On the Doorstep of the Civilized

Fire on the Eastern Border

The sun rose over the eastern border farms, painting the hills gold, but the warmth could not reach the hearts of the Boers. Rumors had come for days—smoke on the horizon, cattle missing, cries echoing from the valleys. The Xhosa were stirring again, and this time, the raids were closer, sharper, and deadlier.

Pieter rode toward the outlying homesteads with Koen and a small band of men. Their rifles were loaded, their wagons packed for flight or fight, depending on the day. Children clutched their mothers’ skirts, and the women moved like shadows, quietly fetching what they could carry.

“We cannot wait for them to strike,” Pieter said, voice low but firm. “If they come tonight, our families will pay the price.”

Koen’s eyes narrowed. “And yet the law… the British law… says we may not raise men in arms without reporting to the magistrate. No patrols, no militias without permission.”

Pieter’s hand tightened on the rifle. “Permission? When a child is in the path of a spear, there is no permission to wait for!”

They arrived at the Van der Walt farm. Smoke curled from a distant hill, and the first cries reached their ears. Pieter urged the men forward, leaving the women and children hidden in a cellar beneath the homestead.

From the ridge, Koen scanned the valley. “There! Near the kopje. Ten of them, maybe more.”

Pieter nodded. “We strike to protect, not to conquer. Stay low, aim true.”

Shots rang out, echoing through the valley, and the quiet of the morning shattered. Oxen bellowed, chickens scattered, and the women inside the cellar prayed aloud.

Meanwhile, the British magistrate arrived at the scene, riding slowly, papers in hand. “What is this?” he demanded, dismounting. “You have violated the Crown’s edict. No private militias are permitted!”

Pieter looked up, smoke dusting his hair, dirt streaking his face. “Magistrate,” he said evenly, “we protect our families. If you mean to stop us, it is your own orders that leave them vulnerable.”

The magistrate flinched at the sight of the Xhosa retreating into the hills, and for a moment, neither spoke. The law, with all its red tape and ink, felt useless against arrows and fire.

A woman ran from the cellar, clutching a child, sobbing. Pieter handed her to Koen and shouted to the men. “Drive them off! Every life matters!”

For hours, the valley became a storm of smoke, shouting, and gunfire. Pieter and his men moved with the precision of desperate fathers, each shot measured, each step a gamble. When the Xhosa finally withdrew, the devastation was clear: a burned barn, stolen cattle, and frightened families—but alive.

The magistrate scribbled notes, shaking his head. “This… this is not permitted. You must submit reports. Follow protocol.”

Pieter’s voice was calm, deadly in its quiet. “I follow the law of God first, the law of men second. My children are alive. That is enough. The rest… is for you to decide.”

Koen rested his rifle on his shoulder. “Every day the British tie our hands with laws,” he muttered. “Every day, the danger grows closer.”

The sun dipped low behind the mountains, and smoke lingered like a dark memory across the valley. Farmers worked quietly to tend wounds, repair fences, and soothe terrified children.

The lesson was clear: survival demanded action. And sometimes, law and survival were not the same thing.

Pieter looked at the horizon, jaw set. “If the Crown insists on binding our hands, then they leave us with no choice. We protect our own, by any means necessary.”

Koen nodded, understanding perfectly. The struggle was no longer just against the Xhosa raids—it was against the very authority that should have stood with them, but instead hindered their right to defend life and land.

The eastern border had become a crucible. And the Boers were learning, with every strike, every law, and every fire, how to endure, how to fight, and how to survive when the world tried to deny them both.