The sun hung lazily in the sky, baking the ground below with a kind of half-hearted disinterest that nonetheless shot the temperature up into the high nineties. Owen, working in the fields just south of the Lugstapper homestead, pushed his broad-brimmed hat up with one hand and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Inwardly he cursed the sun - it wasn't even noon yet and he felt as if he'd lost a stone and a half through sweat alone. The sun, if it had heard him, didn't acknowledge this and simply continued to blaze down upon anyone and anything foolish enough to be out and about in the sweltering heat. With a grunt Owen thrust his spade into the hard, cracked turf and carried on working.
Like most Boers, Owen was proud of his farm. His father had built it from scratch following the great trek north from Natalia and Owen had worked it all his days. It wasn't easy work - farming was hard at the best of times without having to contend with unremitting heat and restless natives - but it was honest, satisfying work. Seeing his small farm expand and prosper flushed Owen with a quiet, simple pride that was neither arrogant nor showy. He was happy with what God had provided him with, and he couldn't recall any occasion on which he had coveted that which belonged to another. His lot in life was tough and occasionally back-breakingly strenuous, but he was content. Very little bothered Owen. Of course, there was the day when Lucas turned up at the farm but...
His concentration was broken by what appeared to be a dust storm blowing up just south of the farm. Resting one arm on his spade, he shaded his eyes with his free hand and peered into the distance. Despite the glare of the sun and the swirl of dust Owen could make out a platoon of soldiers, dressed in jackets as red as blood, marching in the direction of the farm.
No, his mind corrected him,
marching TOWARDS the farm.
A dull, throbbing anger rose within him - for all his years he had been content to keep to himself and ignore the larger, louder, scarier outside world. What right did it have to intrude on his life? Dropping his spade with a curse he turned tail and rushed back to the farm.
~~~
"I've got a bad feeling about this."
The two soldiers crouched in a clump of bushes on the eastern side of Owen's farm. Their khaki uniforms were thick with dust, and what could be seen of their faces
(1) was red and sweaty. The smaller of the two focused his field glasses on the homestead while the other soldier sat and fidgeted with his rifle.
"I'm telling you, I've got a bad feeling about this."
The smaller figure raised one fist in the air
(2) and his companion shook his head sighing.
"I'm not cut out for soldiering you know. Hell, I wasn't even a proper soldier when Van Moordenaar got to me. I was happy in the post office you know. Letters and stamps and..."
His companion whirled on him angrily.
"Carry on whining like that Thomas and I'll rip your tongue out. Let's see how good you are at licking stamps then."
Thomas sagged.
"Geez John you're so nasty at times."
John Conner turned back to the farm and raised the binoculars to his eyes again. He idly shifted his beard so that he could speak without inhaling vast quantities of hair. Dave had been very clear about this mission; Van Moordenaar's men had traced the Duchess' letters to this farm. He was to get in and get the people within out
(3). Simple enough, but the fact that Van Moordenaar's men had shown up more quickly than anticipated had put the cat amongst the pigeons. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Thomas gave off a noisy cough behind him.
"Sorry, sorry. It's just this beard. This hair. It gets everywhere. Do we really have to wear these?"
John patiently put down his field glasses and turned to face Thomas; the look in his eyes
(4) causing the taller man to shrug apologetically.
"Sorry. I'm just, you know, nervous."
John nodded.
"That's understandable, but you'd best get it under control. A platoon of Van Moordenaar's red coats have just shown up and seem to be heading towards the farm."
Thomas gulped.
"Oh God. We're going to die. We're both going to die. We're..."
John reached across and casually slapped Thomas, causing the latter to squeal like a little girl.
"Oww!"
"Pull yourself together. I have an idea."
Thomas rubbed his jaw and blinked owlishly as John began to explain his plan. Slolwy. And using small words. When he had finished he smiled at Thomas.
"Clear?"
Thomas nodded.
"I think so. You want me just to sit here and do nothing."
John gave him a thumbs up and slung his rifle over his back. Thomas raised a shaky hand.
"What about you? What are you going to do?"
John grinned.
"I'll be back."
