FOOTNOTES
[1] Slang Hindustani—‘pigs.’
[2] ‘Talked.’
[3] ‘Come on.’
[4] ‘Quick.’
[5] ‘See.’
CHILDREN’S CHILDREN.
BY MAJOR-GENERAL G. F. MACMUNN, C.B., D.S.O.
Old Schwartz rode over the bult on his lean veldt pony, his corduroys flapping in the wind and his veldt schoen barely resting in the stirrups. And the prospect pleased him. Not a roof-tree could he see except his own. The blue sheen on the scrub and the shimmer on the vlei grass gave an air of peace on a road untold that men have searched the world for since time was. Away on the slopes were some of his own cattle, and a herd of his own horses; several generations of mares, each with their foals, were galloping down to the pan for the evening. The prospect was such as every old voortrekker dreamed of and looked for.
Gabriel Jacobus Schwartzberg was a voortrekker in the sense that, a baby in arms, he had rumbled up in the great oxwain, with his father, old Gabriel Hermanus (he being long known as young Garvie, pronounced ‘Harvie’), had seen the republic grow and wane and come again. He had brought a secret commando across from the Free State to help Piet Cronje crush the roineks at Potchefstroom, and as a young man had fired his father’s old roei into Harry Smith’s force at Boomplaatz—and perhaps shot the ensign who lies in his tombstoned grave there. Therefore an old implacable he was, ‘a stout ould Pratestant’ like the Ulster man, if ever there was one.
The Great Boer War had seen him too old save to ride transport, but ridden he had and then hidden in the Gnaadeberg till the republics had gone down in sorrow, and he for the time had cursed the God of David for forsaking His chosen; till one day a slim predikant had explained that the Lord worked in wondrous ways, and that they had already got the country back from the verdomde roineks. It was easy enough so to describe what everyone in England, since party politics are dead, has recognised as an act of statesmanship; and the predikant wanted fifty sheep as a contribution to his new manse.
So old Schwartz took heart of grace, and, finding that no roineks came his way, sat in the stoep in the sun, smoking away the remaining years that God gave him, his sun-dried old eyes peering out across the shimmer of the veldt, his rifle by his side, and the volume of the Sacred Law on a table, for it is so the old Dutch wait their end, rich in years and in inheritance, as the Lord has promised. And in the year of grace 1915 it was far, far past the threescore years and ten. Yet had it not turned to sorrow and tears. Daily did old Schwartz ride round his estate by the vlei, where the springbok dwelt, and over the bult to Bessie’s Dam, where his son lived hidden from view, and back by Saltpan, past his own oxen to his own old house at Sweetfontein, the sweet spring that old Hermanus had found and built beside, with Marie, his wife, and little Garvie, his son, far back in the ages, as time is counted in South Africa.
But now in his old, old age great trouble had come on old Schwartz, and he sat long o’ days in the stoep peering out into the shimmer. The Great War in Europe was nothing to him. At ninety-two, be one never so hale, kings may rise and fall, and wars may come and go, and leave ninety-two sitting in the stoep.
The rising of De Wet had stirred him not. That was a foolishness. Had not the predikant explained that Dutch slimness had given them the country back these eight years past. Louis Botha had very properly settled his goose, and the trek into German South-west Africa and Namaqualand was right. The German had no business there at all, Oud Brand had always said so. He knew what Germans were, he had known the old Legion men whom the English had settled on the land after that Crimean War of theirs—pretty settlers they were. Look at that Colonel Schermbrücker, bah! Verdomde Kerbs every one. But now—a dreadful story had come up from Philippolis. Folk said that Afrikanders were going to Europe to help the English in this mad war of theirs.
So old Schwartz was sore perplexed, as well he might be, and Julie, his wife, was away to town to Nachtmaal, the monthly Communion; an old body too, as years went, near thirty years his junior, and his third wife forby; and wise withal.
In the Zit-kammer hung a huge gold frame, and in the frame an illuminated border, and within the border a big black coffin, and round the coffin the names of the wives and the children who had died. The names were many, for the Boers bear more than they rear; the little cemetery above the dam had many little graves. Beneath the golden frame stood a table, and on it an old faded wool-worked cloth, and on the table stood the great family Bible in Dutch, the volume of the Sacred Law in all its glory, and therein were written the names of all the wives and all the children of Gabriel Schwartzberg and his wives, and the names were more numerous than those of the golden frame. Eleven sons and three daughters still survived. And the last were the entries of Julie Armand Duplessis, his last wife, and her sons, of whom two survived.
