Making a meal of it...

It seemed the Earl and Countess had chosen to spend this, their first Christmas out of mourning, in some style, and the green room was fair filled to overflowing when Jordan at last entered – a trifle late, to be sure, but he neither felt nor displayed any sense of guilt as he greeted a few familiar faces and availed himself of the glass proffered with a carefully schooled expression.

The butler ran a quick eye over the youngest St John brother and nodded, and a distinct twinkle lurked in his eye as he turned to resume his station at the door. No doubt I owe him, Jordan thought, his batman’s insistence that he wear the dreaded pantaloons now explained. Certainly none of the other family members had thought to warn him that the holidays were but an excuse for a house party, and that dressing for dinner would be required.

Not, of course, that if would have worried him. His mood was such that very little penetrated beyond the cold indifference he felt, though he knew he pattered the phrases and made the right noises at the right time. No-one, not even Annette, who stole the odd puzzled glance at him right through the interminable dinner, would have guessed that he felt anything but relaxed. A sterling performance, all in all. The Old Man would have been proud of him.

Possibly for the only time in my life. Instead of regret or guilt, the thought brought a smile.

Unfortunately, the girl – surely she could have been no more than sixteen – seated opposite assumed he had smiled at her and promptly responded with one of her own. Just as unfortunately, her attempt to seem both a little bold and a little shy all at the same time fell horribly flat and Jordan was obliged, with some difficulty, to school his features against his amusement at her expense.

He noticed she seemed a little ill at ease, and for a moment allowed his attention to be diverted to an unobtrusive examination.  She was pretty enough, in a slightly blowsy way that definitely hinted at merchant class. His eyes drifted further up the table to the solid fellow seated close to Edward. It didn’t require much intelligence to notice the similar, almost square features, and a shared inner discomfort as if they wore their finery with no familiarity. Father and daughter, he decided, and immediately lost interest.

“No uniform, Sir?” Grateful for the diversion, Jordan turned to the Rector – another brother, of course – and shrugged, choosing to ignore the formal address of one who should show a little more familiarity. Not that anyone expected less of Leslie. He was a man of the cloth, after all, with an excruciating sensibility for his hallowed station.

“On furlough.” Jordan saw little point in expanding on the bare bones of truth.

“Oh?” Leslie took a slow sip of wine – for his constitution of course, as even his Divine Master was known to do – and licked his lips. Jordan ignored the hated habit and simply waited. Leslie seldom spoke without having some point to make, be it wrong or right. “I had heard that you had sold out.”

The words, addressed in the Rector’s pulpit tones which had long since become a daily habit which endeared him to no-one, and having fallen in a brief lull in the general conversation, were audible to all and drew an immediate reaction. Jordan steeled himself to ignore the sudden inspection of a good two dozen pairs of eyes.

“Oh, but of course not!” Annette’s exclamation seemed oddly passionate and, as if suddenly conscious that she had spoken without thinking, and that almost the entire table had turned to regard her in astonishment, she took a moment to wipe her mouth delicately with a napkin. “Goodness,” she exclaimed then laughed as her husband flashed her a swift and angry look. “Everyone knows that Jordan is married to the army.”

“Well, I certainly never thought so.” Elizabeth set down her knife and fork with a quiet, ladylike gesture. His sister-in-law wore, Jordan noted with amusement, her vague and somewhat silly look – one he knew, though he doubted others had ever paid enough attention, was a perfect mask for an exceptionally bright and practical mind. “Why,” she continued gaily, seemingly quite unaware that she had now become the centre of attention, “I do believe it is the other way around entirely, I mean, the way they drag him from one place to another, and persist in pinning all those medals on him, and are forever recalling him when there seems to be just the most minute hint of trouble… oh, one can only believe that the army thinks itself married to him.”

Not for nothing did Jordan believe she might just be the only one of the family he could possibly be fond of. Still, he laughed with the rest and made no attempt to catch her eye lest he betray her unnecessary but endearing attempt divert the company from an uncomfortable reminder of he and Annette’s history – something not mentioned but quite obviously not forgotten.

“I do believe it is time, ladies.” Annette rose gracefully and even managed to smile at the stone-faced footmen who hurried forward to draw back her chair. “We shall leave you and the gentlemen to your port, dear.” She rested a hand on his shoulder for just a brief moment, a tellingly possessive demonstration, then led the ladies out.

