There was a thoughtful look in Honor's eyes when, leaving Butter Tom to
the unaccustomed task of valeting the wounded baas, she stepped forth
into the sunshine and walked with a certain weary reluctance towards the
homestead. She was tired with her overnight vigil, and the emotional
scene in the rondavel was succeeded by a feeling of exhaustion and
nervous reaction. For the first time within her knowledge the thought
of her cause failed to sustain her; and more than once the question
formed itself in her mind whether after all this sacrifice of life were
justified even in the securing of national independence? She had never
doubted before. She had been as positive of the right and the urgency
of their cause as she had felt certain of its ultimate success. Despite
Herman Nel's opposition, she had believed, until results proved the
error of her hopes, in the whole-hearted co-operation of the entire
Dutch community. Heinrich had assured her that the Boers would rise to
a man. The treaty of Vereeniging was but another scrap of paper which
the Teutonic mind lightly disregarded. Honor had disregarded it also,
as a contract signed under compulsion by the leaders against the will of
the majority; she felt that it was in no sense binding on the Dutch as a
whole. Matheson's statement that they were a people who had never known
discipline stuck in her mind. Broadly it was true. The Boer does not
submit readily to being governed, even by his own leaders. It is a
nation in the making, without any of the traditions of an older race to
guide it, but with sufficiently fine ideals from which to evolve
traditions of its own. Clear-sighted men, like Nel, realised that there
was nothing to be gained by fighting; the peaceful development of the
country would best serve their interests.
That morning, in a state of physical and mental fatigue, Honor allowed
her thoughts to dwell for the first time on the possibility of failure.
Matheson had shaken her confidence; and in reminding her that her own
brother's life might be sacrificed to the cause she so ardently
espoused, he had caused her enthusiasm a rude check. She had not
considered the toll in human life that would be exacted: the grim
ugliness of war had been lost sight of in the dazzling prospect of
victory. It did not seem to her possible that Andreas could be killed.
If that should happen, the triumph of their cause would prove a hollow
mockery, and her mother's tragic life would end in added sadness. It
was too big a price, Honor felt in her overwrought and dispirited mood--
too big a price to pay even for victory.
As she neared the homestead, coming towards her, she recognised her
husband. She was unprepared to meet him there at that hour. He had
ridden over from Benfontein. She wondered a little impatiently what
brought him. His presence there so early in the morning disconcerted
her. Although he was aware that she was sharing with her mother the
care of the sick man, and had given her permission to dress Matheson's
wound and aid Mrs Krige with her professional knowledge, his
acquiescence had not included sitting up with the patient at night: he
had supposed she would sleep beneath Leentje Nel's roof. It never
occurred to him that Matheson's case called for particular care. The
wound was not serious--a flesh wound only; he saw no reason why the
women should make a fuss over a mere scratch. In his opinion his own
hurt called for greater consideration. His throat was sore and swollen;
he had difficulty in swallowing. But Honor had expressed little
sympathy with him. She had left him alone all night to care for the man
who had injured him. He felt resentful; and he was angry with her
because of her concern for the Englishman. What was this cursed
Englishman to her that she should feel it her duty to tend him?
"You are over early," she said, when she came up with him. "I didn't
expect you."
"So I supposed," he answered roughly, and turned and walked back beside
her. "I've been to the farm. Leentje told me you were at the rondavel.
I was going to fetch you. What were you doing there? I don't choose
that my wife should spend the night with any man, sick or well."
She flushed warmly.
"Some one had to watch beside him," she said with immense restraint.
"There was no one else to do it."
"Absurd!" he replied angrily. "The nigger is good enough to wait on
him. There was no one to look after me."
"You were not so badly hurt," she returned, in a voice which despite its
quiet tones should have warned him of her rising anger. She did not
look at him; her eyes searched the landscape ahead of her, and rested
with tired satisfaction on the dew-drenched sparse vegetation, cobwebbed
with silver threads.
"I feel sick enough," he said savagely. "But that's nothing to you.
Leentje Nel wouldn't nurse her husband's murderer."
Honor smiled briefly.
"You are very aggressively alive for a murdered man," she said. She
touched his sleeve diffidently. "Don't be cross, Heinrich. I'm tired--
so very tired. And this morning I am racked with anxious fears--fears
for Andreas--fears for the cause. The country is not with us."
Holman made an angry gesture and spat upon the ground.
"White-livered curs!" he muttered. "Everything was in our hands.
They've sold us--these pitiful Boers. They're afraid for their blessed
skins."
Her anger flamed forth at this unjustifiable aspersion on the part of a
man who was taking only an inactive share in the war. At no period in
their history had the Boers earned that reproach--the people who had
paid in blood for their right to a place in the dark continent.
"That comes ill from you," she said. "At least, we don't shirk the
fighting. Men who fear for their skins don't take up arms against one
another. There is evidence enough in this district alone to refute your
accusation of cowardice. There isn't a farm within miles of us but some
of its men have joined the fighting."
