<h2><SPAN name="chap20"></SPAN>CHAPTER XX.<br/> THE GREAT MAN</h2>
<p>Completely overcome by this last remark, Hans collapsed like a jelly-fish out
of water, and reflected in his worthless old heart that Frank Muller was indeed
“a devil of a man.” By this time they had reached the door of the
little house, and were dismounting, and in another minute Hans found himself in
the presence of one of the leaders of the rebellion.</p>
<p>He was a short, ugly person of about fifty-five, with a big nose, small eyes,
straight hair, and a stoop. The forehead, however, was good, and the whole face
betrayed a keenness and ability far beyond the average. The great man was
seated at a plain deal table, writing something with evident difficulty upon a
dirty sheet of paper, and smoking a very large pipe.</p>
<p>“Sit, <i>Heeren</i>, sit,” he said, when they entered, waving the
stem of his pipe towards a deal bench. Accordingly they sat down without even
removing their hats, and, pulling out their pipes, proceeded to light them.</p>
<p>“How, in the name of God, do you spell ‘Excellency’?”
asked the General presently. “I have spelt it in four different ways, and
each one looks worse than the last.”</p>
<p>Frank Muller gave the required information. Hans in his heart thought he spelt
it wrong, but he did not dare to say so. Then came another pause, only
interrupted by the slow scratching of a quill across the dirty paper, during
which Hans nearly went to sleep; for the weather was very hot, and he was tired
with his ride.</p>
<p>“There!” said the writer presently, gazing at his handwriting with
an almost childish air of satisfaction, “that is done. A curse on the man
who invented writing! Our fathers did very well without it; why should not we?
Though, to be sure, it is useful for treaties with the Kafirs. I don’t
believe you have told me right now about that ‘Excellency,’ nephew.
Well, it will have to serve. When a man writes such a letter as that to the
representative of the English Queen he needn’t mind his spelling; it will
be swallowed with the rest,” and he leaned back in his chair and laughed
softly.</p>
<p>“Now, <i>Meinheer</i> Coetzee, what is it? Ah, I know; the prisoners.
Well, what did you do?”</p>
<p>Hans told his story, and was rambling on when the General cut him short.</p>
<p>“So, cousin, so! You talk like an ox-waggon—rumble and creak and
jolt, a devil of a noise and turning of wheels, but very little progress. They
will give up their twelve prisoners for our four, will they? That is about a
fair proportion. No, it is not, though: four Boers are better than twelve
Englishmen any day—ay, better than forty!” and he laughed again.
“Well, the men shall be sent in as you arranged; they will help to eat up
their last biscuits. Good-day, cousin. Stop, though; one word before you go. I
have heard about you at times, cousin. I have heard it said that you cannot be
trusted. Now, I don’t know if that is so. I don’t believe it
myself. Only, listen; if it should be true, and I should find you out, by God!
I will have you cut into rimpis with afterox <i>sjambocks</i>, and then shoot
you and send in your carcase as a present to the English.” As he spoke
thus he leaned forward, brought down his fist upon the deal table with a bang
that produced a most unpleasant effect upon poor Hans’s nerves, and a
cold gleam of sudden ferocity flickered in the small eyes, very discomforting
for a timid man to behold, however innocent he knew himself to be.</p>
<p>“I swear——” he began to babble.</p>
<p>“Swear not at all, cousin; you are an elder of the church. There is no
need for it, besides. I told you I did not believe it of you; only I have had
one or two cases of this sort of thing lately. No, never mind who they were.
You will not meet them about again. Good-day, cousin, good-day. Forget not to
thank the Almighty God for our glorious victories. He will expect it from an
elder of the church.”</p>
<p>Poor Hans departed crestfallen, feeling that the days of him who tries, however
skilfully and impartially, to sit upon two stools at once are not happy days,
and sometimes threaten to be short ones. And supposing that the Englishmen
should win after all—as in his heart he hoped they might—how should
he then prove that he had hoped it? The General watched him waddle through the
door from under his pent brows, a half-humourous, half-menacing expression on
his face.</p>
<p>“A windbag; a coward; a man without a heart for good or for evil. Bah!
nephew, that is Hans Coetzee. I have known him for years. Well, let him go. He
would sell us if he could, but I have frightened him now, and, what is more, if
I see reason, he shall find I never bark unless I mean to bite. Well, enough of
him. Let me see, have I thanked you yet for your share in Majuba? Ah! that was
a glorious victory! How many were there of you when you started up the
mountain?”</p>
<p>“Eighty men.”</p>
<p>“And how many at the end?”</p>
<p>“One hundred and seventy—perhaps a few more.”</p>
<p>“And how many of you were hit?”</p>
<p>“Three—one killed, two wounded, and a few scratches.”</p>
<p>“Wonderful, wonderful! It was a brave deed, and because it was so brave
it was successful. He must have been mad, that English general. Who shot
him?”</p>
<p>“Breytenbach. Colley held up a white handkerchief in his hand, and
Breytenbach fired, and down went the general of a heap, and then they all ran
helter-skelter down the hill. Yes, it was a wonderful thing! They could have
beat us back with their left hand. That is what comes of having a righteous
cause, uncle.”</p>
<p>The general smiled grimly. “That is what comes of having men who can
shoot, and who understand the country, and are not afraid. Well, it is done,
and well done. The stars in their courses have fought for us, Frank Muller, and
so far we have conquered. But how is it to end? You are no fool; tell me, how
will it end?”</p>
<p>Frank Muller rose and walked twice up and down the room before he answered.
