The Covenant Part 31

'But Tjaart's got to be baptized,' she said with such simplicity that he could not refuse her. So the older Van Doorn children were left in charge while their stepmother led Lodevicus and young Tjaart to their religious duties.

It was a glorious ride, with Tjaart old enough to recall in later years the vast empty s.p.a.ces, the lovely hills with their tops flattened. He would never forget the moment when his parents halted their horses some miles south of the new village to observe that extraordinary peak which guarded the site: from flat land it rose very high in gentle sweeps until it neared an apex, when suddenly it became a round turret, many feet high, with sheer walls of solid gray granite. And at the top, forming a beautiful green pyramid, rose wooded slopes coming to a delicate point.

'G.o.d must have placed it there to guide us to things important,' Lodevicus said, impressing upon his son the stunning significance of the place, and Tjaart remembered this peak long after he had forgotten his parents' marriage and his own baptism.

The boy now had three memories upon which to build his life: that the Dutch way of life must be defended against the English enemy; that Graaff-Reinet was a center of excitement; and that far to the north, as Grandfather Adriaan had told the other children before he died, lay an open valley of compelling beauty which he called Vrijmeer.

And then, in 1806, when the Van Doorns were congratulating themselves upon having resisted the English threat and preserving the countryside for Calvinism, the final shocking news arrived. Because the ordinary citizens of Holland had joined forces with Napoleon, England felt it must reoccupy the Cape to keep it from falling into French hands, which would cut the life line to India. It was now an English possession, and neither the local Dutch government nor the mother country Holland would exercise further control. All of Lodevicus' apprehensions about suppression at English hands revived.

The Cape, having been a stopping place between Holland and Java during the years 1647 to 1806, now became one between England and India, and the indifference with which Holland had always treated this potentially grand possession would now be matched by English imperiousness.

In these days of change it was inevitable that a.s.sessments be made of Holland's long rule, and it was remarked by certain observersDutchmen who had known their country's holdings in other parts of the world, Englishmen who had fought in the American war, and Frenchmen who knew many parts of the worldthat her rule had been almost without parallel in world history. The home country had allowed neither its royalty, its parliament nor its citizens any voice in the rule of this distant possession; control had rested in the hands of a clique of businessmen who made all decisions with an eye to profit. True, these profits had sometimes been widely distributed, with the government grabbing a healthy share, but in essence the colony had been a narrow business venture.

This had imposed limitations. The surging colonization that marked the French, Spanish and English settlement of North America, with excited citizens pushing exuberantly into the interior, was discouraged in South Africa. Always the Lords XVII preached caution, a holding back lest rambunctious elements like the Van Doorns stray so far afield that they could not easily be disciplined. If one major charge could be leveled against the Compagnie, it was that it restricted normal growth. The borders which should have extended to logical boundaries, perhaps the Zambezi, as Dr. Linnart suggested, never did, which meant that the generic ent.i.ty never came into being. Absentee businessmen, seeking only profit, do not generate a sense of manifest destiny; indeed, they fear it lest it create movements that get out of hand, and without this spiritual urge, no nation can achieve the limits to which geography, history, philosophy and hope ent.i.tle it. Because of Compagnie policy, rigorously enforced through sixteen decades, South Africa remained a truncated state, with only a few single-minded pioneers like the Van Doorns eager to dare the unknown.

Comparison with North American development was inescapable. In 1806, when the English a.s.sumed final control, South Africa had 26,000 white settlers. Canada, which had been started at about the same time as Cape Town and on less favorable soil, had 250,000, and the young United States more than 6,000,000. Mexico, a century older than South Africa, had 885,000. The main reason was simple: the Lords XVII were so reluctant to allow any immigration from which they could not immediately profit that during the entire eighteenth century they permitted only 1,600 new settlers to land! Sixteen newcomers a year cannot keep any new society healthy, or an old one, either.

But the Lords XVII were not entirely to blame, for on the rare occasions when they did advocate immigration, the response from those already living at the Cape was uniformly negative. 'It is absolutely impossible,' those holding land reported, 'to introduce any more whites into the country because they could find no livelihood.' What this really meant was that positions of advantage already filled by those in place would not be shared. There were no vacancies for the tough, impoverished migrant seeking a new country and a new chance, because the work that such people would normally start with was already being done by slaves.

