Through Mines of Deception

by P J Thorndyke

government is so interested in finding.”

  “If you can’t let on much more than that, then I’m afraid my answer is no.”

  “Listen, Longman. You’re the only chap on the continent who gives a damn about old heaps like this one behind you. The rest of us are out shooting elephants or digging for diamonds. But now it has become imperative that we Brits get hold of a place very much like this one and claim it for our own.”

  “Since when has the government been so interested in archaeology?”

  “Since we got wind of a place that could cement our rule in Southern Africa. Enough wealth to lick the Boers and Zulus into line once and for all. Know your Bible?”

  “As much as any Englishman.”

  “Then you’ll have heard of King Solomon.”

  It took a moment for Lazarus to decide whether or not Rider was joking. When he decided that he was he let out a snort of mirth and sat down on a boulder.

  “Something amusing, Longman?”

  Lazarus wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Ever since João de Barros heard about Great Zimbabwe from Arab merchants in the sixteenth century people have been postulating that this is the legendary Ophir from which King Solomon got his wealth.”

  “Nobody in Her Majesty’s government is postulating that Great Zimbabwe is Ophir,” said Rider a little peevishly. “But this was one of the greatest trading centers in Africa once upon a time, yes?”

  Lazarus nodded.

  “And known for exporting gold, yes?”

  Another nod.

  “Well, where did it all come from, the gold, I mean?”

  “They certainly got it from mines somewhere,” said Lazarus. “Maybe further inland.”

  “And we want you to find those mines,” said Rider. “Imagine! King Solomon’s mines; a possession of the British Empire!”

  Lazarus laughed again. “I think the sun must have got to your head or at least somebody’s head back in Pretoria. If you want to go chasing after a myth, that’s your business, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m a serious scholar. I like to investigate things that I can really see and touch with my two hands.”

  “But you just said that the mines must exist!”

  “And where they are I haven’t the faintest idea. Do you know how big Africa is? It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Well we may have an inkling that could reduce the size of that haystack considerably,” said Rider rather cagily.

  Lazarus hesitated. “Then what do you need me for?”

  “We believe that the mines are not all that far off but we don’t know the exact location. We need your archeological intuition to tell us where the ancient people of this country mined their gold.”

  “How do you know that the mines are nearby?”

  “Because our rivals seem to have already found them.”

  “Our rivals?”

  “The Boers. They’ve been rather industrious of late. Water pumps and steam drills have been purchased by a small Boer mining company and shipped north under what they consider to be utmost secrecy. Naturally they have been easy enough to keep tabs on but recently these caravans vanished into the hills of this plateau. They wouldn’t have crossed the Zambezi River; it’s too uncharted. Therefore they must be around here somewhere.”

  “They could just be gold prospectors counting their chickens,” said Lazarus.

  “Unlikely. The Boers are farmers. This sudden interest in mining indicates something more concrete and their purchase of a certain piece of machinery has us worried. Ever heard of Addington and Hume Mining Inc.?”

  Lazarus shook his head.

  “They make drills. Steam powered. They are an American based company and you should see some of the toys they put to work over there. Mechanite powered most of them of course, but they put out some regular coal-eaters for the European market to bypass the embargo on that particular mineral. But those coal-powered beasts eat through rock finer than anything Britain or the rest of the world has put out. This Boer company recently purchased one of Addington and Hume’s most state-of-the-art machines and shipped it here at great cost and under great secrecy. Now they wouldn’t do that without good cause. If the Boers gain access to such incredible wealth then it could mean revolution in the Transvaal.”

  Lazarus was silent as he considered these words.

  “I understand that you fought in the Ashanti Campaign,” Rider said.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well perhaps you might draw on your stock of patriotism once more. This isn’t about wealth or archaeology. This is about protecting our empire. Your Queen needs you, man.”

  Lazarus had to admit that an ember of patriotism still glowed in his breast and the whole business of protecting the empire’s interests in Southern Africa was not entirely unappealing. And then there was the promise of five-hundred pounds upfront, perhaps even some reward if they did find these mines. That could aid his research here no end.

