Текст книги "The Angels Weep"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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Only when the swarming imp is broke through the perimeter did the quartermasters realize that Chelmsford had taken the keys for the ammunition chests with him. Isazi, Ralph's little Zulu driver, had given him an eye-witness account of the end.

"They were tearing at the boxes with axes, with bayonets and with their bare hands. They were swearing and screaming with rage and chagrin when we brought the assegais to them, and at the last they tried to defend themselves with their empty rifles." Isazi's eyes had gone misty with the memory, the way an old man recalls a lost love. "I tell you, little Hawk, they were brave men and it was a beautiful stabbing." Nobody could be certain how many Englishmen had died at the Little Hand, for it was almost a year before Chelmsford retook the field, but it was one of the most terrible disasters of British military history, and immediately after it the War Office redesigned their ammunition chests.

Now the fact that the.303 ammunition was packed in these WD chests was some indication of how deep was the understanding between Mr. Rhodes and the colonial secretary in Whitehall. However, the bulk packets had to be broken down and repacked in waxed paper. One hundred rounds to the packet, then these had to be soldered into tin sheets before going into the oil drums. It was an onerous task and Ralph was pleased to escape for a few hours from the workshops of the De Beers Consolidated Mines Company where it was being done.

Aaron Fagan was waiting for him in his office, with his coat on and his Derby hat in his hand.

"You are becoming a secretive fellow, Ralph," he accused.

"Couldn't you have given me some idea of what you expect?" "You will learn that soon enough," Ralph promised, and put a cheroot between his lips. "All I want to know from you is that this fellow is trustworthy, and discreet." "He is the eldest son of my own sister," Aaron bridled, and Ralph struck a Vesta to the end of the cheroot to calm him.

"That is all very well, but can he keep his mouth shut?" "I will stake my life on it." "You may have to," Ralph told him drily. "Well, let us go to visit this paragon." David Silver was a plump young man with a pink scrubbed complexion, gold-rimmed pince-nez and his hair glossy with brilliantine and parted down the centre so that his scalp gleamed in the division like the scar of a sword cut He deferred courteously to his Uncle Aaron, and went to pains to make certain that both his guests were comfortable, that their chairs were arranged with the light from the windows falling from behind and that each of them had an ashtray beside him and a cup of tea in his hand.

"It's orange pekoe, he pointed out modestly, as he settled beside his desk. Then he placed his fingertips together, pursed his lips primly and looked expectantly at Ralph.

While Ralph briefly explained his requirements, he nodded his head brightly and made little sucking sounds of encouragement.

"Mr. Ballantyne – "he kept nodding like a mandarin doll when Ralph had finished' that is what we stockbrokers " he spread his hand deprecatingly, -"in our jargon call a "bear position" or "selling short". It is quite a commonplace transaction." Aaron Fagan squirmed a little in his chair, and glanced apologetically at Ralph. "David, I think Mr. Ballantyne knows-" "No, no," Ralph raised a hand to Aaron."please let Mr. Silver continue. I am sure his discourse will be enlightening." His expression was solemn, but his eyes twinkled with amusement. The irony was lost on David Silver and he accepted Ralph's invitation.

"It is an entirely short-term speculative contract. I always make a point of mentioning this to any of my clients who contemplate entering into one. To be entirely truthful, Mr. Ballantyne, I do not approve of this speculation. I always feel that the stock exchange is a venue for legitimate investment, a market where capital can meet and mate with legitimate enterprise. It should not have been made into a bookmakers" turf where sportsmen bet on dark horses." "That is a very noble thought," Ralph agreed.

