The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Simon sighed. ‘No. It won’t do. Firstly, he will probably not open the door this time; secondly, there could be a crowd of them, and if they’re all as big as that fellow then even you could have difficulty. And thirdly,’ he frowned, ‘they could harm Nandi if they’ve got her in there and we try the rought stuff. No. We’ve come a long way. We’ve got to get things right. I need to think this through. Let’s find somewhere to stay and put the horses, and I might even buy you a beer.’

  They took their horses into a stable yard behind a wooden hotel off the market square in the centre of Kimberley, left them in the care of a Kaffir ostler and found the foyer bustling with activity. Simon heard French, Dutch and German mixing with the taal of the Afrikaner as he waited to catch the eye of the hotel receptionist. For the first time, he gathered an impression of a thriving business centre - a frontier town certainly, but one with a core of international commerce. Despite its unpretentious exterior, the hotel was obviously a crossroads for merchants and dealers from London’s Hatton Garden, New York, Antwerp, Berlin and even Bombay. The sparkle of diamonds had given life to Kimberley, but, from the state of its buildings, it seemed as though the town itself had not had time to catch up with the demand for its product.

  Simon eventually booked two rooms at a breathtakingly high price, twice the cost of their hotel in Bombay, and made a resolution to look around for somewhere cheaper the next morning. The price of beer, too, was horrendous, so they walked back a little towards Currey Street. A bar was not difficult to find and they took the only two chairs left at a table in the crowded room. Immediately, a grizzled, elderly man in dirty overalls sitting at the table turned and spoke. His tone was friendly and his cadences were those of London’s East End. ‘You’re new, I fink. You lads lookin’ for work in the diggin’s, then?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Simon.

  ‘Ah.’ The man took in Simon’s own very different accent and the set of his shoulders. ‘Want to invest, p’raps, then. Eh?’

  ‘Could be. We’re looking for an old friend who has got some sort of a business here in diamonds. Name of John Dunn, from Natal. Would you perhaps know him?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Nah. Big place now, Kimberley. Not like the old days. You need to talk to young CJ. He knows everything that goes on ’ere.’

  Simon exchanged glances with Jenkins. ‘CJ?’

  ‘Yus. Bright as a button, ’e is. Bought me out an’ now ’e’s company secretary or somethin’ of de Beers, biggish operation, though not as big as old Barney’s. You must ’ave ’eard of CJ.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Blimey. Where ’ave you bin? CJ. Young Cecil John. Cecil John Rhodes. You’ll find ’im in the de Beers office, at the eastern end of Main Street, orf the square. Approachable chap. If your bloke’s around, ’e’ll know abaht ’im, I promise yer.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Will you have a beer?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Ta very much.’

  Twenty minutes later, Simon and Jenkins found their way back to the market square, a huge crossroads in the centre of Kimberley, big enough to take outspanned oxen from ten or so teams and, obviously, the central meeting place for the town. The square was thronged, and an auctioneer was doing a thriving trade, selling everything it seemed from carts and oxen to household goods and clothing. Here, Simon paused.

  ‘Look,’ he said to Jenkins, ‘it’s pointless both of us going to see this man. We are wasting time. Go back to Currey Street, to the house. Make sure that you are not seen, but keep watch on it. I want to know exactly who goes in and out. Can you find the place again?’

  ‘O’ course.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘It’s near the pub. I can certainly find that.’

  Simon smiled. ‘Very well. Now - whatever happens, don’t get involved. Just keep watch. I’ll come to you as soon as I’ve seen this Rhodes fellow.’

  With a nod, Jenkins was gone and Simon strode around the square until he found Main Street. The de Beers headquarters was an unpretentious low wooden building with a corrugated iron roof, like virtually every other construction in Kimberley, it seemed. The door was open and a slim, pale young man sat inside at a desk, his head down over a ledger. On enquiry, Simon was told that Mr Rhodes was out of town but was expected back within two days. Simon left his name and, his brow furrowed in thought, wandered back into the market square. Hands deep in his pockets, he stood at the back of the crowd, unaware of the activity around him, and considered what to do next. There were two obvious courses of action: to check if Dunn was registered as the owner of a claim, and then visit it and see who was working it; and to keep watch on the house - at least until Rhodes returned and could, perhaps, throw some light on what had happened to Nandi’s father. He was sure of one thing: there was little to be served by crashing into the house at this stage.

