While the birds and sharks gorged, the hulls of the trawlers sank lower and still lower into the water, until at last a little after the sun had nooned even Lothar had to call enough. There was no room for another load; each time they swung one aboard it merely slithered over the side to feed the circling sharks.
Lothar switched off the winch. There was probably another hundred tons of fish still floating in the main net, most of them drowned and crushed. Empty the net, he ordered. Let them go! Get the net on board. The four trawlers, each of them so low in the water that seawater washed in through the scuppers at each roll, and their speed reduced to an ungainly waddling motion like a string of heavily pregnant ducks, turned towards the land in line astern with Lothar leading them.
Behind them they left an area of almost half a square mile of the ocean carpeted with dead fish, floating silver belly up, as thick as autumn leaves on the forest floor. On top of them drifted thousands of satiated seagulls and beneath them the big sharks swirled and feasted still.
The exhausted crews dragged themselves through the quick-sands of still quivering kicking fish that glutted the deck to the forecastle companionway. Below deck they threw themselves still soaked with fish-slime and seawater onto their cramped bunks.
In the wheelhouse Lothar drank two mugs of hot coffee then checked the chronometer above his head.
Four hours run back to the factory, he said. Just time for our lessons. Oh, Pa! the boy pleaded. Not today, today is special. Do we have to learn today? There was no school at Walvis Bay. The nearest was the German School at Swakopmund, thirty kilometres away.
Lothar had been both father and mother to the boy from the very day of his birth. He had taken him wet and bloody from the child-bed. His mother had never even laid eyes upon him.
That had been part of their unnatural bargain. He had reared the boy alone, unaided except for the milk that the brown Nama wet-nurses had provided. They had grown so close that Lothar could not bear to be parted from him for a single day. He had even taken over his education rather than send him away.
No day is that special, he told Manfred. Every day we learn. Muscles don't make a man strong. He tapped his head. This is what makes a man strong. Get the books! Manfred rolled his eyes at Da Silva for sympathy but he knew better than to argue further.
Take the wheel. Lothar handed over to the old boatman and went to sit beside his son at the small chart-table. Not arithmetic. He shook his head. It's English today., I hate English! Manfred declared vehemently. I hate English and I hate the English. Lothar nodded. Yes! he agreed. The English are our enemies. They have always been and always will be our enemies.
That is why we have to arm ourselves with their weapons.
That is why we learn the language, so when the time comes we will be able to use it in the battle against them. He spoke in English for the first time that day. Manfred started to reply in Afrikaans, the South African Dutch patois that had only obtained recognition as a separate language and been adopted as an official language of the Union of South Africa in 1918, over a year before Manfred was born.
Lothar held up his hand to stop him.
English, he admonished. Speak English only. For an hour they worked together, reading aloud from the King James version of the Bible and from a two-month-old COPY of the Cape Times, and then Lothar set him a page of dictation. The labour in this unfamiliar language made Manfred fidget and frown and nibble his pencil, until at last he could contain himself no longer.
Tell me about Grandpa, and the oath! he wheedled his father.
Lothar grinned. You're a cunning little monkey, aren't you. Anything to get out of work. Please, Pa, I've told you a hundred times. Tell me again. It's a special day. Lothar glanced out of the wheelhouse window at the precious silver cargo. The boy was right, it was a very special day. Today he was free and clear of debt, after five long hard years.
All right. He nodded. I'll tell you again, but in English. And Manfred shut his exercise book with an enthusiastic snap and leaned across the table, his amber eyes glowing with anticipation.
The story of the great rebellion had been repeated so often that Manfred had it by heart and he corrected any discrepancy or departure from the original, or called his father back if he left out any of the details.
Well then, Lothar started, when the treacherous English King George V declared war on Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany in 1914, your grandpa and I knew our duty. We kissed your grandmother goodbye What colour was my grandmother's hair? Manfred demanded.
Your grandmother was a beautiful German noblewoman, and her hair was the colour of ripe wheat in the sunlight. just like mine, Manfred prompted him.
Just like yours, Lothar smiled. And Grandpa and I rode out on our war-horses to join old General Maritz and his six hundred heroes on the banks of the orange river where he was about to go out against old Slim Jannie Smuts., Slim was the Afrikaans word for tricky or treacherous, and Manfred nodded avidly.
Go on, Pa, go on! When Lothar reached the description of the first battle in which Jannie Smuts troops had smashed the rebellion with machine-guns and artillery, the boy's eyes clouded with sorrow.
But you fought like demons, didn't you, Pa? We fought like madmen, but there were too many of them and they were armed with great cannons and machine-guns.