"I am glad you see it that way." David Silver puffed out his cheeks pompously. "However, to return to the operation of selling shares short. The client enters the market and offers to sell shares of a specified company which he does not possess, at a price below the current market price, for delivery at some future date, usually one to three months ahead." "Yes," Ralph nodded solemnly. "I think I follow so far." "Naturally, the expectation of the bear operator is that the shares will fall considerably in value before he is obliged to deliver them to the purchaser. From his point of view the larger the fall in value the greater will be his profit." "Ah!"said Ralph. "An easy way to make money." "On the other hand" David Silver's plump features became stern. – "should the shares rise in value the bear operator will incur considerable losses. He will be forced to re-enter the market and buy shares at the inflated prices to make good his delivery to the purchaser, and naturally he will be paid only the previously agreed price." "Naturally!" "Now you can see why I try to discourage my clients from engaging in these dealings." "Your uncle assured me that you were a prudent man." David Silver looked smug. "Mr. Ballantyne, I think you should know that there is a buoyant mood in the market. I have heard it rumoured that some of the Witwatersrand companies will be reporting highly elevated profits this quarter. In my view this is the time to buy gold shares, not to sell them." "Mr. Silver, I am a terrible pessimist." "Very well." David Silver sighed with the air of a superior being inured to the intractability of the common man. "Will you tell me exactly what you have in mind, please, Mr. Ballantyne?" "I want to sell the shares of two companies short," Ralph told him. "Consolidated Goldfields and the British South Africa Company." An air of vast melancholy came over David Silver. "You have chosen the strongest companies on the board, those are Mr. Rhodes" enterprises. Did you have a figure in mind, Mr. Ballantyne? The minimum lot that can be traded is one hundred shares,-" "Two hundred thousand, "said Ralph mildly.

"Two hundred thousand pounds! "gasped David Silver.

"Shares," Ralph corrected him.

"Mr. Ballantyne." Silver had paled. "BSA is standing at twelve pounds and Consolidated at eight. If you sell two hundred thousand shares well, that is a transaction of two million pounds." "No, no! "Ralph shook his head. "You misunderstand me." "Thank the good Lord for that." A little colour flowed back into David Silver's chubby cheeks.

"I meant not two hundred thousand in total, but two hundred thousand in each company. That is four million pounds" worth altogether." David Silver sprang to his feet with such alacrity that his chair flew back against the wall with a crash, and for a moment it seemed that he might try to escape out into the street.

"But," he blubbered, "but-" And then he could think of no further protest. His pince-nez misted and his lower lip stuck out like a sulky child's.

"Sit down," Ralph ordered gently, and he sank back miserably into his chair.

"I will have to ask -you to make a deposit," Silver made one last effort.

"How much will you need?" "Forty thousand pounds." Ralph opened his cheque-book on the edge of the desk, and took one of David Silver's pens from the rack. The squeak of the nib was the only sound in the hot little office, until Ralph sat back and fanned the cheque to dry the ink.

"There is just one thing more," he said. "Nobody outside these four walls nobody is ever to know that I am the principal in this transaction." "You have my word." "or your testicles," Ralph warned him, as he leaned close to hand him the cheque, and though he smiled, his eyes were such a cold green that David Silver shivered, and he felt a sharp pang of anticipation in his threatened parts.

It was a typical high veld Boer homestead set on a rocky ridge above an undulating treeless plain of silver grass. The roof was of galvanized corrugated iron which had begun to rust through in patches. The house was surrounded by wide verandas, and the whitewash was discoloured and flaking from the wall. There was a windmill on a skeletal tower behind the house. The vanes blurred against the pale cloudless sky, spinning in the dry dusty wind, and at each weary crank of the plunger, a cupful of cloudy green water spilled into the circular concrete cistern beside the kitchen door.

There was no attempt at a garden or lawn. A dozen scrawny speckled fowls scratched at the bare baked earth, or perched disconsolately on the derelict Cape wagon and the other ruined equipment that always seemed to ornament the yard of every Boer homestead. On the side of the prevailing wind stood a tall Australian eucalyptus tree with the old bark hanging in tatters from the silver trunk like the skin of a moulting serpent. In its scant shade were tethered eight sturdy brown ponies.

As Ralph dismounted below the veranda, a pack of mongrel hounds came snapping and snarling about his boots, and he scattered them yelping and howling with a few kicks and a hissing cut from his hippo-hide sjambok.

"U is laat , meneer." A man had come out onto the veranda. He was in shirtsleeves with braces holding up the baggy brown trousers that left his bare ankles exposed. On his feet, he wore rawhide velskoen without socks.

"Jammer," Ralph apologized for being late. Using the simplified form of Dutch, which the Boer called the taal, the language.

The man held the door open for Ralph and he stooped through it into the windowless living-room. It smelled of stale smoke and dead ash from the open fireplace. The floor was covered with rush mats and animal-skins. There was a single table down the centre of the room, of heavy crudely fashioned dark wood. There was a single hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace, an embroidered copy of the ten commandments in High Dutch script. The only book in the room lay open on the bare table-top. It was an enormous Dutch Bible with leather cover and bindings of brass.

