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Dedication
Work while the day lasts, make the people of South Africa
great it does not matter what their descent is, as long as
they regard South Africa as their country.
Foreword
This true story of an Afrikaner family is rich in intrigue,
espionage and treachery, from the end of the Anglo-Boer War
until 1984. Although not an official biography, the life story of
the remarkable figure later known as the lion of the North
West reads like a gripping novel.
The strong thread of Afrikaner nationalism runs throughout.
However, the central characters quick temper, the lively
political meetings of yesteryear and the irrepressible sense of
humour of the Namaqualand people provide many lighter
moments.
After his studies overseas, the young pastor Willem
Steenkamp Doctor in Theology as well as Philosophy is
appalled by circumstances at home.
Tens of thousands of women and children in the vanquished
Transvaal and Orange Free State had died in British
concentration camps: farms had been razed, there was no food,
livestock or work for dispossessed farmers. Many of them were
practically illiterate. Their language Afrikaans had been
banned. Some worked in road gangs, others laboured deep
underground. They formed a new class: the poor whites.
Dr. Steenkamp and his missionary wife Nettie determine to
spend their whole life in the betterment of these fellowAfrikaners and their beloved, tattered orphan of a language.
He turns his back on the world of books, declines many
calls and establishes himself in his thirstland a huge area of
people impoverished by repeated droughts and the after-effects
of the war; spiritually neglected and half-forgotten by the
government and the rest of the world.
There were no doctors, hospitals or telephones, ignorance
and intermarriage held sway as well as a deep-seated bitterness
towards everything English. But the greatest need was for
irrigation schemes, boreholes and, later, diamond rights.
Dr. Steenkamps parishioners elect him as their Member of
Parliament, where he instantly causes controversy. He is a fiery
Chapter 1
A Ravished Land Unites
In a small bedroom in the heart of South Africa a tall, well-built
young clergyman held his wifes small foot, pressing hard into
his chest, and agonised while the doctor struggled to bring their
baby into the world. His wife whimpered and his soul shrank.
She never cried. Was he going to lose them both?
Thank you, Dominee, you can do no more, the doctor
said. He was exhausted, as much by the husbands suffering as
that of the young woman.
Willem left the room with heavy heart. She had been in
labour throughout this terrible night and was at the end of her
strength. Out of sight, he alternately wept and prayed.
A dog barked at the moon, and its ode was taken up by
another some distance away. Pretoria slept.
Willem walked into his scantily furnished study. On a small
table rested an enormous Bible, six inches thick, its leather
covers joined by brass clasps. It had been in the family for
several generations, and births and deaths since Willems Dutch
forebears were recorded in it in fine copperplate. He turned to
the back, where a special page contained family portraits. He
looked at a wedding photograph of himself and his waspwaisted bride.
He had met the small-boned, auburn-haired young woman
two years before, when, newly ordained, he had arrived at
Beaconsfield as assistant minister. She had been the organist
and it was love at first sight. They were married shortly
afterwards.
His eyes brimmed. They were burning from all the tears he
had shed. He threw himself on his knees before the chaiselongue.
From the depths of the house a clock chimed four. The notes
dropped into the chasm of his soul, feathers in the windless
night.
In the bedroom, the doctor wiped away the slime from the
babys face and breathed into its mouth: rapping the little
buttocks had brought no response. Still there was no visible
result. Desperately he splashed first cold and then warm water
on the limp little body.
The babys mouth opened wide and it sucked in air. There
came a thin cry.
Willem leapt up and plucked open the bedroom door. Its
over, said the doctor, perspiration damming up in the furrows
on his forehead. The child will live.
Nettie. He smoothed the wet hair from her brow, kneeling
at her bedside.
She smiled. We have a little boy, Willie, she whispered.
The doctor wrapped the blood-streaked baby in a blanket.
Then he busied himself about his patient, and the father came
over to look at his son.
His breath caught. One small eye was a bloody weal; the
instruments had left bruises on the forehead. An ear was torn
and the skin of the babys throat was broken and bleeding.
Will the child be all right? he asked with trembling voice.
Yes, said the doctor, and looked over his shoulder.
Congratulations, Dominee. He smiled.
Willem Steenkamp felt for the first time the tiny weight of
his son in his arms. My little man, he whispered. He
examined, wonderingly, every feature of the babys face. It bore
a marked resemblance to himself.
Carefully he walked to the study, where he placed the crying
child on the chaise longue. He knelt and breathed his thanks,
conscious of the total inadequacy of words.
He listened to the babys voice.
His sign.
He is yours, Lord, to do with as you please, he whispered.
Let him become what you think fit, even if it be a cobbler. Or
if you want to take him away ... May your will be done.
Your wife is not a strong person, Dominee, said the
doctor afterwards, a cup of steaming coffee in his hands.
Not physically, perhaps, said Willem, but she has
courage of which you cannot conceive.
Chapter 2
About Ghosts And Poison Doctors. An Impossible
Challenge
The shadows were beginning to crawl across the veld through
the December heat when a cart came into view. At the sound of
the approaching horses a cluster of white-breasted crows
flapped reluctantly from the emaciated carcass of a sheep. It was
a familiar sight in the Bushmanland.
Neither man on the cart passed comment. The countrywide
drought of 1912 had dropped its weight on man and beast and
exacted its toll.
Theres the well, said the man wearing the white panama
hat, and wiped his face with his handkerchief. His collar and tie
were stifling him.
Ye-e-es, Doctor, replied his companion, a black man. To
Dawid was entrusted the care of the pastors horses. Dawid was
proud of his position, for it was an important one. The pastor
spent hours, when possible, in the stable. The mares pregnancy
and the birth of a foal had given him innate joy.
Hour after hour Willem had listened to Dawids stories
about the dassie adder the huge snake with the diamond on
its forehead the great ghost of the Heitsi-Eibib and other
spectres which will not pass by a Coloured person; of the
healing properties of various veld plants kattekruid for pain,
handjiesbos or Vier Oulap in braised-out net-vet for all manner
of skin disorders, and the special little bush for syphilis and
rashes, and the wonderful services of the gifdokter (poison
doctor).
The grease marks on the inside of a poison doctors hat,
Dawid said with his slow speech and exaggerated accent, so
typical of the non-white people of the region, was because of the
snake fat which was rubbed into it (and the snake fat, besides,
was very effective treatment for sore eyes). He himself had one
day seen how a poison doctor had shelled a huge brown snake