In the time it took the cautious Lords XVII to approve inward movement of a hundred miles, settlers in North America had penetrated a thousand. While the Compagnie grudgingly allowed the establishment of a few small towns like Stellenbosch and Swellendam relatively close to the Cape, the free French and English settlers were already building communities like Montreal and Detroit far inland, thus laying the foundation for further movement westward.

It was not that the Dutch were commercially minded and the English not; had the English merchants been allowed to dominate North America they might have duplicated the folly of the Dutch, but English commercialism was never free to dictate to their colonies the way the Compagnie did.

Wherein lay the difference? The Dutch system of government not only permitted but encouraged its businessmen to rule without supervision, whereas the English government, which started in the same direction, quickly turned matters over to Parliament, a free press, and the innate longing for freedom of its citizens overseas. English businessmen might have wanted to ape the Dutch precedent, but the inst.i.tutions of freedom forestalled them.

In no respect did the Dutch deficiency show itself more clearly than in the field of education and the dissemination of culture. Because the population was meager and dispersed over thousands of square miles, the development of large schools was impractical, and those that were attempted in the towns were atrocious. On the veld, where countless children like the Van Doorns grew up, education was left to a group of vagabond itinerants with only a meager knowledge of reading and writing. Usually discharged servants of the Compagnie, these inept clerks roamed from farm to farm dispensing their rudimentary wisdom while they supplemented their income with anything from composing love letters to making coffins. The trekboer Van Doorns were not alone in producing children who were illiterate; one traveler estimated that seventy-five percent of the colony's children were unable to read.

This was not surprising, because the Compagnie ran the colony for nearly a century and a half before it allowed the colonists to import a printing press, or publish any kind of book, or print a newspaper. In Canada these things happened almost automatically, and America could not have been the same without its itinerant printers, inflammatory broadsides and contentious newspapers; but it was precisely such potential troublemakers that the Compagnie sought to inhibit, and did.

In such a climate there could, of course, be no inst.i.tutions of higher learning, and here the comparison with other colonial settlements was shocking. The Spaniards, who conquered Mexico in 1521, had by 1553 opened a major university. They took Peru in 1533 and sponsored a university in 1551. The English, who landed at Plymouth Rock in 1619, had a functioning college at Harvard in 1636, and before the revolution started in 1776 they had sixteen great colleges in operation. During the entire Dutch rule the Compagnie never even came close to starting a college.

Of course, bright boys at the Cape sometimes found their way back to Leiden or Amsterdam, where splendid universities were available, but an emerging nation needs speculative intelligence bred in local inst.i.tutions; they provide the fine yeastiness that produces strong new ideas applicable to local situations. The entire history of South Africa might have been modified if there had been a strong school system topped by a university staffed with local luminaries dedicated to the creation of a new society. Instead, fresh ideas either did not germinate or were stamped out.

Much of the blame must be shared by the church; its leaders were convinced that they could trust only predikants trained in the conservative centers of Holland, and they were terrified of the possibility that a Cape seminary might arise to sponsor alien ideas. Missing in South Africa were those gaunt Pilgrim ministers of New England who cut themselves off from European dictation and initiated a local approach to religious problems.

'The Night of Darkness in which the South African nation had its birth,' some historians would describe this period of the trekboers, when the merchant mind stifled the scientific, creative and political urges of the citizens.

But there was another side to this coin, and it shone brightly. A few Dutch children, through a.s.siduous teaching within the family, did gain an education almost comparable to that available in the average European country, and although the Boers lacked an Oxford or a Harvard, they did have their own unique university, and its curriculum was one of the most effective in the history of education. They had a ma.s.sive Bible, which accompanied them wherever they went; their curriculum was the Old Testament, whose narratives predicted each event that might arise. There were, of course, many trekboer families like the Rooi van Valcks and the Adriaan van Doorns who ignored the Bible, through either illiteracy or indifference, but the majority studied and obeyed.

Few nations were ever as solidly indoctrinated in one group of principles as the Dutch in South Africa, and this begat a Volka peoplewith tremendous driving force, self-a.s.surance and will to persist. With constant support from this theological university, which each man could carry with him as he moved, the Dutch colony became a conservative, G.o.d-fearing state, and so it would remain despite English occupation, English persecution, English wars and the constant threat of imposed English values. In South Africa the Old Testament triumphed over the university because it was the university.

