Rough Diamond, page 6
Barney was staring at him over Fay’s bent head. “What!”
“You wanted Kimberley; you wanted the diamonds,” Andries said quietly, dryly. He looked up at the sun. “And we’d best be going. Your Kimberley is less than two days away.”
Barney looked at the head on his shoulder, reveling in the warm smell of Fay’s hair. The head was bent, making him realize again how short he was, that Fay was as tall as he was, actually a little taller. He suddenly wanted to turn the head around, to kiss those full lips, to somehow stop her trembling. He tightened his hold on her, but instead of responding Fay suddenly pulled away. She walked a bit unsteadily to her wagon and climbed in without looking back. The flaps fluttered at her passage and then closed. Barney turned. Andries was watching him.
“Let’s go,” Barney said expressionlessly, and cracked the sjambok.
They forded the shallow river without Barney looking back once. He hoped Fay was watching them, thinking of him, but he was fairly sure she was not. Why should she? Her reaching for him had been an automatic gesture, caused by the horrible and unexplainable cruelty they had witnessed, and by the sudden death of her mother. She would have turned to whoever had been standing beside her at the moment.
But despite that all-too-true fact, Barney knew he was in love. Oh, he knew he had no money and even if he had all the money in the world he could never hope to ever have anyone as lovely as Fay for his own. But he could be her friend, protect her from harm, and when she finally fell in love with a handsome man, he, Barney Isaacs would see that she got the man she had fallen in love with, no matter what sacrifices he had to make to see it done.
The thought almost brought tears to his eyes. But as dramatically romantic as he knew it to be, he also knew that now he had someone to work for, to be successful for, even though he himself would never be the one to benefit from his great love.
And Barney also was sure that despite the hardship of the desolate land, despite the violence he had just seen and which he was sure would not be the last violence he would see in that violent land, he had no fear of the future. Barney Isaacs had found his permanent home, he knew—Africa. He cracked the sjambok over the ears of the oxen, proud that he could come as close as Andries without touching a hair of their hides. And make as good a fire as the next one from ox dung… He smiled at the thought.
3
November 1872
Cecil John Rhodes was having a nightmare. It was a recurrent bad dream and had the disadvantage of having been based on a true and horrible experience, and therefore it was most difficult to exorcise. The dream came every month or so, and left him disturbed for several days afterward. He had often tried to determine what particular activity or thought triggered the dream, but he had never been able to do so. Something he ate? He didn’t think so; food had little importance for young Cecil Rhodes, and he often ate the same thing day after day, except that some days the dream came and some days it did not.
He could not recall exactly when he had begun having this dream; it had simply occurred as he tossed and turned on his lumpy cot in the heat of a Kimberley night, heat stored during the day by the corrugated iron that made up the walls and roof of the small one-room shack he shared with a friend, Charles Rudd. In his dream he was not in Kimberley; he was still in his brother Frank’s farmhouse outside of Durban, where he had been sent several years before to recover his health from the deterioration it had suffered from the damp English winters.
At the time of the events that kept occurring in Cecil Rhodes’ nightmare, Frank Rhodes had been gone for several months. Tired of cotton farming, he had gone off to the diamond fields on the De Beer brothers’ Vooruitzigt farm, leaving the problem of cotton picking in the hands of his younger brother. He also left behind to handle the in-house chores the housekeeper, a young Matabele woman named Matili Lobolo. Cecil Rhodes knew, or strongly suspected, that Matili was—or at least had been during his brother’s presence—Frank’s mistress. It was a most disturbing thought. Matili, young, earthy, her full lips always wet, her large breasts never bound, exuding sexuality, had moved from being one of the numerous field hands to becoming housekeeper in a remarkably short time, and as housekeeper had been given the room adjoining Frank’s. The thought of his handsome older brother rutting with a woman, any woman, black or white, was disgusting, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was something he preferred not to even think about.
