Men of Men

  At that moment Jordan thought his own heart might break and, seeing his expression, Rhodes lifted his hand and touched his cheek.

  ‘It’s all too short, Jordan, life and glory – even love – it’s all too short.’ He turned back to his horse. ‘Come, there is work to do.’

  As they rode out of the forest, the course of that mercurial mind had changed again. Death had been pushed aside and he said suddenly:

  ‘We shall have to square him, Jordan. I know he is your father – but we shall have to square him. Think about it and let me have your thoughts, but remember time is running short and we cannot move without him.’

  The road over the neck between the main massif of Table Mountain and Signal Hill was well travelled and Jordan passed twenty coaches or more before he reached the top, but it was another two hours’ ride beyond that and the road became steadily less populous, until at last it was a lonely deserted track which led into one of the ravines in the mountainside.

  In this winter season the protea bushes on the slopes beyond the sprawling thatched building were drab and their blooms had withered and browned on the branches. The waterfall that smoked down off the mountain polished the rocks black and cold, and the spray dripped from the clustering trees about the pool.

  However, the cottage had a neat cared-for look. The thatch had recently been renewed. It was still bright gold, and the thick walls had been whitewashed. With relief Jordan saw smoke curling from the chimney stack. His father was at home.

  He knew that the property had once belonged to the old hunter and explorer Tom Harkness, and that his father had purchased it with £150 of his royalties from A Hunter’s Odyssey. A sentimental gesture perhaps – for old Tom had been the one who had encouraged and counselled Zouga Ballantyne on his first expedition to Zambezia.

  Jordan dismounted and hitched the big glossy hunter from the stables of Groote Schuur to the rail below the verandah, and he walked to the front steps.

  He glanced at the pillar of blue marbled stone that stood at the head of the steps like a sentinel, and a little shadow flitted over his face as he remembered the fateful day that Ralph had hacked it out of the Devil’s Own claims and brought it to the surface.

  It was the only thing that remained to any of them from all those years of labour and travail. He wondered not only that his father had transported it so far with so much effort, but that he had placed it so prominently to rebuke him.

  For a moment he laid his hand upon the stone, and he felt the faint satiny bloom that other hands had made on the same spot on the surface, like the marks of worshippers’ hands on a holy relic. Perhaps Zouga also touched it every time he passed. Jordan dropped his hand and called towards the shuttered cottage.

  ‘Is anybody there?’

  There was a commotion in the front room, and the front door burst open.

  ‘Jordan, my Jordie!’ howled Jan Cheroot, and came bounding down the steps. His cap of peppercorn hair was pure white at last, but his eyes were bright and the web of wrinkles around them had not deepened.

  He embraced Jordan with the wiry strength of brown arms; but even from the advantage of the verandah step he did not reach to Jordan’s chin.

  ‘So tall, Jordie,’ he chuckled. ‘Whoever thought you’d grow so tall, my little Jordie.’

  He hopped back and stared up into Jordan’s face. ‘Look at you, I bet a guinea to a baboon turd that you’ve broken a few hearts already.’

  ‘Not as many as you have.’ Jordan pulled him close again, and hugged him.

  ‘I had a start,’ Jan Cheroot admitted, and then grinned wickedly. ‘And I’ve still got the wind left for a sprint or two.’

  ‘I was afraid that you and Papa might still be away.’

  ‘We got home three days ago.’

  ‘Where is Papa?’

  ‘Jordan!’

  The familiar, beloved voice made him start and he broke from Jan Cheroot’s embrace and looked beyond him to Zouga Ballantyne standing in the doorway of the cottage.

  He had never seen his father looking so well. It was not merely that he was lean and hard and sun-browned. He seemed to stand taller and straighter with an easy set to his shoulders, so different from the defeated slump with which he had left the diamond fields.

  ‘Jordan!’ he said again, and they came together and shook hands, and Jordan studied his father’s face at closer range.

  The pride and the purpose that had been burnt away in the diamond pit had returned, but with their quality subtly changed. Now he had the look of a man who had worked out the terms on which he was prepared to live. There were the shadows of a new thoughtfulness in his green eyes, the weight of understanding and compassion in his gaze. Here was a man who had tested himself almost to the point of destruction, had explored the frontiers of his soul and found them secure.