"But they don't hang together," he persisted sullenly.
"They don't all think alike," she allowed; "but they possess the courage
of their different convictions, and the courage to fight for them."
"I spoke in the heat of the moment," he conceded ungraciously. "It
makes me sick to see this great opportunity wasted. You have your
chance now to secure independence; it may never come again. And men
like Botha and Smuts are simply tying your hands. Leentje has received
a message from Cornelius; it came through this morning. Colonel Brand
has sent an insulting letter to de Wet. Everywhere Botha's following is
superior to our forces. Our commandoes are simply giving way and
fleeing before them. It's a rout, unless they combine and stand firm;
but they give way before the opposition they didn't anticipate. They
aren't putting up anything of a fight."
"Cornelius and Andreas won't give way," she said proudly.
"Cornelius and Andreas are but two men," he answered bitterly; "and the
voices of two men in a commando are apt to be drowned by the rest."
Honor walked on without speaking; and in her thoughts the phrase beat
insistently: "What will it benefit you to hoist your flag over the body
of your brother?" Hot tears welled in her tired eyes, her steps dragged
wearily. It did not seem to her at the moment to matter much which side
won if only Andreas came through.
"Oh, this war!" she said sadly... "This war! it tears at the
heart-strings. Nothing can make good to a woman for the lives of the
men she loves."
"Oh, that!" he returned indifferently. "I didn't expect to hear such
talk from you. That's the view of the sentimentalist. One doesn't
reckon lives with so much at stake."
So much at stake! What stake could be greater than the flower of the
nations' manhood which was being sacrificed?
In the farmhouse when they reached it commotion reigned. Leentje Nel
was talking in loud excited tones, and two of the children, who were
frightened by the noise and whom their mother had slapped soundly in her
anger, added their cries to the uproar which greeted Honor's arrival.
Mrs Krige was doing her utmost to restore peace. When Honor entered
she found her mother with one wailing child in her arms and another
clinging to her skirt, soothing them as best she could, while Leentje
held forth bitterly on the pestilential English--the English who had
promised to protect them, and who instead had set English magistrates
over them to harass them with fines, and make life intolerable, so that
they couldn't flog a native even without having to pay for it in hard
cash. Such a state of things could not be endured. The South African
Dutch would not submit to being ruled any longer by the pestilential
English. The English would be beaten by the Germans, and then South
Africa would belong to the Boers.
It struck Honor while she listened as a wholly inadequate and very
paltry reason for which to risk valuable lives. It was not any reason
at all; it partook rather of the nature of a long-cherished revenge for
past wrongs which later events had ceased to justify. Matheson had
summed up the situation correctly: the country was governed for the
benefit of the white races impartially and for the good of the native
community. That state of affairs could not in any event be improved
upon.
Leentje turned eagerly as Honor entered, followed by her husband, and,
confident of her audience, broke forth anew.
"Here's a pretty letter from Cornelius," she cried, and flourished the
paper in Honor's face. "His commando is retreating. They run like buck
before the hunter. Naturally they expected the South African Dutch to
stand as one man to crush this unholy scandal. When they find through
the ungodly policy of Botha that they are opposed to their own people
they give way. The men are surrendering, Cornelius says, individually
and in small parties. Pah! May the Almighty desert these cowards in
their hour of need. May they die and rot and be prey for the jackals.
And those Dutch who won't give up their horses to them, and everything
else they possess, may they rot likewise and die miserably. Our men are
short of mounts, short of ammunition, short of everything." Her voice
rose to a shrill scream. "For years we have been planning this, and
when the hour strikes nothing is ready. Every horse on this farm is
commandeered. There is only the miserable horse the cursed Englishman
brought with him. That must be taken. If you had the courage of Jael,
Honor, the Englishman would never leave the rondavel to fight against
us."
Swiftly, on an impulse, she turned towards Holman, the fire of
inextinguishable hate in her eyes.
"Why don't you shoot this English dog for us? We are only women; but if
you won't do this thing, I will."
Holman shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
"You will have the English magistrates after you, Leentje," was all he
said, purposely goading her.
She smiled grimly.
"The English magistrates won't frighten me," she said. "They are set
over the districts to cow the men."
She folded the letter in her hand and thrust it savagely in her bosom,
and stared meaningly at Honor.
"`She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workman's
hammer,'" she quoted softly. "`Blessed shall she be above women in the
tent... The mother of Sisera cried through the lattice. Why is his
chariot so long in coming? Why tarry the wheels of his chariot?' ...
There is work here worthy of Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite."
Slowly, without speaking, Honor left the room. She passed through into
the kitchen, and from the kitchen went out into the hot unshaded yard.
For a minute or so she waited, as one who expects to be followed, then,
with steps as light and fleet as a fawn's, she sped away in the
direction of the rondavel.