‘Hydrangeas.’
‘Clod,’ said the Bishop resuming his recital
Els stepped over to the lever.
‘Yet have they left me,’ the Bishop’s muffled voice came through the cloth bag. Els pulled the lever and the hooded figure disappeared through the trap into the well below, and his voice, already indistinct, was silenced by the dreadful thud that followed. As the trapdoor slammed and the scaffold rocked alarmingly under the impact, the Chaplain, recalled to the purpose of his visit by the intimations of mortality he had just witnessed, offered a prayer for the dead man.
‘Let us pray for the soul of the departed wherever it may be,’ he said, and lowered his head. Governor Schnapps and Els closed their eyes and listened with bowed heads as he prayed. For several minutes the Chaplain mumbled on before ending, ‘And may Thy Servant depart in Peace, amen.’
‘Amen,’ said Governor Schnapps and Els together. The men on the scaffold raised their heads and Els stepped forward to peer down into the well. The rope had stopped swinging and hung rather limply, Els thought, considering the weight of its burden. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness below Els began to realize that something was missing. The noose on the rope hung loose and empty. The Chaplain’s prayer had been answered. Wherever God’s servant might be, he had certainly departed and evidently in one piece too. The well of the scaffold was absolutely empty.
As the Bishop dropped into eternity he thought how appropriate his last words had been and was glad he hadn’t reached the next line which went, ‘Thou art still my God,’ because he no longer believed. He braced himself for the awful shock to his neck, but the pain came from another extremity altogether. ‘Corns,’ he thought, as he hit the ground with a tremendous crash and rolled sideways, through the door and out into the sunlit courtyard. His cloth bag was ripped and his legs felt decidedly painful, but it was evident that whatever else had been broken, his neck had not. He lay still, waiting for Els to fetch him for a second attempt and wasn’t surprised when he felt hands lifting his feet and shoulders.
A moment later he was lying on a stretcher and had been lifted into the ambulance. As the doors were slammed the ambulance moved off hurriedly, stopped for a moment while the prison gates were opened, and hurtled out into the street, its siren whirring.
Behind it the Death House had begun to fulfil the predictions of the old warder. Under the impact of the stampede that followed on the scaffold when the distraught hangman peering into the well slipped and grabbed Governor Schnapps’ legs to prevent himself falling, the walls of the gallows slowly toppled inwards and, with a roar of falling masonry, Governors, Hangmen and Chaplains, disappeared from view in a dense cloud of black dust. The old warder sat in his office and thanked his lucky stars. ‘I said it wasn’t safe,’ he murmured and picked up the phone to dial the hospital.
As the ambulance sped through the streets of Piemburg, Jonathan Hazelstone felt the attendant undoing the straps that held his arms and legs. A hand slid inside his shirt and felt his chest.
‘It’s all right. It’s still beating,’ he heard the attendant tell the driver. Jonathan held his breath until the hand went away. Then he relaxed slowly. Around him the sounds of the city filtered through the canvas bag and as he lay there Jonathan Hazelstone realized for the first time that what lay in store for him might make death by hanging seem infinitely preferable.
‘I’ll be hanged if anyone is going to cut my heart out now,’ he thought to himself as the ambulance swung through the gates of Piemburg Hospital, and stopped outside the mortuary.
Inside the hospital the news of the execution had been accompanied by the old warder’s insistence that several more ambulances be sent to the prison to deal with the victims of the disastrous collapse of the Death House. The air of tension that was already present in the hospital developed into a state of wholesale panic. The Kommandant, already prepared for the operation, was given a general anaesthetic and wheeled unconscious into the operating theatre. While the surgeons prepared for the transplant, ambulance drivers rushed to their vehicles and preparations were made to receive the expected influx of victims from the prison. Nurses already distraught at having to deal with scores of lunatics injured in the massacre at Fort Rapier tried to ready themselves for this fresh disaster. When the ambulance carrying Jonathan Hazelstone arrived at the mortuary it was caught up in the general confusion.
