Rough Diamond, page 27
The visit of Oom Paul Kruger to Johannesburg for the purpose of addressing the people of the newly formed town was one that would remain an integral part of the legends that grow up around any city’s early days.
“Bloody tyrant!” Solly Loeb said bitterly as he stood in the Market Square with several other members of the Reform Committee awaiting the President’s arrival. The Market Square had been cleared of ox wagons for the occasion and a large platform had been erected to seat the Miner’s Committee and serve as the dais for the President’s speech. To one side a flagpole had been planted, and flying from it was the Vierkleur, the four-colored flag of the Transvaal Republic. Solly eyed the crowd gathering, crowding in toward the still-empty platform. “Ought to be the other way around,” he said sourly. “Instead of riding into Jo’burg, he should be ridden out. On a rail. With a nice coat of tar and feathers to keep him warm.”
“He will be, one of these days,” Lionel Phillips predicted.
“And a lot sooner than he suspects,” Colonel Frank Rhodes said. Colonel Rhodes was the Premier’s brother, visiting Johannesburg from Cape Town. He turned to Solly. “I suppose now that cyanide is an important adjunct for the gold-mining business, it’s all in the hands of the Boers?”
“D’you even need to ask? Of course it is. And the duty to bring it in is ridiculous. By the time bloody old Kruger gets through with us, with all his bloody taxes, we might as well go back to the amalgam process! We get all the gold from the rock, it’s true, but the taxes eat up most of the additional profits. The man is a bloody maniac!”
“Well,” Phillips said philosophically, “I suppose we at least ought to listen to the man. It may be the last time we get to hear him, if your plans go through,” he added with a smile.
“They’ll go through,” Solly said with assurance. “God! To think of Jo’burg without Kruger, and the Volksraad a thing of the past, together with their tax laws and imposts and anything else the damned man can think to hang around our necks!” Solly enjoyed being in the presence of such important men as his two companions, and was happy to agree to their principles, as well as having them listen to his opinions and undoubtedly respect them.
“I say,” Frank Rhodes said, changing the subject, “isn’t that your uncle, Barney Barnato, over there? With a baby in his arms and a striking beauty beside him? Don’t tell me anyone that lovely—” He broke off in some confusion.
“That’s him and his wife,” Solly said contemptuously. “My aunt Fay. She’s my age. And you don’t have to be careful about what you say about Barney to me. God knows what Fay ever saw in Barney Barnato. He certainly isn’t one of nature’s more handsome specimens.”
“He’s rich, though,” Phillips said.
“As I hear it, he wasn’t always rich,” Colonel Rhodes said, eyeing Fay admiringly. “Chap must have something…”
“He has luck,” Solly said shortly. “He also has a contempt for the Reform Committee.”
Rhodes frowned at the statement. “You mean he enjoys paying the excessive taxes?”
“No, he doesn’t like the taxes, but he’s a great believer in not rocking the boat. He says, ‘We’re making money. What the devil do you need the vote for?” he says. He forgets we could and should be making a devil of a lot more money than we are.”
Colonel Rhodes looked at Phillips a moment and then back at Solly. “What does your uncle think of—of—our plan?”
Solly stared at the man as if he were mad.
“He doesn’t know a thing about it, of course! Good God! Barney would be at Kruger’s doorstep with it in five minutes after he heard it. He would be violently against anything that might mean the slightest trouble. I know Barney better than anyone in the world, and I can tell you he’s far from being as smart as people give him credit for. He’s just been lucky. Oh, I’m sure he’ll be happy once it’s over and we have control of the Transvaal, when we’re a part of the Cape, but before then? He’d be the last man in the world to be told anything!”
“Then let’s just hope he doesn’t hear anything,” the colonel said, and turned to view Fay from a better angle.