“Shall I tell you?” he asked, and then, without waiting for a
reply, went on: “It will end in our getting the country back. That is
what this armistice means. There are thousands of <i>rooibaatjes</i> there at
the Nek; they cannot therefore be waiting for soldiers. They are waiting for an
opportunity to yield, uncle. We shall get the country back, and you will be
President of the Republic.”</p>
<p>The old man took a pull at his pipe. “You have a long head, Frank, and it
has not run away with you. The English Government is going to give in. The
stars in their courses continue to fight for us. The English Government is as
mad as its officers. They will give in. But it means more than that, Frank; I
will tell you what it means. It means”—and again he let his heavy
hand fall upon the deal table—“the triumph of the Boer throughout
South Africa. Bah! Burgers was not such a fool after all when he talked of his
great Dutch Republic. I have been twice to England now and I know the
Englishman. I could measure him for his <i>veldtschoens</i> (shoes). He knows
nothing—nothing. He understands his shop; he is buried in his shop, and
can think of nothing else. Sometimes he goes away and starts a shop in other
places, and buries himself in it, and makes it a big shop, because he
understands shops. But it is all a question of shops, and if the shops abroad
interfere with the shops at home, or if it is thought that they do, which comes
to the same thing, then the shops at home put an end to the shops abroad. Bah!
they talk a great deal there in England, but, at the bottom of it, it is shop,
shop, shop. They talk of honour, and patriotism too, but they both give way to
the shop. And I tell you this, Frank Muller: it is the shop that has made the
English, and it is the shop that will destroy them. Well, so be it. We shall
have our slice: Africa for the Africanders. The Transvaal for the Transvaalers
first, then the rest. Shepstone was a clever man; he would have made it all
into an English shop, with the black men for shop-boys. We have changed all
that, but we ought to be grateful to Shepstone. The English have paid our
debts, they have eaten up the Zulus, who would otherwise have destroyed us, and
they have let us beat them, and now we are going to have our turn again, and,
as you say, I shall be the first President.”</p>
<p>“Yes, uncle,” replied the younger man calmly, “and I shall be
the second.”</p>
<p>The General looked at him. “You are a bold man,” he said;
“but boldness makes the man and the country. I dare say you will. You
have the head; and one clear head can turn many fools, as the rudder does the
ship, and guide them when they are turned. I dare say that you will be
President one day.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I shall be President, and when I am I will drive the Englishmen out
of South Africa. This I will do with the help of the Natal Zulus. Then I will
destroy the natives, as T’Chaka destroyed, keeping only enough for
slaves. That is my plan, uncle; it is a good one.”</p>
<p>“It is a big one; I am not certain that it is a good one. But good or
bad, who shall say? You may carry it out, nephew, if you live. A man with
brains and wealth may carry out anything if he lives. But there is a God. I
believe, Frank Muller, that there is a God, and I believe that God sets a limit
to a man’s doings. If he is going too far, God kills him. <i>If you
live</i>, Frank Muller, you will do these things, but perhaps God will kill
you. Who can say? You will do what God wills, not what <i>you</i> will.”</p>
<p>The elder man was speaking seriously now. Muller felt that this was none of the
whining cant people in authority among the Boers find it desirable to adopt. It
was what he thought, and it chilled Muller in spite of his pretended
scepticism, as the sincere belief of an intellectual man, however opposite to
our own, is apt to chill us into doubt of ourselves and our opinions. For a
moment his slumbering superstition awoke, and he felt half afraid. Between him
and that bright future of blood and power lay a dark gulf. Suppose that gulf
should be death, and the future nothing but a dream—or worse! His face
fell as the idea occurred to him, and the General noticed it.</p>
<p>“Well,” he went on, “he who lives will see. Meanwhile you
have done good service to the State, and you shall have your reward, cousin. If
I am President”—he laid emphasis on this, the meaning of which his
listener did not miss—“if by the support of my followers I become
President, I will not forget you. And now I must up-saddle and ride back. I
want to be at Laing’s Nek in sixty hours, to wait for General
Wood’s answer. You will see about the sending in of those
prisoners;” and he knocked out his pipe and rose.</p>
<p>“By the way, <i>Meinheer</i>,” said Muller, suddenly adopting a
tone of respect, “I have a favour to ask.”</p>
<p>“What is it, nephew?”</p>
<p>“I want a pass for two friends of mine—English people—in
Pretoria to go down to their relations in Wakkerstroom district. They sent a
message to me by Hans Coetzee.”</p>
<p>“I don’t like giving passes,” answered the General with some
