noise which gained
intensity from moment to moment. He glanced over his shoulder and saw racing towards
him the pack of tracker dogs and dozens of policemen. A few seconds later they were on him
and, pinned to the hedge, he watched the tide of animals and men wash past him and round the
corner. He sighed with relief and followed in their wake.
The Bishop of Barotseland was less fortunate. His poor hearing and the fact that
he was still wearing the bathing-cap prevented him hearing the approach of the dogs. One
moment he was standing by the pool looking down at the revolver, and reciting from his
grandfather’s favourite poem, and the next he was engulfed in dogs. Muzzles raised, fangs
bared, with slobbering jowls they came, and the Bishop, overwhelmed by their rush, fell
backwards into the swimming-pool, still clutching the revolver. As he went he
involuntarily pulled the trigger and a single shot disappeared harmlessly into the
night sky. The Bishop surfaced in the middle of the pool and looked around him. The sight
was not one to reassure him. The pool was filled with struggling Alsatians and, as he
watched, others launched themselves from the edges and joined the hordes already in the
water. A particularly ferocious hound just in front of him opened its mouth and the
Bishop had just enough time to take a gulp of air and disappear before the dog bit him. He
swam the length underwater and surfaced. A dog snapped at him and he swam back. Above him
paws thrashed the water into foam as the Bishop pondered this new manifestation of the
Almighty. Evidently he had not got out of the pool quietly enough the first time, and God
had come in to get him in the shape of dozens of dogs and he was just wondering how this
collective appearance could be reconciled with the notion that God was one and
indivisible when his arm was seized and he was dragged out of the pool by several
policemen. Thankful for this deliverance and too bewildered to wonder how policemen
fitted into this spectacle of divinity he stared back at the water. Hardly a foot of
the surface of the pool was free of dogs.
The next moment his wrists were handcuffed behind him and he was swung round.
“That is the swine all right. Take him into the house,” said the Kommandant, and the
Bishop was frogmarched by several konstabels across the drive and into the family home.
Naked and wet, Jonathan Hazelstone stood among the potted plants in the great hall still
wearing the bathing-cap. From a great distance and far beyond the frontiers of sanity he
heard the Kommandant whisper, “Jonathan Hazelstone, I charge you with the wilful murder
of one Zulu cook and God knows how many policemen, the wilful destruction of Government
property and being in unlawful possession of weapons calculated to harm life and
limb.”
He was too dazed and too deaf to hear the Kommandant tell Sergeant de Kock to take him
down into the cellar and keep him safely under guard until morning.
“Wouldn’t he be safer down at the police station?” the Sergeant suggested.
But Kommandant van Heerden was too exhausted to leave Jacaranda House and besides he
was looking forward to spending the night in a house renowned throughout South Africa for
refined living.
“The place is ringed with men,” he said, “and besides, we’ve been having complaints from
the neighbours about the screams from the cells. Up here nobody will hear him when he yells.
I’ll cross-examine him in the morning.”
And as the Bishop of Barotseland was led down into the cellar of Jacaranda House,
Kommandant van Heerden wearily climbed the staircase to find himself a nice comfortable
bedroom. He chose one with a blue bedspread on an enormous double bed, and as he stepped
naked between the sheets, he considered himself a lucky man.
“To think that I can commandeer the house that once belonged to the Viceroy of
Matabeleland,” he said to himself
intensity from moment to moment. He glanced over his shoulder and saw racing towards
him the pack of tracker dogs and dozens of policemen. A few seconds later they were on him
and, pinned to the hedge, he watched the tide of animals and men wash past him and round the
corner. He sighed with relief and followed in their wake.
The Bishop of Barotseland was less fortunate. His poor hearing and the fact that
he was still wearing the bathing-cap prevented him hearing the approach of the dogs. One
moment he was standing by the pool looking down at the revolver, and reciting from his
grandfather’s favourite poem, and the next he was engulfed in dogs. Muzzles raised, fangs
bared, with slobbering jowls they came, and the Bishop, overwhelmed by their rush, fell
backwards into the swimming-pool, still clutching the revolver. As he went he
involuntarily pulled the trigger and a single shot disappeared harmlessly into the
night sky. The Bishop surfaced in the middle of the pool and looked around him. The sight
was not one to reassure him. The pool was filled with struggling Alsatians and, as he
watched, others launched themselves from the edges and joined the hordes already in the
water. A particularly ferocious hound just in front of him opened its mouth and the
Bishop had just enough time to take a gulp of air and disappear before the dog bit him. He
swam the length underwater and surfaced. A dog snapped at him and he swam back. Above him
paws thrashed the water into foam as the Bishop pondered this new manifestation of the
Almighty. Evidently he had not got out of the pool quietly enough the first time, and God
had come in to get him in the shape of dozens of dogs and he was just wondering how this
collective appearance could be reconciled with the notion that God was one and
indivisible when his arm was seized and he was dragged out of the pool by several
policemen. Thankful for this deliverance and too bewildered to wonder how policemen
fitted into this spectacle of divinity he stared back at the water. Hardly a foot of
the surface of the pool was free of dogs.
The next moment his wrists were handcuffed behind him and he was swung round.
“That is the swine all right. Take him into the house,” said the Kommandant, and the
Bishop was frogmarched by several konstabels across the drive and into the family home.
Naked and wet, Jonathan Hazelstone stood among the potted plants in the great hall still
wearing the bathing-cap. From a great distance and far beyond the frontiers of sanity he
heard the Kommandant whisper, “Jonathan Hazelstone, I charge you with the wilful murder
of one Zulu cook and God knows how many policemen, the wilful destruction of Government
property and being in unlawful possession of weapons calculated to harm life and
limb.”
He was too dazed and too deaf to hear the Kommandant tell Sergeant de Kock to take him
down into the cellar and keep him safely under guard until morning.
“Wouldn’t he be safer down at the police station?” the Sergeant suggested.
But Kommandant van Heerden was too exhausted to leave Jacaranda House and besides he
was looking forward to spending the night in a house renowned throughout South Africa for
refined living.
“The place is ringed with men,” he said, “and besides, we’ve been having complaints from
the neighbours about the screams from the cells. Up here nobody will hear him when he yells.
I’ll cross-examine him in the morning.”
And as the Bishop of Barotseland was led down into the cellar of Jacaranda House,
Kommandant van Heerden wearily climbed the staircase to find himself a nice comfortable
bedroom. He chose one with a blue bedspread on an enormous double bed, and as he stepped
naked between the sheets, he considered himself a lucky man.
“To think that I can commandeer the house that once belonged to the Viceroy of
Matabeleland,” he said to himself
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