Andrew Murray: Destined to Win: Destined Series, #2

Andrew Murray:

Destined to Win

Book Two in ‘Destined’ Series

Olea Nel

Clairvaux House

© 2018 by Olea Nel

Published by Clairvaux House

16/43 Clyde St

Batemans Bay NSW 2536

Australia

Cover design by Clive Thompson

Maps by Geoff Alves

Unless otherwise indicated, Bible quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version 1611.

All rights reserved solely by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

Contents

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Maps

Prologue: Clairvaux, Wellington

On the road with Elder Willem Pretorius

Within the Bosom of the Family Again

Unwelcome Advice

Jumping Hurdles

Ambushed by the Jerusalem Pilgrims

In the Valley of Decision

Rumors of war

The Battle of Viervoet

Johan Fick: The Purveyor of Bad News

A Time of Turmoil

Problems Escalate

All About Strategy

A Lesson in Brinkmanship

Reading Madame Guyon

Strategizing at Sand River

As Wise as Serpents

The Sand River Convention

My Fourth Tour Across the Vaal

The Consecration of the Bloemfontein Church

My Dive into the Slough of Self-pity

A Clutch of Surprises

The Battle of Berea

A Slap in the Face

The Arrival of Sir George Russell Clerk

To Stay or to Go?

Dirk Van Velden to the Rescue

Cape Town

London

Preaching on Revelation at Surrey Chapel

News From Bloemfontein

Gaining Spiritual Insights

Joyful Days at Herschel

My Meeting with Sir George Grey

Opposition

An Untimely Request

Crashing Down the Ladder of Self

Smarting From My Wound

Playing the Waiting Game

Ellen Helps Out

My Second Try

Epilogue: Clairvaux, Wellington

Glossary of terms

Notes

*

Author’s Note

THIS NOVEL IS THE SECOND in my trilogy on Andrew Murray’s life, and covers the years 1850-1856. The first novel covers Andrew Murray’s first year in ministry and is titled: Andrew Murray Destined to Serve: A Biographical Novel. But although this present book is part of a series, it can quite happily stand on its own.

As with the first novel, this is a dramatized biography told in the first person. Fortunately, Andrew Murray was an avid letter writer, particularly to his father and brother John. In these letters, he would freely discuss his thoughts and feelings, and even bare his soul regarding his spiritual walk. I therefore felt at ease in writing my novel in the first person.

Essentially, my aim with this series is for readers to get to know the real Andrew Murray, and not just the giant of the faith that he later became. In essence, I’ve set out to trace his spiritual journey within the highs and lows of everyday life. I also wanted readers to realize that there was a ‘before’ and an ‘after’ period in his life, and that his devotional works literally pulse with the spiritual lessons learnt during the period covered in this book.

Maps

I’ve included a few maps to help readers who are not familiar with South Africa. If you are reading this novel on a Kindle device, you may want to refer to the Map Page on my website at: http://www.oleanel.com/maps

Photographs

For those who are interested, I’ve included a few photographs of places and characters mentioned in this story. They can be viewed on the Photos Page of my website at:

http://www.oleanel.com/photos

Bibliography and Notes

I’ve included a bibliography and a few notes for historical buffs.

Glossary of terms

There is a glossary of Dutch terms at the back of the book. While I have kept the use of Dutch to a minimum, there are a few terms that have been consistently used to indicate conversations in Dutch.

Because Andrew Murray was a Dutch Reformed pastor, he would have always been addressed as Dominee (Reverend) by his Dutch-speaking parishioners, and Mr. Murray, by his English-speaking ones. He, in turn, would have used the appellation Meneer (Mr.) and Mevrou (Mrs.) when conversing with members of his Dutch-speaking congregation.

Another Dutch term that needs to be mentioned here is consulent (acting minister). I’ve used it throughout this novel because it had a specific meaning during Andrew Murray’s day. A pastor serving in one congregation became a consulent to an adjoining congregation if the latter was without a pastor. As part of his duties as consulent, he would have been required to conduct a series of services in the adjoining congregation once a quarter. These would have included: preparation for Holy Communion, the Communion service itself, followed by a thanksgiving service. He would have also needed to conduct marriages, baptize infants, and test communicants on the Heidelberg Catechism and their biblical knowledge. His visit would have therefore covered several days.

Those with a knowledge of South African history will notice that the term Voortrekker—to denote Dutch stock farmers who trekked across the Orange and Vaal Rivers—is never used. This is because that term was not in use during the 1850s.