On one major point Lodevicus was wrong. When he thundered 'South Africa is Dutch and will always remain so' he misrepresented the composition of his white community: Dutch ancestry, forty percent; German ancestry, thirty-five percent; Huguenot component, twenty percent; and although this would later be denied by Van Doorn's descendants, a Malay-Hottentot-black component of at least five percent. This creative mix had produced a handsome, tough, resilient Volk infused with the trekboer spirit, and no English governor would have an easy time trying to discipline them into the ways he wanted them to go.

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The Englishmen who came so late to South Africa, and with such pervasive power, were men of courage, as the Saltwoods of Salisbury, that cathedral town southwest of London, proved. On Midsummer Day 1640, after three years of daring enterprise among the Spice Islands, Captain Nicholas Saltwood of the little ship Englishmen who came so late to South Africa, and with such pervasive power, were men of courage, as the Saltwoods of Salisbury, that cathedral town southwest of London, proved. On Midsummer Day 1640, after three years of daring enterprise among the Spice Islands, Captain Nicholas Saltwood of the little ship Acorn Acorn came sailing into Plymouth harbor with a bulging cargo of nutmeg, clove and cinnamon. It was so valuable that it made all his partnerswho had counted him dead, and their investments lostmen of substantial wealth. came sailing into Plymouth harbor with a bulging cargo of nutmeg, clove and cinnamon. It was so valuable that it made all his partnerswho had counted him dead, and their investments lostmen of substantial wealth.

His own fortune was increased when he sold the Acorn Acorn within two hours of anchoring. When his partners, eager to send him forth again, asked why he had acted so precipitately and against his own best interests, he snapped, 'You invested money. I invested my life against pirates, storms and Portuguese forts. No more.' within two hours of anchoring. When his partners, eager to send him forth again, asked why he had acted so precipitately and against his own best interests, he snapped, 'You invested money. I invested my life against pirates, storms and Portuguese forts. No more.'

When he was alone with his wife, Henrietta, who had spent these three years in near-poverty, he kissed her vigorously and led her in a small dance about their meager rooms: 'Years ago, sweets, I saw the cathedral at Salisbury, and I swore that if I ever reached the Spice Islands and made my fortune, you'd have a home in the meadow, beside the River Avon. And you shall!'

With his bags of silver and his drafts upon the spice merchants of London, he packed Henrietta in a diligence and his household goods in two drays. Taking his position at the head of his armed guards, he led the way through the lovely lanes of southern England until he reached that broad and n.o.ble plain in the middle of which stood Salisbury Cathedral. There, on the right bank of the Avon, he purchased nine good acres and the seven swans that guarded those gentle waters.

Like many a prudent Englishman, Captain Saltwood planted a garden before starting on a house, but since he was a man of vigor he preferred trees, and he located his so that they framed the handsome cathedral on the far side of the river. To the left he placed nine cedars, well rooted, whose dark limbs swept the ground. In the center, but not exactly so, he planted eleven strong chestnuts; in spring they would be white with flowers; in autumn, heavy with fruit for children to play with. Well to the right and safely back from the river, he started a group of slender oaks; in time they would be ma.s.sive of trunk and stout of limb, and under them swans would nestle when they came ash.o.r.e.

Sentinels he called his trees, and that name was given the house that later rose among them. It was notable as reflecting an older style of construction known as hang-tile. It was two-storied, with the lower walls built of conventional brick; nothing unusual about that. But the top story was faced in a most peculiar manner: instead of using brick, ordinary roof tiles had been hung vertically! The effect was resoundingly fourteenth century, as if the roof had slipped, abandoning its accustomed place to come down and cover the walls. The true roof was of thatch, sixteen inches thick and carefully trimmed like the hair of a boy about to leave for choir.

Generations of Saltwoods had gathered under the sentinel trees to discuss family problems while contemplating the spire of the cathedral; under strictures laid down by Captain Nicholas, they continued to be cautious in protecting their investments but daring in investing their profits. About 1710 a Timothy Saltwood had had the good fortune of making the acquaintance of the Proprietor, that gentleman of august lineage who owned much of the region, and before long Timothy was serving as the Proprietor's agent, an occupation of dignity which pa.s.sed from one Salt-wood to the next.

One afternoon during the first years of the 1800s, Josiah Saltwood, the present master of Sentinels, sat with his wife on a bench beneath the oaks and said, 'I deem it time we meet with the boys.' He paused, as if matters of gravity impended, then added promptly, 'Nothing serious, of course. Merely their entire future.'

