Chapter 2

It is already evening on the same day that Wynand Rabie was abducted from court in Stellenbosch. The streets of Cape Town are empty and deserted. The moon is almost full and dims the few lights on the street corners.

A coach hurriedly rolls in from the direction of Stellenbosch. It slows down under the wide arch of the castle entrance. The glass of the large lamps hanging there is colored and throws a glow over the honor guard standing attentively alongside the gate. Above the rattle of the coach wheels and the clapping of the horse hooves, the coach driver can already hear the music of a dance orchestra from here.

His face is shiny with sweat because he had to hurry to get here on time. The rows of coaches already parked in the inner courtyard are, however, a telling indication that he is still late. With a sigh, he brings the vehicle to a stop at the end of a row of coaches. The footman jumps off and opens the door to let the passengers out.

A wide strip of light falls from the entrance to the dance hall over the dimly lit inner courtyard. From one coach, a view of the inside of the hall can be seen, where a few drivers and footmen have gathered to watch the spectacle. The driver who has just stopped approaches and joins the group. They are all strangers to him, but he sits down comfortably and looks confidently around him. Then he spits on the ground.

"Now I ask you," he suddenly speaks up dissatisfied, "you drain yourself in a coach from Stellenbosch just to attend a miserable dance party? After sitting and shaking for hours in a coach until it feels like your stomach wants to turn over, and later you gracefully move around on a smooth dance floor. I do not understand the people of today."

Several men agree with him, but an old coachman, a bearded driver, shakes his head slowly.

"We also came from Stellenbosch this afternoon, but you are too hasty with your judgment," he says authoritatively. "It is not just the fun that brings people from far and wide here tonight."

"But Uncle Ben," a young man objects. "Mrs. Rossouw told Miss Willa herself that they needed a fun back-and-forth to break up the monotony of farm life. What else is it if not pleasure?"

"That is just the women's point of view, Frans... as usual," old Ben replies.

"Young man," the stranger speaks up again. "I know that there is a big function here tonight. The Count de Moreaux arrived a few days ago and, as usual, the government is planning to make a big hole in the treasury to welcome him. This celebration is in his honor. But it does not say anything and I agree with this young friend, the pretentious people are just happy to have another excuse to show off and party."

"And the Count is probably an old man who cannot even dance anymore," says another.

"Dancing is not the most important factor at a party like this," says a young Cape servant. "Besides, I have seen the Count de Moreaux with my own eyes."

"Really?" a few say sceptically.

"Yes. I think he is a man under thirty and very rich."

"And what is he looking for here?" old Ben asks.

"Surely a woman," one jokes.

"I heard that he is interested in the young colony," the Cape servant replies. "He wants them to understand that the Count has already discussed these matters with him."

"What would a French nobleman want to do with an English possession?" old Ben asks half sceptically, as if asking a trick question.

"Well, I do not know. He is been living in England for a long time."

"He is probably here to protect the interests of French blood in the colony," another suggests.

"Like the Masked Robber, right?" old Ben says distrustfully.

The group on the carriage suddenly forgets the hall with the dancing couples. They become unaware of the music inside as if a miraculous note played suddenly between them that drowns out all other sounds. Everyone turns to the speaker. It is clear that the "Masked Robber" is a popular topic.

"How do you know that the Masked Robber is French?"

Old Ben shrugs as if unaware of the attention he has just drawn.

"I myself," he says, "cannot give you any assurance. But ask Frans here. He has already seen him." He points to the young man sitting next to him.

"What!" everyone exclaims. His achievement would not have been any less remarkable if he had seen the man on the moon. "And you are still alive?"

"Did he try to kill you?" one asks cold-blooded.

Frans has been sitting with a superior smile since he has become the centre of attention. Now he turns with an unexpected and ominous speed to the youngest speaker.

"Look here, mate," he says threateningly, "what do you know about the Masked Robber that you so easily accuse him of being a murderer? Has he bitten you by the throat yet?"

"No... not yet," the man answers hastily, slightly scared by the fervent attack. "I am just talking about what I have heard. You know how people always talk," he adds to excuse himself.

"And what are people saying?" Frans asks quietly, with the clear understanding that he is going to refute it.

"Well," the man replies, forced and uncomfortable. "Just today I heard the secretary talking about something to Lord le Roux. He said that the Masked Robber is now a danger to the colony. They say he steals a lot and does not hesitate to commit murder. He is worse than the tribes on the Eastern border."

"Oh, so," says Frans, "and he is completely right. He is a danger to the government. But nonetheless, three-quarters of the gruesome stories we hear about him are completely untrue. Every time the Hottentots steal something these days, it is just the Masked Robber again."

"Let me tell you a little story. Ever since we first heard about the Masked Robber about two years ago, he has not committed a single crime. Is it perhaps a violation of any human laws to steal from our government?"

"Well...," but the man does not consider it safe to express an opinion. "How do you know?" he avoids the question.

"I will tell you. Frans is confident in his audience and is not planning to give up his position of power too soon."

"A year or so ago," he starts his story, "I was visiting an uncle of mine in the Tarka district. Uncle Johannes. It was just before the Hintsa war and you all know how they went about their murder and plunder. Many farmers fell into poverty as a result of the large-scale theft and my uncle was one of those who suffered the most. Yes, the world was unsafe and the people were stripped bare.

One evening, long after sunset, we heard horse hooves approaching across the yard. In those parts, you do not really expect friendly visitors so late at night and Uncle Johannes also gave me a gun. Armed, the two of us went outside. We left the front door open and in the shadows along the strip of light that fell over the porch, we waited for the strangers, friend or foe.

Approximately a dozen riders approached us across the yard. A little way off, they stopped and two young men stepped into the light strip. Any person could see that they were not scoundrels and Uncle Johannes immediately stepped forward and invited them in. But the leader of the two laughed, shook his head, and greeted us in English, a language that my Uncle Johannes speaks well. They did not want to come in but rather wanted to know if there was an empty pen nearby where they could herd a herd of cattle. They were tired and if they had to spend the night in the open field, they would have to keep watch against possible theft by the black gangs, as well as to prevent the cattle from wandering away.

Uncle Johannes readily agreed that they could use his pen. He even laughed, in his bitter way, because the pen was empty. The blacks had made sure of that.

When the strangers heard this, they began to inquire with interest. He told them how he had gotten up one morning and immediately noticed the complete silence on the farm. There were no sheep or goats in the pen. He followed the tracks of the blacks and summoned the border troops. The tracks were followed deep into the Kei area up to the gates of a black tribe. But Uncle Johannes could not see any sign of his own livestock and was prohibited from claiming damages from the black tribe. Disappointed, he had to go home.

He invited the strangers back inside, but they refused to make use of his hospitality. While walking towards the pen, they spoke to each other in a strange language. My uncle Johannes, who is a very learned man, told me later that it was French.

Shortly thereafter, they wished us a good night's rest and left.

The next morning we were surprised to find a note under the front door. It was short and to the point.

"For your kindness. From a friend!" That is what it said.

You will understand if I say that we could not make head or tail of it. It left us dumbfounded. But suddenly Uncle Johannes said, "Nephew Frans, this morning I hear something I have not heard in a long time." And he drew my attention to the pen where the bleating and lowing of a flock of sheep could clearly be heard. At first, we thought that the strangers from the previous night had temporarily left their livestock behind because we could not see them anywhere. But then the meaning of the note dawned on us. There were about five hundred fat sheep in the pen that they had given to my uncle as a gift!"

"But how do you know it was the Masked Robber?"

"Listen, friend," Frans says patiently despite the man's stupidity. "The next...