with disinterest. I am royal Zulu, not a Hindu trader, haggling in the market-place. The coin will be just and fair, he paused delicately, always bearing in mind the multitude of my beautiful wives, my many brave sons and the host of nubile daughters. All of whom have unbelievable appetites. Mark had to remain silent, not trusting himself to speak until he controlled the violent urge to burst out laughing.
He spoke again, solemnly, but with laughter rippling his belly muscles. in what style will you address me, Pungushe? When I speak, will you answer 'Yeh ho, Nkosi, Yes, Master. '? Pungushe stirred restlessly, and an expression flitted across the broad smooth features like a fastidious eater who has just discovered a large fat worm on his plate. I will call you Tamela, he said. And when you speak as you have just spoken, I will answer 'Jamela, that is a great stupidity. 'In what style will I address you? Mark inquired politely, fighting his mirth. You will call me Pungushe. For the jackal is the cleverest and most cunning of all the silwane, and it is necessary for you to be reminded of this from time to time. Then something happened that Mark had not seen before. Pungushe smiled. It was like the break-through of the sun on a grey overcast day. His teeth were big and perfect and white, and the smile stretched so wide that it seemed his face might tear.
Mark could no longer contain it. He laughed out loud, beginning with a strangled chuckle. Hearing it, Pungushe laughed also, a great ringing bell of laughter.
The two of them laughed so long and hard, that the wives fell silent and watched in amazement, and Marion came out on to the stoep. What is it, dear? He could not answer her, and she went away shaking her head at the craziness of men.
At last they both fell silent, exhausted with mirth, and Mark gave Pungushe a cigarette from which he carefully broke the corked tip. They smoked in silence for nearly a minute, then suddenly without warning Mark let out another uncontrolled guffaw, and it started them off again.
The cords of sinew stood out on Pungushe's neck, like columns of carved ebony, and his mouth was a deep pink cavern lined with perfect white teeth. He laughed until the tears ran down his face and dripped from his chin, and when he lost his breath, he let out a great whistling snort like a bull hippo breaking surface, and he wiped the tears away with his thumb and said, Ee, bee! and slapped his thigh like a pistol shot, between each fresh paroxysm of laughter.
Mark ended it by reaching out his shaking right hand, and Pungushe took it in a reverse grip, panting and heaving still.
Pungushe, I am your man, Mark sobbed. And I, Jamela, am yours. There were four men sitting in a semi-circle around the wall of the hotel suite. They were all dressed in such fashion that it seemed a uniform. The dark high- buttoned suits, the glazed celluloid collars and sober neckties.
Although their ages were spread over thirty years, although one of them was bald with grey wisps around his ears and another had a fiery red bush of hair, although one wore a prim gold pince-nez pinched on to a thin aquiline nose while another had the open far-seeing gaze of the farmer, yet all of them had those solid hewn Calvinistic faces, indomitable, unrelenting and strong as granite.
Dirk Courtney spoke to them in the young language Which had only recently received recognition as a separate entity from its parent Dutch, and had been given the name of Afrikaans.
He spoke it with an elegance and precision that softened the reserve in their expressions, and eased the set of jaw and the stiffness in their backs. It's a jingo area, Dirk told them. There is a Union Jack flying on every roof-top. It's a rich constituency, landowners, professional men, your party has no appeal there. He was talking of the parliamentary constituency of Ladyburg. In the last elections you did not even present a candidate, nobody fool enough to lose his deposit, and the Smuts party returned General Courtney unopposed, The eldest of his listeners nodded over his gold pincenez, inviting him to continue. If you are to fight the Ladyburg seat, you will need a candidate with a different approach, an English speaker, a man of property, somebody with whom the voters can identify It was a beautiful performance. Dirk Courtney, handsome, debonair, articulate in either language, striding back and forth across the carpeted lounge, holding all their attention, stopping dramatically to make a point with a graceful gesture of strong brown hands, then striding on again. He talked for half an hour, and he was watching his audience, noting the reaction of each, judging their weaknesses, their strengths.
At the end of that half hour, he had decided that all four of them were dedicated, completely committed to their political faith. They stirred only at appeals to patriotism, to national interest, at reference to the aspirations of their people. So, Dirk Courtney thought comfortably. It's cheaper to buy honest men. Rogues cost good bright gold, while honest men can he had with a few find words and noble sentiments. Give me an honest man every time. One of the older men leaned forward and asked quietly, General Courtney has had the seat since 1910. He is a member of the Smuts Cabinet, a war hero, and a man of huge popular appeal. He is also your father. Do you think the voters will take the young dog when they can have the sire? Dirk answered: I am prepared not only to risk my deposit if I achieve the National Party nomination, but I am confident enough of my eventual success to make a substantial earnest of my serious intentions to the campaign funds of the party. He named a sum of money that made them exchange quick glances of surprise.
In exchange for all this? the elder politician asked. Nothing that is not in the best interest of the nation, and of my constituency, Dirk told them soberly, and he pulled down the map that hung on the far wall facing them.
Again he began to speak, but now with the contagious fervour of the zealot. In burning words, he built up a vision of ploughed fields stretching to the horizon, and sweet clean water running deep in endless irrigation furrows.
The listeners were all men who had farmed and ploughed the rich but hostile soil of Africa, and all of them had searched blue and cloudless skies with hopeless eyes for the rain clouds that never came. The image of deeply turned furrows and slaking water was irresistible.
of course, we will have to repeal the proclamation on the Bubezi Valley, Dirk said it glibly, and not one of them showed shock or concern at the statement. Already they could see the inland sea of sweet limpid water ruffling in the breeze.
If we win at this election, the eldest politician began. No, Menheer, Dirk interrupted gently, when we win. The man smiled for the first time. When we win, he agreed.
Dirk Courtney stood high on the platform, with thumbs hooked into his waistcoat. When he smiled and tilted that noble lion head with the shining mane of curls, the women in the audience that packed the church hall rustled like flowers in the breeze. The Butcher, said Dirk Courtney, and his voice rang with a depth and resonance that thrilled them all, man and woman, young and old. The Butcher of Fordsburg, his hands red with blood of our countrymen. The applause began with the men that Dirk Courtney had in the audience, but it spread quickly. I rode with Sean Courtney against Bornbata -'one man was on his feet, near the back of the hall. I went to France with him, he was shouting to be heard above the applause. And where were you, Mr Dirk Courtney, when the drums were beating? The smile never left Dirk's face, but two little spots of hectic colour rose in his cheeks. Ah! He faced the man across the craning heads of the audience. One of the gallant General's gunmen. How many women did you shoot down at Fordsburg? That doesn't answer my question, the man shouted back, and Dirk caught the eye of one of the two big men who had risen and were closing in quietly on the questioner. Four thousand casualties, so*id
