Rough Diamond, page 31
“Signed,
“The Reform Committee.”
Jameson raised himself in his saddle, his saber now drawn, raised in the the air, flashing in the last rays of the sun.
“We shall ride into Johannesburg and settle this matter once and for all! Men, are you with me?” There were a few rather embarrassed and drunken yells, but the response seemed to satisfy Jameson. He replaced the saber in its scabbard. “Then—troopers—mount!”
The rescuers of the women and children of Johannesburg were on their way.
The sinking of a shaft for a gold mine, Armando quickly decided, was quite a bit different from sinking a shaft in a diamond mine. The blue ground at Kimberley was a pipe, the core of an ancient volcano, and it ran vertically and therefore its location could be easily calculated and determined. The shaft, paralleling the pipe, was also sunk vertically, and horizontal chambers or tunnels were dug through to the blue ground at whatever level was desired. It was all relatively simple. The gold reef, however, was considerably different from a diamond pipe, for it ran at angles of varying steepness, and shafts had to be sunk through the rock to intercept the diagonal reef at various depths, and the reef mined for the gold-bearing rock in the immediate vicinity before sinking the shaft deeper to intersect another angled reef containing gold farther down. How deep one might go before failing to intercept a diagonal layer of gold-bearing rock nobody knew, but there seemed little doubt that the shafts would end up much deeper than any at Kimberley, and the problems, therefore, of sinking these shafts would be that much more complicated.
The shafts had already reached a depth of a half mile or more, and there was every indication that there still might be major gold deposits even farther down; as far as a mile or even two miles deep. And at those depths, nobody knew if they might not run into gold-bearing quartz that might yield an ounce, or even two ounces of gold per ton of rock. Or possibly three or more. There was no way of telling, but it was always the dream, the goad that drove men to probe deeper and deeper beneath the earth’s surface. And the farther down they went, the greater the problem, Armando knew, for the heat increased proportionately the deeper they went, and there would be the problem, not just of physically building shafts that deep, but of getting air down to cool the workers at those depths. Armando had been assured by the white gold miners that the Kaffir had no problem with heat as he had no problem with the cyanide solution, and while he knew nothing about the resistance of the Kaffir to the heat in gold mines, he knew there was a problem at the lesser depths in the diamond shafts, and he was sure it would be a greater problem here.
But for whatever purpose, the shaft of the mine he was inspecting was poorly constructed for such great depths, and the huge Angolan decided that before greater depths were attempted the shaft would have to be aligned to a far more accurate degree, and the cages in which the workers were dropped to the various levels to dynamite the rock loose would have to be reinforced and constructed of far stronger materials. The same was true of the cables that held the cages in the shaft, and raised and lowered them by use of huge steam-driven geared winches that were mounted above each mine shaft.
The large Angolan stepped from the cage he had been using to inspect the shaft, closing the protective gate behind him, and breathed deeply of the clear, high-altitude air. There was a lot of work to be done if he was going to be responsible for the deepening of the shafts, but it was work he loved and he wondered if he could ever adequately thank Barney Barnato for having rescued him—“rescued” was the only word he could think of—from the circus and the dreary task of having to beat some poor soul into submission several times a week just in order to eat. Now Armando ate as well as he wished, and maintained his strength through honest work, which was the best way. He waved to the donkey-engine operator to indicate his use of the cage was finished for the day, and climbed into his trap, touching the horses with the whip, prepared to go to Barney’s office and make his report. And then pulled up short as another trap appeared around a corner of the narrow dirt road, blocking his passage. He smiled to see the occupants, for they were his boss, Barney, and Barney’s lovely wife, Fay, made even more beautiful, Armando thought, by being several months pregnant. She reminded him of his mother, who, while never being pregnant since he could remember, had been big and soft, and he often missed her and wondered why he had never gone back to Angola to visit her before her death. The reason, of course, had been his father, but those were aimless thoughts. Armando put them aside as he climbed down and walked over to the other trap.
