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Johannesburg, South Africa, 1908
i
When she had been young and credulous, Riette had believed in her mother’s fairy story where Riette’s father was a heroic Boer farmer. She said his name was Pieter and that he had been murdered by British soldiers. She claimed he had been her lover, or in some versions of the story, her husband. As the years passed, Riette learned from the taunts of the older children that her father, whoever he was, would never have loved a black prostitute. That was not what a whore, or the daughter of one, was for.
Then there had been that day when a worker from the diamond mines, still grimy from his hours in the ground, had put his hand on Riette, and her mother had not stopped him. Instead she had glanced at her empty gin bottle and run her tongue across her lips.
Riette had escaped to the streets as soon as she could where she sifted garbage for the occasional trinket she could sell, by stealing, and, yes, sometimes when things were really bad, letting some miner have a look for sixpence, or maybe even a feel for a shilling. No more than that. She was not her mother.
That was another life now, Riette thought as she leaned against the tree that grew beside the cart bridge a mile out of the city. That was the life of a person she no longer inhabited. Marten would be along soon. This was where he’d told her to wait for him.
When the church bell struck two that morning, she had crawled out of her hole in the alley that ran down by Holy Trinity. She had wrapped herself in the pretty kanga Marten had bought for her—her only honest possession—and, for the last time, left the cramped gap in the stones that had been her home. The night was cold and she pulled the ragged, stolen scarf tighter round her shoulders. There was no moon and the sky was heavy with stars like polished diamonds.
Marten had said she mustn’t tell anyone they were going. They were lucky to get this chance and they didn’t want any trouble. Of course, she had told the other girls about Marten—she wanted them to be jealous and they were, when they believed her. She had to keep the kanga well hidden; there were those who would knife her for it.
Marten loved her. She loved him. Even though they came from different worlds. Riette wondered whether she should change her opinion of her mother. Maybe the man who had fathered her was a good man. Maybe he had loved her mother. No, she was just a prostitute who got with child by a man who had the money to pay. She liked to think maybe her father was better bred, but what gentleman would go with the likes of a black whore?
It had been strange walking out of Johannesburg. The city was a place of dangers for any street kid but she knew what those risks were. She knew how to avoid the gangs, the crushers, the slavers, and she had a sense for the men that were hurt in the head. But outside the city, even though it was just a short walk, were different dangers—ones she didn’t know.
Marten wasn’t a miner or a gentleman, he was a farmer. A good man but he had no prospects, he had three older brothers and the eldest would inherit the farm. The only future Marten could hope for was working for his brothers, little better than being a slave.
Meeting him had been a miracle for Riette, though it didn’t start that way. She recognised him as a country bumpkin by his clothes, his bleached hair almost ginger, pale eyes always wrinkled against the sun and the way he looked at everything. He stared about him, in awe of the buildings that surrounded him on all sides to a height of three or four storeys.
And there was that bulge in his country-sewn jacket that attracted her. She had glanced around, and seen a couple of the others had spotted him too, but she was closest. If she didn’t act now someone else would get it. She almost ran at him, and that was the mistake. She knew better but she thought she could get his money and be off before he realised he’d been robbed.
Later he told her he’d seen her coming out of the corner of his eye. She bumped him and slipped her hand inside his jacket just as she was coming out with the apology.
But his hand clamped round her wrist. Shocked at being suddenly trapped, she tried to yank herself away, and kicked him in the shin. He swung his leg away and grabbed her other wrist. People were looking now. She struggled to free her wrists but he lifted his arms and she was almost dangling.
“You’re a girl,” he said surprised.
She laughed at him and stopped struggling. “Want a feel then? Cost you half-a-crown.”
Then a crusher had come, all ready to drag her off to the nick, but Marten had said it was just a misunderstanding and she was his guide. The copper wasn’t pleased with that story but he didn’t argue because Marten had money. So she knew he was a soft touch, and handsome-looking. She was thinking how she could get a shilling out of him, when he held out half-a-crown for her. She hadn’t seen that much money in a month of Tuesdays, so she’d offered him a look and a feel. Then he’d been upset and angry with her.
