The Covenant (73 page)

“Pity he died,” Mrs. Lambton said. She had other solid objections to sending her daughter to a land so remote as South Africa, but she was realist enough to know that Vera was aging and had better catch a suitor promptly. Even a ghost like the absent Hilary had to be considered, so she extended Mrs. Saltwood a courtesy she did not fully feel: “I think we should discuss this, Emily.”

“Shall we involve Vera?” Mrs. Saltwood asked.

“Not at this point, I think. And certainly not the two of us. It would make everything seem too important.”

“It’s just that,” Emily said with that charming frankness that characterized so many elderly English women who no longer felt restraints. “It’s very important for my son, and frankly, it ought to be for Vera too. She’s not getting any younger.”

She walked home across the old bridge, turned right, and went down the quiet lane leading to Sentinels, where she felt vaguely uneasy, although unaware that national events were about to do her work for her.

In London her eldest son, Peter, now a member of Parliament for Old Sarum, had become a leader in the movement to alleviate English unemployment by the device of granting large funds for shipping unwanted families out to South Africa:

A gigantic effort was mounted to convince impoverished Englishmen that they must quit their hopelessness at home and venture into the new paradise. Articles were published extolling the agricultural possibilities, the beauty of the landscape, and the salubriousness of the climate on the right bank of the Great Fish River, in the vicinity of that splendid rural capital Grahamstown. No mention was made of the recent attack by ten thousand assegaied Xhosa on said capital or the deaths among those who had defended it.

Most helpful were the speeches and writings of Reverend Simon Keer, who assured Englishmen that those lucky enough to be included in the roster of immigrants—whose boat fare would be paid by the government and whose land would be given free, a hundred rolling acres to each family—would be entering a paradise to which America and Australia were niggardly in comparison. To residents of crowded England, where a family could live well on twenty acres, the vision of a hundred, rent-free, tax-free, was compelling.

Ninety thousand citizens, well mixed as to occupation, education and ability, volunteered to emigrate, a superior lot, really, to those who had emigrated earlier to Canada and America, and had they all been moved to Cape Town, the history of Africa would have been sharply modified, for at this time there were only some twenty-five thousand Boers in the entire colony, and the infusion of so many Englishmen would have made South Africa much like any other British colony. But enthusiastic members of Parliament, such as Peter Saltwood, promised much more than they could deliver, and when the time came to fill the ships, only enough money to transport four thousand settlers was provided, so that the eighty-six thousand who might have restructured a nation had to be left behind.

Among those lucky enough to be included was a young man of twenty-five named Thomas Carleton, a carriage builder by trade, whose enthusiasm matched the rhetoric of speakers like Peter Saltwood and Simon Keer. From the first moment he heard of the emigration plan, he wanted to go, and with letters of approval from his minister and sheriff, he was among the first interviewed: “My business is solid, but it’s not really thriving. I want to go where distances are great and men must have wagons.”

“Have you any money saved?”

“Not a penny, but I have strong arms, a willing back and a complete set of tools fully paid.”

The examiners doubted if they would find many men so qualified and unanimously recommended that he be accepted, so he was given a slip of paper guaranteeing his passage and the allocation of one hundred acres. He was to report three months hence to Southampton, where the ship
Alice Grace
would be loading. “That’ll give you time to find yourself a wife,” the examiners explained.

“Not me!” Thomas said. “I haven’t a penny to feed a wife.”

When the news of this grand scheme reached Salisbury, the Lambtons listened with more than casual attention, and the more they heard, the more convinced they became that this was the kind of adventure to which an unmarried girl of good breeding might subscribe. Of course, Vera would not be sailing as an ordinary charity case, her way paid by the government; as the intended bride of a clergyman who might one day be dean of the finest cathedral in England, and the sister-in-law-to-be of an important member of Parliament, she would have preferment.