~~~
Owen burst into the farm, puffing and panting; his face the colour of beetroot. He placed one hand against the wall to steady himself and tried to catch his breath. An angry-looking Beru regarded him fiercely from her place behind the hob - his blundering entrance had sent a stack of plates crashing to the floor. Slowly and deliberately she started to thwack the head of her ladle into her hand
(5).
"This had better be good Owen."
He waved his hand in the direction of the door and wheezed
(6). Beru raised an eyebrow. Owen tried to take a deep breath and feebly jabbed a finger at the window.
"Outside...soldiers...coming this way..."
Beru didn't flinch.
"Why are you running in here then? Have you done something stupid Owen? Something that would cause soldiers to come after you? Are you in trouble?"
Owen shook his head.
"Don't know...what's wrong...but they're...coming...here..."
Beru was about to speak but was cut off by the sound of gunfire outside. She stared at Owen who had thrown himself to a floor, his eyes wide like a frightened animal's.
"I believe there are people shooting at our farm Owen."
Owen shook his head incredulously and waved his hands.
"Get down before you get hit you stupid woman!"
Beru's mouth opened and then slammed shut, as if she was going to say something and had decided against it
(8). She raised her ladle in indignation and Owen may have been on the end of a thrashing of a lifetime had a bullet not smashed through the kitchen window and ricocheted off the ladle and buried itself into the table. Beru stood there stupidly, mangled ladle in hand and gazed out of the window in shock.
"Why are those soldiers shooting at our farm Owen? Why?"
I wish I knew he thought as another bullet tore through the front door, sending a maelstrom of wood flying around the room. A piece embedded itself in his hand, drawing blood and causing him to wince. He shoved his back against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible. Beru had crouched behind the massive iron range, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. Owen offered her a smile that he hoped was brave and reassuring.
"Don't worry love - we'll be ok."
As if to prove what a cruel sense of humour fate has, no sooner had Owen uttered these words than the nearside window shattered as a small glass orb - no bigger than a man's fist - crashed through it and bounced onto the kitchen worktop. Owen's eyes widened in horror as he saw the lit wick trailing from the top of it.
Before he could make a grab for the orb, it rolled lazily off the side of the work surface and fell to the floor where it shattered, spilling flaming oil everywhere. Keeping his head down, Owen rushed over to the range where Beru was crouched - praying that none of the flying bullets would hit him - but before he could reach it the back door splintered and flew off its hinges. Outlined in the doorway stood a soldier in a khaki uniform. A rifle was slung over his back and he had one of the biggest beards Owen had ever seen on a man. Reaching out the soldier offered his hand to Beru.
"Compth wip meph if yoop wanph toof liph."
Both Beru and Owen stared in shock at the soldier who, spluttering, pulled down the massive false beard he was wearing and spat some hairs out of his mouth. He grinned sheepishly.
"Sorry about that. I'm John Conner - come with me if you want to live."
~~~
1. Beneath their massive beards.
2. "Shut up Thomas, I'm concentrating."
3. A directive that had confused Thomas no end. "So, once we're in do we go out with them or is our getting in there only thing we have to do once they're out? Do we stay there? Do we leave?" Dave reasoned that when forming an underground army beggars couldn't be choosers.
4. It was the sort of look that suggested "carry on moaning about the beard and I'll make you eat it."
5. Amongst those who knew Beru, this gesture was pregnant with the sort of menace normally associated with a leopard crouched and preparing to pounce.
6. Owen was a fit man for his age, but he had just sprinted to the farm in record time underneath a burning hot, cruel and unremitting sun. To get an idea of just how bad he felt and why he was having so much difficulty speaking, try sprinting the first two hundred metres of a four hundred metre race at full pelt then realise, with mounting horror, that you have another two hundred metres to go, and try to keep yoour original furious pace up for the remaining distance. This may or may not have been a direct experience of the author who stupidly thought he had been entered in the two hundred metres at an athletics meeting and didn't bother to listen to the announcer when he said "And now the four hundred metres..." (7).
7. Obviously this was eighteen years and about four stone ago...
8. This NEVER happened. Beru was proud of the fact that she always spoke her mind. Like most people who were proud to fall into this category she invariably ended up offending an awful lot of people when whatever had been swirling around in her mind came pouring forth in a tactless verbal tsunami.
