Five days a week Roelf and Manfred ran a training route through the mountains together, a hard route of steep gradients and rough footing. Five miles out they stopped to drink in the pool below a feathery white waterfall. Roelf watched Manfred kneel on the slippery wet rocks an scoop up a double handful of the clear cold water to pour it into his open mouth.
He is a good choice, he agreed silently with the decision of his superiors. The light vest and shorts that Manfred wore showed off his powerful but graceful body, and his lustrous coppery hair and fine features were compelling. But it was the golden topaz eyes that were the key to his personality.
Even Roelf felt overshadowed by the younger man's developing confidence and assurance.
He will be a strong leader, the type we need so desperately. Manfred sprang to his feet again, dashing the water from his mouth with his forearm.
Come on, drag arse, he laughed. Last one back home is a Bolshevik. But Roelf stopped him. Today I want to talk to you, he admitted, and Manfred frowned.
Hell, man, we do nothing but talk anyway. Why here? Because here no one will overhear us. And you are wrong, Manie, some of us are doing more than just talking. We are preparing for action, hard fighting action, the kind of action you love so well. Manfred turned back towards him, immediately intrigued, and came to squat in front of him. Who? What action? he demanded, and Roelf inclined his head.
A secret elite of dedicated Afrikaners, the leaders of our people, men in top places, in government and education and the commercial life of the nation. That's who, Manie. And not only the leaders of today, Manie, the leaders of tomorrow also. Men like you and me, Manie, that's who. A secret society? Manfred swayed back on his heels.
No, Manie, much more than that, a secret army ready to fight for our poor downtrodden people. Ready to die to restore our nation to greatness. Manfred felt the fine hairs on his arms and at the nape of his neck come erect as the thrill of it coursed through his veins. His response was immediate and unquestioning.
Soldiers, Manie, the storm-troopers of our nation, Roelf went on.
Are you one of them, Roelf? Manie demanded.
Yes, Manie, I am one of them, and you also. You have attracted the attention of our supreme council. I have been asked to invite you to join us in our march to destiny, in our struggle to fulfill the manifest destiny of our people., Who are our leaders? What is the name of this secret army? You will know. You will be told everything after you have taken the oath of allegiance, Roelf promised him, and reached out to seize his arm, pressing powerful fingers into Manie's thick rubber-hard biceps.
Do you accept the call of duty? he asked. Will you join us, Manfred De La Rey? Will you wear our uniform and fight in our ranks? Manfred's Dutch blood, suspicious and broodingly introspective, responded to his promise of clandestine intrigue, while his Germanic side longed for the order and authority of a society of fierce warriors, modern-day Teutonic knights, hard and unrelenting for God and Country. And though he was unaware of it, the streak of flamboyance and love of theatrics he had inherited from his French mother was drawn to the military pomp, uniforms and eagles, that Roelf seemed to offer him.
He reached out and seized Roelf's shoulder and they held each other in the clasp of comrades, staring deeply into each other's eyes.
With all my heart, Manfred said softly. I will join you with all my heart. The full moon stood high above the Stellenbosch mountains, silvering their sheer buttresses and plunging the gullies and ravines into deepest black. In the south the Great Cross stood high, but it was washed out into insignificance by the huge fiery cross that burned closer and fiercer at the head of the open forest glade. It was a natural amphitheatre, screened by the dense conifers that surrounded it, a secret place, hidden from curious or hostile eyes, perfect for the purpose.
Beneath the fiery cross the ranks of storm-troopers were massed and their polished cross belts and buckles glinted in its light and in that of the burning torches each of them held high. There were not more than three hundred troopers present, for they were the elite, and their expressions were proud and solemn as they watched the tiny band of new recruits march out of the forest and down the slope of the glade to where the general waited to greet them.
Manfred De La Rey was the first of them to come to attention before the leaders. He wore the black shirt and riding-breeches, the high polished riding-boots of this secret band of knights, but his head was bare and his uniform unadorned except for the sheathed dagger on his belt.
The high commander stepped forward and stopped only a pace in front of Manfred. He was an imposing figure, a tall man with craggy weathered face and hard jutting jaw.
Although thickened around the waist and big-bellied under his black shirt, he was a man in his prime, a black- maned lion in his pride and the aura of command and authority sat easily upon his broad shoulders.
Manfred recognized him immediately, for his was a face often reproduced in the political columns of the national newspaper. He was high in government, the administrator of one of the country's provinces, and his influence was deep and far-reaching.
Manfred De La Rey, the commander asked in a powerful voice, are you ready to take the blood oath? I am, Manfred replied clearly, and drew the silver dagger from his belt.
From the ranks behind him Roelf Stander, in full uniform, capped and booted and with the broken cross insignia on his right arm, stepped out and drew the pistol from his holster.
He cocked the pistol and pressed the muzzle to Manfred's chest, aiming for the heart, and Manfred did not flinch. Roelf was his sponsor. The pistol was symbolic of the fact that he would also be his executioner should Manfred ever betray the blood oath he was about to swear.
Ceremoniously the commander handed Manfred a sheet of stiff parchment. Its head was illuminated by the crest of the order: a stylized powderhom like those used by the voortrekkers, the pioneers of his people. Below it was printed the oath, and Manfred took it in one hand and with the other held the bared dagger pointed at his own heart to signify his willingness to lay down his life for the ideals of the brotherhood.
Before Almighty God, and in the sight of my comrades, he read aloud, I subject myself entirely to the dictates of MY people's divinely ordained destiny. I swear to be faithful to the precepts of the Ossewa Brandwag, the sentinels of the Afrikaner wagon train, and to obey the orders of my superiors. On my life I swear a deadly oath of secrecy, that I will cherish and hold sacred the affairs and proceedings of the Ossewa Brandwag. I demand that if I should betray my comrades, my oath or my Vow, vengeance shall follow me to my traitor's grave. I call upon my comrades to hear my entreaty.
