The Diamond Hunters

by Wilbur Smith

  “He’s conscious.” The doctor came to him quickly. “What happened to you, Johnny? Tell us what happened. Whoever did this to you will be punished - I promise you.” The words were wrong. Nobody must ever punish the Old Man.

  Johnny tried to speak but his lips were stiff and swollen.

  He tried again.

  “I fell,” he said. “I fell. Nobody! Nobody! I fell down.” When the doctor had gone Mike Shapiro came and stood over him. His Jewish eyes were dark with pity, and something else - anger perhaps, or admiration. “I’m taking you to my house, Johnny. You will be all right now.” He stayed two weeks under the care of Michael Shapiro’s wife, Helen. The scabs came away, the bruises faded to a dirty yellow, but his nose stayed crooked with a lump at the bridge. He studied his new nose in the mirror, and liked it.

  It made him look like a boxer, he thought, or a pirate, but it was many months before the tenderness passed and he could finger it freely.

  “Listen, Johnny, you are going to a new school. A fine boarding-school in Grahamstown.” Michael Shapiro tried to sound enthusiastic. Grahamstown was five hundred miles away. “In the holidays you’ll be going to work in Namaqualand - learning all about diamonds and how to mine them.

  You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?” Johnny had thought about it for a minute, watching Michael’s face and reading in it his shame.

  “I won’t be going home again then?” By home he meant the house on Wynberg Hill. Michael shook his head.

  “When will I see ” Johnny hesitated as he tried to find the right words,” - when will I see them again?”

  “I don’t know, Johnny,” Michael answered him honestly.

  As Michael had promised it was a fine school.

  On his first Sunday after the church service, he had followed the other boys back to their classroom for the session of compulsory letter-writing. The others had immediately begun dashing off hasty scribbles to their parents. Johnny sat miserably until the master in charge stopped at his desk.

  “Aren’t you going to write home, Lance?” he asked kindly.

  “I’m sure they’ll all want to hear how you are.” Johnny picked up his pen obediently, and puzzled over the blank writing-pad.

  He wrote at last: Dear Sir, I hope you will be pleased to hear that I am now at school. The food is good, but the beds are very hard.

  We go to church every day and play rugby football.

  Yours faithfully, Johnny.

  From then until he left school and went up to University three years later, he wrote every week to the Old Man.

  Every letter began with the same salutation and went on, “I hope you will be pleased to hear-” There was never a reply to any of these letters.

  Once each term he received a typewritten letter from Michael Shapiro setting out the arrangements that had been made for the school holidays. Usually these involved a train journey hundreds of miles across the Karroo to some remote village in the vast dry wasteland, where a light aircraft belonging to Van Der Byl Diamonds was waiting to fly him still deeper into the desert to one of the Company’s concession areas. Again, as Michael Shapiro had promised, he learned about diamonds and how to mine them.

  When the time to move on to University arrived, it was completely natural that he chose to take a degree in Geology.

  During all that time he was an outcast from the van der Byl family. He had seen none of them - not the Old Man, nor Tracey, nor even Benedict.

  Then, in one long eventful afternoon, he saw all three of them.

  It was his final year at University. His degree was a certainty. He had headed the lists at every examination from his first year onwards.

  He had been elected the senior student of Stellenbosch University, but now there was a further honour almost within his grasp.

  In ten days” time the National Selectors would announce the rugby team to meet the New Zealand All Black touring team - and Johnny’s place at flank forward was as certain as his degree in Geology.

  The sporting press had nicknamed Johnny “Jag Hond” after that ferocious predator of the African wilds, the Cape hunting dog; an animal of incredible stamina and determination that savages its prey on the run. The nickname had stuck fast, and Johnny was a favourite of the crowds.

  In the line-up of the team from Cape Town University was another crowd-pleaser whose place in the National Side to meet the All Blacks seemed equally assured. From his position at full back Benedict van der Byl dominated the field of play with a grace and artistry that were almost godlike. He had grown tall and wide-shouldered, with long powerful legs and dark brooding good looks.

