Rough Diamond, page 9
“Well?”
Barney made up his mind. When you didn’t know the true current value of something, then you didn’t sell it. At the worst you traded it for something of equally unknown value.
“I’ll fell you,” he said. “You can have the book for lettin’ me go through the dirt you already culled.” He pointed to the pile behind the table, a pile formed by the men scraping it from the table when they were through searching it.
The man stared at him a moment and shrugged. “You don’t seem to put much value on your book. Me and my friend here, we don’t miss very much. But if you want to waste your time and hand over a book at the same time, I’m not the one to teach anyone his business.” He pointed to the dirt pile. “Go ahead. Have fun.”
“Right!” Barney said happily. At least he was involved in diamond mining if only at the worst possible end of it. He dragged his pack over to the pile and sat down on the ground, starting to riffle through the culled dirt with his fingers. The man tossed him one of the spatulas they were using on the sorting table.
“My contribution,” he said dryly, and went back to work.
The day dragged on. Several times Barney saw a faint sparkle in the dirt; each time he scraped it off and studied it. The bits he was uncovering were each the size of a pinhead, but he still carefully separated them from the yellowish soil, rubbed each one as clean as he could considering its tiny size, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. He had four of them, each infinitesimal in size, when a small man came into the yard, carrying a small wooden box in one hand. He was a thin, gray-haired, ferret-faced man with a seamed face, tiny suspicious eyes, and dressed in typical digger’s clothes, wearing one of the wide leather belts with pouches the sorters and the diggers used to keep their stones in. The man set his small box on the edge of the sorting table, opened it, and brought out a small balance scale. He smiled, a smile that started at his lips and ended there, not touching his tiny eyes, a smile that exhibited stained, broken teeth. He looked around.
“Well? Anything for me today?”
The bearded man at the sorting table dug into his belt, bringing out the day’s find. Barney, watching with fascination, estimated there were at least ten to twelve fairly decent-sized stones in the palm of his hand. He dumped them into the pan of the scale and watched as the other man drew a loupe from a pocket of his jacket and examined each stone carefully. At last he separated the stones into three groups and began weighing them. When at last he was finished he drew out a pad and pencil and began making calculations on the paper. At last he looked up.
“Eight pounds for the lot,” he said.
The sorter didn’t even bother to comment; he merely tilted the contents of the pan back into his palm, added to it the other stones, and returned them all to his belt. He buttoned the pouch holding the stones and shook his head. “That’s insane,” he said. “That don’t pay labor, either ours nor the boys’. Not to mention Mac and the others down in the hole digging the stuff.”
The kopje walloper shrugged; his voice took on a whine. “If I pay more then I don’t get paid for my time. These are tough times, Jerry. You know that.”
“I also know I’m not selling stones at four shilling a carat when they bring eighteen in London, tough times or not,” Jerry said flatly, and turned back to the table, paying no further attention to the small gray-haired man. The man shrugged, put his scales back into their box, and was about to leave when Barney came up to him.
“Hey—are you a—a kopje walloper?”
The man merely looked at him, resentful of his time being taken by a young boy. “No,” he said sarcastically. “I’m a trader who goes around with his shop in his pocket. What d’you want?”
Barney dipped into his shirt pocket, bringing out the results of his day’s endeavor. “How about these?”
The man stared into Barney’s palm and then looked up with an ugly expression on his thin face. His tiny eyes had narrowed even further. “Are you funning with me, boy?”
“No, sir! D’they—d’they have any value?”
The man studied Barney’s face a few moments and then came to the conclusion that the boy was serious. “I’ll give you sixpence for them,” he said. He reached into his pocket, brought out a coin, and placed it on the edge of the sorting table. Then he reached over and knocked Barney’s hand in the air. The tiny stones went flying. “That’s what they’re really worth,” he said, and chuckled at his joke. Then he picked up his box and stumped from the yard.
“Not a very friendly chap,” Jerry said as he watched for Barney’s reaction. The boy looked as if he might have a temper. But the boy’s reaction was not at all what he had expected.