But Matili Lobolo thought about it constantly. In the warm nights, lying alone in her bed with the knowledge that the master’s bed in the next room was empty and had been for some time, she would pass her hands over her full breasts and pinch the nipples lightly, and then slide her hand along her thick thighs and, making a fist, press it tightly between her legs, rubbing, squirming with desire. To go to one of the Kaffirs in the field houses was unthinkable; after having bedded down the master, to return to the hot wrestling that took place in the dirty, smelly shacks beyond the outhouses would have been demeaning, as well as unsatisfactory. Besides, word would have been about the farm in no time, and Matili preferred not to even think about the consequences of such rumors reaching the master when he returned.
If he returned. The master was a restless person by nature, and he had been gone a long time, a very long time. The cotton was in and he still hadn’t come back. Maybe he was selling the farm; he had never been happy growing cotton. If so, there would be a new owner, a new master, maybe another Englishman come to South Africa without his woman, as the master had done. But in the meantime—
There was, of course, the master’s younger brother, but he did not look the type. Odd, that one. Never looked at her twice; never looked at any of the other girls who worked in the main house during the day. Never tried to accidentally rub against her body in the narrow passages of the house, or let his hand touch her as if by chance on those places she liked so much to be touched. But that, of course, could just be shyness. Probably never had a girl in his life and was afraid he’d die of fright the first time, or, more likely, make a fool of himself. Nobody died of fright the first time, Matili thought, or the thousandth time, either. The idea made Matili giggle. Oh, he’d undoubtedly be nervous the first time, but they all got over that in a hurry! The thought of the tall, gangling, inexperienced boy under her expert tutelage made her more excited than ever. What was the worst that could happen? He’d spill his seed before she was ready, but that would only be the first time. Then he’d settle down; they always did. And they had the house to themselves. One thing was fairly certain: he’d never tell the master. The first time one had a chance to enjoy kunne he didn’t go around jeopardizing the possibility of getting more of it.
Her mind made up and excited by the thought, Matili threw aside the thin sheet and came to her feet. A simple motion and her shift was on the floor, and then she was walking softly, silently, from the room, naked and tingling slightly from the touch of the night wind on her damp body, and from the anticipation of the lovemaking to come.
The younger master’s room was on the top floor, and she crept up the stairs, one hand brushing the wall, surprised at her own temerity but driven by a force that would not be denied. She tiptoed along the darkened hall and then smiled slightly to find the boy’s door a bit ajar, almost as if he had had the same thought in mind and had practically invited her to join him. She slipped into the room. The moonlight from the high dormer showed the boy sprawled in sleep, the sheet tucked between his naked legs. Matili grinned. She softly tugged the folded sheet loose; the motion brought a response from the sleeping boy. He rolled slightly, ending on his back, his legs apart, his head turned into the pillow, breathing a bit heavily through his mouth. Matili studied the naked body, mentally castigating herself for having waited so many weeks since the master had left. This one was as well endowed as the master, if not better.
She touched herself again in anticipation of the pleasure to come, and slid onto the bed, bending over the sleeping boy, allowing her turgid nipples to brush lightly against his body, starting at his chest and lowering herself slowly until her full breasts cushioned themselves between his legs. She raised herself, stretching out, replacing her breasts with her fingers, cuddling the boy, kneading him sensually, slowly, her breasts now pressed against his side, her lips nuzzling the boy’s neck, pleased with the unconscious response her active fingers were invoking.
The sleeping boy rolled to his side, slowly wakening, becoming aware of the unexpected presence in his bed. Matili grinned, and now that the boy was awake, wasted no more time. Her hand clutched him tightly; she rolled closer to him, one leg thrown over him, bringing him to her, her breasts now pressed tightly against him.
Cecil John Rhodes came fully awake, aware of what was happening. A woman was in his bed, touching him, holding him, trying to couple with him! With a terrified shriek he flung himself backward, pushing the woman away with all his force, and then the girl found herself being struck at, pummeled, the boy’s fists pounding at her in sheer panic, even as he tried to push himself farther away. The shriek had been replaced by a constant hysterical whimper, like an animal in pain, and then the boy had pushed himself over the far side of the bed, forcing it from the wall, and was pounding down the steps, fleeing the horror of the experience.
