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The clinic office was dim and cool when Patrick entered moments later. Zakhele Obi and Myra Fitzsimmons sat across from each other, the scene more closely resembling a negotiation than a medical examination.

“You must excuse the secrecy, Doctor Turner. I thought it best that people think Zakhele needed medical attention. The fewer people that know we’re talking to him at all, the better.”

Patrick’s eyes glittered. “I haven’t thanked you, Mr. Obi. I–I don’t have the words, sir. You saved my daughter’s life today; I will always be in your debt.” Patrick reached out his hand, glad the firm grasp he had kept on his control as he stood by his wife had not slipped.

“You save lives every day, Doctor. We do what we must to work together. That is why I have come today.” He unfolded a large piece of paper upon the desk. “I have been trying to think of a way to come here since you arrived, and the old lion gave me the excuse.

“You have seen first-hand that my friends do not trust you. For so long we have been tricked and by the white man, yet perhaps the worst of all is that we have come to believe the government’s lies. We have come to believe that we are less than the white man, that our black brothers and sisters are our enemy.

“Many of my friends would stay away from the clinic and the school at Hope Mission rather than accept your help, but my Steven has helped me to understand that we must find trust, that we must work together with the Xhosa and people like Doctor Fitzsimmons if we are ever to regain our dignity and rights. The Zulu are a warrior people, it will not be easy for us to work for peace.”

He paused for a moment. “When I was a young man I was an engineer, Doctor. You may be surprised to learn that several of my brothers were skilled men, learned men before the government took that from us. It is why so many from the settlement will not send their children to school.”

He smoothed his hands over the diagram before him. “I have drawn a plan for a well that will supply both the mission hospital and the school. Your plans have not worked because they do not take into account the rock bed just beneath the surface. With dynamite, we could break through in one day, but you see the problem with that.” He glanced up at Patrick.

“DuPlessis would never allow its use.”

“Yes, and if we were to try it, you would be sent to prison for arming the natives.” Zakhele sat back in his chair.

“So then how can we possibly break through the rock to water?” Patrick leant over the drawing.

“It is all about knowing which rock to break. Forgive me for saying so, but the Missionary Society is run by clerics, not scientists.”

Patrick rubbed his face briskly. “We’ve been digging in the wrong places.”

“Yes. You came to tell us how you could help us. You forgot to ask how we can help you.”

Myra shook her head. “Why now, Zakhele? Why do you come to help us now?”

“The Xhosa have tried to speak to the government, to use reason. The Zulus have used resistance and violence. Neither has worked. Our only way to freedom is by combining the two. Steven will soon be a man. He has been accepted to the college, he can be a great man. Steven Obi is my great hope.”

“I must go, before people begin to ask questions. Give these plans to Mr. Makepeace, he will know what to do. If we do this right, we will begin to make change.” The man stood to go.

Patrick stretched out his hand once more. “It’s a privilege, sir. I hope that one day I can be of service to you.” A look of understanding passed between the two fathers, and the kernel of an idea began to form.

“I can’t believe we never thought of it before.” Myra Fitzsimmons considered. “If it works, we could do so much.”

“That’s the question,” Henry Makepeace rubbed his forehead. “As arrogant and blind DuPlessis is, he’s no fool. If he gets so much as a whiff of this, he’ll see right through it.”

“It’s a chance we’ll have to take, Mr. Makepeace. The old well could fail any day now, and without a ready water supply, the Mission cannot possibly survive. We have to try.”

After dinner, the table was cleared and Zakhele’s plans spread out. The site chosen for the new well was two hundred yards from the Mission, a high shale rock surrounded by low green bushes and grass. According to the plan, teams of men would use the few pick axes allowed the Mission for the project to break beneath the surface. Once beyond, the augur provided by the Mission Society would drill down to the aquifer and create a space for the new well pump.

If, as Zakhele promised, men from the settlement would assist in the project,  the clinic would be used to shield the working crews from police attention. As men dug the well, and later the ditches for the pipeline, the clinic would be mobile, offering an excuse for people to congregate. DuPlessis would tolerate only so much, they could not give him any reason to shut the project down.

“We never considered a spot so far from the Mission,” Tom Hereward explained. “Between our manpower and the hard earth, it would take us months to lay pipe to the cistern. But if this plan works, we could finish in two weeks. We’d have time to ensure the pump was running before we have to leave.”

“You’re sure we can use this dodge, Myra? Du Plessis seems to be searching for a reason to shut us down.” Patrick dropped into a chair.

“We can try, Patrick. As long as we keep the men separate, we can claim there’s no congregating. It’ll be difficult, but the men will know the risk. The hard part will be to spread the clinic schedule out. People here are not ruled by the clock as you are in England. Few people wear watches–or even have clocks in their homes–and the school bell only travels so far. If there’s even the slightest gap between patients, DuPlessis will shut us down.”

Fred spoke up. “Pardon me, Doctor Fitzsimmons, but what ‘bout that voozievela thing I seen at the football match Jacob and me went to a few weeks back? Right train horn that thing was.”

“A vuvuzela? Yes, that could work, Fred. We’ll need several, and put them at intervals. You’ll need to use your best scrounging powers to find enough.”

“Never fear, Doctor,” Fred puffed out his chest. “You may know your medicine, but when it comes to scrounging, Fred Buckle is your man.”