irritation. “You know what it means, letting out messengers. I wonder you
ask me.”</p>
<p>“It is a small favour, <i>Meinheer</i>, and I do not think that it will
matter. Pretoria will not be besieged much longer; I am under an obligation to
the people.”</p>
<p>“Well, well, as you like; but if any harm comes of it, you will be held
responsible. Write the pass; I will sign it.”</p>
<p>Frank Muller sat down and wrote and dated the paper. Its contents were simple:
“Pass the bearers unharmed.”</p>
<p>“That is big enough to drive a waggon along,” said the General,
when it was handed to him to sign. “It might mean all Pretoria.”</p>
<p>“I am not certain if there are two or three of them,” answered
Muller carelessly.</p>
<p>“Well, well, you are responsible. Give me the pen,” and he scrawled
his big coarse signature on the paper.</p>
<p>“I propose, with your permission, to escort the cart down with two other
men. As you are aware, I go to take over the command of the Wakkerstroom
district to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“Very good. It is your affair; you are responsible. I shall ask no
questions, provided your friends do no harm to the cause;” and he left
the room without another word.</p>
<p>When the great man had gone, Frank Muller sat down again on the bench and
looked at the pass, and communed with himself, for he was far too wise to
commune with anybody else. “The Lord hath delivered mine enemy into mine
hand,” he said with a smile, and stroked his golden beard. “Well,
well, I will not waste His merciful opportunities as I did that day out
buck-shooting. And then for Bessie. I suppose I shall have to kill old Croft
too. I am sorry for that, but it can’t be helped; besides, if anything
should happen to Jess, Bessie will take Mooifontein, and that is worth having.
Not that I want more land; I have enough. Yes, I will marry her. It would serve
her right if I didn’t; but, after all, marriage is more respectable; also
one has more hold of a wife. Nobody will interfere for her. Then, she will be
of use to me by-and-by, for a beautiful woman is a power even among these
fellow-countrymen of mine, if only a man knows how to bait his lines with her.
Yes, I shall marry her. Bah! that is the way to win a woman—by capture;
and, what is more, they like it. It makes her worth winning too. It will be a
courtship of blood. Well, the kisses will be the sweeter, and in the end she
will love me the more for what I have dared for her.</p>
<p>“So, Frank Muller, so! Ten years ago you said to yourself: ‘There
are three things worth having in the world—first, wealth; secondly,
women, if they take your fancy, or, better still, one woman, if you desire her
above all others; thirdly, power.’ Now, you have got the wealth, for one
way or another you are the richest man in the Transvaal. In a week you will
have the woman you love, and who is sweeter to you than all the world besides.
In five years’ time you will have the power—absolute power. That
old man is clever; he will be President. But I am cleverer. I shall soon take
his seat, thus”—and he rose and seated himself in the
General’s chair—“and he will go down a step and take mine.
Ay, and then I will reign. My tongue shall be honey and my hand iron. I will
pass over the land like a storm. I will drive these English out with the help
of the Kafirs, and then I will kill the Kafirs and take their country.
Ah!”—and his eyes flashed and his nostrils dilated as he said it to
himself—“then life will be worth living! What a thing is power!
What a thing it is to be able to destroy! Take that Englishman, my rival:
to-day he is well and strong; in three days he will be gone utterly, and
I—I shall have sent him away. That is power. But when the time comes that
I have only to stretch out my hand to send thousands after him!—that will
be absolute power; and then with Bessie I shall be happy.”</p>
<p>And so he dreamed on for an hour or more, till at last the fumes of his
untutored imagination actually drowned his reason in a spiritual drunkenness.
Picture after picture rose and unrolled itself before his mind’s eye. He
saw himself as President addressing the <i>Volksraad</i>, and compelling it to
his will. He saw himself, the supreme general of a great host, defeating the
forces of England with awful carnage, and driving them before him; ay, he even
selected the battle-ground on the slopes of the Biggarsberg in Natal. Then he
saw himself again, sweeping the natives out of South Africa with the relentless
besom of his might, and ruling unquestioned over a submissive people. And, last
of all, he saw something glittering at his feet—it was a crown!</p>
<p>This was the climax of his dream. Then there came an anticlimax. The rich
imagination which had been leading him on as a gaudy butterfly does a child,
suddenly changed colour and dropped to earth; and there rose up in his mind the
memory of the General’s words: “God sets a limit to a man’s
doings. If he is going too far, <i>God kills him</i>.”</p>
<p>The butterfly had settled on a coffin!</p>
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