‘Get back to the prison,’ yelled an orderly from a window when the two attendants carried the donor into the mortuary and deposited him on a trolley. ‘There’s been a major catastrophe there.’ The two men dashed back to their ambulance and drove off. Alone in the mortuary for a moment the Bishop leapt off his trolley and snatched the cloth bag from his head and looked around him. Under the sheets that covered still forms on their slabs he found what he was looking for, and by the time two orderlies arrived to fetch the donor for the transplant, the body lying snugly under its white sheet and with its head covered by a grey cloth bag contained a heart that was far too cold and still to be of much assistance to Kommandant van Heerden.
As the operation got under way, what remained of the late Bishop of Barotseland was strolling with the faint suggestion of a limp up the hill towards Jacaranda House, and as it strolled it was singing:
‘Yet if you go, I passe not: take your way:
For Thou art still my God, is all that ye
Perhaps with more embellishment can say.
Go birds of spring: let winter have his fee.
Let a bleak paleness chalke the door.
So all within be livelier than before.’
Jonathan Hazelstone had begun to think that there might, after all, be reasons for recovering his faith.
The state of panic that reigned at Piemburg Hospital when the ambulance containing the Bishop arrived was as nothing to the chaos and hysteria which began in the operating theatre when the body of the donor arrived on the trolley. An incision had already been made in Kommandant van Heerden’s chest when it was discovered that whoever had been responsible for the execution had made an altogether too thorough job of it. The corpse on the trolley had multiple injuries of the most appalling sort. The only thing that didn’t appear to be broken on it was the neck. Not only was it fractured in a score of places but it had been dead for at least forty-eight hours. And when it was further revealed to be the corpse of a woman of eighty-nine, the surgeons knew that what they had considered stupid from the start, not to say criminal, had degenerated now to the point of sheer lunacy.
Dr Erasmus was frantic. ‘Who said this was beating?’ he yelled, slapping the withered object that hung out of the old lady’s chest. (She had in fact been run over by a twenty-five-ton truck while crossing the road.) ‘This hasn’t beaten for days and, when it last worked, it didn’t bloody beat. It winced once in a while. I wouldn’t feed this heart to a starving dog let alone put it into that maniac’s body.’ He sat down and wept.
After half an hour during which the mortuary was searched again and again, and various possible donors in the hospital wards had their deaths hastened by teams of desperate surgeons who came masked and predatory to stare at them and feel their pulses hopefully, Dr Erasmus pulled himself together and taking a quick tot of ether addressed the heart team.
‘Gentlemen and ladies,’ he said, ‘what we have all been witness to this afternoon is of such a regrettable and dreadful nature that the sooner we forget about it the better. As you know I never wanted to undertake this transplant in the first place. We were forced to agree to it by that bloody lunatic there.’ He pointed to Kommandant van Heerden’s unconscious body. ‘We acted under immense pressure and, thank heaven, in absolute secrecy. And now owing to the prison authorities’ delay in letting us have the donor, and looking at her injuries I can fully appreciate why there was this delay, we are quite unable to proceed with the operation. I intend to stitch the patient’s chest up and leave his own heart beating perfectly healthily in place.’
There were murmu
rs of protest from the other members of the transplant team.
‘Yes, I know how you feel and given any further provocation I would agree to remove his heart and let the bastard rot. But I have decided against it. Thanks to the secrecy that surrounds this whole irregular business I have a better plan. I think it will be better to allow the Kommandant to remain in complete ignorance of the good fortune that has prevented him from getting this,’ and Dr Erasmus slapped the old woman’s heart again. ‘We will simply maintain the fiction that the transplant has been completed successfully and I have every confidence that his stupidity is so colossal that it will never cross his mind to question our statement that he has a new heart.’
Amid congratulations and a few cheers, the eminent surgeon turned to Kommandant van Heerden and stitched him up.
