Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur - Страница 81

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Speed, jong, fast as a mamba. Faced with Uncle Tromp's generosity and enthusiasm, Manfred had to gather all his courage to speak the words that had been burning his tongue all these weeks.

He waited until the last possible moment of the last possible day before blurting out. I have to go away, Uncle Tromp, and he watched in agony the disappointment and disbelief flood over the craggy bearded face that he had come so swiftly and naturally to love.

Go away? You want to leave my house? Uncle Tromp stopped short in the dust of the Windhoek road and wiped the sweat from his face with the threadbare towel draped around his neck. Why, Jong, why? My pa, Manfred answered. My pa's trial starts in three days time. I have to be there, Uncle Tromp. I have to go, but I will come back. I swear I will come back, just as soon as I can. Uncle Tromp turned from him and began to run again, pounding down the long straight road, the dust puffing from under his bearlike feet at each pace, and Manfred sprinted up beside him. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the clump of trees where the pony trap was hitched.

Oom Tromp climbed up into the driver's seat and picked up the reins. He looked down at Manfred standing beside the front wheel.

I wish, Jong, that I had a son of my own to show me such loyalty, he rumbled softly, and shook the pony into a trot.

The following evening, long after dinner and the evening prayers, Manfred lay on his bed, the candle on the shelf above his head carefully screened so that not a glimmer could alert Aunt Trudi to his extravagance. He was reading Goethe, his father's favourite author. It wasn't easy. His German had improved vastly. On two days a week Aunt Trudi insisted that no other language was spoken in the household, and she initiated erudite discussion at the dinner-table in which all members of the family were expected nay, forced, to participate. Still Goethe wasn't a Tromp, and Manfred was concentrating so fiercely on his convoluted use of verbs that he didn't know Uncle Tromp was in the room until his shadow fell across the bed and the book was lifted from his hand.

you will ruin your eyes, Jong. Manfred sat up quickly and swung his legs off the bed while Uncle Tromp sank down beside him.

For a few moments the old man leafed through the book.

Then he spoke without looking up. Rautenbach is going in to Windhoek tomorrow in his T-model Ford. He is taking in a hundred turkeys to market, but he will have room for you on the back. You'll have to put up with flying feathers and turkey shit, but it's cheaper than the train. Thank you, Uncle Tromp. There is an old widow in town, devout and decent, also a very good cook. She'll take you in. I've written to her. He drew a sheet of his notepaper from his pocket and placed it in Manfred's lap. The single sheet was folded and sealed with a blob of red wax, a back country minister's stipend could not encompass the luxury of envelopes.

Thank you, Uncle Tromp. Manfred could think of nothing else to say. He wanted to fling his arms round that thick bearlike neck and lay his cheek against the coarse grey-shot beard, but he controlled himself.

There may be other expenses, Uncle Tromp gruffed. I don't know how you will get back here. Anyway, He groped in his pocket, seized Manfred's wrist with the other hand, and pressed something into his open palm.

Manfred looked down at the two bright half-crown coins in his hand and shook his head slowly.

Uncle Tromp Say nothing, jong, especially not to your Aunt Trudi. Uncle Tromp began to stand, but Manfred caught his sleeve.

Uncle Tromp. I can pay you back, for this and all the other things. I know you will, Jong. You will pay me back a thousand times, in pride and joy one day. No, no, not one day. Now. I can pay you back now. Manfred sprang eagerly from the bed and ran to the upended packing case standing on four bricks that was his wardrobe. He knelt and thrust his arm into the space below the box and brought out a yellow tobacco bag. He hurried back to where Uncle Tromp sat on the iron bed, pulling open the drawstring of the small pouch, his hands shaking with excitement and eagerness to please.

Here, Uncle Tromp, open your hand. Smiling indulgently Uncle Tromp held out his huge paw, the back of it covered with coarse black curls, the fingers thick as good farmer's sausages.

What have you here, Jong? he demanded jovially, and then the smile froze as Manfred spilled a cascade of glittering stones into his hand.

Diamonds, Uncle Tromp, Manfred whispered. Enough to make you a rich man. Enough to buy you anything you need. Where did you get these, Jong? Uncle Tromp's voice was calm and dispassionate. How did you come by these? My pa, my father. He put them into the lining of my jacket. He said they were for me, to pay for my education and my upbringing to pay for all the things that he wanted to do for me but had never been able. So! said Uncle Tromp softly. It is all true then, all of what the newspapers say. It isn't just English lies. Your father is a brigand and a robber. The huge hand clenched into a fist over the glittering treasure. And you were with him, jong. You must have been there when he did these terrible things that they accuse him of, that they will try and condemn him for. Were you with him, Jong? Answer me! His voice was rising like a storm wind, and now he let out a bellow. Did you commit this great evil with him, Jong? The other hand shot out and seized the front of Manfred's shirt. He pulled Manfred's face to within inches of his own jutting beard. Confess to me, jong. Tell it all to me, every last scrap of evil. Were you with him when your father attacked this Englishwoman and robbed her? No! No! Manfred shook his head wildly. It's not true.

My father wouldn't do a thing like that. They were our diamonds. He explained it to me. He went to get back what was rightfully ours. 'Were you with him when he did this thing, Jong? Tell me the truth, Uncle Tromp interrupted him with another roar.

Tell me, were you with him? No, Uncle Tromp. He went alone. And when he came back he was hurt. His hand, his wrist, Thank you, Lord! Uncle Tromp looked upwards with relief. Forgive him for he knew not what he did, O Lord.

He was led into sin by an evil man. My father isn't evil, Manfred protested. He was cheated out of what was truly his. 'Silence, Jong. Oom Tromp rose to his full height, splendid and awesome as a biblical prophet. Your words are an offence in the sight of God. You will make retribution here and now. He dragged Manfred across the toolroom and pushed him in front of the black iron anvil.

Thou shalt not steal. That is the very word of God. He placed one of the diamonds in the centre of the anvil. These stones are the ill-begotten fruits of a terrible evil. He reached to the rack beside him and brought down a fourpound sledgehammer. They must be destroyed. He thrust the hammer into Manfred's hands.

Pray for forgiveness, Jong. Beg the Lord for his charity and forgiveness, and strike! Manfred stood with the hammer in his hands, holding it at high port across his chest, staring at the diamond on the anvil.

Strike, Jong! Break that cursed thing or be for ever cursed by it, roared Uncle Tromp. Strike, in the name of God. Rid yourself of the guilt and the shame. Slowly Manfred raised the hammer on high and then paused. He turned and looked at the fierce old man.

Strike swiftly, roared Uncle Tromp. Now! And Manfred swung, the same fluid, looping, overhead blow with which he chopped wood, and he grunted with effort as the head of the hammer rang on the anvil.

Manfred lifted the hammer slowly. The diamond was crushed to white powder, finer than sugar, but still the vestiges of its fire and beauty remained as each minute crystal caught and magnified the candlelight; and when Uncle Tromp brushed the diamond dust from the anvil top with his open hand it fell in a luminous rainbow cloud to the earthen floor.

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