Then your grandpa was hit in the stomach and I put him up on my horse and carried him off the battlefield. Fat tears glistened in the boy's eyes now as Lothar ended.
When at last he was dying your grandfather took the old black Bible from the saddle bag on which his head was pillowed, and he made me swear an oath upon the book. I know the oath, Manfred cut in. 'Let me tell it? What was the oath? Lothar nodded agreement.
Grandpa said: "Promise me, my son, with your hand upon the book, promise me that the war with the English will never end." Yes, Lothar nodded again. That was the oath, the solemn oath I made to my father as he lay dying. He reached out and took the boy's hand and squeezed it hard.
Old Da Silva broke the mood; he coughed and hawked and spat through the wheelhouse window. You should be ashamed, filling the child's head with hatred and death, he said, and Lothar stood up abruptly.
Guard your mouth, old man, he warned. This is no business of yours. Thank the Holy Virgin, Da Silva grumbled, for that is devil's business indeed. Lothar scowled and turned away from him. Manfred, that's enough for today. Put the books away. He swung out of the wheelhouse and scrambled up onto the roof. As he settled comfortably against the coaming, he took a long black cheroot from his top pocket and bit off the tip. He spat the stub overside and patted his pockets for the matches. The boy stuck his head over the edge of the coaming, hesitated shyly and when his father did not send him away, sometimes he was moody and withdrawn and wanted to be alone, Manfred crept up and sat beside him.
Lothar cupped his hands around the flare of the match and sucked the cheroot smoke down deeply into his lungs and then he held up the match and let the wind extinguish it. He flicked it overboard, and let his arm fall casually over his son's shoulders.
The boy shivered with delight, physical display of affection from his father was so rare, and he pressed closer to him and sat still as he could, barely breathing so as not to disturb or spoil the moment.
The little fleet ran in towards the land, and turned the sharp northern horn of the bay. The seabirds were returning with them, squadrons of yellow-throated gannets in long regular lines skimming low over the cloudy green waters, and the lowering sun gilded them and burned upon the tall bronze dunes that rose like a mountain range behind the tiny insignificant cluster of buildings that stood at the edge of the bay.
I hope Willem has had enough sense to fire up the boilers, Lothar murmured. We have enough work here to keep the factory busy all night and all tomorrow. We'll never be able to can all this fish, the boy whispered.
No, we will have to turn most of it to fish oil and fish meal, Lothar broke off and stared across the bay. Manfred felt his body stiffen and then, to the boy's dismay, he lifted his arm off his son's shoulders and shaded his eyes.
The bloody fool, he growled. With his hunter's vision he had picked out the distant stack of the factory boilerhouse.
It was smokeless. What the hell is he playing at? Lothar leapt to his feet and balanced easily against the trawler's motion. He has let the boilers go cold. It will take five or six hours to refire them and our fish will begin to spoil.
Damn him, damn him to hell! Raging still, Lothar dropped down to the wheelhouse. As he yanked the foghorn to alert the factory, he snapped, With the money from the fish I'm going to buy one of Marconi's newfangled short-wave radio machines so we can talk to the factory while we are at sea; then this sort of thing won't happen. He broke off again and stared. What the hell is going on! He snatched the binoculars from the bin next to the control panel and focused them.
They were close enough now to see the small crowd at the main doors of the factory. The cutters and packers in their rubber aprons and boots.
They should have been at their places in the factory.
There is Willem. The factory manager was standing on the end of the long wooden unloading jetty that thrust out into the still waters of the bay on its heavy teak pilings.
What the hell is he playing at, the boilers cold and everybody hanging about outside? There were two strangers with Willem, standing one on each side of him. They were dressed in dark civilian suits and they had that self-important, puffed-up look of petty officialdom that Lothar knew and dreaded.
Tax collectors or other civil servants, Lothar whispered, and his anger cooled and was replaced with unease. No minion of the government had ever brought him good news.
Trouble, he guessed. Just now when I have a thousand tons of fish to cook and can, Then he noticed the motor cars. They had been screened by the factory building until Da Silva made the turn into the main channel that would bring the trawler up to the off-loading jetty. There were two cars. One was a battered old T model Ford, but the other, even though covered with a pale coating of fine desert dust, was a much grander machine, and Lothar felt his heart trip and his breathing alter.
There could not be two similar vehicles in the whole of Africa. it was an elephantine Daimler, painted daffodil yellow. The last time he had seen it, it had been parked outside the offices of the Courtney Mining and Finance Company in the Main Street of Windhoek.