It took a time for her to get used to him and his honesty. She met him whenever he came into the city and she always washed herself to be presentable, and he’d never asked for anything from her except to guide him and show him places he could get good deals.
Then one day he’d pulled her into an alley. And she realised the time had come for her to give herself and she didn’t mind, she liked Marten a lot. But he didn’t want her to give herself, he just wanted a kiss. Her mother never let the tricks kiss her, but Riette was not her mother. They kissed for a long time and, though Riette didn’t believe her mother’s stories, Riette knew this was the love her mother had talked about.
But Riette was a half-breed and Marten was Afrikaans. They didn’t know any place in the world that would accept them. Until the day Marten had come into the city and told her about a place they could go. He’d met a man who told him about a new colony in Australia. They took anyone and wanted couples who would have families. And when Marten asked if she wanted to go, she did not even have to think about it.
So now she was leaning against a tree, in the strange and frightening countryside, in the middle of the night and eloping with the man she loved. Back in Johannesburg there were some would wonder where she’d gone, but street kids disappeared all the time. Nobody wondered for long.
ii
The big clock in the kitchen chimed once. Time to go.
Staying awake while his brothers drifted off had been hard, though it got easier once they started to snore. Marten sat up in the bed, waited until the whole house had settled, then climbed down from his bunk, careful to avoid his elder brother’s outstretched arm and leg.
He collected the bag he’d prepared from its hiding place at the bottom of his clothes chest. He had filled it with necessities: a change of clothes, plus his needles and different types of thread for when they needed to repair. Once he was in the kitchen he lit a candle and glanced up at the image of Blessed Mary above the door, the wondrous Child on her knee. It always seemed they were looking right at him, and now they were accusing him. Running away from the family.
He never mentioned Riette to his father or anyone else in his family, of course. They never would have let him go back to the city if they had any idea he was meeting a kaffir. The fact she helped him get good deals and saved the family money would not have helped. The idea he might love her would be unacceptable—impossible because he was meant for Saskia Orman.
Her father was Herman Orman and though Saskia would inherit nothing from her father, being their twelfth child, to be linked to such a family through marriage would bring a lot of good to his father’s farm.
But he did not love her. His mother said that love was overrated; she had not loved his father when they were married but they had grown together. Marten did not agree. He knew what love was, and the only thing he felt for Saskia was the proper respect any man should have for a woman.
He’d kissed her once or twice at the gatherings, when the sun had gone down and nobody really cared what the youngsters were doing. As long as it was just kissing. Least that’s what they said, but having a new wife already with child proved she was fruitful, and that was important. He did not like the hypocrisy. His father said he read too many books. Marten did not think you could ever read too many books. He would teach Riette to read.
Once the clock had struck the half hour, he gathered up his things and put on his coat. He had a long walk ahead, and he would get hot in the leather, but he’d been told a coat would be a good thing to have with him in Australia.
He was not really sure where Australia was excepting it was a long way from the Transvaal, and his family would never find him. He and Riette could have a life together.
Marten had been making his way home in the cart when he met the wandering pirate on the road. The man had asked for a ride. Marten had been a little unsure because the man was swarthy with a lot of black hair. Marten had read Robinson Crusoe and the man reminded him of the Barbary pirates who enslaved the hero. But that excited him too. This was a man who had seen the world and, once up and seated, he entertained Marten with tales of travelling above the clouds, and visiting strange lands.
The pirate, he said his name was Roberts, explained he had been hired to find people to start a new colony on an island off the coast of Australia. From his description it was a paradise. Marten, with his imagination fired up, knew a farmer would be a much better colonist than the city dwellers the pirate had been recruiting. He said as much and Roberts had sounded surprised, as if he’d never thought of it, but agreed.
Roberts saw Marten’s interest and had tried to dissuade him; he said he’d already got a full manifest. But Marten had made up his mind and insisted the man tell him where the ship would be leaving from and, reluctantly, he had. As the man said, there were always some people who did not arrive in time to take the trip.