In the sacred volume also stood the names of Gabriel Hermanus Schwartzberg, born 1798, and Marie Duplooy, his wife, born 1802 and married in 1820, and of his father, Gabriel Petrus Schwartzberg, born 1760, and of his wife, Flavie Terblanche, married in 1782.
The record read like the record of the Patriarchs, and one might notice how the wives were always French, as indeed he who looks below the surface has always noticed, that the Dutch are more French than Dutch, Huguenots all. There are more Delareys, and Fouchées, and Terblanches, and Duplooys, and Duplessis, and Duprés, and Oliviers, and Villiers, and Dutoits, and Mathias, and Krugers, and Cronjes, and Bothas than ever there be Vandermerwes, or Forsters, or Rensbergs, or Vanzyls; which folk forget, or that they who strive most to preserve the Taal stamped out the French with a bitter fury. It is further to be remembered by those who care for such varieties that when the Emperor Napoleon would restore the old nobility, he found that Madame Guillotine had left the heirdom of the Ducs de Richelieu, the family of du Plessis and the great cardinal, in the Boer Huguenot family of Duplessis, and further that the heir, a placid, contented farmer, settled on the land a hundred years and more, and married to Helena Duplooy, refused the offer of land and estates in France. And so the rightful heir remained where he was, to trek later to the Krapzak Rivier in the Free State and speak the Taal for all time. Little there remains of the old France, save in those natural manners and courtesy and more that surprise those who really know the old Cape Dutch. Some of the old legends remain in some of the old families, cherished by the women more than the men, as such things are the world over.
Thinking nothing of such things, old Schwartz had grown as the other Dutch, and his own veldt was all the world to him, so that as he came back from Bessie’s Dam to talk of the outer world, his own solitary farm, with the poplars of Lombardy growing on the dam where Julie had planted them, her first communion after they married, peace for a while came over his vexed mind. At ninety-two perhaps even the thought of khaki hardly vexes for long.
But it was true; not only had the Dutch quelled their rebellions alongside the English, and had taken the German State, but they were actually fitting out troops to help the English overseas.
Now the English are a curious folk. The world understands them not, which is not to be marvelled at, since they certainly do not understand themselves—but as the lamented Price Collier wrote, they—the folks of a tiny island, own and rule a sixth of the world. The writers tell you that they are antiquated and unbusinesslike, but they govern a sixth of the world! Their navy is known to be bad and their army absurd, ‘but they govern a sixth of the world!’ Their finance, folk say, is archaic, and their politics a folly, ‘but,’ reiterates Price Collier, ‘they govern a sixth of the world.’
And so goes on the incomprehensible, with the persistent result, and still the world, and especially the poor Teutonic world, understands them not. Their allies the French have tried very hard, until some glimmer of light on island minds has come to them, and with that light, faith—faith to believe that, however dull, and queer, and gruff, and awkward the English might be, there is something to be liked and trusted in the queer methods that so successfully and so illogically govern one-sixth of the world.
Old Schwartz’s horse lolloped over the crisp red grass of the vlei, and a brace of Kuoorhaan, the scolding hens, rose with a whirr and a clatter that roused the old man from his dreams, and he pulled himself together to cross the slope to his farm. The sun was low over the veldt, and the light of fairyland was falling on the countryside, as he rode into the yards—past the sheep-kraals. There were geese under the willows picking at the water-cress in the fountain cut, and the boys were driving in the cows. Strangers had arrived, and Schwartz could see old Tanta Fouché, his half-sister, a woman of seventy, out in the stoep, and there were strange horses in the kraal.
Four figures in khaki sat in the stoep drinking coffee, and old Schwartz climbed down from his horse and stiffly mounted the steps, while the new-comers rose to greet him. It was his son Hermanus from Slipklip Oost, and with him a man he knew, Commandant Jacobus Delarey of Witkopjie, but in khaki, with rifle and bandolier. Why in khaki?
Old Schwartz shook hands in silence, and peered under his shaggy eyebrows at the other two, also in khaki, with rifles and bandoliers. They were his grandsons, Willie and Munik, his two favourites, ‘the children’s children that are an old man’s crown.’
The old man passed his hand over his brow in perplexity. ‘What are you all doing in khaki? I don’t understand, Hermanus.’
‘The boys are going with the commando, father!’
‘What commando?’
‘The new commando that is going to help the English in Egypt, and the French.’
‘Going to help the English, my grandsons—going to wear khaki? I will never allow that.’
