful tour, "That young man is ready for county cricket right now." So we would be doing our side, and the mother country, a favor by including him. I am enthusiastic about doing so. But we must consider carefully certain objections to such an act. The scars of our recent war are slowly healing, thanks to the good conscience of both sides, and it would be almost criminal to do anything at this early date which would reopen those scars. Our Boer brethren have certain clear-cut traditions about handling their Coloured and Kaffir neighbors, and it would ill-behoove us to offend those traditions. Such consideration would dictate that we not take Fazool to England with us.

'A more serious aspect, in the long run, is "What kind of impression do we wish to make upon the mother country when our team takes the field?" I know that dark-skinned Indians have played at Lords with distinction, but all England knows that India contains Indians, and it would be ridiculous if none appeared. In the same way very dark West Indians have represented the Caribbean colonies, but again that is the color of those colonies. With South Africa it is different. It is important that we present ourselves to the mother country in garb as like hers as possible. This is a white man's country and always will be. Our welfare depends upon the good opinion the mother country holds of us, and when our team appears on its sacred pitches, it would be better if it represented what we want to be: England's white colony, safe, secure, well-educated, loyal to European tradition, and to be trusted. I am afraid the appearance of Abu Bakr Fazool among our players would not enhance that image.'

Had Frank Saltwood in that moment of great, though unrecognized, crisis come out in favor of sending Fazool to England, and had the gifted athlete performed as might be expected, a whole pattern of acceptance might have been launched. There were other Coloured cricket players who could have made those touring teams, and when their white colleagues observed how well they played and with what ease they fitted into mother country festivities, an att.i.tude of approval would have been generated throughout South Africa; and if gifted blacks had been trained for the rugby teams, smashing their opponents about in the scrums and running like antelope for scores, the nation would have seen that they were little different from the Boers and the Englishmen who played beside them.

But time was not ripe for such acceptance. Frank Saltwood convinced his board and kept Fazool off the team. He did not appear in England to take his place beside the fabulous bowlers from India, the immortal batsmen from Australia. He continued to play in the darker neighborhoods of Cape Town, and as the rules against interracial compet.i.tion stiffened, he quit the game altogether. He could often be seen at the docks, in the fish market, tallying not runs but the daily catch of snoek.

Often in the biographies of important women and men one comes across the phrase: 'Like a burst of light, the idea which would animate her life came upon her.' In the case of Detlev van Doorn this simile was literally true. A flash of light struck him, and the course of his life was set.

It happened because of a packet of powdered jellies imported from France. When General de Groot and her father forbade Johanna to see Mr. Amberson, she was left with little to do and began to occupy her spare time with knitting and embroidery. The arrival at the Venloo store of the imported powders excited her, and swiftly she presented her men with acidy orange and lemon desserts. They liked them, and asked for more, so she returned to the store and purchased the large-size packets, and when she reached home she found that she now had some six or seven different flavors. She experimented with each, and the men found them so tasty that they encouraged her to continue.

She was a resourceful young woman, nearing thirty now, and one day as she was pouring the jelly into her gla.s.ses it occurred to her that if she poured only a small portion into each gla.s.s, allowing it to harden, she could then pour on top of it another jelly of a different color, and repeat the process until she had a multilayered gla.s.s which would be not only quite tasty but also attractive to look at.

On her first tries she failed, because she poured the succeeding colors while they were too hot and thus melted any that had already firmed and cooled. Being a provident woman, she mixed the mangled jellies into one melange and decided to try again later, but when the mixture hardened and she served it to her men, Detlev protested: 'This doesn't look right and it doesn't taste right.' She offered no explanation, but did agree with him. That experiment had failed.

Next time, however, when the first jelly was well firmed, and she made the next flavor, she allowed it to cool almost to point of hardening, then poured it in, and her plan succeeded. Indeed, it produced a result much finer than even she had antic.i.p.ated; it was really quite handsome, for with artistic taste she had placed the black currant layer at the bottom, the light brown apple atop it, then the reds, and finally the orange and the light lemon. The gla.s.ses were almost works of art.