Marten said he and his girl would be there. At the mention of Riette, the pirate had brightened up, saying couples were always welcome in colonies. Marten understood that; it was just like Noah and his Ark, you needed to make children. When Roberts asked if she was already with child, Marten almost blurted out they weren’t even married, but managed to catch himself.
When he’d told Riette of his plan to get them away, she had been pleased. And she had not been upset when he said they’d have to pretend to be married—and where that thought led was something Marten looked forward to. He was a farmer; he knew about breeding animals, and he understood the stirring in his loins when he touched Riette, just the same as it had been with Saskia.
They could always marry properly later.
He walked the couple of miles from the farm to the bridge. It was a moonless night. His heart pounded as he approached the place and could not see her. But then there she was, asleep curled in the roots of the tree. It was nearly three o’clock and the air was freezing cold. He woke her with a kiss. Her bare arm wrapped around his neck and pulled him in tight.
“You’re warm,” she said and her moist breath was like a butterfly against his cheek. He dared to do something he’d never attempted before. He let his hand touch her as they kissed once more. The thin fabric of the kanga hid nothing and he felt the moving shape of her body as he ran his hand down to her hip. His breath quickened. And she pressed her lips even harder against his.
He tore himself gently away from her. “We must not miss the flyer, beloved.”
He leaned back and stood. She found his hand in the dark and pulled herself to her feet. He averted his gaze as he realised she had pulled open her kanga. He breathed again as she re-wrapped it tightly about her.
Together they walked south, holding hands and not speaking.
iii
They knew they were approaching the place when they met other people on the road. There were couples and single men. There was even a whole family—father, mother and six children—on a cart drawn by a plodding old horse that could barely manage the weight.
There was a crowd gathered around a gate opening on to a track. Six men with guns lounged and sat nearby, but if anyone paused, the guards lifted their guns and moved the slow ones on, towards a stand of trees. A flickering of firelight showed between the trunks.
Marten shuffled along with the other people and did not slow down. He let Riette walk on the side away from the guards and she pulled her scarf up over her head, as he had seen her do many times in the city. He did not understand why she did it. She was beautiful, and he thought it glorified God for her to be seen. But then these were rough men and perhaps it was best they did not see her beauty.
He’d been told the ship would take off just before dawn, whether they were there or not. Anyone late would be left behind. But they were not late, and he was glad for that because the alternatives had plagued his mind. Riette could return to the city, but what would he do? Suffer a beating from his father and be forced to lie in the face of difficult questions.
Once past the guards he could feel the excitement mounting. His own and also in the people around him. Riette put her arm around his waist as they walked. He could feel the warmth of her along his whole body. He laid his arm across her shoulders and pulled her in close.
They passed through the trees and stared in amazement at what was beyond: Lit by fires burned to embers was a great metal machine, some sort of flyer. So great was its length that its far end was hidden in the night. He had seen the Dutch and German airships that landed in Johannesburg, and the British flyers with their great steam-driven rotors, and sometimes the ones as fast as hawks with their long wings.
And he had seen the soldiers with their flying artillery and gunboats, that had exacted such a price from his people less than ten years before. He hated the British, and could recite the tally of farmers’ lives that had been stolen by them.
But this machine, it resembled nothing he had seen before. It did not have gas bags like the Zeppelins, nor the British rotors. It did not have the smooth lines and grace of the hawk-like flyers, nor their wings. It reminded him only of a long and thin tin box, but one of such dimensions it could hold a church and have room to spare.
There were windows high up at the front of one end and, in the side, there was a hatch big enough to admit a barn, with a great ramp leading down. All was shadows outside but within there were lights burning with the constancy of electric.
Once again he was reminded of Noah: This was the Ark that would carry him and Riette to their new world, free of sin. But we are the beasts, he thought, we are the ones to be corralled here until the time comes to be herded two-by-two into the pen. What happens in the pen? The only thing he could think of was slaughter. He held tighter to Riette and guided her to a fire of bright embers, around which a few others had gathered.