  ‘Jordan,’ he said again quietly for the third time, and then he did something that demonstrated the profound change he had undergone. He leaned forward and briefly he pressed the soft golden curls of his beard to Jordan’s cheek.

  ‘I have thought of you often,’ he said without embarrassment. ‘Thank you for coming.’ Then with his arm about his shoulders he ushered Jordan into the front room.

  This room always pleased Jordan, and he moved across to the log fire in the walk-in hearth and held out his hands to the blaze while he looked about him. It was a man’s room – shelves filled with men’s books, encyclopaedias and almanacs and thick leatherbound volumes of travel and exploration.

  Weapons hung upon the walls, bows and quivers of poisoned Bushman arrows, shields and assegais of Matabele and Zulu, and, of course, the tools of the trade to which Zouga had reverted, firearms, heavy calibre sporting rifles by famous gunsmiths, Gibbs, Holland and Holland, Westley Richards. They were racked on the wall facing the fireplace, blued steel and lovingly carved wood.

  With them were the souvenirs and trophies of Zouga’s work, horns of antelope and buffalo, twisting or curved or straight as a lance, the zig-zag stripes of a zebra hide, the tawny gold bushed mane of the Kalahari lion, and ivory, great yellow arcs reaching higher than a man’s head, yellow as fresh butter and translucent as candlewax in the cold winter light from the doorway.

  ‘You had a good trip?’ Jordan asked, and Zouga shrugged.

  ‘It gets more difficult each season to find good specimens for my clients.’

  His clients were rich and aristocratic sportsmen, come out to Africa for the chase.

  ‘But at least the Americans seem to have discovered Africa at last. I have a good party booked for next season – young fellow called Roosevelt, Secretary of the Navy.’ He broke off. ‘Yes, we are managing to keep body and soul together, old Jan Cheroot and I – but I don’t have to ask about you.’

  He glanced down at the expensive English cloth of Jordan’s suit, the soft leather of his riding boots which creased perfectly around his ankles like the bellows of a concertina, the solid silver spurs and the gold watch chain in his fob pocket – and then his eye paused on the white sparkle of the diamond in his cravat.

  ‘You made the right choice when you decided to go with Rhodes. My God, how that man’s star rises higher and brighter with each passing day.’

  ‘He is a great man, Papa.’

  ‘Or a great rogue.’ Then Zouga smiled apologetically. ‘I am sorry, I know how highly you think of him. Let’s have a glass of sherry, Jordie, while Jan Cheroot makes lunch for us.’ He smiled again. ‘We miss your cooking. You will find it poor fare, I’m afraid.’

  While he poured sweet Cape sherry into long glasses, he asked over his shoulder:

  ‘And Ralph, what do you hear of Ralph?’

  ‘We meet often in Kimberley or at the railhead. He always asks after you.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He will be a big man, Papa. Already his wagons run to Pilgrims’ Rest and those new goldfields on the Witwatersrand. He has just won the fast coach contract from Algoa Bay. He has trading posts at Tati and on the Shash
i river.’

  They ate in front of the fire, sour bread and cheese, a cold joint of mutton and a black bottle of Constantia wine, and Jan Cheroot hovered over Jordan, scolding him fondly for his appetite and recharging his glass when it was barely a quarter empty.

  At last they finished and stretched out their legs towards the fire, while Jan Cheroot brought a burning taper to light the cigars which Jordan produced from a gold pocket case.

  Jordan spoke through the perfumed wreaths of smoke.

  ‘Papa, the concession—’ And for the first time an angry arrowhead creased the skin between Zouga’s eyes.

  ‘I had hoped that you came to see us,’ he said coldly. ‘I keep forgetting that you are Rhodes’ man, ahead of being my son.’

  ‘I am both,’ Jordan contradicted him evenly. ‘That’s why I can talk to you like this.’

  ‘What message has the famous Mr Rhodes for me this time?’ Zouga demanded.

  ‘Maund and Selous have both accepted his offers. They have sold their concessions to Mr Rhodes, and both are ten thousand pounds richer.’