  The auctioneer in the square had now finished his business and was packing up the few artefacts for which there were no bidders. Simon asked him if there was a registrar of claims, and was directed to a simple house on the other side of the square which bore a newly golden coat of arms of the Cape Colony on its door. Inside, a clerk ran his thumb down a ledger and found the name Dunn. He looked up.

  ‘Initial J?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Here he is. Claim number 427. Registered also in the name of Joachim Mendoza. Their address is given as 5 Currey Street. The claim is part of the thirty-one separate mines in Kimberley Mine.’ He nodded to the west. ‘That’s the big hole about ten minutes’ walk that way.’

  ‘These two own the mine, then?’

  The clerk nodded. ‘Yes, such as it is.’ He turned back to the ledger. ‘They’ve not done well. The place has hardly turned out any stones for two or three months now. Must be a yeller diggin’.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Yeller diggin’. You know . . . ? Ah, new around ’ere then?’

  Simon nodded again.

  ‘Yeller diggin’ means it’s a small mine an’ probably an old one, more or less worked out by now. The yeller ground is found only down to about six to twelve feet or so. The blue ground is deeper, an’ that’s where the good stones are found now. But you need ’eavy machinery to get the blue ground out - steam engines, over’ead pulleys an’ such. Yeller diggin’s a thing of the past now, mate.’

  Simon thanked him and, deep in thought, walked back to find Jenkins. When he reached Currey Street there was no sign of the Welshman. As before, the windows of the house were shuttered and the door appeared to be locked and bolted. Simon set himself to keep watch on the place from behind a tree some hundred yards away so as to remain unobserved, but it was with increasing impatience that he kept his vigil. After half an hour, he became concerned. Where was Jenkins? Was he lost? Or had something violent happened? The house remained seemingly desolate, so, with a sigh, Simon walked down the street and looked into the bar where, little more than an hour before, they had taken a beer together. It was full, of course, but of Jenkins there was no trace. The old Cockney to whom they had spoken remained at the same table but he confessed no knowledge of the Welshman.

  With increasing concern, Simon continued on down the street, peering briefly into each bar. Surely Jenkins - even disoriented Jenkins - could not have become lost in the few hundred yards between the market square and the house on Currey Street? He walked on, constantly looking behind him and down each side road. On impulse, he turned into one of them and the sound of cheering and applause made him hurry to a single-storey wooden building which was no different from the others on the street except that it bore a wooden notice announcing that it was ‘Barney Barnato’s Boxing Academy’. He pushed through the swing doors.

  The building contained one wood-panelled room, which was smoke-filled and crowded with a colourful mixture of men: some in smartly cut morning clothes and top hats, others in dungarees, as though they had just come from the mines. Their attention was directed to the far end of the room, where Simon
, peering through the crowd, could just make out a makeshift ring marked out by a single strand of rope, and two contestants standing in opposite corners of the arena, obviously prepared to fight. Simon’s eye was immediately drawn to the man in the left-hand corner, who was wearing a red sash round his trouser top and displaying a massive bare chest. He was huge - perhaps six foot three inches - and wore his black hair long. At first Simon thought it was the same man who had answered the door in Currey Street, but a closer look revealed that his skin was darker, probably burned by the sun, and that his complexion was smooth and bore no trace of smallpox. From his looks, he seemed to be a Boer, and his features were open and not unpleasant.

  Facing him, in the other corner, stood Jenkins. Also stripped to the waist, the Welshman carried a blue sash round his midriff and his naked torso looked almost effeminately white compared to that of the Afrikaner. Incongruously, he still wore his riding boots, and his breeches bore the dusty traces of their long ride. At first sight it appeared to be an incongruous mismatch. Jenkins stood only as high as the other man’s shoulder, and his reach would be consequently disadvantaged. But the Welshman’s chest was as broad and as well muscled as the Boer’s and his waist showed no signs of the incipient paunch that marred the other man’s otherwise fine figure. Both contestants wore soft gloves, as recently introduced to the boxing ring under the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules, and they regarded each other stoically as a referee stood in the centre of the ring and studied a paper in his hand.