No one spoke but an older woman offered him a mug of hot soup. It smelled good. He gave it to Riette. She clasped both hands around it, warming them. She breathed in its fumes and took a sip, then a longer drink. He looked over at the shadowy face of the woman, half-lit from the red glow, and smiled his thanks.
A gunshot split the night. There were shouts of fear, and a child’s scream that died away. Marten jerked his head round towards the vessel. There was a man silhouetted against the interior light at the top of the ramp. He held a rifle pointed into the black of the sky.
“Time to go,” he shouted.
All around people gathered up their belongings. Some, like Marten and Riette, only had a small bag each and were soon walking across the grassy space, before those with more had even begun to move.
There were shouts from behind. “Leave it, get moving.” Then shouts of pain and anger.
Marten kept his face forward, not looking back, not wanting to see what he knew was happening. There may be a new world, but these were not good people. Better not to antagonise them. We’d just get crushed the way the British crushed us.
The ramp was also the door of the great opening, and it was a difficult step up onto it. Marten scooped up Riette, she was light as a new-born calf, and placed her on the metal. She in her turn helped him climb up. The surface was not flat, but was a pattern of criss-crossed beams of metal. They picked their way carefully across it. The crowd grew closer and more tightly packed as they approached the top. There were guards strung across the ridge, with a gap between them at the centre. No one wanted to be too close to the guns.
A teenage boy, only a little younger than Marten himself, tripped beside him but Marten did not help him up. He focussed on their destination, where the internal lights shone out.
They broached the top and looked down into the chamber. There were steps and the deck was filling up with people as they flowed down into it. At floor level there were no entrances but, at regular intervals, ladders ran up to a metal gallery. At that level, there were doors to the interior and men with guns at each.
Marten and Riette reached the bottom of the steps. Marten glanced back then moved forward quickly to make room for those coming down behind them. He led Riette across the deck into the far corner. He felt safer with two walls behind him and a view of the whole space. And sitting directly below the gallery, it would be less easy for one of the guards to shoot at them.
People still poured in. He had not realised there were so many out there in the dark. Were all these people in search of a new home? Some were unkempt and poorly dressed; they were the ones who were alone, and were all men. Some whose clothes were of good quality, usually the older ones. Marten wondered what could have happened to them that they needed to change their life.
The tide of people became a trickle and the last stragglers came over the top as an echoing metallic crash boomed through the hold, reverberating off the metal walls. The grinding of cogs and winches filled the air and he saw a cable, thicker than his arm, tighten between the hull of the vessel and the hatch. Effortlessly the huge door lifted upright and Marten’s last view of the African sky was as it was just turning blue from the black of the night. Then the world he knew was lost to him.
Massive bolts slammed into position around the door and if they had had any doubts about their journey, there was no longer a choice.
All about him he could hear people whispering to one another, some were crying, one voice lifted in hysterical laughter that made him shiver. Then it happened. It felt as if he no longer had any weight, as if his whole body had become as light as a dove. People screamed about him; there were shouts from the men. The crying became louder.
He knew this was the science invented by the British that made things light so they could fly. It filled everything and emptied it of weight. It was the thing that had made the British victors across the world, and gave them the power in the Void beyond.
But he was a farmer. He lived on the ground and his life was in the earth itself. It was an abomination against God, and yet it would carry them to their new world. He looked down at Riette, she glanced up with wide eyes; she was scared but she had not cried out. So he smiled down at her and squeezed her closer.
iv
The hold smelled of sweat from the two hundred people spread out across the floor. Riette had dozed, on and off. She could not see the sun so there was no way to tell the passage of time, or whether they were even moving. Marten still held her but he too slept because there was nothing else to do.
He had not let go of her since they had reached the gate. She was grateful. She craved the comfort of his touch. He had reassured her when they became light. It was magic. Like being drunk. Like the Chinese dream smoke.
There was a couple sitting not far from them—who were not much older than Marten and Riette—their clothes had once been of good quality but were now threadbare. The man had a pocket watch and declared the time to be eight o’clock. Riette moved from the crook of Marten’s arm. He twitched and held her tighter then loosened his grip. Riette unwound herself, looked in his bag and found some bread and cheese.