His wife laughed. 'They're all about somewhere. I could summon them.'

'Not just yet. I must ride to Old Sarum with the Proprietor. The election, you know.' And with his wife at his side, and the swans following, he walked across the lawn to where his horse was being saddled.

The beautiful cathedral had not always stood in its present location. In the early days of Christianity in England a much different cathedral-castle-fort, keystone to security in this part of the country, had rested on a low hill some two miles to the north, and here devout bishops exercised as much leadership as the masters of the castle would permit. It was called by a bewildering variety of Roman and Saxon names, but in time it came to be known as Sarum, and from it came that set of orders and regulations for worship known as the Use of Sarum, which would be adopted by much of the English church.

The first cathedral, begun in 1075, was a large, rugged building in the French manner, set down within the walls of the castle-fort; between the two groups of occupants, clergy and soldiers, so much friction arose that rupture was inescapable. Rarely has a formal complaint been more comprehensive than that issued by Pope Honorius III in 1219 when he summarized the difficulties of his priests at Sarum: The clergy cannot stay there without danger to their persons. The wind howls so furiously that priests can hardly hear each other speak. The building is ruinous. The congregation is so small it cannot provide repairs. Water is scarce. People wishing to visit the cathedral are prevented by the garrison. Housing is insufficient for the clergy, who must buy their own houses. The whiteness of the chalk causes blindness.

The bishop solved these difficulties by offering to move his cathedral from Sarum to a vacant field well to the south, where the town of Salisbury would belatedly arise. The exchange worked and the cathedral at Sarum was abandoned, to the pleasure of the bishop; he owned the vacant field and sold it to the church for a nice profit.

With the loss of its cathedral, Sarum declined. Once it boasted more than two thousand residents, then one thousand, then five hundred, then only a handful, and the day came in the early 1700s when it had almost none. Cathedral and castle alike were in ruins.

But tradition dies hard in England, and in rural England, hardest of all. When Parliament convened in the late 1200s, Sarum as a major settlement and support of the king, was awarded two seats; in its heyday it sent some mighty men to London. With the disappearance of its cathedral and its population, those seats, in any other country, would have been lost. But not in England, where precedent was prized. If Sarum had once been ent.i.tled to two seats, Old Sarum, as it was now called, was still ent.i.tled to them, and these empty fields with barely a single human being residing on or near them retained the right to send two members to Parliament and arrogantly exercised that right.

It became famous as 'the rottenest of the English rotten boroughs,' referring to those former towns, now abandoned or much reduced in population, which clung to ancient privileges on the principle that 'Parliament represents land, not people.' So that even in these early years of the nineteenth century one-fourth of the members of Parliament came from boroughs which in common sense should have returned n.o.body, and a shocking percentage of these were from boroughs like Old Sarum, which contained almost no one.

When a sitting Parliament was dissolved and a new one authorized, who selected the men to represent a rotten borough, especially when it had no voters? Custom said that whoever owned the land reserved the right to nominate whom he wished to represent it. What made this system repugnant to people of sensible intelligence was that an empty spot like Old Sarum could have two members of Parliament while great towns like Birmingham and Manchester had none.

At Old Sarum, in the first decade of the 1800s, an election was held for members of the new Parliament that would soon be convening, and the Proprietor rode out to the site in his carriage from Salisbury Town, while his factor, Josiah Saltwood, forty-nine years old, accompanied him on horseback. They started from the south side of River Avon, crossed the stone bridge five centuries old, pa.s.sed the marvelous cathedral with its tall, clean tower, and made their way through the cl.u.s.ter of inns from which the stagecoaches departed for London. As they left the North Gate they entered the lovely rolling hills that led to Old Sarum, and after a pleasant rural pa.s.sage, came to the south side of the rise on which the ancient ruins stood.

They did not climb that hill, but stopped at an elm tree whose spreading branches created a kind of shady amphitheater. Stepping carefully from his carriage, the Proprietor, an old man with white hair and kindly blue eyes, looked about him and said, 'Rarely have we known a finer voting day, eh, Josiah?'

'It was thoughtful of the old Parliament to end when it did,' the factor agreed.

'I can remember storms,' the old man said, recalling voting days when rain dripped from the elm. 'But our work never takes long, be praised.'

The coachman led his horses some distance from the tree, and after another servant placed a collapsible table on cleared ground, steadying the legs with twigs, the Proprietor unfolded a set of legal papers.