Acknowledgements

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK my husband Peter for his unflagging encouragement and support while writing this novel. His regular input has helped to raise the readability of this book. I’m forever grateful.

I’m deeply indebted to Gwenyth Bray, Carolyn Wood, and Attie van Wijk for donating their time to read my manuscript and provide invaluable input. Their generosity in this respect was a godsend.

A special word of recognition goes to the following people who supplied photographs or little-known information for this project. They are Madaleen Welman of Herschel Girls’ School in Cape Town, who kindly sent me photographs of the original section of Herschel; Heidi Morgan, who provided photographs of buildings associated with Andrew Murray’s time in Bloemfontein; and Malan Schrecker, who sent me information on Dirk van Velden and Ladismith with an ‘i’ in the Cape.

I would also like to thank a number of people for their ongoing expressions of support while I was in the throes of writing this novel. They are Marietta van der Merwe, Mariana Nesbitt, Claudia Curtis, Lori Jackson, Margaret de Guara, and Maureen Pettrey. Their encouragement helped to keep me going. I can’t thank them enough.

Maps

Towns in the Cape that are mentioned in the story

Orange River Sovereignty between 1849 and 1854

Transvaal between 1849 and 1852

Prologue: Clairvaux, Wellington

July 1915

I DREW MY COLLAR UP against the freezing cold of a July morning in Wellington, and walked along the pebbled pathway leading to Andrew Murray’s home, my feet scrunching the pebbles as I went. His modest house fronted a laneway that was scarcely broader than the width of two horse wagons. And except for the tubs containing evergreen shrubs on either side of the front door, the laneway was devoid of all flowers or plants.

I tapped on the chocolate-brown door with the knocker provided, and waited. All appeared still within. I knew I had the correct date for my second interview with Dr. Murray because it was the first day of the mid-year break at Stellenbosch Theological Seminary. And you didn’t forget a date like that, especially if you were a professor at that institution. Well, perhaps break wasn’t the correct term for what I had in mind. Over the next few weeks I intended to embark on Andrew Murray’s biography. And my enthusiasm for this project was such that I couldn’t think of any pursuit more enjoyable than sitting beside a roaring fire, pen in hand.

I unbuttoned my overcoat and withdrew my gold watch from its pouch. It was twenty-seven minutes to ten, exactly three minutes after the stated time for my arrival. I tapped on the door again—a little louder this time. I wasn’t unduly concerned about the wait because I detected smoke pouring out of two chimneys. Perhaps Annie, Andrew Murray’s daughter, hadn’t heard my initial knock. I knew she acted as her father’s amanuensis by writing his correspondence and even the texts of his books he dictated to her. I paused to dwell on this thought a little longer, wondering whether I would be able to dictate my books if painful tingles in my arms and hands hampered me from holding a pen. I thought not.

Shrugging off this thought, I stepped back a few steps to view the façade of the building. Dr. Murray hadn’t wasted an inch of land. From the laneway, you couldn’t tell that he had positioned his home on a flat ridge overlooking a narrow valley of vines with a low-lying hill beyond. This pleasant outlook had inspired him to name his home Clairvaux after his hero of the faith, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, the French monk who had lived in the twelfth century.

I recalled Dr. Murray’s words as he explained the naming of his home with a chuckle and a wink: Not that the average person around here would know that I’ve named my home after a monastery in France, Johan. They simply think that I’ve chosen a French name because most of the farmers in these parts are from French Huguenot stock. So they heartily endorse it.

I walked to the gate a few paces to my left and peered through the opening below the lintel. Beyond was a well-kept side garden with a narrow patch of lawn skirting the edge of an L-shaped stoep that wrapped around the back of the house. It was off this back stoep with its pleasant views that Andrew Murray had chosen a room for his study.

Still detecting no sign of life, my thoughts turned to Andrew Murray’s eighty-fifth birthday party that I had attended on 9 May. I had arrived at the same time as a few first-time guests, and had watched amused as their eyes had scanned the plain exterior of the house only to be beguiled a little later by the old-fashioned charm and warmth of the large sitting room that looked out upon the side stoep and manicured lawn.

My reverie was broken when the door suddenly opened and Annie stepped out, looking this way and that. Spying me near the gate, she pressed her hand to her heart in theatrical fashion and blew out a breath in relief.