It was better food than she had seen in the week since she had last seen him, when he had bought her a pie from a street seller. She chewed on the bread and looked around. Others were eating here and there. One or two did not seem to have brought anything and stared with longing at those who had.
Marten had called the man who had told him about the vessel a pirate. She knew what pirates were. There were stories that went among the street people, places to stay away from, people to avoid. The docks could be rich pickings for street people because that was where crews from the bigger ships would spend their coin and sometimes give it away to those in need. Maybe they felt they needed a balance to ensure their entry into heaven. Even if they weren’t giving it away, most were easy to fleece.
But there were the rougher parts of town, just a little further out from the docks, where the less savoury went. Those were the places the crushers did not patrol so frequently and the Excise men stayed away from. There were men who claimed to be pirates there. And her sense of who were the bad ones was triggered by every face.
Like the ones she’d seen as they were coming aboard. They were ones she would never offer a look or feel, because it would lead somewhere very bad. And she was not her mother.
Marten leaned up on his elbow. She passed him the rest of the bread; she realised she’d eaten half the loaf already. Perhaps he saw the worry pass through her, because he smiled. It always made her feel strong when he smiled: knowing there was someone who liked her for herself, not for what she could offer, whether it was her skill at stealing or her body.
Then he leaned over and brought his face close to hers. His breath was not fresh but she didn’t mind. He pressed his lips against hers and, for a moment, she just felt the dreamy lightness and his closeness. Then she remembered they were in public and pulled back. She glanced nervously around. The couple near them were looking at them. The man was frowning, but the woman smiled.
Marten never opened his mouth when he kissed her. Now they were as good as married, she would be able to practise those skills she had been told about by the street girls on the game.
There had been no sight of any of the ship’s crew since the great door had swung shut, hours before. As the time passed a murmuring built up in the human cargo. Finally a practical soul organised an area as a latrine on the far side of the deck from where she and Marten sat. They strung up a couple of blankets and acquired buckets from those who’d had the forethought to bring them.
There had been an argument close to them, as a bucket-owner was persuaded to let it be used by the community. Their argument about ownership was easily overridden by the suggestion of piss and shit seeping across the deck.
Riette had never had more than a hole in the ground, and many times just the street. But she knew people like Marten had little sheds in their yards. She had even heard that rich people had special rooms inside their houses, which was disgusting.
Nobody looked at you when you lived on the streets. It was like being invisible, unless it was the crushers because they were always looking. You could piss on the main street and no one would look. Not that she did that; she always used an alley, but there was no way to be alone. You did it when you had to and no one would look. Except the old man who paid to watch, but one day he wanted a feel when she did it. She avoided him after that.
But now she had to use the bucket. Others had already picked their way across to the blankets, and she’d seen how people watched, though they pretended not to. She was doing it herself.
Marten had already been. He’d given her arm a squeeze and stood up, nodding in the direction of the blankets. She sat back against the wall and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs. She watched him as he went away from her, making her feel empty and alone in this space full of people.
She looked away when he disappeared behind the curtain. He did not take long and was soon heading back.
“You best go soon,” he said as he sat down. “Be careful, it’s hard to walk with no weight, and—” his voice trailed off as he tried to find the words, his face turning red “—water moves slow as well.”
She frowned not understanding his words. He saw her confusion and worked up some spit in his mouth. He stuck out his tongue and let the spit roll off it. It was unreal the way it slithered down to the tip of his tongue and made a big droplet on the end eventually pulling itself free and descending slowly to the floor.
The realisation of what he was describing dawned on her, and explained some of the cries from folks who had gone behind the curtain earlier. She nodded. And climbed to her feet, and straightened her kanga. Every other woman was wearing Western clothes, but she was proud of Marten’s gift.
She took small steps at the start as she got used to the way she bounced across the floor. It would not do to take a tumble: The kanga and scarf were the only clothes she possessed. She felt the eyes on her but she knew everyone who had braved the walk had suffered the same, even if they weren’t her colour. It was because someone moving across the deck was the most interesting thing happening on the journey.