'I trust you find everything in readiness,' Saltwood said.

'Seems to be,' the old man said. He wore white side whiskers and showed a military bearing, for he had served his nation in many capacities abroad. It was curious that he had never elected to take one of his Parliament seats for himself; always he had picked other men who showed promise of good judgment, as had his father before him, so that whereas Old Sarum was indeed a rotten borough and an offense to reason, it had sent to London a succession of notable politicians, most of whom had never set foot in Old Sarum or even Salisbury. Indeed, none had ever lived within fifty miles of the dead town, but they had accepted the nomination as their right and had performed well. William Pitt the Elder, one of the outstanding English statesmen of the previous century, had been able to function as independently as he did only because he was sent to Parliament from Old Sarum, whose invisible electors he did not have to appease.

'Who's it to be this time?' Saltwood asked.

'A surprise, and not a surprise,' the Proprietor said, taking from his pocket a private memorandum. 'Dear old Sir Charles is to keep his seat, of course. He never speaks in the House, proposes no bills and might as well stay at home, but he's never done any harm, either, and many of us deem him the best member in recent history.'

The name was properly entered in the report of the election that Salt-wood would forward to London. 'It's with the second name we get our surprise,' the Proprietor said, thrusting the paper at his factor. 'See for yourself.'

And there it was, in second position in the memorandum: 'Josiah Salt-wood.'

'Me, sir?'

'You've a better head than most, Josiah, and I wish to reward it.'

The factor gasped. A seat like this, from one of the rotten boroughs, could cost an aspiring politician as much as a thousand pounds, and it might have to be paid anew periodically, but considering the money a clever man could come by if he held a seat, the cost was minimal. To have such a boon handed to one was only to be dreamed of, and here came a gift he had not even solicited.

'You're the man for the job,' the Proprietor said. 'But I want you to take it seriously. During the first four years it'll be better if you say nothing. Just listen and vote as I instruct, and after four or five years, you might begin to do things. Nothing flashy. You're not to be noticed. Men from the provinces are apt to make a.s.ses of themselves and don't last. Show me one from Old Sarum who ever spoke much and I'll show you one who lasted only a session.'

Saltwood very much wanted to ask, 'How about William Pitt?' but had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. Indeed, as he stood silent in the manner the Proprietor liked, the old man said, 'Even Pitt, he talked too much. Much better if he'd sat silent more often.'

With the necessary papers signed, and endorsed by Saltwood, the old gentleman signaled for the horses, and when he was safely inside his carriage for the ride back to the cathedral for evensong, he flicked his hat to his factor, riding behind, and said, 'We've done a good day's work.'

Behind them stood the great elm, its branches covering an immense spread. For three hundred years this venerable tree had witnessed elections like this, but never one conducted so speedily. A significant percentage of Parliament had been elected by one man in the course of seven minutes.

When Josiah Saltwood a.s.sembled his family under the oak trees to inform them of the surprising event at Election Elm, his wife Emily did not try to antic.i.p.ate what her husband was about to announce; her task had been the rearing of four sons, and it had occupied her exclusively. Her princ.i.p.al recreation had been walking the mile or so to the cathedral to listen to the choristers; she did not care much for the sermons.

The four boys came to the meeting with eagerness; for some time they had been speculating on what they must do to find a settled place in life, and any sudden change in their father's position excited them for the possibilities it might uncover for them. Peter, the eldest, had come down from Oxford some years back and was serving as a kind of junior clerk for the family estate while vaguely learning the tasks involved in his father's role as factor to the Proprietor. He was not accomplishing much.

Hilary Saltwood, twenty-four years old that day, presented a serious problem. As a younger son he could not look forward to inheriting either the Saltwood house or his father's occupation. He must look to the army or to the church for his life's sustenance, and up to now he had decided on neither. He had done well at Oxford and could possibly have aspired to work in India, but he had dallied, and now all positions for which he might have been eligible were filled by young men with greater concentration. In some respects he was brilliant; in others, quite confused, so that the family often speculated on what might become of him.

Richard Saltwood, however, though he had done poorly at Oxford and left with the most meager degree awarded, had bought his way into what was always called 'the Gallant Fifty-ninth,' a regiment stationed in India. His father had told the Proprietor, 'That boy was destined for the army from birth, and I'm d.a.m.ned relieved he's found a place!' Then, with proper deference, he added, 'Thanks princ.i.p.ally to you.' It had been the Proprietor who had put up the money to purchase the commission and who had recommended young Saltwood to the commanding colonel. Richard would soon be on his way to India and was delighted with the prospect.

