Power of the Sword - Smith Wilbur (читать книги онлайн регистрации .TXT) 📗
Shasa was too involved with the work and his new friend to notice the dark looks of the white supervisor, and even when he made a pointed remark about kaffer-boeties, or nigger-lovers', Shasa did not take the reference personally.
On the third Saturday, after the men had been paid at noon, he rode down to the boss-boys cottage at Moses invitation and spent an hour sitting in the sun on the front doorstep of the cottage drinking sour milk from the calabash that Moses shy and pretty young wife offered, and helping him read aloud from the copy of Macaulay's History of England he had smuggled out of the bungalow and brought down in his saddlebag.
The book was one of his set works at school so Shasa considered himself something of an authority on it, and he was enjoying the unusual role of teacher and instructor until at last Moses closed the book.
This is very heavy work, Good Water, he had translated Shasa's name directly into the Ovambo, worse than spreading ore in the summer.
I will work on it later, and he went into the single-roomed cottage, placed the book in his locker and came back with a roll of newspaper.
Let us try this. He offered the paper to Shasa, who spread it on his lap. It was poor quality yellow newsprint and the ink smudged onto his fingers. The name on the top of the page was Umlomo Wa Bantu, and Shasa translated it without difficulty: The Mouth of the Black Nations', and he glanced down the columns of print. The articles were mostly in English, though there were a few in the vernacular.
Moses pointed out the editorial, and they started working through it.
What is the African National Congress? Shasa was puzzled. And who is Jabavu? Eagerly the Ovambo began to explain, and Shasa's interest turned to unease as he listened.
Jabavu is the father of the Bantu, of all the tribes, of all the black people. The African National Congress is the herder who guards our cattle. I don't understand. Shasa shook his head. He did not like the direction that the discussion was taking, and he began to squirm as Moses quoted: Your cattle are gone, my people Go rescue them!
Go rescue them!
Leave your breechloader And turn instead to the pen.
Take paper and ink, For that will be your shield.
Your rights are going So take up your pen Load it with ink And do battle with the pen.
That is politics, Shasa interrupted him. Blacks don't take part in politics. That's white men's business. This was the cornerstone of the South African way of life.
The glow went out of Moses expression and he lifted the newspaper off Shasa's lap and stood up.
I will return your book to you when I have read it. He avoided Shasa's eyes and went back into the cottage.
on the Monday Twenty-man-Jones stopped Shasa at the main gate of the weathering grounds. I think you have learned all there is to know about weathering, Master Shasa. It's about time we moved you along to the mill house and washing gear!
And as they followed the railway tracks up to the main plant, walking beside one of the cocopans which was full of the crumbling weathered ore, Twenty-man-Jones remarked: It is just as well not to become too familiar with the black labourers, Master Shasa, you will find they tend to take advantage if you do. Shasa was puzzled for a moment, then he laughed. Oh, you mean Moses. He isn't a Labourer, he is a boss-boy, and he is jolly bright, sir. A bit too bright for his own good, Twenty-man-Jones agreed bitterly. The bright ones are always the malcontents and trouble-stirrers. Give me an honest dumb nigger every time. Your friend Moses is trying to organize a black mineworkers union. Shasa knew from his grandfather and his mother that Bolsheviks and trade unionists were the most dreaded monsters, intent on tearing down the framework of civilized society.
He was appalled to learn that Moses was one of these, but Twenty-man-Jones was going on: We also suspect that he is at the centre of a nice little IDB operation. IDB was the other monster of civilized existence, illicit Diamond Buying, the trade in stolen diamonds, and Shasa was revolted by the idea that his friend could be both a trade unionist and an illicit dealer.
Yet Twenty-man-jones next words depressed him. I am afraid Mister Moses will head the list of those we will be laying off at the end of the month. He is a dangerous man.
We will simply have to get shot of him. They are getting rid of him simply because the two of us are friends. Shasa saw through it. 'It's because of me. He was swamped with a sense of guilt, and guilt was followed almost immediately by anger. Quick words leapt to his tongue. He wanted to cry, It's not fair! But before he spoke he looked at Twenty-man-Jones and knew intuitively that any defence he attempted of Moses would only seal the bossboy's fate.
He shrugged. You know what is best, sir, he agreed, and he saw the slight relaxation in the set of the old man's shoulders.
Mater, he thought, I will talk to Mater, and then, with intense frustration, If only I could do it myself, if only I could say what must be done. And then it dawned upon him that this was what his mother had meant when she spoke of power. The ability to charge and direct the orders of existence that surrounded him.
Power, he whispered to himself. One day I will have power. Enormous power. The work in the mill house was more exacting and interesting. The friable weathered ore was loaded into the bins and mg.
then fed through the hoppers into the rollers which crushed it to the correct consistency for the washing gear. The machinery was massive and powerful, the din almost deafening as the ore tumbled out of the hoppers into the feed chute and was sucked into the spinning steel rollers with a continuous roar. One hundred and fifty tons an hour; it went in one end as chalky lumps the size of ripe watermelons and poured out the far end as gravel and dust.
Annalisa's brother, Stoffel, who had on Shasa's last visit to the H'ani adjusted the timing on his old Ford and who was also the skilled mimic of bird calls, was now an apprentice in the mill house. He was delegated to show Shasa around, and undertook the assignment with gusto and relish.
You have to be goddamned careful with the mucking settings on the rollers or you crush the bloody diamonds to powder. Stoffel emphasized his newly acquired manliness and authority with oaths and obscenity.
Come on, Shasa, I'll show you the grease points. All points have to be grease-gunned at the beginning of every shift. He crawled under the bank of thundering rollers, shouting into Shasa's ear to make himself heard. Last month one of the other apprentices got his fucking arm in the bearing. It pulled it off like a chicken's wing, man. You should have seen the blood. Ghoulishly he pointed out the dried stains on the concrete floor and galvanized walls. Man, I tell you, he squirted blood like a garden hose. Stoffel climbed the steel catwalk like a monkey and they looked down on the roller mill tables. 'One of the Ovambo kaffirs fell off here, right smack into the ore bin, there wasn't even a scrap of bone bigger than your finger left of him when he came out the other end of the rollers. Ja, man, it's a bloody dangerous job, he told Shasa proudly. You've got to keep on your mucking toes all the time. When the mine hooter blew the lunch hour he led Shasa around to the shady side of the mill house and they perched comfortably on the ventilator housing. Under the sanction of the. work place they could associate quite openly, and Shasa felt grown-up and important in his blue workman's overalls as he opened the lunch box that the chef at the bungalow had sent down for him.
Chicken and tongue sandwiches and jam roly-poly, he checked the contents. Do you want some, Stoffel? No, man. Here comes my sister with my lunch. And Shasa lost all interest in his own lunch box.