  Johnny led the visiting team out on to the smooth green velvet field, and while he jogged and flexed his back and shoulders he looked up at the packed stands seeking assurance that the high priests of rugby football were all there.

  He saw Doctor Danie Craven sitting with the other selectors in their privileged position below the Press enclosure. While in front of the Doctor, leaning back to exchange a few words with him, sat the Prime Minister.

  This meeting between the two universities was one of the high spots of the rugby season, and the aficionados travelled thousands of miles to watch it.

  The Prime Minister smiled and nodded, then leaned forward to touch the shoulder of the big white-headed figure that sat in the row below him.

  Johnny felt an electric tingle run up his spine as the white head lifted and looked directly at him. It was the first time he had seen the Old Man in the seven years since that terrible night.

  Johnny lifted an arm in salute, and the Old Man stared at him for long seconds before he turned away to speak with the Prime Minister.

  Now the drum majorettes came out in ranks on to the field.

  White-booted, dressed in Cape Town University colours with short swinging skirts and tall hats, they highstepped and paraded, lovely young girls flushed with excitement and exertion.

  The roar of the crowd drummed with the blood in Johnny’s ears, for Tracey van der Byl was leading the first rank. He knew her instantly, despite the passage of years in which she had grown to young womanhood.

  Her legs and arms were sun-bronzed and her dark hair hung glossily to her shoulders. She cavorted and kicked and stamped shouting the traditional cheers, jiggling her firm young bottom with innocent abandon while the crowds screamed and writhed, beginning already to work themselves into an hysterical frenzy. Johnny watched Tracey. He stood completely still in the thunderous uproar. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Then the show was over, the drum majorettes retreating back through the stadium entrance, and the home team trotted on to the field.

  The presence of the Old Man and Tracey added intensity to the glare of hatred that Johnny turned on the tall whiteclad figure that fell back to take control of the Cape Town back field.

  Benedict van der Byl reached his position and turned.

  From inside his calf-length sock he took a comb and ran it through his dark hair. The crowd bellowed and whistled, loving this little theatrical gesture. Benedict returned the comb to his sock and posed with one hand on his hip, his chin lifted arrogantly as he surveyed the opposition.

  Suddenly he intercepted Johnny’s glare, and the pose altered as he dropped his eyes and shuffled his feet a little.

  The whistle fluted, and play began. It was everything the crowds had hoped for, a match that would long be remembered and gloated over. Massive Panzer offensives by the “! forwards, long probing raids by the backs with the oval ball flickering from hand to hand, until a bone-jarring tackle smashed the carrier to the turf. Hard and fast and clean play swung from side to side, a hundred times the crowd came up on its feet as one, eyes and mouths wide in screaming unbearable tension, to sink back with a groan as the ball was held by a desperate defence within inches of the try line.

  No score and three minutes of play left, Cape Town attacking from a set scrummage, driving through a gap in the defence and then putting the ball in the air with
a long raking pass, taken cleanly by the Cape Town wing without a break in his stride. His feet twinkled across the green turf, and again the crowd came up with a gasp.

  Johnny hit him low, just above the knee, with his shoulder. The two of them rolled together out of the field of play lifting a puff of white lime from the line and the crowd groaned and sank back.

  While they waited to receive the throw, Johnny whispered hoarse orders. His gold and maroon jersey was soaked with sweat, and blood from a grazed hip stained his white shorts.

  “Get it back fast. Don’t run with it. Give it to Dawie.

  Kick high and deep, Dawie.” Johnny leapt high to the flight of the thrown ball, with a bunched fist he punched it back accurately into Dawie’s hands, at the same moment twisting his body to block the attackers. Dawie fell back two paces and kicked. The power of the kick swung his right foot above his head, and the impetus flung him forward to put his forwards “on side’.

  The ball climbed slowly, flying like a dart with no wobble or roll in the air, reaching the zenith of its trajectory high over mid-field, then floating back to earth.