“Hello, Miz Barnato. Hello, Barney. I was jus’ now goin’ to you office to tell you.” While Armando still had a fairly heavy Portuguese accent, his command of the English language was quite good. He shook his head sadly. “No so good news, I am afraid.”
“What kind of bad news?”
Armando shrugged. “It mean lots of work, Barney. I t’ink maybe the shaft too deep now for the cable and the winch. Should already bot’ be bigger, I t’ink, an’ cable should be steel, not rope. Also shaft should be much more straight. I dig a shaft like this in Kimberley, nobody go down. Lucky cage don’ hang up goin’ down. You wanna see? I show you.”
He climbed back into his trap, turned his horse, and returned to the mine shaft, climbing down as Barney drew up beside him and got down.
“I’ll wait here,” Fay said, smiling at both men. “Get a little sun.”
“I won’t be long,” Barney promised, and walked over to the cage beside Armando.
Armando swung open the gate and waited until Barney had entered the mesh-sided, open-topped cage before waving to the donkey-engine operator who handled the cable winch. “Slow, all the way to the bottom,” he shouted and got into the cage, ducking his unusual height under the top crossbeam of the cage, reaching back to swing shut the gate that prevented anyone from falling down the open shaft. When he stood erect his head went above the mesh sides of the cage, almost touching the large iron eye bolt that held the rope cable that raised and lowered the cage. Armando grinned down at Barney. “See shaft a lot easier from up here,” he said, and then swayed slightly as the cage began to descend. But it only went five or six feet before it stopped with a jerk. Both men looked upward with a frown at the daylight just above them. There was the voice of the operator, heard in a faint shout from above.
“Something’s caught. I’ll get it fixed right away.”
There was the ringing of a hammer on metal; Armando had to raise his voice a bit to be heard. “You see, Barney? Winch gears worn—”
He paused as the cage suddenly dropped another two or three feet and stopped again with another jerk. At the sudden stop there was a short snapping sound and one of the rope strands of the cable parted with a sharp report just above Armando’s head. Armando opened his mouth to yell for the operator to stop his hammering and drop them some ropes to secure the cage, when a second strand of the cable snapped. The beating of metal on metal continued from above. The two men looked at each other; then Armando reached up, grasping the slippery cable with one hand, used his enormous strength to raise himself enough to brace his feet under the top crossbeam and then to lift the cage a foot or more, leaving a bit of slack in the cable. His other arm was quickly inserted in the slack, taking a bite. He released his first grip and stood, the cable now wrapped about his other arm, his body stretched with the strain, and looked at Barney.
“You climb over me, get out. Tell operator drop rope. I tie her somehow. Go now. Quick.”
“If he stops that damn hammering we can call him and I can tie the ropes a lot easier while you hold her—”
“He never stop that damn hammerin’! Don’ waste time! In shaft, me the boss! Climb! Dammit, climb!”
Barney hesitated a moment and then went up the wire mesh to the top crossbeam. He stepped up on Armando’s shoulders and then to the top of the big Angolan’s head, reaching up to grip the top edge of the shaft. He drew himself up to the surface, pushing aside the swinging gate, and scrambled to his feet. Fay had come down from the trap, her face registering her concern, but Barney paid no attention to her. The donkey-engine operator, his back to Barney, was still beating against the recalcitrant gearing of the winch with his hammer. Barney ran over and tore the hammer from the man’s hands.
“Ropes!” he roared. “The cable’s breaking at the cage! It’s only a few feet down! Armando’s holding it—”
The operator stared at him in confusion. “Ropes?” he asked in a dazed voice.
“Where d’you keep spare cables? Ropes, damm it—”
There was a sudden clatter from the shaft and both men rushed over, staring down. The last strand of the cable had parted and the cage had dropped away, leaving Armando swinging in the shaft at the end of the rope. Even as the operator, finally understanding, started at a sprint for the rope shed, Armando’s arm began to slip from the greasy cable. He tried to use his other hand to reach up and halt the slide; then attempted to swing to the side of the shaft where he might try for a grip on one of the runners that guided the cage, but it was too late and Armando knew it. He looked up and tried to smile; then he slipped from the frayed cable and disappeared without a sound down the shaft. Barney squeezed his eyes shut in shock, as if to blot out the sight, and then opened them as, after what seemed an eternity, there was the muffled sound of the cage striking bottom, echoing up the shaft walls. He turned away before he could hear any sound of Armando’s body striking, tears suddenly scalding his cheeks, and bent over, vomiting uncontrollably, with Fay’s arms about him, holding him tightly.