  Simon’s jaw dropped as he saw Jenkins. What the hell was he doing here? He opened his mouth to protest, but the English referee had begun to speak - or rather to shout, for the crowd was noisy.

  ‘Gentlemen. Silence, please. This is a challenge bout which will take place under the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules.’ This brought a bout of good-natured booing from the crowd. Disregarding the interruption, the referee turned his head and addressed both men in turn. ‘This means that there will be no holding and hitting, no tripping or throwing, no gouging or biting and no pushing and pulling—’

  ‘An’ no fun, neither,’ shouted a wag in the crowd.

  ‘Gentlemen, please. It means straight hitting to body and head. When a man goes down he has ten seconds to get up, and the fight will be broken into three-minute rounds with a thirty-second break between each. The fight will continue until a man cannot get up within the ten seconds or cannot come to the mark,’ he indicated what Simon presumed was a line drawn across the ring, ‘after the inter-round break.

  ‘Now then,’ he looked down at his paper. ‘The match is between our champion here in Kimberley, Faan de Witt, and . . . ah . . . Mr Jenkins, who has accepted the challenge of fighting Faan for a purse of twenty guineas—’

  Simon filled his lungs. ‘Oh no he hasn’t,’ he cried. Every head turned towards him as, with difficulty, he pushed his way through the crowd to the ringside. ‘This man is in my employ and he does not have my permission to fight anybody.’

  Jenkins’s jaw had dropped at seeing Simon and he had the grace to look embarrassed for a moment. ‘ ’Ang on, bach sir,’ he hissed, ‘it’s all right. I can explain in a minnit. Just let me get on with this. It won’t take long.’

  ‘Won’t take long!’ shouted Simon. ‘This man is twice your size, and we’ve got work to do, or have you forgotten?’

  ‘No, no, this is all part of it, y’see . . .’

  Jenkins’s voice was drowned in a roar of derision from the crowd, and Simon felt himself being jostled. The referee once more held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Now then, young man,’ he said, addressing Simon, ‘I don’t know where you’ve come from, but it sounds like the old country. You should know that the old ways don’t go down well here. This man has accepted the standing challenge of a bout with our champion, and out here in the diggings, a man has a right to do what he likes. The challenge has been accepted and the bout will take place, whether he works for you or God Almighty Himself.’

  His statement was greeted with a roar of approval by the crowd, and Simon felt a sharp push in the back which propelled him forward.

  The referee continued. ‘But your man has no second, so if you want to help in his corner you may do so. Either that or leave this establishment.’

  Another push, and Simon found himself outside the ring by Jenkins’s blue corner. The Welshman gave him a grin. ‘Fan me when I’ve knocked the bugger down,’ he said.

  ‘Fan you . . . I’ll sack you. That’s what I’ll do—’

  But Simon was interrupted by the clang of a bell, and both men walked towards the line painted across the middle of the ring. There they faced up to each other, where immediately the disparity in size was evident. Jenkins was dwarfed by the giant Boer, and at about twelve stone, he was giving away some sixty pounds in weight. Simon had seen Jenkins fight, but it had been a free-for-all, not conducted within the new strictures of the Queensberry Rules, and he doubted whether even the Welshman’s ingenuity and strength could overcome the disadvantages he was facing in reach and weight - and what did he know about clean punching and boxing anyway?

  The answer seemed to be not much, for immediately the Boer landed an extravagantly swung right hand to Jenkins’s head, which sent the Welshman staggering across the ring. Fortunately, because of the difference in height, it was a downward swing and lacked the force of an uppercut or hook. Jenkins blinked, shook his head and walked forward again, his hands held loosely at his sides, contrasting with the orthodox stance of de Witt, who kept his arms bent, forearms upright and clenched fists before his face.

