On the Doorstep of the Civilized

The Governor’s Orders

The sun was still low when Pieter and Koen rode out to meet with other farmers from the district. The morning air carried a sharp chill, and the dew soaked their boots as they trod the narrow paths between fields. News had spread quickly since Captain Harrington’s visit the previous day: the British authorities were planning stricter enforcement of their laws, and rumors whispered that penalties for defiance would soon be harsher.

Koen adjusted the straps of his leather satchel, which carried letters and documents collected from neighboring farms. “They’ve sent more proclamations,” he said grimly. “The Governor himself has commanded every farmer to register livestock and submit reports weekly. And the fines—Koen shook his head—fines that would strip a man bare if he failed to comply.”

Pieter’s jaw tightened. “They do not understand that a man’s wealth is more than numbers on paper. It is the soil, the herds, the sweat of his hands. They cannot measure it with ink and stamps.”

They reached a small clearing near a hill where other farmers were already gathering. Pieter recognized many of them: Hendrik, a burly man with weathered hands; Willem, who had survived three Xhosa raids; and Pieter’s cousin, Dirk, who had recently returned from the frontier. All faces were lined with worry and defiance.

Hendrik spoke first. “I’ve heard the same as you. Harrington and his men ride into our lands like kings. The Governor writes from Cape Town, commanding obedience as if we were children.” He spat onto the earth. “Do they think we will kneel because of a signature?”

Dirk nodded. “It is not kneeling, Hendrik. It is protecting what our fathers fought for. My father used to say, ‘A man answers only to the veld and his commandants. The rest are strangers.’ He was right. And yet, here come strangers thinking we will bend.”

Pieter stepped forward, voice firm. “We meet because our families, our farms, and our honor are at stake. The British write that we resist authority, that we obey only our own commandants. And they are right—but they misunderstand. We resist because we must. A man cannot follow laws that do not respect the life he lives.”

Willem, frowning, asked, “And what will you do, Pieter? Harrington is determined. The Governor wants compliance. Soon, it will not be enough to ignore letters. They will come with soldiers if we resist openly.”

Pieter’s gaze hardened. “We will speak, we will meet, but we will not yield. And if they come, they will find no man who will surrender his land or his family to the dictates of men who know nothing of the veld.”

The discussion was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats on the road. A British patrol, sent to oversee registration, appeared at the edge of the clearing. The soldiers’ red coats gleamed, and the glint of bayonets caught the morning sun. At their head rode Captain Harrington, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp.

“Mr. van der Merwe,” Harrington called, dismounting with practiced ease, “and the rest of you farmers. The Governor has commanded compliance. You are to register your livestock and submit weekly reports. Resistance will not be tolerated. I am here to enforce the law.”

Pieter stepped forward, calm but unyielding. “Captain, we understand your duty. But we cannot obey laws that endanger our families or strip us of the right to defend our land. We answer to our own commandants and to the life we live in this veld. That is the law that governs us.”

Harrington’s jaw tightened. “The Crown does not recognize local commandants as lawful authority. Submission to the Governor is not optional. Reports describe this district as resistant, unruly. Your defiance threatens order and peace.”

Hendrik spat on the ground again. “Order, Captain? You call your letters order? You threaten to take what is ours, dictate what we may keep? That is tyranny. We call it survival.”

Koen added, voice low but steady, “And you will see, Captain, that survival cannot be measured by signatures. The veld teaches obedience to those who understand it. Your law does not.”

Harrington paused, glancing at the farmers assembled before him. Their eyes were resolute, their posture proud. It was a stubbornness that no threat could sway. For the first time, he felt the weight of the reports he had sent to London. Words like “resistant” and “unruly” leapt from paper into life before him, embodied in men who would not bend.

He coughed, masking his unease. “You must understand. Compliance ensures protection. Resistance invites consequences.”

Pieter shook his head slowly. “Protection without understanding is no protection at all. You may threaten, Captain, you may write letters to distant officials, but you cannot govern what you cannot see. The veld will teach us, not your papers. And we will act according to what we know to be right for our people, our families, our land.”

A silence fell over the clearing. The soldiers shifted uneasily, sensing the tension between command and defiance. Harrington looked around, noting the sturdy farms, the thick fences, and the men who clearly knew how to survive under any circumstance. It was a reality the reports in London could never capture: men bound not by law alone, but by loyalty, pride, and the unspoken code of the veld.

Finally, Harrington spoke, his voice tight. “Very well, Mr. van der Merwe. I will make a report of your attitude. The Governor will decide the next course of action. Know that resistance now carries risk.”

Pieter nodded, his eyes unwavering. “We understand. And we accept the risk. But remember, Captain—no man can give what he does not possess. Our freedom, our land, our families… these are ours. We will not yield.”

Harrington mounted his horse in silence, his mind already working on the letter he would send to Cape Town. The farmers watched him leave, their expressions a mix of relief and quiet determination. Once the patrol was gone, Pieter turned to Koen and the others.

“We will remain vigilant,” he said. “The Governor may send more letters, more officers, perhaps soldiers. But we are not afraid. We have our families, our commandants, and the knowledge of the land. That is stronger than any law inked in a distant city.”

Dirk nodded. “The veld has always provided. And now it teaches us again: a man who defends what is his need not bend to strangers. The British may write reports, call us resistant, call us unruly—but we will answer only to our own.”

The farmers dispersed, returning to their work, their hearts heavy but resolute. Pieter and Koen rode back toward the homestead, the sun climbing higher, warming the dust and the earth beneath their feet. The words of Captain Harrington and the Governor’s proclamations were in their minds, but they could not shake the certainty that the veld—and the men who knew it—would endure.

As they approached the farmhouse, Pieter glanced at the horizon. Smoke from distant chimneys marked the other farms, each a bastion of stubborn independence. He knew the next days would bring further challenges, perhaps even direct confrontation. But he also knew that the Boers of Drakenstein had never been cowed, and they would not start now.

In the distance, a lone hawk circled over the plains. Its cry echoed across the fields, a reminder that the land was wide, and free, and that men who knew it would always find a way to protect what was theirs.

And so, the first seeds of quiet rebellion were planted—not with muskets or open war, but with steadfast hearts and unwavering defiance. The Governor’s orders had arrived, but the Boers were ready. Resistance was not merely choice; it was their duty.