As the doors closed behind them, more than one gentleman let out a small sigh of relief, and quite a few more glanced uneasily between Edward and Jordan, both of whom seemed oblivious to the general sense of discomfort around them.

“Good man, Selby,” Edward said cheerfully as the solemn butler placed the tray with the glasses on the table. The gentlemen, more at ease in the familiarity of tradition, settled into a somewhat desultory conversation which revolved primarily around horseflesh and hounds, and which favourite was tipped to win the upcoming races. Jordan willed himself to relax into the inanities and longed for an excuse to remove himself to his chamber.

“Come now, Jordie, you haven’t answered Lionel’s question y’know.” Edward slid into the chair opposite. Jordan decided he’d rather have the odd young lady than the Earl’s oily smile.

“Because is there is no answer,” he said equably, his veneer polished and polite. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Toying with it, is all, getting a little bored now that Boney’s rousted.”

“There is India,” Leslie interjected.

“Lord, no, too hot by all accounts.” Drew pulled out the chair between Jordan and Leslie and settled himself with the languid ease of a politician. Third in line, and with a good few rungs of the political ladder behind him, he tended to regard his siblings – the Earl included – with something close to superior bewilderment.  It wasn’t an endearing habit and, although just short of supercilious, did manage to create a satisfactory degree of separation between him and his siblings that at times was quite tempting. Perhaps, Jordan though, he should learn the trick.

Still, though Jordan was tempted to ask him just what he personally knew of the supposed heat in India, he silently acknowledged that, out of all of them, Drew had perhaps shown the greatest degree of success. He had, after all, married Elizabeth, and while that lady could not be boasted a beauty she nevertheless was possessed of wit and intelligence, not to mention a substantial inheritance.

“Devilish hot,” Jordan agreed. “But, thankfully, not on my horizon. If I choose not to sell out, I will rejoin my regiment at the Cape.”

“The Cape!” Leslie choked on his wine – a good clergyman of his status did not, after all, succumb to the worldly temptations, even of port – and it took a moment of solid back-thumping by Drew, who seemed suspiciously enthusiastic in delivering the remedy rather than genuinely concerned for his brother’s welfare, before he was able to vent his horror. “Among the savages?”

Jordan smiled, a brief moment of pure enjoyment in the bleakness of his existence. “By savages I take it you mean the black tribes? But of course. It is my duty as an Englishman to bring the light to the darkness – surely you, of all, people understand?”

Leslie, though a little fuzzed with the languor of the grape, knew full well he was being ribbed and, as expected, took exception. He began a valiant but somewhat blustery protest, which prompted the company to a burst of raucous laughter which quickly silenced him.

“Oh,” Jordan added as they all rose to join the ladies. “Let’s not forget the Philistines.”

“Philistines?” Leslie asked in frigid tones. Of course, his retreat into splendid superiority was somewhat diminished by this irresistible bait.

“Oh leave off, Jordie.” Drew chuckled and thumped his palm on the table. “The Boers, Lionel. Those dirty, hairy remnants of Dutch occupation that by all accounts terrorize the servants of the crown as much as do their native counterparts.” Leslie sniffed and gathered the rest of his dignity about him like an invisible mantle.

“I take it,” he said with cold dignity, “that it’s spelt B-o-e-r, and not b-o-o-r?”

“But of course, old boy,” Dres returned smartly, “though I daresay there’s little distinction between them, come to think of it.”

“Spoken like a true Englishman.” Edward slapped Jordan on the back in a gesture which somehow spoke both familiarity and contempt. “I applaud you, little brother. But if you do decide to stay, you know of course I shall do everything in my power to ensure that you are settled as you deserve.”

“I have no doubt you will.” Jordan kept his response distant but agreeable, yet the cold understanding, cemented by a knowing look between them, spoke the truth far more eloquently.

Jordan wondered with wry amusement just what Edward thought he deserved. Whatever it was, it would be heartily unpleasant.

Seventh Son Rebellion Part 2

A groom, unsmiling and taciturn, ran up to snatch the bridle as Jordan stopped alongside the sweeping stone stairs which led up to the heavy front doors. Though a stranger, the man's grim expression was coldly familiar. Clearly little had changed with the demise of the old Earl - Cliffside was still managed with the iron hand that left little room for cheer or any display of human warmth.