On leather-thonged chairs, eight men sat down the length of both sides of the table. They all looked up at Ralph as he entered. There was not a man amongst them younger than fifty years old, for the Boers valued experience and acquired wisdom in their leaders. Most of them were bearded and all of them wore rough hard-worn clothing, and were solemn and unsmiling. The man who had greeted Ralph followed him in and silently indicated an empty chair. Ralph sat down and every shaggy bearded head turned away from him towards the figure at the end of the table.

He was the biggest man in the room, monumentally ugly, as a bulldog or one of the great anthropoids is ugly. His beard was a grey scraggly fringe, but his upper lip was shaven. His face hung in folds and bags, the skin was darkly burned by ten thousand fierce African suns, and it was lumped and stained with warts and with the speckles of benign skin cancer, like the foxing on the pages of a very old book.

One eyelid drooped to give him a crafty suspicious expression. His toffee-brown eyes had also been affected by the white sun glare of Africa, and by the scouring dust of the hunting veld and the battlefield, so they were now perpetually bloodshot, sore and inflamed-looking. His people called him Oom Paul, Uncle Paul, and held him in only slightly less veneration than they did their Old Testament God.

Paul Kruger began to read aloud again from the open Bible before him. He read slowly, followed the text with his finger. The thumb was missing from his hand. It had been blown off by a bursting gunbarrel thirty years before. His voice was a rumbling basso profunda.

"Nevertheless the people be strong that dwell in the land, and the cities are walled and very great. and moreover we saw the children of the Anak there... And Caleb stilled the people, and said. Let us go up at once and possess it, for we are well able to overcome it." Ralph watched him intently, studying the huge slumped body, the shoulders so wide that the ugly head seemed to perch upon them like a bedraggled bird on a mountaintop, and he thought of the legend that surrounded this strange man.

Paul Kruger had been nine years old when his father and uncles had packed their wagons and gathered their herds and trekked northwards, away from British rule, driven on by the memory of their folk heroes hanged at Slachters Nek by the Redcoats. The Krugers trekked from the injustice of having their slaves turned free, from the English black circuit courts, from judges who did not speak their language, from taxes levied on land that was theirs and from the foreign troops who seized their beloved herds to pay those taxes.

The year had been 1835 and on that hard trek Paul Kruger became a man at an age when most boys are still playing with kites and marbles.

Each day he was given a single bullet and a charge of powder and sent out to provide meat for the family. If he failed to bring back a buck, his father beat him. He became, by necessity, an expert marksman. it was one of his duties to scout ahead for water and good grazing, and to lead the caravan to it. He became a skilled horseman and developed an almost mystical affinity for the veld, and the herds of fat-tailed sheep and multi-hued cattle that were. his family's wealth. Like a Matabele mujiba, he knew every beast by name, and could pick out an ailing animal from the herd at a mile distant.

When Mzilikazi, the Matabele emperor, sent his imp is with their long shields swarming down upon the little caravan of wagons, little Paul took his place with the other men at the barricades. There were thirty-three Boer fighting men inside the circle of wagons. The wagon trucks were lashed together with trek chains, and the openings between the wheels latticed with woven thorn-branches.

The Matabele amadoda were uncountable. Regiment after regiment they charged, hissing their deep ringing "Jee!" They attacked for six hours without respite, and when the bullets ran low, the Boer women smelted and cast lead in the midst of the battle. When the Matabele fell back at last, their dead lay chest-deep around the wagons and little Paul had become a man, for he had killed a man many men.

Strangely, it was another four years before he killed his first lion, sending a hardened ball through its heart as it sprang upon his horse's back. By now he was able to test a new horse by galloping it over broken ground. If it fell, young Paul would land catlike, on his feet, shake his head with disapproval, and walk away. When hunting buffalo, he would mount facing his horse's tail so as to have a steadier shot when the beasts "chased his horse, as they invariably did. This unusual seat in no way hampered his control of the horse, and he could change to face ahead so swiftly and smoothly as not to upset his mount's stride in full gallop.