It was young David who was most worrisome. He had managed to stay at Oriel in Oxfordthe college to which Saltwoods had gone time out of mindonly one term, after which he was sent down 'with prejudice,' meaning that he need not reapply when and if he ever learned Latin. To be dismissed from Oriel was rather shameful, for even the most backward scholar should have been able to get a degree from that f.e.c.kless college. If a lad had real promise, he went to Balliol; if he sought preferment, he went to Christ Church; and if he wanted to cut a figure, he went to Trinity. If he came from some rural cathedral town like Salisbury, with little Greek and less social footing, he went to Oriel. Indeed, the archetypal Oriel student was a Saltwood from Sentinels, and had been for over a hundred and fifty years. What with four Saltwood boys of child-producing age, it looked as if the college was a.s.sured of an endless future supply of its preferred students.

What to do about David, no one knew. As his father once said, 'If a boy can't handle it at Oriel, what on earth can be expected of him?'

Saltwood coughed as his family sat in the picnic chairs, awaiting his revelations. 'It's rather surprising news,' he said modestly. 'I'm to be the new member of Parliament from Old Sarum.'

'Father!' It was difficult to separate what the various boys were saying, but that they were honestly pleased with this turn of fortune was apparent, and they were gratified not only because of what it might mean to them, but especially because their father had been such a hard-working, responsible citizen.

'No better choice!' Richard said. Striking the pose of a politician arguing a point, he cried, 'Sirs, sirs! I beg of you! Attention, please.'

'When do you leave for London?' Peter asked, but before his father could reply, young David leaped to his feet, ran to his father, and embraced him.

'Good on you!'

Quietly Mrs. Saltwood said, 'Let's hear your father's plans.'

'They're simple,' Josiah said. 'You and I leave for London immediately, find a flat, and stay there for the season.'

'I shouldn't like to leave the trees,' Emily said, pointing to the cedars and chestnuts.

'We've new fields to consider,' he said abruptly, and his wife spoke no more.

'Who's to mind our interest?' Peter asked hesitantly, afraid lest his question seem like begging.

'You, Peter. And you're to become the Proprietor's manager. He asked for you.'

'And I'm off to India,' Richard said brightly. 'How about you, Hilary?' The second son blushed, for he was being importuned to disclose his plans before he was entirely ready, but in such a conclave, when issues of gravity were being decided, he could not refrain. Very softly he said, 'I've been wrestling ... for many days ... I've been away, you know, in the fields mostly . . .'

'And what did you decide?' his father asked.

Hilary rose and slowly moved among the oaks, coming back to stand before his mother. 'I'm to be a missionary,' he said. 'G.o.d has called me out of my confusion.'

'A missionary!' Emily repeated. 'But where?'

'Wherever G.o.d sends me,' he replied, and again he reddened as his brothers gathered to congratulate him.

'I'm going overseas, too,' David broke in. 'You're what?' his father cried.

'I'm emigrating. Four chaps I know in London . . . we're off to America.'

'Good G.o.d, those rebels!'

'It's a settlement scheme. Ohio, some place like that. I'm sailing next month.'

'Good G.o.d!' his father repeated, aghast at the prospect of a son of his in such a wilderness. 'David,' he said seriously. 'We'll be at war with those rebels within a year. As soon as I get to Parliament, I'm to vote for war. The Proprietor said so.'

'I'll be fighting your troops somewhere in Ohio, wherever that is.'

'When will you be back home?' Emily asked.

'It'll take some years to get the plantation going,' the young man said. 'Slaves hoeing the cotton, and all that. But I'll be back.'

'You must never take arms against England,' Josiah said gravely. 'You'd be shot for a traitor. And there will be war.'

'Father, America's a sovereign nation. Don't send a lot of silly troops like Richard'

'Brother against brother!' Richard cried. 'Wouldn't that be jolly?'

So under the oak trees at Sentinels in the County of Wiltshire the Saltwoods reached decisions on the destinies of their sons. Peter, who had brains, would take charge of the family business. Hilary, who had character, would go into the ministry. Richard, who had courage, would enter the army. And young David, who had neither brains, nor character, nor courage, would emigrate to America.