Jordan shrugged, as if the gesture could somehow dislodge the chill that settled around him, a cold that had little to do with the snow falling softly into the gathering darkness.

The doors swung open even as he approached.

"Selby. Good to see you." Jordan forced a lightness into his tone as he shrugged out of his greatcoat and handed it to the butler.

"And you, Mister Jordan, Sir." The old face, lined with the tales of many years, managed a broad smile for just a moment before it settled once again into the imperturbability of long practice. Yet... Jordan caught an odd look, a quick expression of disquiet.

"Is something wrong, Selby?"

"Oh no, Sir. Not all all." Selby turned quickly to close the doors with a quiet thud, and when he turned back he had his butler mask firmly in place. Only his eyes darted away, then back, and fixed themselves firmly on a spot somewhere beyond Jordan's shoulders. A sense of disquiet, of unease, settled around him, but he bit back the instinctive question. No point in pressing the man. Selby was nothing if not the model of the perfect butler. Jordan suppressed a sigh.

"Jordie!"

He turned towards the sound of her voice, a part of him smiling, another part registering the incongruity of it here in the cold marble hallway of what should have been home.

"Annette. What are you..." She paused three stairs from the bottom, her small hand resting on the balustrade, slender fingers tight around the smooth wood. Her face, oddly pale, flashed a myriad of emotions - surprise, fear, discomfort, joy... His eyes caught hers, held them, and he read the growing distress in their wide, honest blue depths. Instinctively, hungrily, his gaze swept over her, down to the tiny blue slipper that peeped out below the hem of her gown, then back upward, driven by a discordant sense of unease.

"Annette?" He heard the harshness, the disbelief, in his question and saw her flinch. A part of him - some deep, primitive part of him - reveled in it, wanted her to feel the same pain that knifed through him as reality struck home. He wanted to look away, wanted to tear his gaze back to the perfect blue of her eyes and the memory that had been his truth for so long but, perversely, his eyes remained drawn to the impossible, the soft lines of silk that clung to her swelling abdomen.

"Jordie... I..."

"Don't." He drew a shuddering breath, the motion buying time as he struggled to regain some measure of sanity, to escape the escalating sense of implosion that sucked the life from him, that left him stranded in some desolate place of pain.

"You must understand..."

"Understand what? You're carrying another man's child, Annie. How do I understand that? You gave yourself to another man...to someone else...to...to who, Annie?" Somehow he knew, knew with a certainty that crushed the breath from him in an aching rush. He turned, slammed his fist into the wall, the pain of it swallowed in the greater sense of loss and anger and despair. "Who, damn you? Who?"

"Her husband."

The cold, clipped tones penetrated the haze and struck home. Jordan sagged against the wall, fighting the rage, fighting the urge to hurt, to maim... yes, even to kill. All his experience, all his years of discipline and rigorous training in the field... he drew on it now, held on to it like a drowning man to a single, fragile rope. His hands clenched and unclenched, his breath rasped with the effort of fighting down the nausea and the frenzy of hatred that threatened to engulf him. Silence brooded hard and long and frightening.

Then, when he had finally gained mastery, imposed control beneath a layer of relentless coldness that settled around him like death, Jordan turned back to face his brother.

Seventh Son Rebellion Part 1

Home.

Jordan St John couldn't quite bring himself to add the at last that so many of his troops seemed to speak with enthusiasm. He scowled into the collar of his greatcoat as his hand reached automatically to smooth Rogue's neck. The gelding, perhaps sensing his rider's mood, side-stepped and snorted, and his head jerked with impatience.


"Right. It's cold. You want a warm stable and a belly full of oats."

Resigned to the inevitable, Jordan eased the horse back onto the roadway and into a slow canter. Duty had made Cliffside his first call, and he wished, for not the first time, that he'd followed his impulse to turn his back on responsibility and head north for Wiltshire and Annette. She, at least, would welcome him with warmth and affection. With love.

His heart tightened at the thought and Rogue faltered then resumed his easy gait as Jordan consciously relaxed. Too long. It's been too long. Two years too long. His mind conjured a sweet image, her classical features softened by the gentle smile that lit eyes too blue to describe... Annette, whom he'd loved since... since childhood, really, since he'd rescued her from a tree during a house party and smuggled her back inside through the servants' entrance to avoid her mother's wrath.

