Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur (читать книги онлайн регистрации .TXT) 📗
How can you bear to drive around on four wheels that cost enough to clothe, educate and feed a hundred black children from the cradle to the grave? For once Shasa saw the practical wisdom of not flaunting his wealth in front of his constituents. Tara was really tremendous value for money, Shasa reflected. An aspiring politician could not ask for a better running mate, a mother of four lovely children, outspoken, holding strong opinions and possessing a natural shrewdness that anticipated the prejudices and fickle enthusiasm of the herd. She was also strikingly beautiful with all that smouldering auburn hair and a smile that could light up a dreary meeting, and despite four childbirths in almost as many years, her figure was still marvelous, small waist, good hips, only her bosom had burgeoned.
I'd back her in a showdown with Jane Russell, tit for tat she'd win by a length going away. Shasa chuckled aloud, and she looked across at him.
That's your dirty laugh, she accused. Don't tell me what you are thinking. Let me hear your speech instead. He rehearsed it for her, with appropriate gestures and she made an occasional suggestion on content and delivery. I would pause longer there, I and, look fierce and determined, or, I wouldn't make too much of that bit about the Empire.
Not really in fashion any more. Tara still drove furiously and the journey was soon over.
There were larger-than-life posters of Shasa pasted at the entrance and the hall was gratifyingly full. All the seats ken and there were even a dozen or so younger men were ta standing at the back - they looked like students, Shasa doubted they were old enough to vote.
The local United Party organizer, a Party rosette on his lapel, introduced Shasa as a man who needed no introduction and extolled the fine work he had done for the constituency during his previous short term of office.
Then Shasa rose, tall and debonair in a dark blue suit that was not too new or fashionably cut, but with a crisp white shirt, only spivs wore coloured shirts, and an airforce tie to remind them of his war record. The eye-patch further emphasized what he had sacrificed for his country and his smile was charming and sincere.
My friends he began, and got no further. He was drowned out by a pandemonium of stamping and chanting and jeering. Shasa tried to make a joke of it, pretending to conduct the orchestrated abuse, but his smile became steadily less sincere as the uproar showed no signs of abating, instead becoming louder and more vindictive as the minutes passed. Finally he began to deliver his address, bellowing it out to be heard above the din.
There were about three hundred of them, taking up the entire back half of the hall, and they made clear their allegiance to the Nationalist Party and its candidate, waving Party banners that depicted the powder horn insignia and holding up posters of Manfred De La Rey's gravely handsome portrait.
After the first fcw minutes a number of the elderly and middle-aged voters in the front of the hall, sensing the violence that was coming, helped their wives from their seats and scuttled out of the side entrance to a renewed outburst of jeers.
Suddenly Tara Courtney leapt to her feet beside Shasa.
Flushed with anger, her grey eyes hard and glittering as bayonets, she yelled at them, What kind of men are you?
Is this fair? You call yourselves Christians? Where is your Christian charity? Give the man a chance! Her voice carried, and her furious beauty checked them.
Their inherent sense of chivalry began to take effect, one or two of them sat down and grinned sheepishly, the noise began to abate, but a big dark-haired man leapt up from the audience and rallied them.
Kom kerels, come on, boys, let's see the Soutie back to England where he belongs., Shasa knew the man, he was one of the local Party organizers. He had been on the Olympic team back in 1936 and had spent most of the war in an internment camp. He was a senior lecturer in Law at Stellenbosch University and Shasa challenged him in Afrikaans: Does Meneer Roelf Stander believe in the rule of law and the right of free speech? Before he could finish, the first missile was thrown. it came sailing in a high parabola from the back of the hall and burst on the table in front of Tara, a brown paper bag filled with dog turds, and immediately there was a bombardment of soft fruit and toilet rolls, dead chickens and rotten fish.
From the front of the hall the United Party supporters stood up and shouted for order, but Roelf Stander waved his men forward and joyously they surged up to give battle.
Seats were overturned, and women screamed, men were shouting and swearing and wrestling and falling over one another.
Keep close behind me, Shasa told Tara. Hold onto my coat! He fought his way towards the door, punching any man who stood in his way.
One of them went down before Shasa's right hook, and protested plaintively from the floor, Hey, man, I'm on your side, but Shasa dragged Tara out of the side door and they ran to the Packard.
Neither of them spoke until Tara had them back on the main road, headlights pointing towards the dark bulk of Table Mountain. Then she asked, How many of them did you get? Three of theirs, one of ours, and they burst into nervously relieved laughter.
It looks as though this is going to be a lot of fun. The election of 1948 was fought with increasing acrimony as across the land a realization began to dawn that the nation had reached some fateful crossroads.
The Smuts men were flabbergasted by the depth of feeling the Nationalists had managed to engender amongst the Afrikaner people, and they were totally unprepared for the almost military mobilization of all the forces at the command of the Nationalist Party.
There were few black voters and of all white South Africans the Afrikaners formed a small majority. Smuts had relied for his support upon the English-speaking electorate together with the moderate Afrikaner faction. As polling day drew closer, this moderate support was slowly seduced by the wave of Nationalistic hysteria, and the gloom in the United Party deepened.
Three days before polling day, Centaine was in her new garden, supervising the marking out and planting of a hundred additional yellow rose bushes when her secretary came hurrying down from the house.
Mr Duggan is here, ma'am. Andrew Duggan was the editor of the Cape Argus, the English-language newspaper with the largest readership in the Cape. He was a good friend of Centaine's, a regular house guest, but still it was most inconsiderate of him to call unannounced. Centaine's hair was a bushy fright, despite her headscarf, and she was flushed and sweaty and without make-up.
Tell him I'm not at home, she ordered.
Mr Duggan sends his apologies, but it's a matter of extreme urgency. He used the term "life and death", ma'am. Oh, very well. Go tell him I will be with him in five minutes. She changed from slacks and sweater into a morning dress and made a few perfunctory dabs with a powder puff, then she swept into the front room where Andrew Duggan stood by the french doors looking out over the Atlantic. Her welcome to him was less than effusive, and she did not offer her cheek for him to kiss, a small token of her displeasure.
Andrew was apologetic.
I know how you feel, Centaine, this is damned cheeky of me barging in here, but I simply had to speak to you and I couldn't use the telephone. Tell me I am forgiven, please., She softened and smiled. You are forgiven and I'll give you a cup of tea to prove it. She poured the orange pekoe tea, brought the paper-thin Royal Doulton cup to him and sat beside him on the sofa.
Life and death? she asked.
More correctly, life and birth. You intrigue me. Please go on, Andy. Centaine, I have received the most extraordinary allegations, supported by documents which appear on the surface to be genuine. If they are, then I shall be obliged to print the story. The allegation concerns you and your family, but especially you and Shasa. They are most damaging allegations, he trailed off and looked at her for permission to continue.