  Maund was a soldier and an adventurer. Fred Selous, like Zouga, a hunter and explorer. Also, like Zouga, Selous had written a well-received book on the African chase, A Hunter’s Wanderings in Africa. Both of these men had at different times prevailed on Lobengula to grant them concessions to ivory and minerals in his eastern dominions.

  ‘Mr Rhodes wants me to point out to you that both the Maund and Selous concessions are over the same territory as the concession that Mzilikazi granted to you. He owns both of them now – the validity of all the treaties is hopelessly confused and hazy.’

  ‘The Ballantyne concession was granted first – by Mzilikazi; the ones that followed have no force,’ snapped Zouga.

  ‘Mr Rhodes’ lawyers have advised—’

  ‘Damn Mr Rhodes and his lawyers. Damn them all to hell.’

  Jordan dropped his eyes and was silent, and after a long pause Zouga sighed and stood up. He went to the yellow-wood cupboard and took out a stained and dog-eared document, so ragged that it had been pasted onto a backing to prevent it falling to pieces.

  The ink had faded to brown, but the script was bold and spiky, the hand of an arrogant and cocksure young man.

  The document was headed:

  EXCLUSIVE CONCESSION TO MINE GOLD

  AND HUNT IVORY

  IN THE

  SOVEREIGN TERRITORY OF MATABELELAND

  And at its foot was a crude wax seal with the image of a bull elephant, and the words:

  NKOSI NKHULU – GREAT KING

  Below it a shaky cross in the same faded ink:

  MZILIKAZI – his mark

  Zouga laid the document on the table between them, and they both stared at it.

  ‘All right,’ Zouga capitulated. ‘What do Mr Rhodes’ lawyers advise?’

  ‘That this concession could be set aside on five separate points of law.’

  ‘I would fight him.’

  ‘Papa. He is a determined man. His influence is enormous. He will be Prime Minister of the Cape Parliament at the next session, there is little doubt of that.’ Jordan touched the red wax seal. ‘His fortune is vast, perhaps ten million pounds—’

  ‘Still I will fight him,’ Zouga said, and then stopped Jordan speaking with a hand on his arm. ‘Jordan, don’t you understand. A man must have something, a dream, a light to follow in the darkness. I can never sell this, it has been all of my life for too long. Without it I shall have nothing.’

  ‘Papa—’

  ‘I know what you will say, that I can never make this into reality. I do not have the money it would need. You might even say that I no longer even have the strength of purpose. But, Jordan, while I have this piece of paper I can still hope, I still have my dream to follow. I can never sell it.’

  ‘I told him that, and he understood immediately. He wants you to be a part of it.’

  Zouga lifted his head and stared at his son.

  ‘A seat on the Board of Governors of the company for which Mr Rhodes will petition a Royal Charter from Her Majesty. Then you will have grants of farm land, gold claims, and an active command in the field. Don’t you see, Papa, he is not taking your dream away from you, he is making it come true at last.’

  The silence drew out, a log crumbled and crashed softly in the hearth; sparks shot up and the flare lit Zouga’s face.

  ‘When will he see me?’ he asked.

  ‘We can be at Groote Schuur in four hours’ ride.’

  ‘It will be dark by then.’

  ‘There are fifteen bedrooms for you to choose from,’ Jordan smiled, and Zouga laughed like a man who has been given back all the excitement and eagerness of youth.

  ‘Then why are we sitting here?’ he asked. ‘Jan Cheroot, bring my heavy coat.’

  Zouga strode out onto the verandah of the cottage, and on the top step he checked and reached out with his right hand to the pillar of blue stone. He touched it with a strangely formal caress, and with the same hand touched his own lips and forehead, the gesture with which an Arab greets an old friend.

  Then Zouga glanced at Jordan, and smiled.

  ‘Superstition,’ he explained. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Good luck?’ Jan Cheroot snorted from below the steps where he held Zouga’s horse. ‘Damn stone – all the way from Kimberley, trip over the thundering rubbish.’ He went on muttering to himself as Zouga mounted.

  ‘Jan Cheroot would pine away if he didn’t have something to complain about.’ Zouga winked at Jordan, and they trotted out from under the milkwood trees onto the track.