She managed the buckets easily enough—Marten was right they were nearly full—and the stink was terrible. It crossed her mind she probably had it easier than the other women; she did not have to fight her way through all those layers of skirts and petticoats.
The walk back did not seem to take as long and she was soon nestling into Marten’s strong arm.
Time wore on. Someone sang hymns in Afrikaans, and many people joined in around the space. Riette did not know them, though she had heard hymns when she was in her hideaway below the church. They finished the last of Marten’s food and water then dozed again. The day passed into night according to the man with the pocket watch but the electric light never changed.
Riette felt she might need to brave the buckets again when the vessel bumped as if it had bounced on something and, shortly after, their normal weight returned.
v
With metallic crashes that split the air, the bolts holding the great door shut slammed back. The grinding winches started up and Riette saw a crack of darkness appear around the edge of the door. It was blacker outside than it had been when it had been closed. They had departed at night, travelled through the day and arrived at night once more.
But the dark was nothing compared to what came next. The door had been lowered only a short distance when an icy wind ripped through. It cleared away the stench of human waste in seconds, but replaced it with air so cold and damp it sliced through Riette’s kanga. It was worse than the coldest part of the night on the coldest night of the year, and mixed with a rain so fine it hung suspended in the air, soaking everything it touched.
Across the floor people rushed to put on the coats they had been told to bring, if they had one. Others, like Riette herself, had none and did the best they could. She pulled the scarf closer around her shoulders and over her head. Her body’s reaction scared her; tiny bumps raised across her skin and she shook with shivers she had only experienced when she had been ill. Marten took off his coat and wrapped it about her.
It did not warm her, but kept the wind from her skin.
The door hit the ground outside with a boom that shook the whole vessel. The wind howled as it tore around and through the ship. It was as if they had arrived in the blackest pit of Hell.
Dressed in shiny stiff cloaks and hats that seemed to repel the elements, guards appeared from outside with their guns at the ready, and the exodus began. As they were the furthest from the exit, Marten and Riette were the last to climb the steep steps and face the full onslaught of the knife-sharp wind and freezing rain. Electric lamps shone down from sturdy gantries, lighting a path from the base of the ramp along a muddy path toward some shadowy buildings in the distance.
The metal of the ramp was cold and slick with rain. Riette slipped and cried out as her bare foot hit a sharp edge of metal. Marten reacted instantly and swept her off her feet, holding her tight to him. He stumbled down the rest of the ramp and bore her off along the trail following the rest. She buried her face in his shoulder, her face against his soaking shirt and shivering in the cold.
Trailing behind all the others, they arrived at a set of low brick buildings. Marten climbed the half-dozen steps and pushed inside through a wooden door. Riette felt the warmth of the interior flow across her dripping limbs.
“I don’t like Australia,” she said.
* * *
Riette woke and opened her eyes. Weak sunlight filtered through a window. She had slept indoors when she lived with her mother but there had been no glass in the windows of their shack. And that had been a very long time ago.
She rolled on to her back, the wooden slats of the bunk creaked and moved under the thin pallet under her. The ceiling consisted of neatly nailed wooden planks. She was more used to stone that was so close she could reach up and run her fingers across its rough surface. Those nights and mornings in her stone cave, she had wondered whether, if she rubbed it for long enough, the rough slabs would become as smooth and worn as the steps of the church.
She lifted her arm and reached for the ceiling. It was too far away.
“You’re awake.”
She turned again and found herself face-to-face with Marten. He leaned one arm against the bunk on which she lay. She reached across and stroked his cheek, rough and unshaven.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Hungry.”
He lifted his other arm and presented her with a hunk of bread. “It’s not the best, but there’s plenty.”
She sat up and adjusted her kanga. She took the bread, and tore off a chunk with her teeth. She looked around as she chewed it. Luggage was piled in uneven clumps near each set of beds. But there was no sign of the occupants.