But the grand decision hung in the balance until Salisbury was visited by the one man in England who spoke as if he knew most about the new colony, Dr. Simon Keer, as he now called himself, a power in the LMS. He announced a public meeting in the cathedral cloisters, where chairs lined the hallowed square and where against a background of gray stone he explained everything. He was now middle-aged, a short, plump little man with red hair, a Lancashire accent and a powerful voice that boomed as it echoed from the noble walls; his oratory rolled like thunder as he spoke of challenges and flashed like lightning when he outlined the potentialities:

When the Lambtons lingered to ask him if he knew anything of Grahamstown, where the new settlers would be given their land, he
showed his frank astonishment that a family as distinguished as theirs might be interested in emigrating: “It’s for the poorer type, you know. The solid workers of the world.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Lambton said. “But we’re told that the Golan Mission, run by your Society …” She had to say no more. With a wild clap of his hands and a leap in the air he cried, “I know! I know!” And he took Vera’s hands and danced a jig with her, even though she was a head taller than he. “You’re going out to marry Hilary Saltwood.”

He spent an hour assuring the Lambtons of how fine a man this missionary was. He reviewed the steps by which Hilary had reached conversion, and said that whereas he himself had not yet visited Golan Mission, for it had not been in existence when he served in that area, he had excellent reports of it. But then Vera took him aside for a confidential assessment.

When he finished she was convinced that she could profitably sail to South Africa, but her mother raised one serious objection: “With whom can Vera travel? I don’t fancy her alone on a ship for four months, surrounded by God knows whom.”

“That’s a real problem,” Dr. Keer conceded, “but I’ve been working closely with the shipping companies. Real gentlemen, you know.” To hear the former missionary speak, he consorted only with the best families, stayed only at the great houses, and one gained the impression that he enjoyed missionary work far more when lecturing in England than he had when serving on the Xhosa frontier. “I’m sure we’ll find persons of quality among the ship’s officers. I’ll make inquiries.”

This wasn’t necessary, for within a week of Dr. Keer’s lecture in the cloisters, Richard Saltwood came down from London, where he had been consulting with his brother in Parliament, and his news was exciting: “Mother! I’ve resigned my commission. Wasn’t going anywhere down that lane. And Peter’s arranged with the colonial secretary for me … Point is, I’m to have a government job at Grahamstown! David lost in America. Me lost in South Africa.”

“Are you contemplating staying there?” his mother asked.

“There’s nothing for me here. I’ve neither the money nor the talent to be a colonel of the regiment. So I’m off to the new land. I saw it and liked it. Much better than India.”

“This could be providential,” his mother said. “We’ve found a bride for Hilary. The Lambton girl. You knew her years ago. She’s a
tall, thin thing now and is desperately hungry for a husband, although she won’t admit it.”

“She’s sailing to Cape Town? Splendid for Hilary.”

“She’s ready to sail,” Emily said hesitantly, “but she’s afraid of going out with the emigrant mob—unattended, as it were.”

“I’ll take her!” Richard said with the spontaneity that had gained him the affection of any troops with whom he served in close quarters.

“That’s what I had in mind, the moment you spoke. But there are grave dangers …”

“Our laddies have the savages whipped into shape. A skirmish now and then, nothing to fear.”

“It wasn’t that I was thinking of. Richard, will you go fetch Vera? Right now?”

They sat under the oak trees in the picnic chairs John Constable had used for his paints two years earlier when doing the large canvas showing Salisbury Cathedral in sunlight; as an appreciation for his constant use of this lawn, he had dashed off a wonderful watercolor sketch of the towers, which he had given Emily on his departure; it hung in the main room in a fine oak frame which she had cut and nailed herself.

The Saltwoods of Salisbury had not survived for nearly two centuries, during which people of influence had tried to wrest Captain Nicholas Saltwood’s fortune from them, without acquiring certain skills, one of which was to marry young women of the vicinity who showed ability. Emily Saltwood had been one of the most resilient, mother of four good boys and counselor to all. She had never been afraid to pinpoint inherent dangers, nor was she now.