An hour later the Kommandant woke up in his room. He felt rather sick and the wound in his chest hurt when he moved but otherwise he didn’t seem to feel any ill-effects from his operation. He took a deep tentative breath and listened to his new heart. It sounded perfect.
20
As the great cloud of black dust swelled out in the centre of the prison courtyard and the last piece of rotten masonry fell with a final thud, an awestruck silence settled on the black convicts cowering in their cells. Konstabel Els, treading on Governor Schnapps’ scrotum as a last tribute to the man who had ruined his career as a hangman, clambered painfully to the top of the pile of debris and stared into the murk. It was hardly a peak in Darien and the prospect ahead could hardly be called pacific but in his own way ex-Hangman Els was a proud man. At the very centre of a slowly expanding ball of black dust, Konstabel Els knew that he had once again put his great gifts of annihilation to good use. Below him lay the bodies of Governor Schnapps, the Chaplain and, he still hoped, the man he had attempted to hang. He, Hangman Els, had topped them all and no one would ever forget the day that Els had hanged a man in Piemburg Prison. He had made more than a reputation for himself, he had made a name, a great name. And as Els clambered down from the mound of debris and emerged dazed from the black cloud, he had no regrets.
Naked, bruised and black as the ace of spades, Els stepped forth to meet the world. He walked slowly and unsteadily up the great courtyard and as he walked men began to pour out of their prison cells where they had been waiting in silent fear, while the first hanging Piemburg Prison had known for twenty years took place. From every doorway overlooking the courtyard the convicts poured to gaze at the scene of disaster.
At first they stood and stared in silent wonder, and then a great cry went up, followed by shouts of joy and presently a man broke into song and a moment later the great courtyard was a mass of dancing and singing men who stamped their feet and clapped their hands in an ecstatic and triumphant dance. One thousand black convicts, Zulus to a man, danced as they had never danced before round the mound that had once been the dreaded Death House. Rank after rank they stamped and swayed and as the earth and sky reverberated to their dance they sang.
And their song was a great requiem of joy at the passing of Els, Kaffir-Killer Els, Hangman Els, the scourge of the Zulus. In their midst stamping and dancing and singing for dear life, naked and black as the best of them, was Els.
Someone threw a match on to the pile of masonry and rotten wood and a moment later the remains of the scaffold were ablaze. As the dust slowly subsided a plume of black smoke arose into the cloudless sky. Rising almost vertically in the still air the black plume signalled far and wide that something extraordinary and significant had occurred.
The swaying convicts, advancing with their knees raised high for the emphatic stamp of their feet and backing again for another triumphant surge, accompanied the flames and the roar of the fire with their endless chant.
‘Els is dead, Kaffir-Killer Els,
Gone to the devil where his soul belongs
Raper of our women, killer of our men
We won’t see the swine again.’
The song was picked up by the Zulus in the street outside the prison and they took up the refrain. From house to house, from street to street, the chant spread like wildfire as servants poured into the streets to watch the smoke of the funeral pyre rise over Piemburg Prison. Within an hour all Piemburg reverberated to the Zulus’ chant. Lying in his bed in Piemburg Hospital Kommandant van Heerden dozily caught the refrain and smiled. It seemed a good omen. He began to hum it cheerfully. It put him in good heart.
As dusk fell the convicts were still dancing and singing. In the administrative block the warders cowered in terror and peered fearfully through the bars at the black figures silhouetted against the flames. The old warder cursed Els and his bloody hanging but he knew better than to try to put a stop to the celebrations. He wasn’t going to get himself torn to bits by the mob by trying to intervene and when he rang the police station to ask for reinforcements he had been told by Luitenant Verkramp that the police station was itself under siege and he would have to pray and wait for the exuberance to die down of its own accord. Verkramp had not been exaggerating. The streets of Piemburg were filled with dancing crowds. Traffic ground to a halt and white drivers walked home or spent the night in their offices rather than risk trying to drive through the excited mobs. Not that there was any sign of anger among the crowds, only a great sense of liberation and joy.