  But what about Henry? His partner, Henry Thackeray, had been investigating the ancient road that led from Great Zimbabwe to Kilwa Kisiwani; the island port built by Arabian merchants in the tenth century. He had been struck by fever on his return from the coast and lay stranded until his sickness passed. Lazarus did not want him to return to find their work here abandoned and Lazarus off on some wild goose chase.

  And yet, it might be many weeks before Henry would be fit enough to return. If these mines really were somewhere on the plateau then he might be able to return before Henry got back. And with extra funds.

  “I can’t promise anything,” Lazarus told Rider, “but I’ll look into it and see what I can dig up. Metaphorically, of course.”

  “Capital, Longman. Although I hope not all our digging will be metaphorical!”

  III

  Through a combination of archaeological work on the ancient roads that led from Great Zimbabwe and the questioning of local tribes they gradually narrowed down the search area. Lazarus gave away so many beads and mirrors as gifts in return for information that he soon ran out. Fortunately Rider had his own supply and his servant Mazooku proved a valuable help with his understanding of the various Bantu dialects used in Southern Africa of which his native Zulu was one.

  Mazooku was a loyal follower; as useful an ally as he was formidable an enemy. Distrusting white man’s guns he carried only a redwood club known as an isagila in the Zulu tongue. Rider never said how he had acquired Mazooku and Lazarus had to wonder how such a powerful, rangy specimen of a warrior could ever let himself become subservient to an Englishman who had grown to manhood in the grammar schools of England rather than the harsh hills of Africa.

  “We’ll be at war with them soon enough, have no doubt as to that,” Rider told Lazarus one night while they were sitting by their campfire, drinking their bottles of cold, weak tea that served as their only refreshment on their journey.

  “Do you really think so?” Lazarus asked.

  “It’s inevitable. The Zulu is a warlike creature, born and bred. To live in a state of peace is not in his nature. I personally approve of Sir Bartle Frere but I think his ultimatum to King Cetshwayo is misguided. To ask the Zulus to demobilize their armies is to ask them to stop being Zulus. They will refuse and we shall be forced into war, a war that we will win of course. We may have to fight like cornered rats, but our military superiority will win out over assegais and hide shields in the end. But what then? We shall win one war only to be faced with an even greater threat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Boers, man! The only thing that keeps those blighters from embarking on bloody rebellion is the threat of the Zulus should we be pushed from the Transvaal. The whole business is a delicate balance of power between three sides. And I fear that Frere’s ultimatum has upset the boat, so to speak.”

  Eventually they came across the mining colony. It was an ancient walled settlement that Lazarus guessed had been built around the same time as Great Zimbabwe. It had most lik
ely been built by the same people although the mines within its dry stone walls had probably been worked for centuries before they had arrived on the plateau. That was just a theory but he was gradually coming to the conclusion that the stone fortifications of the Zimbabwe Plateau were not as ancient as legend might have them, certainly not dating as far back as biblical times.

  The walls ringed what had once been a large settlement; most likely housing for the miners in ancient times. But modern occupation was evident; spiked wooden palisades filled the parts where the old wall had fallen down and steam and smoke rose up from within suggesting cooking fires and mining machinery.

  “Well, that looks like the place,” said Rider, peering through Lazarus’s binoculars. “I can see Boers on patrol on the ramparts. Our job’s done. I need to get these coordinates back to Pretoria.”

  “The gate’s opening,” said Lazarus.

  The stone gateway was an original feature but the wooden doors were a new addition thrown up by the new occupants. They slowly parted to allow a cart to pass out.

  “Best get down lest they see us,” said Rider.

  Their own ox cart was out of sight further down the hill but they pressed themselves flat in the long grass just in case any wandering eyes might make out their figures on the rise.

  As the doors widened they were afforded a glimpse of the camp within. Lazarus let out a gasp at what he saw through his binoculars. Blacks carried rubble in overloaded baskets on their stooped shoulders, their ebony skin plastered