On the Doorstep of the Civilized

Tensions in the Fields

The sun had barely risen over the Drakenstein plains, painting the sky in pale orange, when Pieter van der Merwe rode along the dirt road leading to his homestead. Dust rose from the hooves of his bay horse, and Koen, his long-time friend and farmhand, followed on foot, carrying a bundle of freshly cut wheat for the morning chores. The air was crisp, but heavy with unease. Rumors had reached the farms that the British authorities were planning new laws, and Pieter could feel the storm coming before it had even begun.

“They say every man must register his livestock,” Koen said, shaking his head as he adjusted the weight of the bundle. “And pay a tax for the privilege of keeping his own cattle.”

Pieter snorted. “As if the British have any right to tell me how many cows roam my land. My father’s father fought for this soil. And now London decides what we may own?” He shook his head slowly. “They do not understand the veld, Koen. They have never slept under its stars or chased the foxes at dawn. They think rules and papers can command respect, but the veld answers only to those who know it.”

Koen smiled wryly. “And yet they come, in their red coats and polished boots, thinking they can make farmers obey with a signature and a seal.”

Pieter’s lips tightened. “We shall see. They will learn that men who till the land with their hands, who raise families under the sun, do not bend easily to foreign commands. We obey only our own. Only our veld commandants.”

The two men arrived at the farmhouse, the walls still warm from the morning sun. Pieter dismounted, brushing dust from his trousers, and went inside. The kitchen was modest, but well-kept; the smell of fresh bread drifted from the oven. His wife, Marietjie, was kneading dough, her expression tense as she listened to Pieter’s words.

“More trouble from the British?” she asked softly.

Pieter nodded. “They are enacting new laws. Registration of livestock. Taxes on property. And they send officers to enforce it. They think we will obey without question.”

Marietjie frowned. “And what if they come here, Pieter?”

“We will speak to them, calmly. But we will not surrender our right to our own land, or our own way. Koen and I will not stand idle while strangers claim dominion over what is ours.”

Before the conversation could continue, a messenger arrived, riding hard along the road. He handed Pieter a folded sheet, the ink smeared from haste. Pieter opened it carefully. It bore the Governor’s seal and the unmistakable handwriting of Captain Harrington.

“By order of His Excellency, Governor Somerset,” Pieter read aloud, “all farmers within the district are required to register their livestock and submit to British oversight. Failure to comply will result in seizure of property and penalties as prescribed under colonial law.”

Koen whistled softly. “Direct and unforgiving, as always.”

Pieter crumpled the paper slightly, his jaw tightening. “They do not understand us. They call us resistant to authority, unruly. They write in their reports that we obey only our own commandants. And yet, in their eyes, this is a crime.”

Marietjie placed a hand on his arm. “And yet, Pieter, we have always lived by our own laws, our own sense of justice. You will not let them take that from us?”

“Never,” Pieter said. “We will speak with Harrington, yes. But we will speak as men of the veld. They will learn that we answer to no law that does not respect our ways. They may try to bind us with paper and ink, but they cannot bind the land or the people who know it.”

The next morning, as Pieter and Koen prepared to meet Captain Harrington, the tension in the air was thick. Harrington arrived with two assistants, their red coats immaculate, their boots glinting in the sun. The horses’ hooves struck sparks from the dirt road, announcing the presence of authority before the men even spoke.

Captain Harrington dismounted, surveying the farm with a sharp eye. “Mr. van der Merwe,” he said, his tone formal but carrying the weight of command. “I am here on the Governor’s behalf. Registration of livestock and submission to the Crown’s law is not optional.”

Pieter stepped forward, his shoulders squared. “Captain, I am Pieter van der Merwe, a farmer of Drakenstein. I till my land, I raise my cattle, I protect my family. I answer to my own commandants. We respect the laws of men who understand the veld, but we cannot bend to distant authority that knows nothing of our life or our labor.”

Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “Your resistance is noted. Reports from this district describe the Boers as unwilling to obey, as men who follow only their own leaders. And yet, the law is clear. Compliance is required.”

Koen, standing beside Pieter, could not keep the edge from his voice. “And yet, Captain, the law does not feed my children, nor does it chase predators from my flocks. We obey what protects our families. We do not obey what imprisons them in papers and taxes.”

Harrington shifted uncomfortably, unused to such blunt defiance. “It is the duty of the Crown to maintain order. You must submit.”

Pieter’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “Order imposed by fear is not order. And submission demanded from ignorance is not law. We will meet with your officers, yes. But we will not surrender our land, our cattle, or our honor. The veld itself teaches obedience, Captain. But it is obedience to knowledge, to experience, to justice. Not to red coats and distant decrees.”

The captain opened his mouth to reply, but Pieter turned and signaled Koen. Together, they led Harrington and his assistants to the barn, where the livestock grazed peacefully, as if to emphasize the life that depended on the farmers’ judgment, not on paper. The officer could see, perhaps for the first time, the reality of the life he sought to command: cattle, horses, the earth tilled by human hands, the sweat and effort invisible to London but vital to survival.

Harrington’s jaw tightened, and he scribbled notes in his journal, muttering about resistance and unruliness. Pieter, watching him, felt a quiet satisfaction. The battle was far from over, but the first stand had been made. The Boers would not bend, not to law, not to threats, not to foreign commands. They would answer only to the land, their commandants, and the unspoken code that had governed them for generations.

As the sun climbed higher, Pieter and Koen returned to their chores. They worked the fields in silence, listening to the distant sound of hooves and the low hum of the wind through the grass. Somewhere, Captain Harrington wrote reports that would reach London, portraying the Boers as a political problem. Pieter did not mind. He knew the truth of the veld, and that was enough.

Even as the shadow of authority stretched across Drakenstein, Pieter felt a deep certainty: men who tilled the land and protected their own would always resist where submission meant betrayal of the earth, the family, and the freedom that had been theirs for generations.