In the morning at first light, Cecil John Rhodes had packed his bags and had left; gone to join his brother, he told the field hand he had wakened to take him in the Scotch cart to Durban and the coach station. He wondered how long it would be before word of the terrible night would be common knowledge among the field hands and the house servants, spread by Matili. He should have sent her packing even before he left himself, but he knew he could never have faced the girl. However, it made no difference. He knew he would never return to Durban or the farm again.
But the dream returned every now and then, in all its terror, all its horror, the nauseating feel of the woman’s hands on him, defiling him, her body touching his, trying to force him inside her, her sickening lips on his neck, kissing, sucking …
“Cecil, for God’s sake!”
Rhodes sat up with a start, his eyes wild. He was sweating profusely, the covers of the narrow cot flung about it in total disarray, the battered Gladstone bag he used for a bolster for his thin pillow was on the floor behind the bed, thrown there in his frenzy. His brother frowned at him.
“That dream again? What is it, for God’s sake? What on earth happened in Durban?”
“Nothing.”
“Get it off your mind and the dream will probably go away. What was it?”
“Nothing, I said!”
Rhodes swung his long legs to the floor and sat with his head in his hands, waiting until the first strong edge of panic had subsided. At least the time between the dreams was increasing; perhaps eventually the dream would disappear altogether. At last he took a deep breath and looked up, changing the subject.
“When are you leaving?”
Frank Rhodes consulted a heavy pocket watch. “There’s plenty of time. I’m taking the Durban coach at noon.”
“When will you be back?”
Frank shrugged. He was a tall, handsome man dressed quite nattily, with a thin mustache he was sure the ladies all admired. His hair was neatly trimmed and was just the slightest bit longer than the mode. “I don’t know how long it will take to sell the farm; it’s been a year since you left in such a hurry, and at least ten months since I had to go back and try to organize things. God knows what it’s like now, or if any of the field hands are still there. I left sufficient funds with the overseer, but he’s probably skipped as well. If you had only waited at least until the new crop had been planted—”
“When will you be back?”
Frank shrugged again. “I said, I don’t know how long it will take to sell what’s left of the farm. And after that”—he smiled faintly—“I may not be back at all. This mucking about in the ground for a few pretty stones—it really isn’t my style, you know.”
“It pays the bills, and very nicely,” Cecil Rhodes said dryly. The dream was fading fast. “If you don’t come back, where will you go?”
“Ah, that’s a question! Up-country, probably. Bechuanaland, possibly, maybe further.” He smiled a bit maliciously at his younger brother. “Aren’t you the one who’s always lecturing about how England must control all of central Africa? All of Africa, as a matter of fact. Really, all of the world, if I recall some of your more fervent preachings. Why did you have to study with Ruskin?”
Cecil disregarded the rhetorical question. “So in that case, why would you be going to Bechuanaland? Or possibly even further?”
“Well,” Frank said airily, “people have to get up there to see what’s worth controlling and what is not particularly worth controlling, don’t you agree?”
“I agree, except you don’t control a country by going there in dilettante fashion and twirling a cane. Or a mustache, either,” Cecil said quietly. “You control a country with money, and diamonds are money.”
“My! How very adult we’ve become since we discovered a few diamonds. On claims I happened to establish, I might mention in passing. So you keep digging up the pretty stones, brother,” Frank said evenly, “remembering, of course, to save a little of the profits for me.” He thought of something. “You’re taking your roommate, Charley Rudd, in as a partner, are you?”
Cecil Rhodes looked at his brother calmly, coldly. “I was thinking of offering him your share,” he said. “With you gone—and maybe not coming back—I’ll be paying the claim rent, and at least Charley and I will be doing some work for our money.”