The shock caused by Hilary's announcement that he intended becoming a missionary instead of a proper clergyman grew into a firestorm when his family learned that he proposed joining the Missionary Society operated not by the Church of England but by the dissidents, and more especially, the radical Congregationalists. 'You'll ruin your prospects,' his mother warned, but he was adamant, a.s.suring his family that when he reported to the training headquarters at Gosport, not far from Salisbury, he would not be required to convert to the rebellious faith. 'I'll serve my time with Jesus overseas and come back to Salisbury,' but even as he promised this he announced that he was not going to be a part-time missionary but one wholly dedicated to the cause: 'I've elected to go for a complete theological education, terminating with ordination as a full-fledged minister.' His father, now in Parliament and a resident of London, encouraged him in this decision: 'In for a penny, in for a pound. Choose the highest possible, because one day, when this missionary foolishness is over, your mother and I expect to see you dean of Salisbury Cathedral.' At tea one afternoon, during the later stages of his training, his mother said, 'Hilary, you must discharge your duties quickly, because the Proprietor has promised most faithfully that when you're through and safely back in the Church of England, he plans to exert every influence for your a.s.signment as dean of the cathedral.'

Hilary's brothers approved heartily: 'We could sit here under the oaks and look across the meadows and tell each other, "That cathedral's in good hands." Do hurry and finish with the savages, wherever you go.'

He would have made a flawless dean, tall, slightly stoop-shouldered, his head bent a little forward as he walked along the cloisters, as if he were looking for something a few yards ahead, diffident, rather brilliant in his studies and of deep conviction religiously. He should have stayed at home, progressing from one small living to another until his reputation as a sound young man was established, then moving into the larger positions from which he would write two incomprehensible books. Such books were a prudent step in English advancement; no one bothered to read them, but one's superiors were gratified that the effort had been made. And in due course, fortified with credentials from the n.o.ble houses of the county, including the Proprietor's, he would move on to professor at Oriel and then the deanship.

What had interrupted this pleasant, routine progression? Hilary Salt-wood had religious insights far deeper than those of the ordinary Oxford graduate, and he had paid attention to those ringing commandments of Paul in the New Testament in which young men were charged with the duty of spreading the gospel. Indeed, his favorite book in the Bible was Acts, in which the birth of a new religion, and especially of a new church, was portrayed so vividly. With Paul he had traveled the Holy Lands and penetrated to those surrounding nations which knew not Jesus and where Christianity began as an organized religion.

He felt a deep affinity with Paul, and a thorough knowledge of Acts prepared him for the Pauline letters that outlined the next steps in the spread of Christianity. His own discovery of Christ was less dramatic than Saul's conversion into Paul on the road to Damascus, but it had been real. He was not, like others he knew, turning to religion because as a second son he had nowhere else to turn; the church was by no means his secondary choice. Long before his father had been nominated for Parliament he had been on the verge of announcing his commitment to Jesus, and would have done so regardless of his family's fortunes.

His conversion was deep if not spectacular, and he enjoyed the opening months of his ministerial education; the London Missionary Society, as it was being called in some quarters, was becoming famous in various parts of the world, even though it had been in existence for barely a decade. Its stern, intense young devotees, coupled with the older, practical artisans, had penetrated to remote areas, often serving as the cutting edge of civilization as it reached unsettled lands. The LMS was a revolutionary force of the most persistent power, but in his early months at Gosport, Hilary did not discover this.

Instruction was princ.i.p.ally in the propagational theories of the New Testament, an extension, as it were, of Acts and the missionary letters of St. Paul. He enjoyed the abstract philosophizing and profited especially from the droning lectures of an older scholar who expounded the basic theories of the New Testament, instructing him in facts that sometimes surprised him: 'The Book of Acts is significant for two reasons. It was written by the same hand that gave us the Gospel According to St. Luke, and that unknown author is extremely important because he is probably the only non-Jew to have composed any part of our Bible. All the other authors were rabbis like Jesus and St. Paul, or ordinary laymen like St. Matthew, the tax collector. In Acts we receive the first message about our church from a person like ourselves.'

But apart from knowledge, there was also deep conviction. These mature ministers truly believed that it was the duty of young men to 'go forth unto all the world' to spread the word of G.o.d; they were convinced that unless this word was taken to the remotest river, souls worthy of salvation might be lost.