  ‘I often think back to that day when we hit the blue,’ Jordan said. ‘If we had only known!’

  ‘How could we know?’

  ‘It was I – I feel sure of that. It was I who convinced you that the blue ground was barren.’

  ‘Jordan, you were only a boy.’

  ‘But I was supposed to be the diviner of diamonds. If I had not been so certain that it was dead ground, you would never have sold the Devil’s Own.’

  ‘I never sold it. I gambled it away.’

  ‘Only because you thought it was worthless. You would never have accepted Mr Rhodes’ bet if you had known that the blue was not the end – but only the beginning.’

  ‘Nobody knew that, not then.’

  ‘Mr Rhodes sensed it. He never lost faith. He knew what the blue was. He knew it with a certain instinct that nobody else had.’

  ‘I have never been back to Kimberley, Jordie.’ Zouga settled down in the saddle, riding with long stirrups like a Boer hunter. ‘I never wanted to go back, but of course the news filters down the line of rail. I heard that when Rhodes and Barnato made their deal, they valued the Devil’s Own claims at half a million pounds.’

  ‘They were the keys to the field,’ Jordie explained. ‘It just happened that they were the central claims in the main enrichment. But you could never have guessed that, Papa.’

  ‘Strange how right one man’s instincts can be,’ Zouga brooded. ‘And how wrong another man’s. I always knew, or thought I knew, that my road to the north began in that hole, that terrible hole.’

  ‘Perhaps it still does. The money to take us all to the north will still come from it. Mr Rhodes’ millions.’

  ‘Tell me about the blue. You have been with Rhodes through it all. Tell me about it.’

  ‘It changes,’ Jordan said. ‘It’s as simple as that, it alters.’

  Zouga shook his head. ‘It’s like some sort of miracle.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jordan nodded. ‘Diamonds are nature’s beautiful miracles. I’ll never forget my own astonishment when Mr Rhodes showed it to me. That hard blue rock is unyielding as any granite when it comes out of the earth, and yet after it has been laid out in the stacking fields for a year or two it starts to crumble. It’s the sunlight, we think, that does it. It crumbles up like a loaf of stale bread – and the diamonds, oh Papa, the diamonds. Incredible stones, eleven thousand carats of diamonds each day. The b
lue is the mother lode, the blue is the heart.’ He broke off in embarrassment. ‘Sometimes I run away with myself,’ he confessed, and Zouga smiled with him. Who could resist this beautiful young man, that was the word to describe him – not handsome, not good-looking, but beautiful, with a quality of gentleness and goodness that seemed to form an aura about him.

  ‘Papa.’ Jordan sobered. ‘Oh Papa, you will never know how happy I am that you are to be part of it, after all. You and Mr Rhodes.’

  ‘Mr Rhodes,’ Zouga thought indulgently. ‘Always Mr Rhodes. And yet it’s a good thing for a young man to have a hero. Pity this poor world of ours when the last hero passes.’

  Can you judge a man by his books? Zouga wondered.

  The library was choked with them. One complete wall packed to the ceiling with the sources and references which Gibbon had consulted for his Decline and Fall. So impressed had Rhodes been with this work that he had ordered Hatchards of London to collect and, if necessary, translate and bind the complete authorities. Jordan said it had cost him £8,000 thus far, and was not yet complete.

  Ranked beside this formidable array were all the published lives of Alexander, of Julius Caesar and of Napoleon. What dreams of empire they must sustain. Zouga smiled inwardly as he listened to the high hypnotic voice of the burly figure with the flushed swollen face as he sat behind the vast desk into whose panels were chiselled the stylized figures of the bird, the falcon of Zimbabwe.

  ‘You are an Englishman, Ballantyne, a man of honour and dedication; these things have always attracted me to you.’ He was irresistible, able to conjure up a gamut of emotions with a few words, and Zouga smiled at himself again. He was in danger of the same hero worship as his own son.

  ‘I want you even more than this concession of yours. You understand, you know what it is we seek, not merely wealth and personal aggrandizement. No, no, it is something beyond that, something sacred.’

  Then he came to it abruptly, without flourish.