Since his mother had died five years before he had not known the
gentling influence of a woman. No wonder he was a wild one.
Sean shied away from the memory of Dirk's mother. There was guilt
there also, guilt that had taken him many years to reconcile. She was
dead now. There was no profit in torturing himself. He pushed away
the gloom that was swamping the happiness of a few minutes before,
slapped the loose end of the reins against his horse's neck and urged
it out on to the road south towards the low line of hills upon the
horizon, south towards Pretoria.
He's a wild one. But once we reach Ladyburg he'll be all right, Sean
assured himself. They'll knock the nonsense out of him at school, and
I'll knock manners into him at home. No, he'll be all right.
That evening, the third of December, 1899, Sean led his wagons down the
hills and laagered them beside the Apies River.
After they had eaten, Sean sent Dirk to his cot in the living wagon
Then he climbed alone to the crest of the hills and looked back across
the land to the north. It was silver-grey in the moonlight, stretching
away silent and immeasurable. That was the old life and abruptly he
turned his back upon it and walked down towards the lights of the city
which beckoned to him from the valley below.
There had been a little unpleasantness when he had ordered Dirk to stay
with the wagons; in consequence Sean was in an evil mood as he crossed
the bridge on the Apies and rode into the city the following morning.
Beside him Mbejane ran to keep pace with his horse.
Deep in his own thoughts Sean turned into Church Street before he
noticed the unusual activity about him. A column of horsemen forced
him to rein his horse to the side of the road.
As they passed Sean examined them with interest.
Burghers in a motley of homespun and store clothes, riding in a
formation wich might imaginatively have been called a column of
fours.
But what excited Sean's curiosity was their numbers-By God! there must
be two thousand of them at least, from lads to grey beards each of them
was festooned with bandoliers of ammunition and beside each left knee
the butt of a bolt-action Mauser rifle stuck up from its scabbard.
Blanketrolls tied to the saddles, canteens and cooking-pots clattering,
they filed past. There was no doubting it. This was a war commando.
From the sidewalk women and a few men called comment at them.
' Geluk hoor! Shoot straight.
'Spoedige terugkonts. ' And the commandos laughed and shouted back.
Sean stooped to a pretty girl who stood beside his horse. She was
waving a red scarf and suddenly Sean saw that though she smiled her
eyelashes were loaded with tears like dew on a blade of grass.
'Where are they going?' Sean raised his voice above the uproar.
She lifted her head and the movement loosed a tear; it dropped down her
cheek, slid from her chin and left a tiny damp spot on her blouse.
'To the train, of course.'
'The train? Which train?'
'Look, here come the guns.'
In consternation Sean looked up as the guns rumbled past, two of them.