  The Welshman sucked in his top lip, in a familiar gesture which spread his black moustache across his face, but he did not move. He stood quite still, hands still at his sides, looking up at the Afrikaner. For a moment, neither man moved, so that a shout of ‘Get on with it!’ came from the back of the crowd. Then the Boer swung that great right hand again. This time Jenkins just moved his head back a fraction so that the blow whistled harmlessly by his nose, but he made no attempt to retaliate, merely standing motionless, a frown of concentration on his face, looking into the eyes of his opponent. Again the Boer swung, and again Jenkins swayed away, not moving his feet but slipping his head out of range of the glove.

  So it continued throughout the three minutes of the round, with de Witt launching heavy punches which all missed their mark, thanks to the adroit timing of Jenkins, who now moved his feet to match the ducking and bobbing of his head. Only towards the end of the round did the Boer land a blow on Jenkins’s body, and this was partly deflected by the little man’s elbow. The round ended amid howls of derision from the crowd and with the Afrikaner perspiring and blowing but Jenkins quite composed.

  Simon ran a superfluous towel round his man’s face and hissed, ‘Aren’t you going to hit him back? He’ll murder you if you don’t.’

  ‘No, bach sir. Let ’im be for the minnit. I’ll get ’im later.’

  ‘But for God’s sake, man, why are you fighting him anyway?’

  Jenkins looked puzzled. ‘Why? ’Cos ’e’s the bloke - the big Boer - from the ’ouse, that’s why. The bastard who’s keepin’ our little girl. I’m goin’ to give ’im the ’idin’ of ’is life an’ ’e won’t know why, ’cos ’e don’t know me from Adam, see.’

  ‘But he’s not the man from the house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That fellow is even bigger and he has a pock-marked face and hair that’s very wavy. Except in build, he’s not like this chap at all.’

  Jenkins’s mouth dropped and he turned and looked at his opponent. ‘But . . . but ’e seemed to be comin’ from the ’ouse when I got there and I followed ’im to ’ere, where ’e immediately stripped off an’ challenged all comers. It seemed, look you, like a good chance to ’ave a go at ’im.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t and it isn’t. So you had better call off this fight right here and now before you get really hurt.’

  An air of sheepishness engulfed Jenkins. ‘Aw, I’m sorry,
bach sir, that I am. Look, let me ask ’im where ’e lives, just to make sure, eh?’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. Just you go and—’

  But Simon was interrupted by the bell and Jenkins, frowning hard, walked to the mark to meet the big man again. As they faced each other, Jenkins whispered, ‘Eh, where d’yer live, then, Fritz, eh?’ The Boer answered by swinging a blow that caught Jenkins on the shoulder and sent him spinning. The Welshman immediately ducked under his opponent’s arm and fell into a clinch. ‘No, come on.’ His voice was quite desperate now from under the big man’s armpit. ‘Come on, tell me. D’yer live in, whatsit, whatchermacall it, Currey Street? Eh, do yer?’

  ‘Hell, man. Why do you want my address when we’re in the middle of a fight?’ He pushed Jenkins away and swung a desperate right hand, which the other avoided easily.

  ‘No, no, come on. Where d’yer live? Tell me like a good chap, and I’ll let you ’it me. Honest.’

  ‘What?’ The Boer stood still for a moment in the middle of the ring, his breast heaving. ‘Why do you want to know, for goodness’ sake, man? Are you crazy or something?’

  The crowd, sensing that some sort of conversation was going on between the boxers, was now hooting and hissing wildly, but Jenkins paid no attention. ‘I just want to know if you live in this Currey Street place, that’s all. Tell me and I’ll give you a good shot at the jaw, honest.’

  The Boer tried a straight left this time, but Jenkins merely inclined his head and let it brush past his ear. ‘Ach, if you must know, not Currey Street. In Dutoitspan,’ and he swung again, also abortively.

  Jenkins stood still. ‘Oh shit, bach, I’m sorry,’ he said gloomily. ‘I’ve buggered things up. ’Ere, boyo, ’ave a go then.’ And he remained quite still, his eyes closed, and offered up his jaw.

  The catcalls from the crowd slowly died away and silence fell on the room as everyone looked at the incongruous sight of the little Welshman standing in the centre of the ring inviting his huge opponent to hit him. The referee moved round to get a better view of Jenkins and then also stood still, uncertain about whether to intervene. The Boer turned to the crowd and shrugged as though appealing for advice.