“Everyone’s been called out to be registered,” he said to her unspoken question. “I said you were not well and they let me sign for you.” Marten glanced down and then back at her, with a slight look of concern on his face. “I said you were my wife.”
She kissed him. “We’ll be proper married soon enough. Let them think it true.”
He handed her an apple. It was wrinkled but clean of mould. She took a bite, it wasn’t too dry. “What does Australia look like?”
He smiled. “We’re not there yet, this is a staging post. We travel on again later today. Not everyone goes to the same place so they split us up.”
“They won’t split us up?”
“No, of course not, they want couples.”
The door at the far end of the dormitory banged open and some of their fellow travellers entered; they moved to their bunks. Some sat and others lay down. One of the older men stared at them with a grim dark face like a thundercloud.
Riette held his eye for a moment then looked away. She knew that look, the ones with so much hate for themselves it overflowed into despite for anyone different. Especially the blacks.
Over the next hour everyone returned and collected their belongings in readiness for the word to move. The younger children whined and cried; the ones that were a little older invented their own games and ran between the beds and the adults until they were shushed.
Food was brought, more bread and dried fruit, and Riette made sure Marten stocked up. He was not used to going hungry, and did not understand the need to keep a supply in reserve for those times when you couldn’t steal what you needed.
For a while Riette stood by the window. She rubbed some of the dirt from it. Not far away was a wide grey expanse of water under the grey sky, always moving, with enormous waves crashing endlessly on a stony beach. She had never seen the sea but she knew what it was. Between the beach and the buildings was a whole rolling field of grass and stubby bushes filled with birds—and not a gap between them, so many of the creatures they could not be counted. And when the inconstant wind changed direction the air became filled with their raucous cries.
It was mid-afternoon when the doors at each end opened and the men with guns entered. A voice from the other end commanded them to board for the next part of their journey.
vi
Marten put on his coat and gathered up his gear, weighed down with the food she’d insisted he keep. Riette watched him, her arms wrapped around herself. She was scared again, as he was. But she was the bravest person he knew. She had survived the city streets and, despite the horrors around her, she had not lost the blessed goodness God had given her.
He knew she wasn’t pure in body, how could she be? She was the daughter of a prostitute, but her heart was true, and what was God’s love if not forgiving?
He wondered if his father would ever forgive him. He’d left a note on the kitchen table, explaining that he was eloping with Riette. He did not say who Riette was, just that he had met her in the city, that he loved her and they would make a life for themselves in Australia. It was not that he was ashamed of Riette—he loved her with all his heart—but his father’s mind was closed. If he knew Riette’s nature he would see Marten’s actions as sin, and would take it as his own. A sin he would never be able to expurgate.
They found themselves once more at the back of the travellers as they filed out into the unremitting wind. He wrapped Riette in his coat as they descended the wooden flight of stairs on to the muddy trail. At least it was no longer raining, though the clouds scudding across the sky looked as if they could provide more at the merest tempting of fate.
The wind changed direction and the air was once more filled with the dismal cries of the nesting birds. It was like a choir of mourners.
The line of travellers snaked along the track towards the landing field. They passed a gate where two armed guards lounged in their oiled coats and heavy woollen shirts. They barely glanced at the people trudging past. But as Marten passed by, holding Riette close to him, the one nearest looked at Riette’s ankles and feet, then looked up at them both with a frown creasing his forehead.
The wantonness of Riette’s bare legs had shocked Marten too when he first met her. In his world such a display of naked flesh in a woman was a sign of lasciviousness and sin, or so he was taught. Yet she was more like a child, and no one cared how much skin they put on show. And the rules were different for the blacks.
Marten dismissed the guard’s glance as he rejected all those who thought her lewd. It was true she had offered herself to him in gratitude for rescuing her from the crusher, but she had been grateful when he had refused. When they were alone together in Australia, when they were in their own place, he would not refuse her offer.
It would not be so very long before they were off once more.
The track led uphill to a flat area. He had not seen them in the night but the whole field was fenced in metal netting a dozen feet high and there were six towers placed at intervals around the perimeter. He could see three men in the lookout post at the top of the nearest, placed just along from the gate.