Although she was in her thirties, she looked much younger on account of her fair hair being arranged in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. I noticed that a few wisps had escaped unheeded and were blowing every which way in the breeze. She looked quite fetching this morning in a dark maroon velvet dress that had obviously been demoted to day wear. But in spite of her plain features, I found that her kind face and intelligent eyes drew one to her. The overall impression was of a young woman with an intellectual bent who had spurned glamour in favor of more academic pursuits.

Good morning, Professor du Plessis, she said offering her hand. "For a minute there I thought you may have left. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. You see, Pa has been dictating Day 31 of his latest pocket book to me. He’s titled it: The Secret of the Faith Life. Unfortunately, we still have a few paragraphs to go. She offered me an apologetic smile, then continued: He says that he needs to finish this book before he’s able to give you his full attention. So I hope you don’t mind waiting a little longer."

She led the way inside and ushered me into the sitting room. I observed that her usual graceful demeanor had given way to jitteriness this morning.

I’ve just been helping our maid, Mimi, light the fire in here. It shouldn’t take too long to warm up.

Before I could assure her that I didn’t mind in the least, and that the time alone would help focus my thoughts, she had already turned to go.

She was about to close the door behind her, when she glanced back at me and said, I’d better get back. Hopefully Pa hasn’t lost his train of thought by now.

But instead of closing the door, I watched in surprise as she shut her eyes and lifted her hand to her forehead. Oh dear! she said in breathless fashion, I’ve forgotten to take your overcoat. How unmannerly of me!

To my amusement, she bustled back into the room while I dutifully slipped out of my coat and handed it to her with a flourish.

"I wouldn’t worry about your father losing his train of thought, Juffrou Murray. He has the uncanny ability to hold what he wants to say until he is ready to convey it. So I’m sure you’ll find that his thoughts will flow when you get back.

I’m sure you are right, Professor du Plessis. You must think me a real nervous Nelly. I’m afraid I take after my Aunt Maria, you see. No doubt Pa has already mentioned her.

You mean the Spanish doll?

She lifted a brow in surprise. So Pa has already told you about her. I dare say he’s described her in terms of dancing the flamenco to the accompaniment of castanets when she got upset.

That he has. And apparently he and your Uncle Willie were of the view that she might have been a throwback to a distant Spanish relative on your maternal grandmother’s side. I suppose that’s feasible because the Spanish did rule the Low Countries at one time.

"Hmm, I prefer the version that she was a throwback to our French connection. You may not know this, but besides being from German stock, Ouma also had French Huguenot ancestors who came out to the Cape in 1688."

A far more acceptable explanation, I’m sure, I said, with tongue in cheek.

Her lips twitched at the corners while she deftly flicked off a thread of lint from my coat. In any case, I don’t play the castanets—if you know what I mean. I just get nervy when things don’t go according to plan, like now.

Think no more of it. I’d love a moment to myself before the hearth.

I watched as her body released its tension and she broke into a smile. That’s what Pa said. Well, I’d better get back. We shouldn’t be too long.

AFTER SHE HAD LEFT, I gravitated to the warmth of the hearth where I caught sight of myself in the beveled mirror that hung over the mantelpiece. I wasn’t a vain man, but wanting to maintain appearances, I ran a comb through my hair and smoothed my full moustache, of which I was justly proud. I then patted my cheeks to make sure my morning shave passed muster. Despite everyone else sporting a beard at Stellenbosch, I drew the line at growing one, preferring to retain a youthful look.

HAVING WARMED MYSELF adequately at the fire, I went to sit in a winged armchair nearby. I extracted my notebook from my briefcase and proceeded to peruse the notes I’d made during my first interview in May. They were rather sparse, to say the least. I’d obviously been so swept along by the story and intrigued by Dr. Murray’s dramatic gesticulations that I’d failed to take notes at certain points. Not to worry, I thought. Fortunately there were letters and documents that Annie had indexed on which I could rely.

I stared at the first page of notes, and shook my head in wonderment. Just three days before Andrew Murray’s twenty-first birthday, he had been inducted as pastor of Bloemfontein, the capital of the Orange River Sovereignty. But because he was the only pastor beyond the borders of the Cape at the time, in reality, his congregation consisted of over 12 000 Boers in the Sovereignty and a further 8000 across the Vaal River. And because he was acting minister, or consulent, to three other church centers in the Sovereignty, it was expected that he travel to one or other of these centers every second week to conduct a series of services associated with Holy Communion. These usually numbered five: one on Tuesday evening, three on Wednesday, and one on Thursday morning.