About this time he showed a gift of extra-sensory powers. Before a hunt, standing at his horse's head, he would go into a self-induced trance and begin describing the surrounding countryside and the wild animals in it. "One hour's ride to the north there is a small muddy pan. A herd of quagga are drinking there, and five fat eland are coming down the path to the water. On the hill above it, under a camel-Thorn tree, a pride of lion are resting, "n ou swart maanhaar, an old black mane and two lionesses. In the valleys beyond, three giraffe." The hunters would find the animals, or the signs they had left, exactly as young Paul described them.

At sixteen, he was entitled, as a man, to ride off two farms, as much land as a horseman could encircle in a day. Each of them was approximately sixteen thousand acres. They were the first of the vast land-holdings he acquired and held during his lifetime, sometimes bartering sixteen thousand acres of prime pasture for a plough or a bag of sugar.

At twenty he was a field cornet, an elected office which was something between magistrate and sheriff.-, at such tender years to be chosen by men who venerated and marked him as somebody unusual. About this time, he ran a foot race against a horseman on a picked steed over a course of a mile, and won by a length. Then during a battle against the black chief Sekukuni, the Boer General was shot through the head and tumbled over the edge of the kopje. The General was a big bulky man, two hundred and forty pounds weight, but Paul Kruger leaped down the krans, picked up the body and ran-back up the hillside under the musket-fire of Sekukuni's men.

When he set off to claim his bride, he found his way blocked by the wide Vaal river in raging spate, the carcasses of cattle and wild game rolling by in the flood. Despite cries of warning from the ferryman, and without even removing his boots, he urged his horse into the brown waters and swam across. Flooded rivers would not stop a man like Paul Kruger.

After having fought Moshesh and Mzilikazi, and every other warlike tribe south of the Limpopo river, after having burned Dr. David Livingstone's mission on the suspicion that he was supplying arms to the tribes, after having fought even his own people, the rebellious Boers of the Orange Free State, he was made Commandant-in-Chief of the army, and still later the President of the South African Republic.

It was this indomitable, courageous, immensely physically powerful, ugly, obstinate, devout and cantankerous old man, rich in land and herds, who now lifted his head from the Bible and finished his reading with a simple injunction to the men who waited upon him attentively.

"Fear God, and distrust the English," he said, and closed the Bible.

Then still without taking his bloodshot eyes from Ralph's face, he bellowed with shocking force, "Bring coffee!" and a coloured maid bustled in with a tin tray loaded with steaming mugs. The men around the table exchanged pouches of black Magaliesberg shag, and charged their pipes, watching Ralph with closed and guarded expressions. Once the oily blue smoke had veiled the air, Kruger spoke again. "You asked to see me, mynheer?" "Alone,"said Ralph. "These men I trust." "Very well." They used the taal. Ralph knew that Kruger could speak English with some fluency, and that he would not do so as a matter of principle. Ralph had learned to speak the taal on the diamond-diggings. It was the simplest of all European languages, suited to the everyday life of an uncomplicated society of hunters and farmers, though even they, for the purposes of political discussion or worship, fell back upon the sophistication of High Dutch.

"My name is Ballantyne." "I know who you are. Your father was the elephant-hunter. A strong man, they say, and straight but you," and now a world of loathing entered the old man's tone, "you belong to that heathen, Rhodes." And though Ralph shook his head, he went on, "Do not think I have not heard his blasphemies. I know that when he was asked if he believed there was a God, he replied," and here he broke into heavily accented English for the first time, "I give God a fifty-fifty chance of existing."" Kruger shook his head slowly. "He will pay for that one day, for the Lord has commanded, "Thou shalt not take My name in vain."" "Perhaps that day of payment is already at hand, "said Ralph softly. "And perhaps you are God's chosen instrument.

"Do you dare to blaspheme, also?" the old man demanded sharply.

"No," Ralph shook his head. "I come to deliver the blasphemer into your hands." And he laid an envelope on the dark wood, then with a flick slid it down the length of the table until it lay in front of the president. "A list of the arms he has sent "secretly into Johannesburg, and where they are held. The names of the rebels who intend to use them. The size and force of the commando gathered on your borders at Pitsani, the route they Will take to join the rebels in Johannesburg, and the date on which they intend to ride." Every man at the table had stiffened with shock, only the old man still puffed calmly at his pipe. He made no effort" to touch the envelope.