Not far from the colonel, and completely unaware of his wife’s being scrutinized so carefully, Barney stood and waited for the arrival of President Kruger. He held Leah Primrose in his arms, and with Fay at his side was aware that he was standing with one outstanding beauty nuzzling his cheek, and the other holding his arm, and he was proud to be here with the two of them, to be seen with them, much rather than with the important people Solly chose to associate with. Barney was also anxious to hear what the President had to say. Contrary to Solly’s opinion, Barney was quite aware of the trouble brewing through some scheme or other of the Reform Committee, and while he knew nothing of the exact plans, nor did he particularly care to know, nor did he know of the depth of Solly’s involvement with the plans, he did know of the committee’s resentment against Kruger and the Volksraad. And he also felt that nothing good could possibly come from this sort of active opposition to the old man. Andries had told him of the meeting in Kruger’s living room, and Barney could only hope that Kruger was coming to Johannesburg with some concessions that would cool down the heated heads of the committee.
There was a parting of the crowd at the edge of the square, a wave that communicated itself through the crowd as people pressed back. Barney stood on tiptoe to see who was coming. It was President Paul Kruger, alone, handling the reins of an ancient oxcart, drawn by an aging and swaying span of oxen. He should have come by coach, Barney thought critically; while it was only thirty miles from Pretoria to Johannesburg, the old man probably took at least two days to make it and looked as if he had slept the night before in his clothes. Or if not by coach, he could at the least have come by trap, with outriders along, and a proper driver. It was undignified for the President to appear in that ancient oxcart. He was making a poor impression on the crowd, who were sniggering as the cart slowly made its way toward the platform, with Kruger sitting impassively in the center of the warped seat, holding the worn reins steadily with the middle fingers of his crippled left hand. But possibly he doesn’t care, Barney suddenly thought. Possibly he came by oxcart purposely, to show these people what he thought of them, what he considered proper protocol for them.
The Miner’s Committee had hurriedly gathered themselves together from the gossip they had been exchanging with friends in the square while awaiting Kruger’s arrival; they hurried up the steps to the platform and formed a welcoming line on it, ready to greet the President. Then, just as the President came to the platform and began to descend from the vehicle, one of the oxen spread his legs and decided to relieve himself. The sniggering grew to a roar of laughter as Kruger had to move quickly to avoid getting his trousers splashed. Someone in the crowd called out, “By God, the ox is political!” and the laughter rose even higher. Kruger’s face reddened, his big jaw under his chin-curtain beard tightened, but he held his temper and otherwise showed no reaction as he climbed the steps of the platform slowly and easily. He shook the hands extended to him by the committee one by one, the beady eyes on each side of his large squashed nose examining each face before him as if to memorize it for future use, or to estimate its sincerity. His crippled left hand—crippled when his four-pounder exploded as he shot at a charging rhinoceros when he was young—was held politely behind him, the fingers curled about the space where the thumb had been, hiding the grisly scar. He then stood a moment, looking contemplatively at the Vierkleur waving in the breeze, before taking the seat to which he was shown by the spokesman for the Miner’s Committee. The man, Carter Wellman, held up his hand for silence, waited while the sniggers diminished, and when the silence reached a point to permit speech, spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wellman said, his powerful voice clearly heard across the wide square, “we are honored today with the presence of the President of the Republic in which we live, a man we all know as Uncle Paul, and the man for whom our proud and great city has been named. It is needless for me to explain who Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger is, nor what his great contribution has been to the development of the Transvaal in the more than fifty years that he has lived here, or the more than eleven years since he was first elected President. So, without wasting any more of your time, may I present the man you all came here to hear, the Honorable Paul Kruger, President of the Republic!”
There was the briefest smattering of applause as Kruger came to his feet; the Miner’s Committee all rose, clapping as hard as they could, but the comparison between the applause on the platform and the applause from the audience only made the embarrassment worse, and the committee sat down abruptly. Kruger walked to the edge of the platform, took a large red kerchief from a bulging pocket and blew into it noisily; the crowd reacted with another shout of laughter. He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed loudly, and then looked down at the faces grinning delightedly at his exhibition of uncouth behavior, his small eyes exuding suspicion and hatred. But he forced himself to calmness; he was, after all, the President of this unruly mob, and the speech he had prepared was the one he would give despite all provocation.
