He collapsed forwards as he struck the ground; ducking his head, he rolled on to his shoulders and, drawing up his knees, went down the embankment like a rubber ball.
In the dry pale grass beside the line, he did not rise but dragged himself on elbows and belly to a low dark Thorn bush, fifty yards from the rails. Slowly he worked himself under its low branches and lay face down, gritting his teeth against the dull beat of his ankle.
The train had halted with its van level with Mark's hiding place; the guard climbed down, flashing his lantern, while from the head of the train a group of men, each one carrying a lantern, hurried back towards him, searching the open trucks as they came.
Mark could see they were all armed, and their voices carried loudly as they called explanations to the driver and fireman who leaned from the cab of the locomotive. What's the trouble? You've got a fugitive from justice aboard. Who are you? We're special constables. Who's the fellow? He robbed a bank -'He killed four men in LadyburgHe jumped your train on the escarpment Don't take any chances, you fellows, the bastard is a killer -They came swiftly down the train, talking loudly and calling to each other to bolster their courage, and at the last moment Mark remembered the Zulu. He should have warned the man, but he had been too concerned with his own danger. He wanted to shout now, warn him to run, but he could not bring himself to do it. The Zulu would be all right, they would not shoot when they saw he was a black, they might slap him around a little and throw him off The Zulu darted out from between two of the boxcars from where he had climbed down on to the coupling. He was a dark flitting shape, and somebody yelled a warning.
Immediately there was a shot.
Mark saw the dust from the bullet fly in the lamplight, and the Zulu swerved and ran directly out into the open grassland. Half a dozen shots ripped the night, the muzzle flashes were angry red blooms in the night, but the Zulu ran on.
One of the men on the track dropped to his knee, and Mark saw his face white and eager in the light of the torches. He aimed deliberately, and his rifle kicked up sharply.
The Zulu collapsed in the grass without a cry, and they raced forward in an excited pack to gather around his body. Oh, Jesus, it's only a black. There was confused angry discussion and argument for five minutes, and then four of them took an arm and leg each and carried the Zulu between them to the parked lorry.
The black man's head lolled back, almost sweeping the earth, his mouth gaped open and the blood that dripped from it was black as tar in the lamplight and his head swung loosely to the uneven stride of the men who carried him. They lifted him into the back of the lorry.
The north-bound train came thundering through the siding, its whistle shrilling on a high piercing shriek, and then it was gone on its way to Ladyburg.
The men climbed into the lorry and the engine fired, and it moved away with its headlights sweeping sky and earth as it pitched over the bumpy track.
The stationary train whistled mournfully and it began to roll forward, rumbling slowly over the tracks. Mark crawled out from his hiding-place beneath the bush, and hopped and stumbled after it, catching it just before its speed built up.
He crawled over the sugar bags into the lee of the steel side, and found the Zulu had left his blanket. As he wrapped it around his icy body, he felt the guilt flood over him, guilt for the man's death, the man who had been a friend then the guilt turned to anger.
Bitter corrosive anger that sustained him through the night as the train rushed southwards.
Fordsburg is a squalid suburb of Johannesburg, three hundred miles from the golden grassy hills of Zululand and the beautiful forested valley of Ladyburg. It is an area of mean cottages, tiny workers houses of galvanized iron on timber frames, each with a bleak little garden. In some of the gardens there were brave and defiant shows of bright blooms, barbeton daisies, carinas and flaming red poinsettia, but in most of them the bare untended earth, patched with black-jack and khaki-bush, told of the tenants indifference.
Over the narrow streets and crowded cottages, the mine dumps held majestic sway, towering table-topped mountains of poisonous yellow earth from which the gold had been extracted. The cyanide process of extraction ensured that the earth of the dumps was barren and sterile. No plants grew upon them, and on windy days the yellow dust and grit whipped over the grovelling cottages beneath them.
The dumps dominated the landscape, monument to the antlike endeavours of man, symbols of his eternal greed for gold. The mine headgears were spidery steel structures against the pale cloudless blue of the highveld winter sky.
The huge steel wheels on their heights spun endlessly, back and forth, lowering the cages filled with men deep into the earth, and rising again with the ore bins loaded with the gold-rich rock.
Mark made his way slowly down one of the narrow, dusty streets. He still limped slightly, and a cheap cardboard suitcase carried the few possessions he had bought to replace those he had lost on the escarpment.
The clothes he wore were an improvement on the shapeless demobilization suit that the army had given him. His flannels were neatly creased and the blue blazer fitted his good shoulders and narrow flanks, the open-necked white shirt was snowy clean and set off the smooth brown skin of his neck and face.
He reached the cottage numbered fifty-five on the gate, and it was a mirror image of those on each side and opposite. He opened the gate and went up the short flagged path, aware that somebody was watching him from behind the lace curtain in the front room.
However, when he knocked on the front door it was only opened after a delay of many minutes, and Mark blinked at the woman who stood there.
Her dark short hair was freshly combed, and the clothes she wore had clearly been hastily put on in place of dowdier dress. She was still fastening the belt at her slim waist. it was a dress of pale blue with a design of yellow daisies, and it made her appear young and gay, although Mark saw at once that she was at least ten years older than he was. Yes? she asked, tempering the abrupt demand with a smile. Does Fergus MacDonald live here? He saw now that she was good-looking, not pretty, but fine-looking with good bones in her cheeks and dark intelligent eyes. Yes, this is Mr MacDonald's house. There was a foreign inflection in her voice that was intriguing. I am Mrs MacDonald. Oh, he said, taken by surprise. He had known Fergus was married. He had spoken about it often, but Mark had never really thought about his wife before, not as a real flesh and blood woman, and certainly not one like this. I am an old friend of Fergus'from the army. Oh, I see, she hesitated. My name's Mark, Mark Anders. Instantly her attitude changed, the half smile bloomed and lit her whole face.