The miners from the various levels came up in the buckets normally used for hauling the dynamited rock to the surface; Armando’s body was brought up wrapped in a tarpaulin. He was buried the following day, a closed-casket funeral, in a grave dug beside the shaft in which he died. The stone that was to cover the grave had been ordered by Barney himself, and promised to be one of the most impressive in Johannesburg: a life-sized statue of Armando as he had been twenty years before, bare-chested, in his boxing trunks and boxing shoes, a true giant of a man.
Most of the important people of Johannesburg attended the funeral, partly for Armando, but mainly in deference to Barney, for while they had their differences, primarily regarding the position of the Reform Committee, the name Barnato still meant a great deal in Johannesburg. Besides, in the face of a mine disaster, a disaster that might have overtaken any one of them when inspecting a new seam in one of their mines, they all stood together. And as the priest made his eulogy beside the open grave, the huge casket hastily made the night before waiting patiently to be interred, a trap came tearing into the open space where the mourners were gathered. The driver pulled on the reins hurriedly, as if such commotion was somehow indecent in face of the bared heads and long faces, in face of the very presence of death. He got down quietly, as if attempting to efface himself, but walked quickly, nonetheless, to the side of Colonel Frank Rhodes. He whispered something in the colonel’s ear, and then stepped back at the colonel’s startled exclamation.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“The idiot! The damned idiot!”
The colonel looked about; the priest droned on, but now everyone was looking toward Frank Rhodes, and that included Barney. But the colonel knew, to his unhappiness, that it was far too late for secrets at this point. Frank Rhodes shouldered his way to the front of the crowd; the priest, aware that something extraordinary was going on, stopped talking as Rhodes mounted the pile of dirt beside the open grave, looking out over the crowd from his vantage point.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” he said gravely, quietly, for there was no need for speaking loudly in that sudden and complete silence, “Jameson is on his way to Jo’burg. The messenger I sent to be sure he did not move met him twenty miles inside of the Transvaal; he had left Pitsani the night before last, Sunday night. I suggest the Reform Committee meet at once to decide on a course of action.” He looked down at Barney, standing quite close to him. “I’m sorry to disrupt the funeral, Barney, but as soon as you are through here, I suggest you join us. We’ll be meeting at the Rand Club. This matter will affect every man in this town.”
He came down from the dirt pile and walked quickly toward his horse, tethered to one side, followed by a good number of the men present, including Solly Loeb. The priest looked at the large coffin resting on the two wooden horses, then at the four Kaffirs, their shovels stabbed in the dirt beside them, waiting to place the heavy coffin in the ground and cover it, then at Barney Barnato and his wife, each with a handful of dirt to cast on the coffin once it was in the ground, in proper Jewish tradition, and finally at the backs of the retreating men and horses.
“Amen,” he said sadly, and closed his Bible.
“They’re that far into the Transvaal?” Kruger asked, as if he were merely curious about the matter. “Where did you get your information?”
“From Commandant Cronje,” his aide said nervously. “They reached Malmani the day before yesterday at noon and camped there overnight. Then they left for Lichtenburg. From there the commandant expects them to head for Vetersdorp. That will bring them almost a hundred miles into our territory, Mr. President!” The aide was wondering what on earth was the matter with his President. Kruger was acting as if it were an everyday event to have the Republic invaded by an army of Uitlanders. They had been in the Transvaal three days, now, and Commandant Cronje had said nothing about attacking the invaders. As if reading the aide’s mind, Kruger spoke up.
“Did Cronje say anything about what action he has taken?”