"Why do you come to me with this?" "When I see a thief about to break into a neighbour's home, I take it as my duty to warn him. Kruger removed the pipe from his mouth and flicked a spurt of yellow tobacco juice from the stem onto the dung floor beside his chair. We are neighbours," Ralph explained. "We are white men living in Africa. We have a common destiny. We have many enemies, and one day we may be required to fight them together." Kruger's pipe gurgled softly, but nobody spoke again for fully two minutes, until Ralph broke the silence.

"Very well then," he said. "If Rhodes fails, I will make a great deal of money." Kruger sighed, and nodded. "All right, now I believe you at last, for that is an Englishman's reason for treachery." And he picked up the envelope in his brown gnarled old hand. "Goodbye, mynheer, "he said softly.

Cathy had taken to her paintbox again. She had put it away when Jon-Jon was born, but now there was time for it once more, However, this time she was determined to make a more serious work of it, instead of sugary family portraits and pretty landscapes.

She had begun a study of the trees of Rhodesia, and already had a considerable portfolio of them. First she painted the entire tree, making as many as twenty studies of typical specimens before settling on a representative example, and then to the master painting she added detailed drawings of the leaves, the flowers and the fruits, which she rendered faithfully in watercolours, finally she pressed actual leaves and blooms and gathered the seeds, then wrote a detailed description of the plant.

Very soon she had realized her own ignorance, and had written to Cape Town and London for books on botany, and for Linnaeus" Systetna Naturae for plants. Using these, she was training herself to become a competent botanist. Already she had isolated eight trees that had not been previously described, and she had named one for Ralph "Terminalia Ralphii" and another for Jonathan who had climbed to the upper branches to bring down its pretty pink flowers for her.

When she diffidently sent some of her dried specimens and a folio of drawings to Sir Joseph Hooker at Kew Gardens, she received an encouraging letter, complimenting her on the standard of her artwork and confirming her classifications of the new species. With the letter was an autographed " copy of his Genera Plantmum, "to a fellow student of nature's wonders', and it had become the start of a fascinating correspondence. The new hobby was one that could be practised side by side with Jon-Jon's bird-nesting activities, and it helped fill the dreary days when Ralph was away, although now she had "difficulty keeping up with Jon Jon her swollen belly reducing her to an undignified waddle. She had to leave all the climbing and rock-scrambling to him.

This morning they were working one of the kloofs of the hills above the camp where they had found a beautiful spreading tree with strange candelabra of fruit on the upper branches. Jonathan was twenty feet above ground, edging out to snatch a laden branch when Cathy heard voices calling in the thick bush that clogged the mouth of the kloof.

She swiftly rebuttoned her blouse and dropped her skirts down over her bare legs the heat was oppressive in the confined gulley between the hills and she had been sitting on the bank and dabbling her feet in the trickle of the stream.

"Yoo boo!" she yelled, and the telegraph-operator came sweating and scrambling up the steep side.

He was a dismal shrimp of a man, with a bald head and protruding eyes, but he was also one of Cathy's most fervent admirers. The arrival of a telegraph for her was an excuse for him to leave his hut and seek her out. He waited adoringly with his hat in his hands, as she read the message.

"Passage reserved Union Castle leaving Cape Town for London March 20th stop open envelope and follow instructions carefully stop home soon love Ralph." "Will you send a telegraph for me, Mr. Braithwaite?"

"Of course, Mrs. Ballantyne, it will be *a great pleasure." The little man blushed like a girl and hung his head bashfully.

Cathy wrote out the message recalling, Zouga Ballantyne to King's Lynn on a sheet of her sketch pad and Mr. Braithwaite clutched it to his concave chest like a holy talisman.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Ballantyne," he said, and Cathy started.

The days had gone by so swiftly, she had not realized that the year 1895 was so far gone. Suddenly the prospect of Christmas alone in the wilderness, another Christmas with out Ralph, appalled her.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Braithwaite," she said, hoping he would leave before she began to cry. Her pregnancy made her so weak and weepy if only Ralph would come back. If only... itsani was not a town nor even a village. It was a single trading-store, standing forlornly in the flat P san-dveld on -the edge of the Kalahari Desert that stretched away 1,500 miles into the west.

