Free Stones for My Father by Trilby Kent Page A

to a stick.
    As Oom Willem and Koos Viljoen laid out the bodies of the dead men, Oom Sarel addressed the decimated
laager
. A mounted British soldier remained at his side, gun brandished across his chest. The soldier was such a large man that I felt sorry for his horse. His little black eyes focused on each of us in turn, and I could almost hear him making a mental tally: counting the women and children, adding their numbers to the men’s, taking account of the wounded, subtracting the dead. Not twenty yards from where we stood, a group of soldiers was tending to their own casualties. I counted five khaki bodies before my mother cuffed me round the ear and told me to pay them no attention.
    “The commandant says that the men will be separated from the women and children,” boomed OomSarel. I could tell that he was trying to communicate with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. Behind him, the burned-out shell of our wagon resembled an enormous, blackened rib cage. “Women may take only what they can carry for their families. Everyone must hand in their weapons.”
    “Where will they take us?” demanded Andries. It was obvious by the way he puffed up his chest and pretended to deepen his voice that he was playing the part of a tough commando. I took Gert’s hand and squeezed it tightly.
    Oom Sarel turned to the commandant and relayed the question in English.
    The commandant straightened, and adjusted his gun.
    “Standerton,” he said, nodding at the open cart that awaited us. The commandant had peculiarly pointed nostrils, which flared each time he spoke; he wet his lips and the saliva glistened in the sun, demarcating the boundaries of an uncompromising mouth. “From there the women and children will go to Kroonstad.” He shot Andries a warning glance. “For their own safety.”
    “And the men?” asked Oom Sarel.
    “The men will become prisoners of war.”
    Oom Sarel announced that we were to obey the Tommies or else we would be shot. At this, some of the little ones began to whimper. Their mothers muffled their sobs, as tired as they were frightened.
    “Wees sterk, vriende,”
concluded Oom Sarel
.
Be strong, friends
.
    The men stomped their feet and heckled the British patrol while being chained together at the ankles, until eventually they began to resemble a convulsing, many-limbed insect. My mother told me not to let go of Gert and Hansie — not even for one second. She took Pa’s gun from Gert and strode up to the commandant, head held high.
    “Dis my man se geweer,”
she said.
This is my husband’s gun
. She did not drop it on the ground at the feet of horse and rider, as the others had done, but held it up toward him. The commandant considered my mother, and the rifle. He took the gun and nodded curtly.
    “Thank you,” he said.
    As my mother returned to us, two soldiers appeared with Lindiwe and Sipho in tow. Neliswe and Nosipho trailed behind them, escorted by a third, older soldier, one who looked almost kind.
    “We found some blacks trying to escape into the forest,” said the one holding Lindiwe, the strangesounding words emerging through a bristling, gray beard. “The lad’s in bad shape, but the woman and her kids are all right.”
    Sipho was hanging his head so low that the bones on the back of his neck stuck out. I tried willing him to look up, but my friend seemed determined not to meet the gaze of any of us. Lindiwe, on the other hand, fell to her knees the instant she saw my mother, beseeching us with outstretched palms.
    “Please,
nooi
, take us with you!” she pleaded. Seeingtheir mother in distress, the little girls broke free from the kind-looking soldier and tumbled next to her. Sipho remained where he was, motionless.
    My mother opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Oom Willem’s voice rang out loudly over our heads.
    “That boy killed one of our men,” he said to Oom Sarel. “I saw him stab Smous Petrus — look for a