On the Doorstep of the Civilized

The Decision to Leave

The wind swept across the dry fields of Drakenstein, carrying dust, wild herbs, and the faint scent of the nearby vineyards. Pieter van der Merwe sat on the low wooden fence, staring at the horizon, his jaw tight, knuckles white from gripping the worn post. The late afternoon sun reflected off the thatched roofs of the farms, painting everything in orange-gold, but Pieter felt only the chill of unease.

Beside him, Koen adjusted the saddle on his horse, the animal snorting nervously.

“The taxes are rising again,” Pieter muttered, shaking his head. “And now they tell us we must pay in London pounds instead of rixdollars. Do they think we live in their towns? That we measure life in coins alone?”

Koen frowned. “It is more than money, Pieter. They want to control us—our farms, our laws, even our customs. They want obedience where there should be independence. You feel it too, don’t you? The air has changed; we are no longer masters in our own homes.”

Pieter’s gaze hardened. “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps it is time… time we move. Take our families, our cattle, and go into the interior. Where the British cannot touch us. Where our children will grow under the sun of freedom, not under the shadow of their red coats.”

Koen’s eyes widened. “Into the unknown? The land is harsh. Rivers twist like serpents; forests are thick with dangers. And the natives… they are not our enemies, yet not our friends either.”

Pieter swung his leg over the fence, dust rising with the movement. “Better the unknown than a life under their boots. At least there we make our own laws, our own lives. The British call us primitive; the town folk call us backward. But it is they who know nothing of the veld. Nothing of freedom.”

A low neigh interrupted his thoughts, and a flock of birds scattered across the horizon. Pieter shook his head. “We cannot wait for permission to live. Freedom is not given. It is taken, or it is carried like a flame through the darkness.”

The two men rode toward the town, their horses’ hooves echoing over the dirt road. The townspeople glanced at them, some with curiosity, others with thinly veiled disdain. As they passed the Governor’s House, Captain Harrington, still in his spotless red coat, spotted them.

“Van der Merwe!” His voice cut through the afternoon calm. “A word, if you please.”

Pieter dismounted with a calm bow. “Captain Harrington. How may I serve?”

Harrington’s gaze swept over Pieter and Koen before resting on Pieter. “Your farm has been cited for failing to comply with the new agricultural regulations. And I hear… whispers that you are considering leaving the Colony. Is this true?”

Pieter’s jaw tightened. “I speak only of my own family, Captain. We make choices as free men. Choices you may not understand.”

Harrington’s lips curled into a thin, almost amused smile. “Ah, freedom. The romantic notion of freedom outside the law. I must warn you, Van der Merwe, life outside our governance is… difficult. Lawless. Dangerous. The rivers, the wild, the natives—there is no certainty.”

Koen stepped forward, calm but firm. “And life under your governance is safe, is it? Safe for your coffers, perhaps, but not for our families. Not for our traditions.”

Harrington chuckled, shaking his head. “Your traditions are quaint, outdated. Perhaps if you spent less time on these… archaic customs, you might prosper. But stubbornness seems to run deep in the Cape Dutch.”

The words cut deeper than any whip. Pieter’s anger flared. “Quaint, you say? My father worked this land before me. And yours?”

Harrington shrugged. “Mine? I serve the Crown, not the soil. You? You serve your pride. And that is why you will struggle if you venture inland.”

Koen’s jaw tightened. “Better to struggle for freedom than to kneel to arrogance.”

The town’s streets were narrow, lined with whitewashed houses and low shops. Pieter and Koen moved along the road, aware of the eyes on them. Even the Cape Dutch merchants—descendants of the same European settlers—could not hide their derision.

“Van der Merwe? Leaving? Ha! What foolishness!” a merchant called out, laughter ringing like shards of glass. “The interior is no place for a proper farmer. You’ll starve, and your cattle will die. Mark my words.”

A young woman, her bonnet slightly askew, regarded Pieter with curiosity and condescension. “Perhaps you think you can outsmart the English by running into the wild? How… heroic. Or foolish. I cannot decide which.”

Pieter’s hand gripped the reins tighter. “We decide our own fates. Not the British. Not the merchants. Not even our neighbors.”

Koen’s voice was quiet, certain. “They do not understand us. That is precisely why we must go. We cannot live in their judgment forever. Freedom is not found where others dictate.”

By nightfall, Pieter’s resolve had hardened like the clay underfoot. They would leave and take their families, their livestock, and all that they held dear. The British could sneer, the Cape Dutch could laugh—but freedom, the freedom of the veld, was worth every risk.

Inside Pieter’s farmhouse, the family gathered. His wife, Anika, folded her hands, worry creasing her brow.

“Pieter… are you certain?” she asked. “The children, the farm… it is all we know. Leaving is dangerous. The land is vast and untamed. You do not know what lies ahead.”

Pieter took her hands, his voice gentle but firm. “And staying is a slow death. The British want our obedience, Anika. The town folk want our shame. We will find a life where our children grow with pride, not fear. That is worth the risk.”

The children listened quietly, eyes wide, absorbing the weight of their father’s words. Pieter smiled faintly. “One day, you will tell your children of this choice. Of how we chose freedom over fear. And perhaps they will thank us.”

Koen, leaning against the doorway, nodded. “And I will ride with you, Pieter. Wherever this path takes us.”

Outside, the wind carried distant sounds of the Cape Colony’s town life—the laughter, gossip, and the clinking of tavern mugs. Pieter stepped to the window, looking at the darkened streets.

“They will mock us,” he said softly. “They will call us fools, backward, primitive. But the veld does not lie. The land does not care for English laws or town gossip. It only cares for those who work it, who respect it, who survive by it.”

Koen’s voice was steady. “Then we ride at first light. And let the mockery fade behind us like smoke on the wind.”

The night stretched long and still, filled with anticipation and the quiet hum of determination. Pieter lit a candle and looked at the map of the interior, tracing rivers, mountains, and valleys with his finger. Every mark was a promise—a path to independence, to a life governed by their own hands.

“Tomorrow,” Pieter whispered to himself, “we begin. Tomorrow, the English will not have our lives. Tomorrow, freedom will be our compass.”

The family went to sleep that night with restless minds, dreams filled with wide-open plains and endless horizons. Pieter stayed awake the longest, thinking of the journey, the dangers, and the certainty that the British and town folk would never understand their choice.

But understanding was not required. Only courage. And the courage to leave all that was comfortable for the unknown, in pursuit of dignity, freedom, and a life of their own making.