“How old are you, Richard? Thirty-one?” He nodded. “And you, Vera? Twenty-nine?” She nodded.

“Then you’re old enough to realize that a four-month sail to Cape Town aboard a small ship, in close confinement …”

The couple found it embarrassing to look at her, so she spoke with extra vigor, demanding their attention: “Inherently dangerous, wouldn’t it be?”

“I suppose so,” Richard said.

“Old romances are full of this sort of thing. Tristan and Iseult over in Cornwall. One of the Spanish kings, if I recall, and his brother escorting the bride. Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

Richard placed his hand on his mother’s and said, “I’m taking a
little girl I knew at playtime … out to marry my brother. When I seek a wife, I’ll find one for myself.”

“Those are insulting words,” Vera snapped, and for the first time the two Saltwoods looked at her as an individual and not as a prospective answer to a Saltwood family problem. She was, as Emily said, twenty-nine, tallish, thinnish, not especially beautiful of face, but lovely of voice and smile. Like many young women her age she knew how to play the piano and had taken watercolor instruction from Mr. Constable when he stayed in the village. For the moment she was reticent, but as she grew older she would become much like the woman now counseling her: a strong English wife with a mind of her own.

She had never yet been kissed by any man other than her father, and by him only rarely, but she had no fear of men and had always supposed that when the time came, her parents would find her a husband. She was a girl of spirit and rather looked forward to an interval on the frontier, always supposing that her husband would return to a position of some importance at the cathedral, in whose shadow she had been raised and intended to die.

“I’m fully aware of the dangers,” she told her putative mother-in-law, using a low, calm voice even though she realized that Mrs. Saltwood’s questioning reflected on her as much as on her son.

“That’s good,” Emily said with an inflection that signified: “This meeting’s over. We understand one another.” But Richard had one thing more to say: “You must tell Vera where the idea came from that sent you to her house … seeking a wife … for Hilary, that is.”

Emily laughed vigorously and took the young people’s hands in hers. “Vera, when Richard passed through Cape Town various army friends advised him that Hilary needed a wife. It was Richard who set this all in motion. And now he proposes to complete the transaction.”

“I don’t think of myself as a transaction,” Vera said.

“We’re all transactions. My husband married me years ago because the Saltwood holdings needed close attention, much more than he needed a wife.”

They rose from their chairs under the oak trees and looked across at the stunning beauty of the cathedral—which some of them might never see again.

•  •  •

The
Alice Grace
was a small commercial barque accustomed to freighting cargo to India but now commissioned to carry some three hundred emigrants to Cape Town, in conditions which would have terrified owners of cattle being shipped across the Channel to France. Her burthen was two hundred and eighty tons, which was significant in that by law she was entitled to carry three passengers for every four tons; this meant that she should have sold passage to no more than two hundred and ten emigrants. Thus, when she left port she was ninety over complement, but since most of the passengers were charity cases, government inspectors smiled and wished her “Good voyage!”

She departed Southampton on 9 February 1820 on a gray, wintry day when the Channel looked more immense than the ocean, its waves far more menacing. For seven painful days the little craft tossed and pitched in waves that seemed determined to pull her to shreds, and all aboard who had not sailed before were convinced that they must perish. Major Richard Saltwood, retired, who had sailed to and from India, reassured the cabin passengers that once the Bay of Biscay was reached, the passage would settle into a pleasant monotony in which the limited movement of the ship “would be like a gentle lullaby, no worse.”

Especially pleased to hear this was the woman whose welfare lay in his hands. She did not accept the violent motion of the ship easily, and this irritated her, for she was grimly determined to “make a brave show of it,” as she had promised her mother she would, and when her stomach was wrenched into convulsions by her sickness, she was ashamed of herself. She was the sole occupant of the cabin next to her brother’s, as she called him, but he shared his with a captain going out to join the Gallant Fifty-ninth on the Afghan frontier, so that during the bad days she had two gentlemen to assist her.