“It’s a tanner, ain’t it?” Barney said, and grinned. “He was offerin’ four shilling a carat. On that basis, was them tiny bitsy things I had worth any sixpence?”
“They were not,” Jerry admitted.
“Then he cheated himself, and he’s a bloody fool,” Barney said, and picked up his pack. “Well, thanks, fellow.” And he walked from the yard, whistling.
When he got back to the tent he saw that Harry had shaved and put on clean clothes. There was a pot of steaming tea set to one side of the fire and Harry had put some mealies on to boil. It appeared that the area around the tent had also been picked up and swept, and the rip in the side of the tent had been repaired, albeit not too neatly. Still, it was something. And even the smell seemed to have dissipated. Or else I’m gettin’ used to it, Barney thought. Harry waved a hello to him.
“How did it go today? Sell any books?”
Barney shrugged. “I practically gave ’un away, and on top of that I worked all day for a sixpence I didn’t even earn. But it was worth it. I learned somethin’. I was cullin’ already culled dirt; that was in trade for the book. I got the sixpence on the side because some nasty bloke thought he was bein’ funny.” He told Harry about it, grinning. Then his grin faded. “But y’know,” he said slowly, “sittin’ there siftin’ dirt gives a bloke plenty of time to think. And I got ideas.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“Well,” Barney said, sitting down beside the fire, “first, about the books. I was bein’ stupid. Why sell them when they could be let out, say, at a penny a day?”
“You mean, rent, like? Books?”
“Why not?” Barney asked, almost curiously. “A bloke buys a book, say he pays a tanner for it, maybe a bob. It lays around once he’s read it, or maybe even before he’s read it. That’s a bloody waste of readin’, especially in a place where they ain’t got too many books. But if he pays a penny a day, then he’s goin’ to read it quick as he can, and get it back. That way lots more people get a chance to read it. See?”
“Very philanthropic,” Harry said dryly, and laughed.
“Whatever, it’s a good idea,” Barney said stubbornly. “Comin’ back here tonight I stopped at all the hotels and bars and put the word out I got books to rent. And we can push ’em when we’re at the bar, tonight, give a pitch to the blokes lined up gettin’ beered.”
“I wasn’t going to the bar tonight,” Harry said slowly.
Barney frowned. “Why not?”
Harry looked down at his brother. It almost seemed that Barney was the older, and he the younger. There was almost something defensive in his answer, although he knew there was certainly no need for there to be.
“I went out and got a job today,” Harry said slowly. “A regular job. Starting tomorrow. At a trader’s.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Anything he tells me to do.”
Barney thought a moment and then suddenly grinned. “Good-o! You can learn all there is to know about diamonds, the good ’uns, the bad ’uns, the ones in between, what they’re worth, how the trader picks ’em and pays for ’em. Then, at night, you come back here and teach me.” He tugged at Harry’s leg; Harry sat down beside him. Barney slapped his brother on the shoulder. “We’re goin’ to be rich, Harry! We’re goin’ to be rich yet! Because I got lots of ideas! I told you about comin’ up with the idea of lettin’ the books while I was cullin’ dirt today, didn’t I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I thought of somethin’ else, too.”
“What was that?”
Barney seemed to simmer down. “I want to try it before I tell you, just to see if it works.” He brightened. “Now, let’s eat them mealies, because afterward we’re goin’ down to that Paris Hotel and put on the best act the Barnato Brothers ever have!”
Harry frowned. “It doesn’t seem right for someone working at a trader’s to be—well, putting on a show—”
“What? We ain’t goin’ to rob the place! There’s nothin’ wrong with it! And we need every penny we can get our meat-grabbers on! We ain’t spendin’ a bloody penny we don’t need to! We need capital and we’re goin’ to get it! And also,” he added more quietly, more under control, “we’re goin’ to put on a show there because you said they give you a sandwich for the act, besides what you pick up on the side from the blokes around the bar.” He suddenly grinned. “Maybe for the famous Barnato Brothers, both of them in person, they’ll hand out a full bloody meal!”
