‘What is it they seek from the king?’ Bazo asked the question for all those who listened, and Kamuza shrugged.
‘This one asks for the right to hunt elephant and take the teeth, this one asks for the young girls to be sent to his wagon, another wants to tell the nation of a strange white god that has three heads, another wishes to dig a hole and look for the yellow iron, yet another wishes to buy cattle. One says he wants only this, and another only that, but they want it all. These people are consumed by a hunger that can never be appeased, they burn with a thirst that can never be assuaged. They want everything they see, and even that is never enough for them. They take the very earth, but that is not enough, so they tear it open like a man tearing a child from the mother’s womb. They take the rivers, and that is not enough, so they build walls across them and turn them into lakes. They ride after the elephant herds and shoot them down, not just one or two, not just the big bulls, but all of them – the breeding cows and the calves with ivory no longer than your finger. Everything they see they take; and they see everything, for they are always moving and searching and looking.’
‘Lobengula must eat them up,’ Bazo said. ‘He must eat them up as Mzilikazi his father would have eaten them.’
‘Hau!’ Kamuza smiled his thin twisted smile. ‘Such wisdom from my brother. He recalls how Mzilikazi ate the white men on the banks of the Gariep, and lost a land. Listen to Bazo, my children. He counsels the King Lobengula to throw the war spear and loose his impis as Cetewayo the King of Zulu did at the Hill of the Little Hand. How many Englishmen did Cetewayo slay? There was no counting, for their red jackets lay one upon the other like the snows of the Dragon Mountains when the sunset turns them to fire, and their blood fed the land so that the grass still grows greener and thicker and sweeter upon the slopes of the Little Hand to this day. Oh a fine killing, my children, a great and beautiful stabbing – and afterwards Cetewayo paid for it with the spear of his kingship. He paid for it with his royal herds, he paid for it with the liver and heart of his young men, with the grassy hills of Zululand. For after the avengers had made the great slaughter at Ulundi they took it all, and they placed chains of iron upon Cetewayo’s wrists and ankles and they chained his indunas and his war captains and led them away. Now Bazo, the wise, would have you know what a good bargain King Cetewayo made, and he urges Lobengula to make the same bargain with these white men.’
Bazo’s expression remained grave and dignified while Kamuza chided and mocked him but he twisted the snuff-horn between his fingers and once he glanced to the dark corner of the thatched hut where the long war shields and the broad assegai were stacked.
But when Kamuza finished, Bazo shook his head. ‘No one here dares counsel the king; we are his dogs only. No one here doubts the might and resolve of the white men, we who live each day with their strange and wonderful ways. All we ask is this: what is the king’s word? Tell us what Lobengula wishes – for to hear is to obey.’
Kamuza nodded. ‘Hear then the king’s voice, for the king has travelled with all his senior indunas – Babiaan and Somabula and Gandang – all the indunas of the house of Kumalo – they have gone into the hills of Matopos to the place of the Umlimo—’
A superstitious tremor shook the group, a little shiver as though the name of the wizard of the Matopos had crawled upon their skins like the sickle-winged tsetse fly.
‘The Umlimo has given the oracle,’ Kamuza told them, and then was silent, the pause theatrical, to pique their attention, to dramatize the effect of his next words.
‘On the first day the Umlimo repeated the ancient prophecy, the words that have come down from the time of Monomatapa. On the first day the Umlimo spoke thus:
“The stone falcons will fly afar. There shall be no peace in the kingdoms of the Mambos or the Monomatapas until they return. For the white eagle will war with the black bull until the stone falcons return to roost.”’
They had all of them heard the prophecy before, but now it had a new and sinister impact.
‘The king has pondered the ancient prophecy, and he says thus: “The white birds are gathering. Eagle and vulture – all of them white, they roost already upon the roof of my kraal.”’
‘What is the meaning of the stone falcons?’ one of his listeners asked.
‘The stone falcons are the bird gods that the ancient ones left at the burial place of the old kings, Zimbabwe.’
‘How will stone birds fly?’