During these services he would marry couples, baptize infants, and test young people on their knowledge of the Bible and Heidelberg Catechism. Those who passed—usually about half—would be received into membership on Thursday morning. He would then rush back to Bloemfontein, usually arriving there by late Friday afternoon. This would barely give him enough time to prepare for the usual week-end services. These started on Saturday evening with a service for the Coloreds who made up the Cape Corps. Then on Sundays, there was a service for the Dutch farmers in the morning, followed by a Sunday school class for the English settler children directly after lunch. Barely an hour and a half later, he would have to conduct the English service. To cap it all, the Dutch farmers requested a late afternoon service during the summer months.

My head was in a whirl just thinking of all these services. It was ridiculous in the extreme, especially as the other three church centers of Winburg, Smithfield and Fauresmith were on average a day-and-a-half’s journey away. And from what I was led to understand, it was far from a pleasant journey. There were potholes and deep ruts in the road to avoid, and the constant jolts told terribly on the body, even when riding in a well-sprung Cape cart.

I flipped over to the next page of my notes. Huh! I uttered aloud in consternation. For there, scrawled across the top of the page, I had written the heading TRANSVAAL in capitals. Poor fellow! Just six months into his ministry, he’d been persuaded to tour the vast area across the Vaal River during his six-week summer vacation.

I was still shaking my head in disbelief, when I heard a light tap on the door, and saw Annie’s head appear around it.

You’ll be relieved to hear that Pa’s completed his pocket book, Professor du Plessis. As you surmised, the words flowed. Please come through. He’s waiting to greet you.

WHEN I ENTERED THE study, Dr. Murray was standing with his back to the hearth while pumping his feet up and down. To my surprise he looked sprightly, and his cheeks were aglow with health.

Come in, come in, Johan. Sorry to have kept you waiting, but it was essential that I complete my pocket book in order to give you my undivided attention.

I must say you are looking exceptionally well, Dr. Murray.

He smiled in agreement. This might come as a surprise to you, but in my old age I’ve come to like Wellington winters. You see, I rarely leave this room. It enables me to stay well, and my creaky old bones pain free.

Very sensible, Dr. Murray.

He swept his hand over his balding head then along the back of his grey-streaked hair to their very tips. I noticed that his hair had grown considerably longer since my last visit and was already brushing the tops of his shoulders.

Being an observant man, who had an uncanny ability to read one’s thoughts, he said, The downside of not venturing out is that my hair grows too long, and my beard too bushy. I won’t be visiting a barber until spring, you see. And asking Annie to do the honors is out of the question. I did so one year to my regret.

There was still a twinkle in his eye when I shook his hand then went to sit in the seat to which he pointed. He followed closely behind, making his way to his high-backed armchair that had been swiveled to face mine. Because his desk had been placed flush against the window that overlooked the valley of vines, there was a generous space in the center of the study for several chairs.

He watched with amusement as I craned my neck to look out the window to inspect the snow-capped hill beyond. Quite a different tableau from when you were here in autumn. But not without its own charm, of course.

That goes without saying, Dr. Murray.

But while it looks rather dreary now, you should see it in springtime. I love to watch the leaves multiply on the vines, then observe the forming and ripening of the grapes, followed by the bustle of harvest—a perfect parable of the Christian journey, don’t you think?

Before I could answer, we were interrupted by the maid, Mimi, who brought in a pot of coffee. She was followed by Annie carrying a tray of side plates that each contained an array of boerbeskuit.

Dr. Murray’s eyes sparkled with mirth as he surveyed the assortment of boerbeskuit. Ah, Johan, my coffee wouldn’t be the same without a rusk or two to dunk. Please feel free to do the same. This cultural habit that I learnt from the frontier Boer has remained with me all these years. I’ve even introduced it to English friends from London who resisted the idea at first. But after a while, they joined me with a chuckle and a wink when polite society wasn’t present.

"Be assured, Dr. Murray, I have no qualms about dunking boerbeskuit. It’s par for the course among the students at Stellenbosch."

And it’s par for the course around here too—polite society or no, said Annie, while placing one of the plates on the side table next to me.

I noticed that the selection of rusks ranged from a milky cream to a rich honey color, with one or two containing a smattering of aniseed. I selected the milky one and dunked it in my coffee with more circumspection than usual. Once in my mouth, my taste buds delighted in its creamy texture.

Now remind me, Johan, where did we get to with my story when you were here last?