“Burghers, vriende—en ander, waarvan ek seker is dat daar baie hier vandag—hoor my woorde. Ek kom vriendelik om my stand te verduidelik. Julle sê dat julle die reg om te stem wil hê, en maar julle wil nie daarvoor viertien jaar wag nie. Julle sê dis ’n lank tyd; laat ek julle vertel hoe lank ons Boere daarvoer gewag het—en van die moeite intussentyd—”
“Speak English!” The cry came from far back in the crowd, but it was immediately taken up by other members of the Reform Committee scattered throughout the square. “Speak English! Speak English!” The crowd took it up, shouting it with rhythm, as at a football match.
“Stil maak!” Kruger held up both hands, the torn left hand waving in their faces as if to chill them. “Skurke! Skelms! Blikskottels! You wish me to speak English? Very well! Let me address you so: Thieves, murderers, gamblers, whores, rogues, filth!” He spat. “I have had enough!”
He climbed down the steps from the platform, getting into his cart, cracking the sjambok over the oxen’s ears so that the tip almost touched some of the bystanders. People pushed hastily back as the cart swung around, the oxen lumbering at a faster and faster rate as the whip continued to crack in their ears, the crowd moving away from the enraged Kruger and the frightened span of oxen. There was a moment’s stunned silence as the oxcart reached the edge of the square and veered around a corner, disappearing, with old Paul Kruger half standing in the cart, continuing to wield the sjambok. Then a near-riot broke out. Men swarmed over the platform, pushing aside the efforts of Wellman and the other members of the Miner’s Committee to control them. They took the chair where Kruger had been seated and ripped it to pieces as others tore the Vierkleur from its standard and proceeded to put a lit match to it, holding it up triumphantly as it burned. Someone began to sing “God Save the Queen” and the song quickly took hold and swelled to a paean as it rose from the hundreds of throats.
Barney thrust little Leah Primrose into her mother’s arms and began to fight his way through the crowd toward the platform, his jaw hardened, his eyes narrowed. Fay, knowing his probable objective, did not try to stop him; to begin with, there was no stopping Barney in that mood, and besides, Fay was sure she knew what he was going to do and was in full agreement. She held Leah Primrose, now whimpering in excitement, shushing the child quietly, and watched.
Barney had managed to get to the platform steps; he climbed them quickly, pushing aside a few who were trying to tear the very platform to bits, and stood at the front, holding up his arms for silence, whistling loudly between his teeth to gain attention, alternating the whistling with loud and insistent, if incoherent, shouts. The singing slowly eased as the crowd turned to stare. What was their old friend Barney Barnato so excited about? What did he feel necessary to say at this moment of—well, of jubilation, practically? After all, Barney was almost the only one who had shown faith in the Rand just a few short years ago; he had saved many of them from desperation if not from starvation; now that their enemy, Kruger, had got his proper comeuppance, what did Barney seem to be so angry about? Surely he must have been aware that the demonstration had been planned by the Reform Committee? Even those who were not members of the committee—and that was the large majority of those there—had been aware of that. Surely he must have known that the committee had counted on Kruger losing his temper to hear himself laughed at, him being the President and all. The Boers were a proud people, and Paul Kruger was the proudest of the lot. Barney must have known that just the cry of “Speak English!” was enough to start old Kruger off; and the results were the proof that the tactic had been eminently correct. Old Oom Paul had scooted with his tail between his legs! What was the matter with Barnato, anyway? Slowly the crowd calmed down and let the man speak.
“Yer a fine bunch, I must say,” Barney said almost conversationally, although there was a biting, scornful tone to his voice. The silence grew deeper as he went on. His Cockney, seemingly lost these many years, was back in full force, apparently returned automatically. “A fine bunch—but o’ what? Hate t’ say, in front o’ women. Tell th’ truth, th’ lot o’ you—he called y’ rogues an’ rascals, an’ that’s what y’are! Most o’ you couldn’t bully yer way out o’ a paper bag, an’ yet y’ stand there and jeer an’ laugh at a man what’s ten times bigger than y’are or ever will be! Where were any o’ you when Paul Kruger was winnin’ this land yer livin’ in? Suckin’ yer ma’s tit, if y’could find it! Or pullin’ yer pud, if y’could find that! Where were y’ when the Matabeles were killin’ anyone what came inside a mile o’ where yer standin’ right now? Y’were sittin’ in some pub as far from danger as y’could get, suckin’ on a substitute fer yer momma’s tit, a gin bottle, most likely. Yer lucky Paul Kruger didn’t stop and take y’ on one by one; he’d o’ gone through the lot o’ you in ten minutes!”