“No, sir. Sir,” the aide said almost desperately, “they’ll be on the road to Krugersdorp, and that’s just twenty miles or so from Johannesburg …”
“That’s true. Well,” Kruger said, smiling a bit at his aide’s discomfort, “I suppose you’re right. Send a telegraph to Commandant Cronje at Krugersdorp. Advise him the tortoise has finally put his head out sufficiently. He’ll know what you mean; he won’t be surprised. We’ve been in touch. And don’t worry so much.” He waved a hand at his aide to get on with the job, and went back to reading his Bible.
“What d’yer mean, no grub ner no fresh ’orses?” Trooper Parkinson demanded angrily. “There wasn’t no fresh ’orses ner grub at Malmani, neither, but that weren’t so bad; I still ’ad some o’ me own left over. Now there ain’t nothin’ left. Me poor animal is about ready to lay down an’ give up ’is bloody ghost! ’E wasn’t in too good a shape in Pitsani, an’ two days carryin’ me plus double rifles without bein’ spelled ain’t done ’im no world o’ good. ’E needs some oats, not the muck they call grass in this ’ell-’ole! Not there’s a ’ell o’ a lot of even that in this bleedin’ sand! What’s the bloody reason?”
“I didn’t catch all the captain was tellin’ th’ other orficers,” Billy Watson said apologetically. “I don’t rightly suppose I was supposed t’ be listenin’ at all. But they was all talkin’ with this messenger bloke what jus’ rode in from Jo’burg, Major Thompson, I seed ’im afore. Anyway, it seems the bloke responsible fer seein’ our stores an’ fresh ’orses was set up every fifty mile all the way to Jo’burg, was a bloke name o’ Dr. Wolff.”
“So?” Trooper Parkinson said, a trifle dangerously.
“So the way this Major Thompson was tellin’ it, seems this Dr. Wolff allus takes ’is summer ’olidays in December, goes down t’ th’ seaside. Get away from the bloody ’eat, y’ see. Can’t say as ’ow I blames ’im,” Trooper Watson added enviously.
“Wait a bloody minute!” Parkinson said ominously. “Y’mean t’ stand there an’ tell me, the bloke what was responsible fer grub an’ fresh ’orses, took ’is bloody ’oliday when ’e was supposed t’ be settin’ up stores fer us? Is that what yer tryin’ t’ tell me?”
“That’s what th’ major was sayin’. I guess they didn’t figger Captain Jameson was goin’ t’ move when ’e did. Lack o’ communications, they calls it,” Billy said, proud of his greater knowledge in military affairs.
“A balls-up, I calls it,” Parkinson said bitterly.
“Another balls-up,” Billy Watson corrected gently.
“I’ll have Wolff’s hide for this!” Jameson said tightly. “On holiday, for good Jesus’s sake!” He, Luckner, Willoughby, and White were sitting around the dying campfire with Major Thompson, the messenger from Johannesburg who had galloped into the camp a short time before. The major considered Jameson coldly.
“It’s hardly Wolff who was at fault,” he said quietly. “You were given strict instructions not to move until further notice. It would have been both foolhardy and wasteful to stock our caches before they were needed; they could have been discovered and lost when they were most important. We had no idea you had left Pitsani until Cape Town had time to receive your final telegraph. Then they had to inform us. And then I had to ride up here to see exactly what was going on, and that was another two days.” Jameson snorted. Thompson disregarded it, going on coolly. “I can hardly see how you can possibly blame the Reform Committee because you chose to move, without instructions, before the committee was ready.”
Jameson sneered. “The Reform Committee! The Frank Rhodes Personal Committee, they ought to call it! And just why, after all these months, wasn’t your precious Reform Committee ready?”
“For one thing,” Major Thompson said evenly, “we didn’t have enough rifles or ammunition. Oh, I know you were planning on bringing an extra gun for each trooper you brought, but that wouldn’t handle the ammunition problem, and since you were coming with only a little over four hundred men, rather than the fifteen hundred you promised—” He shrugged, but there was a malicious glint in his eye.