Harry glanced at his brother in silence. He almost didn’t recognize the dynamo his younger brother seemed to have become. Oh, sure, Barney had always been the most ambitious and hardworking in the family, but nothing like this. A suspicion came to Harry. The more he thought about it the less of a suspicion and the more of a certainty it became. And if he were right, maybe something could be done about Barney’s horrible English. It was amazing that a boy who worshiped the theater and the words of Shakespeare could mangle the language whenever he became excited or started to quote his favorite actors or playwrights.
“Who is she?” Harry asked innocently.
“Who is who?”
“The girl you suddenly want to get rich for.”
Barney felt his face getting red. “You’re goin’ off your chump, Harry!”
“I hope not,” Harry said, “because I have a feeling it’s the same girl who almost had you speaking English there for a while. And if it is, and you know where she is and how to get in touch with her, I think it’s time she gave you some more lessons.”
“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you none to mind your own business!”
“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you any to look her up,” Harry said, and reached into the pot to bring out the already overcooked mealies.
And maybe Harry’s right, Barney thought. Only I can’t go see her until I’ve got somethin’ to show her. And Harry is also right; it wouldn’t do no harm to let Fay help me with me English—I mean, any harm to let Fay help me with my English. Of course, Harry could help just as well, but, well—
The first thing in the morning, Barney Isaacs put into practice the idea he had developed the day before, sitting culling the dirt in Jerry Weston’s sorting shed. He hung around the sorting yard until a kopje walloper appeared with his little box and leather belt, a different one from the small ferret-faced man of the day before. This one sported a horse and cart: a horse that had obviously seen better days and ambled down the road as if his mind was on distant prairies and better years and a youth far enough back to precede diamonds and anything else on the high plateau; and a cart whose life-span had already been spent. Barney watched the man manage to buy a few stones from Jerry, after which he followed the ambling horse and his kopje walloper owner on his rounds the entire morning, making sure he remained inconspicuous. At noon he abandoned the man and his sad, spavined horse, and tried to benefit from what he had learned. That evening, as he sat down to his evening meal around the fire, he explained his ploy to Harry.
“The blokes what deal with them kopje wallopers,” he said, “are blokes what usually need the money pretty bad. So they’re blokes what cull their dirt with a fine-tooth comb. They don’t let nothin’ by, see—they can’t afford to.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “But the blokes what send the kopje wallopers packin’ without wastin’ time on them, the ones what deal with the big traders like your boss—they’re lookin’ for bigger stones. They don’t work the earth so fine. I stood and watched a few of them. There was a Canadian I talked to, seemed like a decent bloke. Said I could work his fines for five shillin’.”
“What kind of a business was that?” Harry said, and sneered. “You’d have to come up with over a carat to break even!”
Barney reached into his pocket and brought out some silver. He tossed it on the ground before his brother. “Twenty shillin’,” he said quietly. “One quid even. For five shillin’ in front and four hours’ work. And I got the same deal tomorrow, but all day.”
“Tomorrow your Canadian will cull a lot closer, I can promise you that,” Harry said.
Barney grinned. “And so will I.” He looked up at a strange face that had come to stand before him, staring down at him. “Yes?”
“They say you have books to let.”
“A penny a day.” Barney brought out a ruled sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it up to the man with the stub of a pencil. “The books are inside on a box. Take your pick. One book at a time. Then put down your name and the name of the book.” He looked up warningly. “And be careful! They’re a quid each you lose one of them, or ruin it, or don’t bring it back.”
“Right.” The man went into the tent and came out in a few minutes with a book. He wrote on the sheet, “Thos. Williams, Faerie Queene, Spenser.”
“That’s a hard ’un,” Barney said. “Wrote funny. Don’t understand it meself. But I picked it up on the cheap, thought it was somethin’ else.” He watched the man walk off and winked at his brother. “We’re in business, like I said. Now, teach me everythin’ you learned at the trader’s shop today…”
Bless the girl, whoever she is! Harry thought, and began to explain to Barney what a Very Slight Imperfection was.