Soon, he promised himself. Just a few days, long enough to maintain the pretense and endure the distant disapproval of those he called family, a misnomer if ever their was one. Their was nothing at all familial in relationships among the St John family, never had been - not as long as he could remember. Perhaps things had been better before his mother died, but Jordan had only been two and his faint memories were long-since overshadowed by a cold, distant father and six older brothers molded irrevocably into the same unbending indifference.

Glacial as the weather, he decided irreverently and huddled deeper into his coat against the flurries of snow that swirled about him. He tried not to look at the unwelcoming red-brick facade that loomed like a grim dictator at the end of the long driveway. The old weathered house had always been that, utterly unwelcoming, and would remain so even with the glow of windows reflecting lamps lighted in the gathering gloom of dusk.

Damn the weather, damn the so-called festive season and, most of all, damn the sense of duty that drove him to endure it all.

The Story Never Ends... our 1820 Settlers

So yes, the Neverending Story as we know it has (temporarily?) come to an end, which is rather sad. We had so much fun with it! But I got to thinking over the weekend and realized that Life is the Neverending Story, and that there are many tales and many faces and many turns...

Perhaps having another birthday had something to do with this philosophical lightbulb moment. (It's always a good time, amongst the fun and festivity, to revisit the year past and focus on the year ahead.) Still, I found myself remembering a long-ago dream, one I'd tucked away in a quiet place, waiting for the moment to discover and explore and shape it.

And what, you ask, has that to do with The Neverending Story? Quite simply... everything. I am, first and foremost, "Proudly South African" as our national motto proclaims. But I am also good, solid 1820 Settler stock. For as long as I can remember I have had an affinity with those intrepid and hardy folk who emigrated to the "Cape of Good Hope" and found hardship, poverty and tribal conflict instead of the "land of milk and honey" they had been promised. Within this heritage are countless Neverending Stories of courage, of hope, of determination, and of a legacy passed down in the resilience and enduring humour still found among the 1820 settler descendents.

So here then, amidst the innumerable tales, lies another Neverending Story - the characters, the lives, the struggles of these intrepid folk who settled a frontier and founded a legacy that transcends the temporal measures of this world.

On 10th April 1820 the first of the naval transport ships, The Chapman, arrived in table bay. On board

was my ancestor, George Futter, who was in fact a shoemaker and little suited to agricultural endeavors, let alone on a "wild frontier" which had little agricultural potential. Like many of the settlers, he had no agricultural inclination or experience and, in a country suited to pastoral farming rather than crop husbandry, was doomed to failure and poverty by the very settlement scheme that promised to prosper him.

Albany in 1820 was not the dream many anticipated. Lack of experience and knowledge and an unfamiliar and drought plagued environment would surely have been enough for any settler to deal with. But the frontier was also a shifting, volatile thing. Immigrants settled hopefully on land allocations way too small for subsistence, utterly oblivious to the fact that their primary role was was to create an agricultural community (an impossible task in itself given the land and their ignorance, and the impractically small allocations) which would act as a "human wall" against the Xhosa tribes across the river.

The Xhosa - or Kaffres as they were then known - were a somewhat loose grouping of various tribes inhabiting the Albany region at that time. Many of them had been driven south and westwards by the depredations of powerful tribes such as the Zulu and the Matebele. With the stronger tribes behind and the settlers ahead, the stage was set for an extended conflict exacerbated by colonial governance and the political power aspirations of individuals within the colonial administration.

This then the dream - to honor the Neverending Story that emerges from the struggles and failures and victories of a group of some 4000 souls misled by their own government and whose very survival hinged on their ability to dig deep and overcome.

"We must take root and grow or die where we stood."

I have started, then, my tribute to those who took root and from which I have grown - a series drawn from these Neverending 1820 Settler stories entitled "A Hot, Wild Land". But there are "stories within stories"... What makes a man leave all that his familiar and take his family to the "other end of the earth"? Why would a woman choose an uncertain future in an unknown land? How did the wild hot land shape the lives and futures of those who dared?

I have decided to dedicate this blog to the telling of those tales, to bring to life the characters that already whisper their stories and set the scene for the unfolding of the individual novels.

Walk with me. Share the moments and the courage, the individual tales that bring each of "my" characters to their destiny on the shores of A Hot, Wild Land.

Most of all, I hope you have as much fun as I do!

Take care,
Jude