‘One has flown already,’ Bazo answered this time. ‘One of the stone falcons stands close by us now. It stands under the roof of Bakela, the Fist. It was he who took the falcon, and carried it away.’
‘When the other birds fly, then war will sweep over Matabeleland,’ Kamuza affirmed. ‘But listen now to the oracle of the Umlimo.’ And their questions were stilled.
‘On the second day the Umlimo prophesied thus:
“When the midnight sky turns to noon, and the stars shine on the hills – then the fist will hold the blade to the throat of the black bull.”
‘This was the prophecy of the second day.’
Again they were silent as they pondered the words then, mystified, they looked to Kamuza for the meaning of the prophecy.
‘Lobengula, the Black Elephant, alone understands the meaning of the prophecy of the second day. Is he not versed in the mysteries of the wizards? Did he not pass his childhood in the caves and secret places of the wizards? Thus says Lobengula. “This is not yet the time to explain the words of the Umlimo to my children, for they are momentous words indeed, and there will be a time for the nation to understand.”’
Bazo nodded and passed his snuff-horn. Kamuza took it and drew the red powder up into his nostrils with two sharp inhalations of breath and, watching him, Bazo did not dare to voice his own suspicion that perhaps Lobengula, the mighty thunder of the skies, was as mystified by the prophecy of the second day as was the little group around the fire.
‘Was this all the oracle?’ Bazo asked instead, and Kamuza shook his head.
‘On the third day the Umlimo prophesied for the last time:
“Sting the mamba with his own venom, pull down the lion with his own claws, deceive the clever chacma baboon with his own trickery.”
‘This was the prophecy of the third and final day.’
‘Does the king intend that we, his humble cattle, should know the meaning of the prophecy of the third day?’
‘Thus spoke Lobengula: “We the Matabele cannot prevail until we arm ourselves as our adversary is armed, until we gather to ourselves the strength that is found only in the yellow coins and shining stones. For it is these things which have made the white man strong.”’
Nobody interrupted the silence that followed, for they all sensed that there was more to come.
‘Thus the king summoned me to the royal kraal and bid me carry his word to all the Matabele who live beyond the borders of the king’s domains. For thus spoke the king: “Bring me guns to answer the smoke of the white man’s guns. Bring me diamonds and bring me the yellow coins that I may grow as strong as the white Queen who lives beyond the sea. For then her soldiers will not dare to come against me.”’
Bazo replied for them all. ‘Let Lobengula know that what he requires of us he shall have. Guns he shall have, for it is part of our contract with the white man. Each of us will carry a gun when we return to Matabeleland, some of us who have worked out two Isitupa will carry two guns when we return. Some of us will bring three guns.’
‘That is known,’ Kamuza nodded.
‘Lobengula will have gold coins, for we are paid in coin, and what we bring home to Thabas Indunas belongs to the king.’
‘That is right and proper.’
‘But diamonds?’ Bazo asked. ‘The diamonds belong to the white man. They are fierce for them as a lioness is fierce for her cubs. How are we to bring diamonds to the king?’
‘Listen to me,’ whispered Kamuza. ‘There will be no more “pick-ups”. When one of you turns up the shine
of a diamond in the yellow gravel, then that diamond belongs to Lobengula.’
‘It is against the law.’
‘Against the white man’s law only, not against the law of Lobengula, who is your king.’
‘To hear is to obey,’ Bazo grunted, but he thought of Bakela, the Fist, who was his father, and Henshaw, the Hawk, who was his brother, and he did not relish stealing the stones for which they laboured as hard as Bazo did himself.
‘Not only in the pit,’ Kamuza went on. ‘Each of you will watch for the chance on the sorting-tables, you, Dorisela—’ He picked out a Matabele across the fire from him, a young man with a deep intelligent brow and strong jaw. ‘You have been chosen to work in the new grease house.’
‘The tables are guarded,’ Dorisela replied. ‘They are covered with a steel screen.’
They had all of them heard Dorisela speak of the marvel of the new grease house.