  Twenty thousand heads followed its flight, a hush had fallen over the field - and in the unnatural silence Benedict van der Byl was drifting back deep into his own territory, anticipating the drop of the ball with deceptively unhurried strides, yet timing it with the precision of the gifted athlete.

  The ball slotted neatly into his arms, and he began moving lazily infield to open his angle for the return kick.

  Still a tense throbbing mesmeric hush hung over the field, Benedict van der Byl was at the focus of attention.

  “Jag Hond!” A single voice in the crowd alerted them, and twenty thousand heads swung downfield.

  “Jag Hond!” A roar now. Johnny was well clear of the pack, arms pumping and legs churning as he bore down on Benedict. It was a futile effort, he could not hope to intercept a player of Benedict’s calibre from such long range, yet Johnny was burning the last of his physical reserves in that charge. His face was a sweat-shining mask of determination, and clods of torn grass flew from under his savagely driving boots.

  Then something happened which was unaccountable, almost past belief. Benedict van der Byl glanced round and saw Johnny. He broke his stride, two clumsy shuffling paces, and tried to pivot away deeper into his own ground. All the assurance had gone from his body, all the skill and grace.

  He tripped and stumbled, almost fell and the ball popped out of his hands, bouncing awkwardly.

  Benedict scrambled after it, groping blindly, looking back over his shoulder. Now on his face was an expression of naked terror.

  Johnny was very close. Grunting at each stride like a gut-shot lion, massive shoulders already bunching for the strike, his lips drawn back into a murderous parody of a grin.

  Benedict van der Byl dropped to his knees and covered his head with both arms, cringing down on to the green turf.

  Johnny swept past him without a check, stooping easily in his run to gather the bouncing ball.

  When Benedict uncovered his head and, still kneeling, looked up, Johnny stood ten yards away between the goal posts watching him. Then, deliberately, Johnny placed the ball between his feet to complete the formality of the touchdown.

  Now, as if by agreement, both Johnny and Benedict looked towards the main grandstand. They saw the Old Man rise from his seat and make his way slowly through the ecstatic crowds towards the exit.

  The day after the match, Johnny went back into the desert.

  He was down in the bottom of a fifteen-foot prospecttre rich that had been dug across the grain of the country rock. It was oppressively hot in the confines of the trench and Johnny was stripped to a skimpy pair of khaki shorts, his sun-browned muscles oily with sweat, but he worked steadily at his sampling. He was establishing the Contours; and profile of an ancient marine terrace that the ages buried beneath the sand. It was here on the bedrock that he expected to find the thin layer of diamond-bearing gravel.

  He heard the Jeep pull up at ground level above him, and the crunch of footsteps. Johnny straightened up and held his aching back muscles.

  The Old Man stood at the edge of the trench and looked down at him. He held a folded newspaper in his hand. This was the first time

  Johnny had seen him at close range in all the years, and he was shocked at the change. The mass of Fli bushy hair was so white, and his features were folded and creased like those of a mastiff, leaving the big hooked nose standing like a hillock from his face. But there was no wasting or deterioration in his body, and his eyes were still that chilling enigmatic blue.

  He dropped the newspaper into the trench and Johnny caught it, still staring up at the Old Man.

  “Read it!” said the Old Man. The paper was folded to the sports page, and the headline was thick and bold.

  JAG HOND IN. VAN DER BYL OUT.

  The shock was as delicious as the plunge into a mountain stream.

  He was in - he would carry the gold and green, and wear the leaping

  Springbok on his blazer pocket.

  He looked up, proud and happy, standing bareheaded in the sun waiting for the Old Man to speak.

  “Make up your mind,” said the Old Man softly. “Do you want to play ball - or work for Van Der Byl Diamonds? You can’t do both.” And he walked back to the Jeep and drove away.

  Johnny cabled his withdrawal from the team to the Doctor personally. The storm of outraged protest and abuse in the national press, and the hundreds of viperous letters Johnny received accusing him of cowardice and treachery and worse made him thankful for the sanctuary of the desert.