As the plane for London passed low over Piemburg that night a large cheerful clergyman drew the attention of his companion to the fire and the crowds dancing in the streets.
‘So all within is livelier than before,’ he remarked enigmatically.
His companion put down the catalogue of rubber goods she had been reading. ‘I’m sure you’ll make a very good college chaplain,’ she said and sighed, ‘but I doubt if I’ll find a Zulu cook in London.’
It was only a month before Kommandant van Heerden was well enough to leave hospital. His new heart had shown no signs of being rejected and the doctors were delighted with his progress. There had been a little trouble over the matter of injections and it had taken six male nurses all their strength to hold the Kommandant down, but apart from that he had been a model patient. After a fortnight he had been allowed out of bed and only then had he learnt the full story of the tragedy at Piemburg Prison.
‘It was a miracle the ambulance men managed to get the body away in time,’ he told Dr Erasmus. ‘Another minute and I wouldn’t be here today.’
Dr Erasmus had to agree. ‘A genuine miracle,’ he said.
‘You’re quite certain there won’t be any rejection of the new heart?’ the Kommandant asked, and was relieved that the doctor was so confident all would be well.
‘I can honestly say,’ said Dr Erasmus, ‘that to all intents and purposes the heart that beats in your chest at this moment might well have been the one you were born with,’ and with this assurance that there would be no rejection, the Kommandant smiled happily to himself.
When he finally left hospital, the Kommandant took a month’s leave and spent it on the beach at Umhloti acquiring a healthy tan and reading books about the Hazelstone family. For a while he toyed with the idea of changing his name to van Heerden-Hazelstone. ‘After all, I’m practically one of the family,’ he thought, but he gave up the idea finally as being not in the best of taste. Instead he cultivated an air of arrogance which irritated Luitenant Verkramp and was ignored by everybody else. The doctors had told him that his new heart needed plenty of exercise and the Kommandant tried to get out of his office and walk about the town as much as possible.
His favourite stroll took him up Town Hill to Jacaranda Park where he would wander down the drive to the house. It was still empty and there was talk of turning it into a museum or even a National Park. In the meantime Kommandant van Heerden liked to go and sit on the stoep and recall the events of the week that had changed his life so momentously.
He often thought of Konstabel Els and now that Els was dead he felt quite sorry. There had been a good side to the Konstabel’s nature, he supposed, and he
had to admit that Els had saved his life more than once.
‘If it hadn’t been for Els and that damned gun, I wouldn’t be here today,’ he said to himself before remembering that it had been Els’ lunacy that had caused his heart trouble in the first place. Still he could afford to be magnanimous now. Els died as he had lived, killing people. ‘He went with a swing,’ he thought, and recalled nostalgically the Konstabel’s epic struggle with the Dobermann. It reminded him of a case he had read about in the paper recently. It concerned a coloured convict on a prison farm in Northern Zululand who had bitten a guard dog to death before hanging it. The fellow’s name had been Harbinger, which the Kommandant thought sounded vaguely familiar. Anyway he had been given twenty lashes for indecent assault and the Kommandant thought he deserved them.
He settled himself comfortably in a wicker chair and looked out over the lawn at the new bust of Sir Theophilus which he had had erected at his own expense – or rather at the expense of the reward money Els no longer had any use for. He had paid the taxidermist too for his trouble, and had taken the stuffed Toby and put it in his office at the police station where it gave him an opportunity to wax eloquent to the new konstabels on the virtues of Konstabel Els who had killed the dog to save his Kommandant’s life.
All in all, the Kommandant reflected, he had good cause to be happy. The world was a good place to be in. South Africa was white still and would remain so. But above all he knew that he merited the high place he held in Piemburg and that his greatest ambition had finally been achieved. Within his chest there beat the heart of an English gentleman.
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