On the Doorstep of the Civilized

Preparations and Mockery

The sun rose over Drakenstein with a pale orange glow, spilling light across the low hills and vineyards. Pieter and Koen worked quietly, moving barrels of supplies into carts. The smell of fresh earth and dust hung in the air. Families around them were already awake, preparing their own journeys, for news had spread: Pieter van der Merwe intended to leave the Cape Colony, and many others were quietly considering the same.

Pieter wiped sweat from his brow and looked over at Koen. “We cannot leave anything behind that we need. Cattle, tools, grain—every possession must serve us on the journey. The land is generous, but it will not feed those who arrive empty-handed.”

Koen nodded, lifting a sack of salted meat onto the cart. “And yet, every day we wait, the British tighten their grip. The regulations change faster than the wind. If they find reason to seize anything, we may lose even the land we leave behind.”

As they worked, neighbors whispered among themselves, some curious, others scornful. Pieter could hear fragments as he stacked sacks of grain.

“Van der Merwe? Leaving? Ha! That farm will rot without him!”

“They think the wilderness will be kinder than London laws… fools!”

“Do they not know the Xhosa roam beyond the mountains? Do they wish to be eaten alive?”

Pieter’s hands clenched. He had expected mockery, but the intensity of it still cut. Koen laid a hand on his shoulder. “Let them speak. Their mouths will tire before our resolve does.”

By midday, Pieter and Koen went into town to gather final supplies. The streets were alive with chatter. British soldiers walked the cobbled streets, uniforms crisp, eyes sharp. Townsfolk paused to watch the farmers passing, their faces a mix of pity and derision.

A British merchant, a stout man with a neatly trimmed beard, stepped forward. “Van der Merwe! Your plans are… ambitious, I hear. The interior is no place for men like you. You risk starvation, disease, perhaps worse. You would do better to obey the Crown’s guidance.”

Pieter’s lips pressed tightly together. “And you, sir, would do better to mind your own affairs. We seek no guidance from those who do not till the soil or raise cattle.”

The merchant’s eyes narrowed. “How ungrateful! The Crown has done more for this colony than your ancestors could have imagined. Roads, law, order—without it, chaos would reign.”

Koen stepped forward, voice calm but cold. “Order that taxes us beyond reason, mocks our traditions, and calls us backward? We prefer the chaos of the veld to the tyranny of their civility.”

The merchant sputtered, but Pieter turned away, scanning the square for Cape Dutch neighbors. Sure enough, a few stood by the general store, whispering among themselves. One woman, a matron known for her sharp tongue, called out.

“Leaving? Ha! And you call yourselves farmers. You cannot even obey the simplest regulations of the town! The interior will chew you up and spit you out!”

Pieter ignored her, focusing instead on Koen’s steady gaze. “They do not understand our ways,” he muttered as they moved along. “They never will.”

Back at the farm, Pieter’s family worked alongside them. Anika sorted linens, tied bundles of clothing, and packed what food they could carry. Their eldest son, Hendrik, carried a small satchel of tools, while the younger children ran errands between the wagons, their eyes wide with excitement and fear.

“Mother, what if the British follow us?” little Marietjie asked, tugging at her mother’s skirt.

Anika knelt, holding her daughter’s hands. “We will be careful, my child. We leave quietly, and we travel fast. The Crown may wish to stop us, but the land will hide those who know how to move.”

Pieter joined them, hands on his hips. “And it is not only the British. Our own people—Cape Dutch, town merchants—they mock us. But they will see. One day, they will see that a man who chooses freedom is never truly defeated.”

Koen, leaning against a fence post, added, “Their laughter is loud now, but it is empty. The veld will judge our courage, and it does not lie.”

That evening, a messenger arrived from the town magistrate, bearing a letter sealed with the Governor’s mark. Pieter read it aloud:

> “Van der Merwe, you are hereby reminded that removal of cattle or property without official permission is unlawful. Any attempts to leave the Colony may be construed as defiance of the Crown’s authority. Govern yourselves accordingly.”

Koen’s jaw tightened. “They think threats will stop us. They are blind to our will. A letter cannot cage a man who is already free in spirit.”

Pieter folded the letter carefully. “We prepare as we always have. We work, we plan, we leave when ready. Their law does not bind us beyond their towns.”

The night fell heavy and still. Pieter walked the perimeter of the farm, listening to the low moans of cattle and the rustle of the wind through the grass. Every shadow seemed longer, every sound sharper. The path inland was unknown, and yet, in the stillness, he felt the weight of certainty.

Koen joined him, lighting a lantern. “Tomorrow, we check the wagons, the horses, and the supplies. Every detail matters. If we are to survive the first month, every choice must be careful, deliberate.”

Pieter nodded. “Yes. And every insult, every mocking word, we leave behind. Let the town gossip, the British threats, the Cape Dutch ridicule fade. Our lives are not theirs to shape.”

A soft sound of children laughing drifted from the farmhouse. Pieter’s lips curved faintly. “They will grow up knowing that their father and uncle chose freedom, even when all others mocked them. That is a lesson worth more than all the coin in Cape Town.”

Koen’s voice softened. “And perhaps one day, they will thank us for listening to our hearts instead of their scorn.”

But Pieter knew the journey would not be simple. Whispers of discontent were spreading fast. Other families were leaving, and the British were already watching, their officials moving between farms, asking questions, noting every wagon and every head of cattle.

The next morning, as the sun crept over the hills, Pieter and Koen inspected every cart, every animal. The family worked with precision, loading grain, tools, and bedding. Horses were tethered carefully, cattle rounded up, and wagons reinforced for long travel over rough terrain.

From a distance, Pieter could see a few neighbors standing at the edge of their farms, whispering and pointing. “Fools,” one man muttered. “They will never make it beyond the mountains.”

Pieter’s heart tightened briefly, but he reminded himself: the judgment of others mattered little. “We do not go to please them,” he said softly to Koen. “We go for our families. For freedom. For life itself.”

Koen nodded, gripping the reins of his horse. “And we will make it. Step by step, mile by mile. The veld is ours to conquer, if only we respect it and move with patience and courage.”

By midday, the wagons were ready. Pieter looked over his family, their faces a mixture of fear, excitement, and determination. “Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, we leave before dawn. The British may watch, the merchants may mock, but at sunrise, we ride toward our own lives.”

As the sun sank behind the distant mountains, Pieter lit a candle, tracing the lines of the map he had drawn. Every river, every hill, every valley marked a potential path to independence. The interior promised hardship, but also dignity. And for Pieter, dignity was worth any risk.