Frank Rhodes studied his younger brother through eyes that were no longer amused. “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?” he said quietly. “I do believe our father may well have sired a monster. And to think I helped nurture it!” He sighed and returned to his lighthearted manner again. “Well, there’s nothing in writing, of course, and I suppose these things happen in the best of families. Particularly in the best of families, in fact. So in that case I might as well donate the claims to you; I’d prefer that to having you steal them from me.” He bent down, picking up his bag. “Goodbye. Shall I give anyone back at the farm in Durban your particular regards?”
Cecil Rhodes felt a chill go through him, a trembling he fought to control. His face paled and involuntarily his jaw tightened. Frank pretended not to notice. He touched the brim of his derby with his finger.
“No? In that case I’ll simply say good-bye.”
He winked and walked from the shack, his bag swinging easily at his side. His place was taken a few moments later by Charles Rudd. Rudd was a sandy-haired, stocky man in his mid-twenties, with a bushy blond mustache, dressed in typical digger’s garb, with corduroy trousers, mud-stained and wrinkled, a shirt topped by a bandanna around his neck to keep out the ever-present dust, and high boots for the thick mud of the claims. He glanced over his shoulder as he entered.
“So Frank’s on his way, eh?”
“Yes,” Rhodes said shortly. He was drawing on his trousers, the same kind of digger’s trousers Charley Rudd was wearing, a sharp contrast to his brother’s stylishness.
“You ready to go to work?” There was a twinkle in Rudd’s blue eyes.
Rhodes frowned at the man. He reached for his hat. “Of course. Why?”
“I don’t mean at the claims,” Rudd said, grinning. “I took a ride out south to pick up some food from a farmer out there—half the price of the provisioners in town—and Andries and his wagon are only a mile or so out of town. He’ll be at Dutoitspan by the time we get there, probably. Our pump has finally arrived!”
To Barney, tramping alongside the wagon and thinking of Fay, the first impression he received of the town of Kimberley was far worse than anything he had imagined from the worst of Andries’ diatribes against the place. The town appeared to be nothing except a scattering of tin shacks, rusty and dilapidated, sweltering in the heat of late October. With the exception of the street down which their wagon was slowly making its way, the shacks seemed to have been placed with no particular sense of order, no attempt to locate them in such fashion as to define streets or to face them in any consistent direction so that future streets might be considered. Beyond the central cluster of metal buildings was a sea of tents equally disorganized as far as location was concerned. There was not a tree, a bush, or a blade of grass to be seen.
And the flies! They rose in swarms at the passage of the ox wagon, startled from their feasting on the remains of dead carcasses that lay between the shacks and the tents, entrails of animals slaughtered for food, or of dogs dead of disease or hunger. And the smell! Between the entrails and the open trenches built behind canvas for the human wastes of the town, and then abandoned when full, or improperly filled, the stench could stop a man in his tracks! Andries had been watching Barney. The large Boer pulled his team to a halt before one of the larger buildings along the street. He reached into the wagon, bringing out Barney’s bags, setting them down.
“Here you are, boy. Colesberg Kopje—New Rush—Kimberley. Call it anything you like.”
Barney forced a grin he was far from feeling. “Oh, it ain’t so bad,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. “No worse than Petticoat Lane.” But he knew in truth that his mother would have been out with a mop and broom if ever Petticoat Lane had been anything like this.
“Then your Petticoat Lane must be pretty bad,” Andries said wryly. He reached out a hand; Barney took it, shaking it. “It was good having you along, boy,” he said. “I wish you luck.”
“Thanks,” Barney said. He stared at the wagon and the oxen; it had been his home for almost two months. He knew each animal by name, and he knew he would miss them, and miss Andries, too. The ox wagon and Andries had come to be like a second family on the long trek; the thought of not having the security of their presence, Andries and the oxen for their strength, the wagon itself for the sense of protection it gave with all the wonders it seemed to hold within it, even beyond the evident security of food and water, was a bit disturbing. Still, his brother Harry undoubtedly had far better things he could have the use of until he could establish himself and repay Harry. And speaking of repayment—