  Neither Johnny nor Benedict had ever played the game again.

  Thinking about it, even at this remove of time, Johnny felt the sting of disappointment. He had wanted that green and gold badge of honour so very deeply. Brusquely he pulled the Jaguar off the road and scanned the street map of London and found Stark Street tucked away off the King’s Road. He drove on remembering how it had been after the Old Man had taken it from him. The agony of mind had been scarcely endurable.

  His companions in the desert were Ovambo tribesmen from the north, and a few of those taciturn white men that the desert produces, as hardy and uncompromising as her vegetation or her mountain ranges.

  The deserts of the Namib and the Kalahari are amongst the loneliest places on earth, and the desert nights are long.

  Not even the day’s unremitting physical labour could tire Johnny sufficiently to drug his dreams of a lovely girl in a short white skirt and high boots - or an old white-headed man with a face like a granite cliff.

  Out of those long days and longer nights came solid achievements to stand like milestones marking the road of his career. He brought in a new diamond field, small but rich, in country which no one else had believed would yield diamonds. He pegged a uranium lode which Van Der

  Byl Diamonds sold for two and a half millions, and there were other fruits from his efforts as valuable if not as spectacular.

  At twenty-five, Johnny Lance’s name was whispered in the closed and forbidding halls of the diamond industry as one of the bright young comers.

  There were approaches - a junior partnership in a firm of consulting geologists, field manager for one of the struggling little companies working marginal ground in the Murderers” Karroo. Johnny turned them down. They were good offers, but he stayed on with the Old Man.

  Then the big Company noticed him. A century ago the first payable pipe of “blue ground” in Southern Africa was discovered on a hard scrabble farm owned by a Boer named De Beer. Old De Beer sold his farm for 16,000, never dreaming that a treasure worth 300,000,000 pounds lay beneath the bleak dry earth. The strike was named De Beers New Rush, and a horde of miners, small businessmen, drifters, chancers, rogues and scoundrels moved in to purchase and work minute claims, each the size of a large room.

  From this pretty company of fortune’s soldiers two men rose high above the others, until between them they owned most
of the claims in De Beers New Rush. When these two, Cecil John Rhodes and Barney Barnato, at last combined their resources, a formidable financial enterprise was born.

  From such humble beginnings the Company has grown to awesome respectability and dignity. Its wealth is fabled, its influence immeasurable, its income is astronomical. It controls the diamond supply to the world. It controls also mineral concessions over areas of Central and Southern Africa which total hundreds of thousands of square miles, and its reserves of un-mined precious and base minerals cannot be calculated. Small diamond companies are allowed to co-exist with the giant until they reach a certain size then suddenly they become part of it, gobbled up as a tiger shark might swallow any of its pilot fish who become too large and daring. The big Company can afford to buy the best prospects, equipment - and men. It reached out one of its myriad tentacles to draw in Johnny Lance. The price they set on him was twice his present salary, and three times his future prospects.

  Johnny turned it down flat. Perhaps the Old Man did not notice, perhaps it was mere coincidence that a week later Johnny was promoted Field Manager of Beach Operation. The nickname that went with the job was “King Canute’.

  Van Der Byl Diamonds had thirty-seven miles of beach concession.

  The tiny ribbon of shoreline, one hundred and twenty feet above highwater mark, and one hundred and twenty feet below low-water mark.

  Inland the concession belonged to the big Company. It had purchased the land, a dozen vast ranches, simply to obtain the mineral rights.

  The sea concessions, territorial up to waters twelve miles off shore, belonged to them also. Granted to them by Government charter twenty years before. But Van Der Byl Diamonds had the Admiralty strip - and it was“King Canuta’s job to work it.

  The sea-mist came smoking in like ground pearl dust off the cold waters of the Benguela current. From out of the mist bank the high unhurried swells marched in towards the bright yellow sands and the tall wave-cut Cliffs of Namaqualand.