He took a deep breath, looking over the startled, now completely silenced crowd with disgust.
“Yer enough to make a man give up his supper, that’s what y’are. You an’ yer cryin’ fer the vote! When was the last time y’ ever voted when y’ lived in the Cape? When was the last time y’ voted when y’ lived in England, fer that matter? Y’ really think Paul Kruger’s a fool? Well, I can tell y’ where t’ look if it’s fools yer wantin’. Try lookin’ over yer left or right shoulders. Or in a mirror! I come here to South Africa when I was eighteen year old, an’ I worked me bloody arse off to get where I am, an’ if anyone thinks they can take it from me jus’ like that, they better think twice! Well, Paul Kruger was born in South Africa, an’ he worked his arse off to get where he is, an’ if anyone here thinks y’ can take it away from him jus’ like that, y’ better think twice, too. I come here to Johannesburg to make money, an’ I thought most o’ you come fer the same reason. But I guess not. You and yer bloody vote! Y’ want concessions from the President, that’s what y’ want, or at least that’s what y’ should really want. Y’ think yer goin’ t’ get concessions from the man actin’ like y’ did today? You an’ yer bloody politics! Y’ make me sick! Yer blind, the lot o’ you!”
He stamped off the platform and pushed his way back through the crowd to Fay’s side, taking Leah Primrose from her and putting his face against her soft and slightly fuzzy skin as he led the way through the crowd to their trap in the next street. Men scowled at him with hatred as he marched along, but nobody dared put a finger on him, nor was it due to the fact that he was holding a baby that prevented them from doing so. It was the look in his eye and the hard set of his jaw, and the known fact that even though he was almost forty years old, Barney Barnato would tackle anyone, anytime, anywhere, and probably beat the daylights out of him, if he thought he or any of his family were being threatened in any way. And there was no doubt from the way Barney had just spoken that he felt the crowd’s actions that afternoon, that the objectives of the Reform Committee, had set back any hopes of concessions from Pretoria for a long time to come, and that Barney considered that fact a threat.
Andries stepped from the crowd to walk alongside Barney. He tipped his hat politely to Fay, smiled at Leah Primrose, who smiled back in delight at her uncle Andries, and then turned back to Barney.
“That was quite a speech you made back there,” Andries said mildly.
Barney stopped abruptly, staring at Andries, making up his mind on the spot as he so often did. Then he continued marching along, a frown on his face, but now talking.
“Andries, I want to meet Kruger. Face to face. I want to talk to him. You can arrange it, I know.”
Andries looked doubtful. “I doubt the President would be in any mood to talk to any Englishman at the moment, Barney.”
“Put him in the mood,” Barney said stubbornly. “You can do it. I’m not like most of those idiots here today, but all the blame isn’t on their side, either; Kruger and the Volksraad rate their share. The crowd acted like bloody fools today, there’s no doubt, but this thing is working itself up into what could become a major confrontation, and when it comes to that, we’re all of us going to lose.”
“Exactly my words to the President.”
“Then set up a meeting with him for me. I’ve got to talk to him. I’m sure he knows who I am, but I’m equally sure he doesn’t know how I feel about things. Unless you’ve told him. Have you?” He glanced sideways at Andries.
“Just that there were some Uitlanders who weren’t fools. And that the Boer and the Uitlanders need each other here in the Transvaal.”
“Exactly! That’s why I have to talk to him. I don’t claim that my stand on things is the same as everyone else’s in Johannesburg, but I know there are plenty of people in town who agree with me. The Reform Committee is spoiling for trouble, you know that, and they won’t be happy until they get it. Somebody has got to stop this thing. Trouble is no answer.”
They had come to the trap with the driver waiting patiently on his seat. Andries helped Fay get in and waited as Barney handed the baby up to her and then climbed in to seat himself beside her. Andries nodded.