Once again the ingenuity of the white men had put the diamond’s unique qualities to his own advantage. The diamond was unwetable, shedding moisture like the body-feathers of a goose. So while wet gravel would roll across a steel table smeared with thick yellow grease, the dry diamond would stick fast.
The pipeline from the Vaal river had at last reached Kimberley, and this water supply was augmented by the subterranean water pumped up from the depths of the vast excavation. There was water enough now to wash the gravel, instead of laboriously dry-sorting it, water enough to wash the sieved gravel over the slanting grease tables. The diamonds stuck like fat little blisters, half embedded in the grease, ready to be scraped off with a steel spatula at the end of each shift.
‘There is a steel screen over the tables,’ Donsela repeated, and Kamuza smiled and passed him a thin reed, cut from the riverbank. On the tip of the reed was a little lump of beeswax.
‘The reed will pass through the mesh of the screen,’ Kamuza told him. ‘The diamond will stick more firmly to the wax than to the grease.’
Donsela examined the reed cautiously. ‘Last week a Basuto was found with a stone. That same day he fell from the skip as they were bringing him out of the pit. Men who steal stones have accidents. Those accidents always kill them.’
‘A warrior’s duty is to die for his king,’ Kamuza told him drily. ‘Do not let the overseer catch you, and pick out only the biggest and brightest stones.’
In the three years between Kamuza’s departure from Kimberley and his abrupt return, Ralph had reached his full growth. Only months short of his twenty-first birthday, he stood as tall as Zouga; but unlike his father, he was clean-shaven except for the thick dark moustache which he allowed to curl down at the corners of his mouth.
At rare intervals he was still able to gather together the ten gold sovereigns necessary to keep his surreptitious friendship with Diamond Lil alive. Then suddenly that was no longer relevant, for Ralph fell in love.
It happened in the street outside that exclusive institution, already the most famous in Africa south of the equator, membership of which conferred enormous prestige and a semi-mystical entrée to the elite band of men who wielded the growing wealth and burgeoning power of the diamond fields.
Yet the Kimberley Club was merely a single-storeyed wood-and-iron building as drab as any on the diggings. True it boasted a billiard room with a frill-sized table, a picket fence of ornate cast iron and a stained-glass front door – but it was situated in the noisiest street just off Market Square, and it enjoyed its fair share of the flies and the all-pervading red dust.
It was mid-morning and Ralph was bringing one of the gravel carts back from the blacksmith who had replaced the iron tyres on the wooden-spoked wheels.
There was a stir in the street ahead of him. He saw men run from the canteens and kopje-wallopers’ offices, most of them bareheaded and in shirtsleeves.
A vehicle came bowling out of the Square – an extraordinary vehicle, light and fast, with high narrow wheels, so cunningly sprung that it seemed to float behind the pair that drew it. They were matched, a strange pale brazen colour, softer than the colour of honey, and their manes were white blond.
Both horses were martingaled to force them to arch their necks, and the long combed platinum manes flew like the battle colours of a famous regiment.
The driver, either by chance, but more probably by skill, had them leading with their off fores in perfect unison, and their gait was an exaggerated trot in which they threw their forehooves so high that they seemed almost to touch the shining heads as they nodded to the rhythm of their run.
Ralph was stabbed by such a pang of envy that it was a physical pain. He had never seen anything so beautiful as those pale glistening animals and the vehicle that they drew – until he raised his eyes to the driver.
She wore a tricorn hat of midnight blue, set at a jaunty angle over one eyebrow. Her eyebrows were jet black, narrow and exquisitely arched over huge drop-shaped eyes.
As she came up to the plodding gravel cart she barely lifted the gloved hand that held the reins, and the plunging pair of pale horses swerved neatly and the elegant vehicle flashed past so close that, had he dared, Ralph might have reached up and touched one of those slim ankles in its high-buttoned patent leather boot which just showed under the tailored skirt of moiré taffeta.
Then she dropped her hand again, and the matched pair swung the carriage in neatly before the wrought-iron gate of the Kimberley Club and stopped, shaking out their manes fretfully and stamping their forefeet.