Lothar had been on his way to discuss an extension of his loans from the company. He had stood on the opposite side of the wide dusty unpaved street and watched as she came down the broad marble steps, flanked by two of her obsequious employees in dark suits and high celluloid collars; one of them had opened the door of the magnificent yellow machine for her and bowed her into the driver's seat while the other had run to take the crank handle. Scorning a chauffeur, she had driven off herself, not even glancing in Lothar's direction, and left him pale and trembling with the conflicting emotions that the mere sight of her had evoked. That had been almost a year before.
Now he roused himself as Da Silva laid the heavily burdened trawler alongside the jetty. They were so low in the water that Manfred had to toss the bow mooring-line up to one of the men on the jetty above him.
Lothar, these men, they want to speak to you. Willem called down. He was sweating nervously as he jerked a thumb at the man who flanked him.
Are you Mr Lothar De La Rey? the smaller of the two strangers demanded, pushing his dusty fedora hat onto the back of his head and mopping the pale line of skin that was exposed beneath the brim.
That's right. Lothar glared up at him with his clenched fists upon his hips. And who the hell are your Are you the owner of the South west African Canning and Fishing Company? Ja! Lothar answered him in Afrikaans. I am the owner and what of it? I am the sheriff of the court in Windhoek, and I have here a writ of attachment over all the assets of the company. The sheriff brandished the document he held.
They've closed the factory, Willem called down to Lothar miserably, his moustaches quivering. They made me draw the fires on my boilers. You can't do that! Lothar snarled, and his eyes slitted yellow and fierce as those of an angry leopard. I've got a thousand tons of fish to process. Are these the four trawlers registered in the company's name? the sheriff went on, unperturbed by the outburst, but he unbuttoned his dark jacket and pulled it back as he placed both hands on his hips. A heavy Webley service revolver hung on a leather holster from his belt. He turned his head to watch the other trawlers mooring at their berths on each side of the jetty, then without waiting for Lothar to answer he went on placidly, My assistant will place the court seals on them and their cargoes. I must warn you that it will be a criminal offence to remove either the boats or their cargoes. You can't do this to me! Lothar swarmed up the ladder onto the jetty. His tone was no longer belligerent. I have to get my fish processed. Don't you understand? They'll be stinking to the heavens by tomorrow morning They are not your fish. The sheriff shook his head. They belong to the Courtney Mining and Finance Company., He gestured to his assistant impatiently. Get on with it, man. And he began to turn away.
She's here, Lothar called after him, and the sheriff turned back to face him again.
She's here, Lothar repeated. That's her car. She has come herself, hasn't she? The sheriff dropped his eyes and shrugged, but Willem gobbled a reply.
Yes, she's here, she's waiting in my office. Lothar turned away from the group and strode down the jetty, his heavy oilskin breeches rustling and his fists still bunched as though he were going into a fight.
The agitated crowd of factory hands was waiting for him at the head of the jetty.
What is happening, Baas? they pleaded. They won't let us work.
What must we do, Ou Baas? Wait! Lothar ordered them brusquely. I will fix this. Will we get our pay, Baas? We've got children, 'You'll be paid, Lothar snapped, I promise you that. It was a promise he could not keep, not until he had sold his fish, and he pushed his way through them and strode around the corner of the factory towards the manager's office.
The Daimler was parked outside the door, and a boy leaned against the front mudguard of the big yellow machine. It was obvious that he was disgruntled and bored. He was perhaps a year older than Manfred but an inch or so shorter and his body was slimmer and neater. He wore a white shirt that had wilted a little in the heat, and his fashionable Oxford bags of grey flannel were dusty and too modish for a boy of his age, but there was an unstudied grace about him, and he was beautiful as a girl, with flawless skin and dark indigo eyes.
Lothar came up short at the sight of him, and before he could stop himself, he said, Shasa! The boy straightened up quickly and flicked the lock of dark hair off his forehead.
How do you know my name? he asked, and despite his tone the dark blue eyes sparkled with interest as he studied Lothar with a level, almost adult self-assurance.
There were a hundred answers Lothar could have given, and they crowded to his lips: Once, many years ago, I saved you and your mother from death in the desert.. . I helped wean you, and carried you on the pommel of my saddle when you were a baby ... I loved you, almost as much as once I loved your mother ... You are Manfred's brother you are half brother to my own son. I'd recognize you anywhere, even after a t s time. But instead he said, Shasa is the Bushman word for "Good Water", the most precious substance in the Bushman world. That's right. Shasa Courtney nodded. The man interested him. There was a restrained violence and cruelty in him, an impression of untapped strength, and his eyes were strangely light coloured, almost yellow like those of a cat. You're right. It's a Bushman name, but my Christian name is Michel. That's French. My mother is French. Where is she? Lothar demanded, and Shasa glanced at the office door.