The vessel on which they had arrived was gone, crushed rocks showed where it had lain. But another metal monster lay at the far side of the field. Where the first had been nothing more than a utilitarian riveted steel block, more appropriate for transporting non-living cargo, this new vessel had smooth lines like a bird. There were short stubby wings along its length and tube-like projections at what appeared to be the rear.
It did not have the width or breadth of the first ship, but its length must have been similar.
The front of the line of passengers had already reached the door in its side. Not the huge opening that had marked the first ship but something more appropriate to man, though still large enough for five to enter walking abreast.
The line came to a stop and then moved in fits and starts as people were allowed inside the ship one or two at a time. Marten could not guess the passage of time and the sun was not visible through the constant grey cloud that hung over this place.
Riette snuggled against him clinging tighter. She must be cold. He wished he had taken a blanket from the dormitory for her.
* * *
For Riette the afternoon passed in a haze of cold. She clung to Marten for the little warmth he could provide. Her hands and feet were numb. She prayed that Australia would be warm. She did not mind where they went, as long as she could feel her limbs again.
She wished they had not been at the end of the line. She wondered if perhaps Marten was embarrassed by her. Did he not care for her after all? Then his arm shifted and pulled her even tighter to him so she could feel his heart beating in his breast and the flexing of his muscles beneath his skin.
She knew in her heart he loved her, but there had been so many betrayals.
They queued for so long that the daylight had begun to fade but finally there was just one more group in front of them: a family of five dragging their bags across the muddy ground. The smooth body of the metal bird glistened. It was not raining but the air was filled with wind-driven moisture that covered everything.
Light spilled from the open doorway and the yellow light promised warmth. Not much longer now. At the door, holding a board and pen, was a thin man with skin so pale he has like a ghost. He checked off names and had one person from each group make their mark. Any baggage they could not carry was taken away. Though the process took a very long time, it was strangely comforting: the difference between a gang and the crushers.
The people ahead of them were let through. Riette had the sudden feeling the door would be slammed in their face, that they were too late. The pressure from Marten’s arm carried her forward and they stood in the entrance.
The man looked down his list. “Names?”
Marten cleared his throat. “Marten and Riette Ouderkirk.”
The man flipped through the papers clipped to his board. Marten had promised he would teach her to read and write. The man found the place. He passed the pencil to Marten and turned the board pointing at a space on it.
“Make your mark here.”
“I can sign my name.”
“As you please,” he said. He sounded like a man who never smiled but Riette was sympathetic; he had been here in the cold with everyone else.
The man glanced at Riette then looked away. Then looked back. Marten was writing his name as the man snatched the board away and yanked the pencil from Marten’s fingers.
“She can’t go.” He waved a hand and pointed at Riette. “She’s a black. She’ll have to go on the other ship when it gets in.”
Riette felt her mind go as numb as her body. There was no thought in her at all. She watched with the same unreality as when her mother had let the men touch her, maul her, penetrate her.
Marten’s face twisted into anger and fear. He pushed the small man who fell back hard against the metal bird. The man flailed for balance then collapsed. Marten grabbed her arm and pulled her towards the door, towards the light. A big man forced his way between them. Marten’s grip tore at her flesh. An arm wrapped round her neck, crushing her windpipe, and yanked her back.
Marten would not let go. His fingers gouged into her flesh, the nails drawing blood. He shouted her name again and again. She saw his mouth opening and closing but the sounds barely registered. Then, all of a sudden, he released her. She saw him go down, the butt of a rifle stained with his blood jerking back up.
Arms pulled her away from the doorway, away from the light, through the darkening evening. She watched Marten’s body being pulled into the vessel, the light shut off by the closing door. The heavens broke open releasing a deluge of rain. But she felt nothing.
Then she was in a room, long and low. There were many men, drinking, laughing and cursing. Touching her, feeling her. Her kanga, her only honest possession, the only remnant of Marten, was ripped away.
I am not my mother.