When Detlev came into the kitchen they were perched on a window ledge, with one well off by itself, and when rays of sunlight struck that gla.s.s, the layers scintillated, each color showing to maximum advantage, throwing delightful patterns of black, brown, crimson, orange and lemon on the opposite wall, and in that moment Detlev understood the grand design of life.

'Look!' he cried, bringing the general and his father into the room. 'How each color keeps to itself. It doesn't muddy the other. It shines like a diamond.' And with one finger he outlined the nature of humanity as G.o.d had ordained it: 'Here at the bottom the black. Then the lighter brown. Then here the Indian . . .' Already he had translated the colors into racial groupings. 'Up here the Englishman, he's orange. And on top of them all, the Afrikaner, clear and . . .'

'You are a Boer!' De Groot said.

'They keep telling us at school we're not Boers any longer. We're not fighting anybody . . .'

'We're always fighting the English,' De Groot said. 'In your lifetime we will never stop.'

Detlev returned to the jellies: 'Each color in its own level. Order. Neatness.' He had found the guiding secret of life. 'We're Afrikaners, that nice clean color on top.'

'That's the way it should be,' De Groot said, and that week he launched his campaign to get rid of Mr. Amberson as the Venloo teacher. He had learned to like the Englishman and told him so openly, but he also felt that the time had come for the education of Boer boys . . . 'Afrikaner boys deserve Afrikaner men to teach them.' He liked this Afrikaner business. It bespoke the true heritage of his people. They were not Englishmen, and G.o.d knows they were not Dutch. They were men and women of Africa, and the word carried crisp meaning.

Mr. Amberson reacted as one would expect: 'I think you have a legitimate concern, General de Groot. Besides, you should be bringing up a generation of your own teachers. I've been offered two appointments to the English schools in Grahamstown. My rugby training, you know.'

Even when public meetings were convened to discuss the necessity of dismissing him, he continued with rugby games, striving in his final weeks to instill his boys with the abiding principles of sportsmanship: 'Don't crybaby... A tooth can be replaced ... Be gallant when you win and extend your hand to the man who played opposite you . . . Fight to the very last second, then give a cheer for the goodness of the game ... Be manly ... If the other man is bigger, you be more clever . . . The goal is to win . . . Always you must win . . . You must drive for that score .. . But there are rules you dare not break in trying to score ... Be manly . . .'

In the grand exhibition prior to his departure he was about as capable as a stand-off halfback could be, diving straight into the biggest bully on the town team and being knocked so silly that when he got the ball he ran in the wrong direction. In his farewell speech he paid resounding tribute to General de Groot: 'Just as this n.o.ble captain led his men through every difficulty, so our team has fought against all the odds presented by bigger schools and heavier opponents. To General de Groot I give my fullest admiration. He is the spirit of Venloo. To my boys I give the eternal challenge. Be manly.'

It was the consensus that this small town had been lucky in having this scrawny Englishman in the period of transition. He had helped make boys into men, Boers into Afrikaners, and former enemies into relaxed allies.

The week after he departed, the new schoolmaster appeared, a young man of much different stamp. He was Piet Krause, graduate of the new college at Potchefstroom, which would become the most Afrikaner of the universities, and he let it be known on his first day that the nonsense about instruction in English was ended. To the delight of the local farmers, this tense, crop-headed young fellow announced: 'The spirit of a nation is expressed in its language. This nation is destined to be Afrikaner. Therefore, its language must be Afrikaans.' This was the first time that word had been used in Venloo, and when he saw the confusion on the faces before him, he explained: 'Just as we have created a new people in this cauldron, steeped in Slagter's Nek, Blood River and Majuba, so we are building a new language, simpler than the old, cleaner, easier to use. It's our language now, and with it we shall conquer. One day we shall give thanks for this victory, using our own Bible in our language,.the Afrikaans Bible.'