I took another sip of coffee to wash down the rusk, then rattled off the exact point without hesitation: You were back in Bloemfontein once more after contracting malaria in the Transvaal, and Dr. Drury, who was about to leave for England, stayed back an extra few days to examine you. Both he and Dr. Fraser didn’t hold out much hope for you continuing in the ministry.

Dr. Murray lent back in his chair, cup in hand, and donned a far-away look. Dear Dr. Drury. I can just see him in my mind’s eye: tall, angular, and as spiky as the aloe in the veld, but oozing goodness within. He was the only one who could rein me in, you know.

What about Dr. Fraser?

To tell you the truth, I don’t think it even dawned on him that I might need reining in. You see, for several years he’d been an assistant army surgeon to the 91st Regiment. And who’s ever heard of a soldier who needed persuading to take recuperation leave? But Drury was another matter entirely. He would lay down the law, tell my consistory off for working me too hard, then persuade Elder Willem Pretorius to oversee my recovery.

It was a miracle, interrupted Annie, who had joined us for morning coffee. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Drury extracting a promise from Pa to convalesce for six weeks, he would probably not be in the ministry today.

Dr. Murray broke into a smile. Well Johan, it seems as if you should be interviewing Annie instead of me.

I returned his smile. I fully intend to one day.

Annie blushed, then got up to go. Don’t worry, Pa. I can take a hint. I only hope that you will tell your story warts and all.

I watched amused as he waved her out of the room. He then turned to me and said, I hope you remember our pact, Johan? I’ll share all with you, but please write only that which you deem appropriate. Now where were we?

You were about to be issued with a call to the Transvaal.

Ah yes. And oh, how I wanted to go!

So what hampered you, Dr. Murray? Was it because of opposition from the Presbytery of Graaff-Reinet to which you belonged at the time?

He observed me through hooded eyelids, his lips twitching with mirth. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Johan.

I knew that look, and knew he was ready to begin. And if my last interview was anything to go by, I also knew that he wanted to immerse himself in the story with no interruptions from me. He wanted to relive every moment again—at times using dramatic gestures to emphasize a point, at others, slowing down the pace when describing some moving occasion or a moment of inner reflection. He would then suddenly hasten the tempo once more while relating a challenging circumstance or an exciting event.

It promised, once again, to be an exhilarating journey, and I could hardly wait to accompany him on the ride.

1

On the road with Elder Willem Pretorius

July 1850

ELDER WILLEM PRETORIUS and I were in high spirits when we set out for Graaff-Reinet at the beginning of July. We had toyed with the idea of taking the wagon, but had decided against it in favor of his four-seater Cape cart that was comfortably upholstered with an excellent hood and roll-down covers. And because it hadn’t been long since my lengthy recuperation after contracting malaria, he had insisted on taking his driver to relieve me from having to take my turn at the reins. So there was every prospect that I’d be looking rested and well when I arrived home.

While stowing my case between the front and box seats, and bundling my bedroll and blankets into the latter, I caught sight of Pretorius’s hatbox. Observing my knowing smile, he said, "Ach, I get so few opportunities to wear top hat and tails that I couldn’t resist bringing them along."

"I notice that you have two cases, Meneer Pretorius. I dare say you have packed in a dinner suit as well."

"That goes without saying, Dominee. I wouldn’t want the Graaff-Reinetters to think we were all country bumpkins around here, now would I?"

We were still sniggering like school boys when we hopped into the cart. I couldn’t help noticing how agile he was for a man approaching fifty. But despite his greying hair and chin beard, he looked at least a decade younger than his forty-eight years. I’d also observed on other visits to Graaff-Reinet that he loved to play the role of a younger man. But it was undoubtedly his penchant for travel and adventure that made him readily agree to take me home for a short recreational spell. Needless to say, my four deacons plus Elder Jacobus van Zyl were only too pleased to let him do it.

We exchanged smiles as the cart pulled off and I helped him pull the knee-rug over our legs. I leaned my head back on the plumped headrest and observed the scattered homes as we passed by. Bloemfontein had almost doubled in size since my arrival last May. There were now about eighty houses plus several stores, not to speak of a market place with a bell to announce the times of the cattle sales.

The growth of the town had prompted Major Warden to employ Andrew Bain to design the street layout and the plots for future homes. And as there were always a number of drunk and disorderly English settlers in the lockup, my closest friend, Charles Stuart, who was also the magistrate, was always assured of a never-ending supply of convicts to clear the vegetation and dig water furrows from the spring in the center of the village.

The thought of the village spring reminded me of the first time I had passed it on my way to the schoolroom to