‘But, father, they are all doing it; all the young men are going. General Smuts is raising many commandos, English and Dutch. The English are fighting to protect the world against Germany. I have read it out to you, and mother has told you of the war.’
‘Your mother never told me that the farmers were going to wear khaki and be English soldiers. Cursed be any of mine who join the English.’
And the old man drew himself up and glared, and his old eyes blazed under his eyebrows.
‘Man and boy have I hated them and fought them, and never trusted them, and now, cursed be you, Hermanus, if you let them go—cursed be you, Willie! cursed be you, Munik!...’
The boys had shrunk back into the doorway, and Commandant Delarey was biting his beard, when a Cape cart came clattering up the courtyard to the stoep.
‘Here is mother,’ called Hermanus, and an old lady descended with many parcels and called out to them to help her, and came up the steps like a woman of forty rather than one of seventy. Small and dark and shrivelled and active, the black grapes on her head shaking and dancing, and her bead cape quivering.
‘Why, grandsons! come along and get my parcels, or you’ll get no fresh coffee. Why, what’s the matter, Hermanus! What’s wrong with grandfather?’
The old man stood erect with his hand still half raised on high.
‘What are you doing, Gabriel?’
‘Father curses Willie and Munik for joining the English to help the French.’
‘Oh, does he? then let him wait till he has heard me. I’ll have none of his Dopper ways now. What is the trouble, Gabriel?’
The old man raised his hand: ‘Cursed are the Dutch who join the English commandos! Cursed....’
‘Now, listen to me, Gabriel Schwartzberg. Am I faithful wife of yours?’
‘That have you ever been, Julie.’
‘Then will you listen to me, and keep your cursing to the end, old man!’
The old man bowed his head and lowered his hand, and sank to a chair that Hermanus brought him.
‘Listen, then, Gabriel Jacobus Schwartzberg. The English are helping the French to fight those German brutes who would make slaves of all. You remember all I read you that the Germans did to the Belgian girls at Louvain. Did ever the English behave like that here? You know they did not. Did I love the English? You know I did not. But they were fair and honest and kindly. The Mori Kaptan who took me away to the laager treated me as if I had been his mother. Did they not give us back our Government? Oh yes, I know the Predikant, told you it was Boer slimness got it back, but he wanted money from you for his manse. It was English slimness who knew how to manage free people, not like your dirty Germans. Besides they are helping the French, whom you Germans attacked. I am French. I am a Duplessis, and I have not forgotten it, nor my mother, nor my mother’s mother, for all we married you fusty old veldt Dutch. And your mother told me the same, and she was a Duplooy, and her mother was a Terblanche. Look in the old Bible and see! You men are so busy shooting bucks and smoking, you don’t think of such things, but we women do. So, Mr. Dutchman, my grandsons shall wear khaki and go and help the English and the French and those poor Belgian girls, and you shall give them your blessing, Gabriel, or I will go right away to my brother Armande Duplessis, who is vriede reckter[6] at Fauriesberg, and Tanta will make your coffee. You know how you will like that.’
Julie was a very voluble person when stirred, and when she had finished the others murmured ‘Ja! Ja!’ while Commandant Delarey brought his rifle-butt with a ring on to the stones and said:
‘The Vrouw is right, mynheer, and the boys must come.’
The fire had gone out of the old man’s eye. Fire at ninety-two is not constant, and old Tanta coming to say supper was ready clinched the situation.
After supper Hermanus read the word of God from the Second Book of Kings out of the great Bible, and poor old Schwartz was taken to bed to hear more for his pains.
Julie was a strategist and an advocate. Next morning early, before dawn, after the simple wont of the simple Dutch, the songs of David in simple point swelled in the morning air, and the quavering voice of old Schwartz led the chaunt.
It was the glorious words of the Dominus Regnavit, and it suited the donning of khaki and the old man’s surrender.
‘The Lord is King, and hath put on glorious apparel and girded Himself with strength....
‘The waves of the sea are mighty, and rage horribly, but yet the Lord who dwelleth on high is mightier.’
As the sun glinted under the stoep, old Schwartz was being shown the glories of a Mark VII rifle, and the merits of the pointed bullet, while the horses were saddling in the kraal. Later, as Commandant Delarey marched off his commando, rifles on hip in due and ancient form, it was Julie who waved a Union flag and a tricolour, while old Schwartz stood on the stoep and gave his blessing from the Book:
‘In courage keep your heart
In strength lift up your hand.’