‘Bazo, take them,’ Ralph called urgently. ‘Go on to the stagings. I’ll follow you.’
Then he darted across the street and reached up to seize the head of the nearest thoroughbred.
He was only just in time, for half a dozen other loiterers had raced him to it. Ralph removed his cap and looked up at the woman on the buttoned leather seat of the carriage. She glanced down at him and fleetingly smiled her thanks, and Ralph saw that her eyes were the same midnight blue as the hat on her head. Those eyes touched him for only an instant and then went back to the stained-glass front door of the club, but Ralph felt a physical shock from her gaze like a blow in the chest, so that he could not catch his breath.
Ralph was aware of voices, men’s voices, from the direction of the club, but he could not tear his eyes from that lovely face. He was absorbing each fine detail, the braid of her hair, the colour of freshly-washed coal, thick as the tail of a lioness, which dropped from under the hat over her shoulder and hung to her waist. The fine peppering of dark freckles high on her cheekbones seemed to emphasize the purity of the rest of her skin. Her small pointed ears were set at an alert listening angle which gave a peculiar vivacity to her face. The dark V of the widow’s peak below the brim of her hat pointed up the depth of forehead. Her nose was narrow and straight with elegantly flared nostrils that gave her expression an hauteur that was instantly belied when she smiled, as she was smiling now, but not at Ralph.
She was smiling at the group of men who came out onto the porch of the club, chatting animatedly as they adjusted their hats.
‘A splendid lunch, sir.’ The only stranger to Ralph in the group thanked his host and then led them down the short walk to the street.
He was a tall, well-proportioned man. His dress was sober. The cut was not English but he wore it with a dash that made the dark colours appear flamboyant.
He wore a dark patch over one eye, and it gave him a piratical air. His beard was trimmed to a point, and touched with silver.
‘He is at least forty years old,’ Ralph thought, bitterly, as he realized that the woman was smiling directly at this man.
At his right hand was a small neat figure, a man with an unremarkable face and thin receding hair, a small moustache of indeterminate colour – but eyes so intelligent and humorous that they altered the man’s appearance – made it striking and interesting.
‘Ah, Ralph,’ this man murmured, as he noticed the young man standing at the horse’s head; but Ralph could not meet his eyes.
Doctor
Leander Starr Jameson was an intimate friend of his father’s, and privy to Ralph’s shame and disgrace. It was he who had administered the mercury tablets, and washed them down with a stern admonition to avoid in future the snares of harlotry. For a moment Ralph wondered if the doctor would impart his vile secret to the lovely lady on the seat of the carriage – and the thought burned his soul like hoar frost.
On the bearded man’s other hand was Mr Rhodes, big and serious, his dress untidy, the knot of his tie slipping and his breeches baggy, but with that sense of determination and certainty about him that always awed Ralph.
Behind them all followed the stooped scholarly figure of Alfred Beit, like Mr Rhodes’ shadow.
The four men paused in a group beside the carriage, and the tall stranger reached up and took the woman’s hand.
He touched her fingers to his lips.
‘Gentlemen, may I present my wife, Mrs St John.’ The big man’s accent was unmistakable, even Ralph recognized the soft drawl that emanated from the Southern States of America.
However, it was the title the man used and not the accent which struck like a fiery dart into Ralph’s breast.
‘ – Mrs St John, my wife – Mrs St John.’
While Ralph stood rigid at the horse’s head, destroyed by his adoration which he now knew was hopeless, the group ignored him and the men made their bows.
‘Louise, my dear, this is Mr Rhodes of whom you have heard so much—’
The formal phrases might have been spoken in a foreign language as far as Ralph was affected by them. Her name was Louise, and she was married. That is all that he understood.
General St John climbed up beside his wife. He moved lithely for such a big man, and one so old, Ralph conceded reluctantly, and hated him anew for that. St John took the reins from Louise’s gloved hand, lifted his hat to the three men and started the horses. Ralph had to jump back to avoid being knocked down, and Louise was talking animatedly to the General. Neither of them glanced at Ralph again, and the carriage whirled away, down the street.