However, it was only a few miles to the frontier of the Transvaal, but no fence nor border-post marked the division. The country was so flat and featureless and the scrub so low, that the rider could see the trading-store from a distance of seven miles, and around it, shimmering like ghosts in the heat mirage, the little cone-shaped white tents of an army encamped.

The rider had pushed his horse mercilessly along the thirty miles from the railway at Mafeking, for he bore an urgent message. He was an unlikely choice for a peace messenger, for he was'a soldier and a man of action. His name was Captain Maurice Heany, a handsome man with dark hair and moustaches and flashing eyes. He had served with Carrington's horse and the Bechuana police, and in the Matabele war he had commanded a troop of mounted infantry. He was a hawk and he bore the message of a dove. The sentries picked up his dust from two miles out and there was a small bustle as the guard was called out.

When Hearty trotted into the camp all its senior officers were already gathered at the command tent, and Doctor Jameson himself came forward to shake his hand and lead him into the tent where they were screened from curious eyes. Zouga Ballantyne poured Indian tonic onto a dram of gin, and brought it to him.

"Sorry, Maurice, this is not the Kimberley Club, I'm afraid we have no ice." "Ice or not, you have saved my life." They knew each other well. Maurice Heany had been one of Ralph Ballantyne's and Harry Johnston's junior partners when they had contracted to bring the original pioneer column into Mashonaland.

Heany drank and wiped his moustache before looking up at John Willoughby, and the little doctor. He was in a quandary as to whom he should address his message to, for although Willoughby was the regimental commander and Zouga Ballantyne his second-inrcommand, and although Doctor Jameson was officially only a civilian observer, they all knew with whom the ultimate decision-making and authority lay.

Jameson smoothed his embarrassment by ordering directly, "Well then, out with it, man." "It's not good news, Doctor Jim. Mr. Rhodes is utterly determined that you must remain here until after the Reform Committee has captured Johannesburg." "When will that be?" Jameson demanded bitterly. "Just look at these!" He picked up a sheaf of telegraph flimsies from the camp table. "A new telegraph every few hours, in Frank Rhodes" execrable code. Take this one, yesterday."

Jameson read aloud. "It is absolutely necessary to delay floating until company letterhead agreed upon"." Jameson dropped the telegraphs back on the table with disgust. "This ridiculous quibbling over what flag to fly. Damn me, but if -we aren't doing this for the Union Jack, then what are we doing it for?" "It is rather like the timorous bride who, having set the date, views the approach of the wedding day with delicious confusion." Zouga Ballantyne smiled. "You must remember that our friends on the Reform Committee in Johannesburg are more used to stock deals and financial speculation than the use of steel. Like the blushing virgin, they may need a little judicial forcing." "That's it exactly." Doctor Jameson nodded. "And yet Mr. Rhodes is concerned that we should not move ahead of them." "There is one other thing that you should know." Heaney hesitated. "It does seem that the gentlemen in Pretoria are aware that something is afoot. There is even talk that there is– a traitor amongst us." "That is unthinkable," snapped Zouga.

"I agree with you, Zouga," Doctor Jim nodded. "It is much more likely that these damned puerile telegraphs, of Frank Rhodes have come to old Kruger's notice." "Be that as it may, gentlemen. The Boers are making certain preparations it is even possible that they have already called out their commandos in the Rustenburg and Zeerust divisions." "If that is the case," Zouga said softly, "then we have a choice. We can either move immediately, or we can all go home to Bulawayo.". Doctor Jameson could not remain seated any longer, he jumped up from his canvas chair and began pacing up and down the tent with quick jerky little strides. They all watched in silence until he stopped in the opening of the tent and stared out across the sun-scorched plain towards the eastern horizon beneath which lay the great golden prize of the Witwatersrand. When at last he turned to face them, they could see that he had reached his decision.

"I am going, "he said.

"Thought you would," murmured Zouga

"What are you going to do?"Jameson asked as softly. "Going with you," said Zouga

"Thought you would," said Jameson, and then glanced at Willoughby who nodded.

"Good! Johnny will you call the men out? I would like to speak to them before we ride and, Zouga, will you see to it that the telegraph lines are all cut? I don't want ever to see another one of those communications from Frankie. Anything more he has to say, he can tell me face to face when we reach Johannesburg." "They've got Jameson!"