4
January 1873
Charles Rudd stepped back, wiping his oily hands on a bit of cotton waste, viewing with a bit of skepticism the monster he had just finished creating. He just hoped the damned thing would work. It had taken three weeks of hard labor, trying to follow blueprints that were wrinkled and oil-stained—not to mention several being missing—and even with the help of the Kaffirs to clean and lay out the various pieces, and to lift the heavier sections into place, it had been a job. And now it would be nothing less than a shame if, after that much time and trouble, the ogre failed to pump. Or if the boiler didn’t develop the necessary steam because of some organic fault or, of course, if he had assembled it incorrectly. Rudd was aware of his limitations as a mechanic, but he also knew that in comparison with his partner, Cecil Rhodes, he was a bleeding genius. Still, one had to recognize that the machine was secondhand, and while that meant that the price had been right and the machine had been available in Cape Town instead of waiting a year for manufacture and delivery from England, there were still a lot of things that could go wrong with a used machine. Especially with a machine that hadn’t been designed as a pump in the first place, but as a compressor. Oh, of course the principle was the same, pistons working against pressure, and of course he was fairly sure the changes he had made and the necessary parts he had fabricated for the changeover would do their job, still, one never knew until one tried. Rudd mentally crossed his fingers, checked to make sure the native hadn’t forgotten his instructions to fill the brute’s belly with sufficient water, and swung open the door to the boiler’s firebox. He pointed to the stack of firewood, pointed to a Kaffir, and then said in his best Afrikaans, “Hout! Brand!”
The Kaffir dutifully piled wood into the box. When the box was filled to his satisfaction, Rudd gave it a brief bath of kerosene, stepped back, and tossed in a lighted taper. There was a whoosh and the wood caught fire. “Meer hout,” he commanded, and moved back to sit on one of the packing crates beside Cecil Rhodes. Rhodes looked at him.
“Will it work?”
“We’ll know when we get up steam. But it should, I think,” Rudd said with more optimism in his tone than he was feeling. He sat back and lit a cheroot, watching the black toss in the hard-to-come-by logs. He took the cigar from his mouth and turned to Rhodes. “We’re going to have to bring in coal if we’re not going to go bankrupt in this venture. Wood costs a bloody fortune—”
“We’ll bring in coal, and we won’t go bankrupt in any event,” Rhodes said, and smiled. “This little machine is going to make us a lot of money. And with the money—” He shrugged.
“We’re not running yet, but you’re already spending the money,” Rudd said cheerfully. “With the money, what?”
“With the money, more claims,” Rhodes said evenly. “In De Beers. And with more claims, more diamonds. And then, of course—more money.”
Rudd considered him with a grin. “And then?”
“More claims, more diamonds, still more money. Endlessly. Until we have control of all the diamonds in all the mines—”
“—in all the world,” Rudd finished for him cheerfully. “And then?”
Rhodes frowned at his partner. “I’m quite serious.”
Rudd considered him for several seconds, his smile fading. “I’m quite sure you are,” he said quietly.
“If your machine works …”
Now it’s my machine, Rudd thought, a trifle resentfully. Then his good nature prevailed as it usually did. “If it works,”he agreed, still sounding cheerful. There was no point in sounding anything but cheerful; there was little to do about it at this stage in any case, except try the machine out and hope for the best. And there was obviously no purpose in discussing Cecil Rhodes’ dream of controlling all the diamonds in all the mines, because when Cecil John Rhodes was in one of his moods it was better to simply agree with him. Besides, it would be nice to be half partner in all the diamonds of Kimberley, insane as the idea was. If it had to be a choice between rich and poor, Rudd was willing to opt for rich. It was what had brought him to the fields in the first place. His eye kept moving between the roaring flame in the firebox and the steam gauge above the boiler. “We’re getting there. Another half hour and we should have enough pressure to try the pump.”
