Yesterday's Promise

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  “Heard of Julien Bley?” He kept his voice casual.

  Rogan saw the man’s mouth tighten.

  “That Sir Julien Bley’s an important man in Kimberly. That, and the Chantrys, too. There’s a Chantry who’s come recently from England. Works over at the fancy De Beers building.” He nodded his gray head once again down the street. “Important people. Knee deep in diamond shares of De Beers Consolidated. Tati gold fields, too.”

  Rogan nudged, for he could see something just below the surface that was goading the old man.

  “What kind of a man is Julien Bley? A fair man, is he? I heard he’s in thick with Rhodes.”

  A look of anger flickered in the watery gray eyes as the conductor pushed his cap back and glanced down De Beers Road as if he could see the men in question. He turned and studied Rogan.

  “It wouldn’t be smart for me to say, now, would it, sir? They got enough power to run me out of Kimberly.”

  “Why would they bother, rich and important diamond rands like that?”

  The old man looked sheepish. “No reason.” But then he seemed to change his mind, and his cheeks became florid.

  “Diamonds aren’t enough for men like that. Too greedy wanting to own everything, they are. Not that Rhodes lives high, mind you. Dresses casual, no more style than I have. Doesn’t spend lavishly on himself either. No, it’s what the diamonds and gold and land can do that Mr. Rhodes wants. He wants an empire for England.”

  Rogan was nettled. “If England doesn’t step lively, Germany, France, or Portugal will colonize it. England’s shown in the past that we bring civilization wherever we go.”

  The man eyed him more cautiously, then Rogan smiled quickly. “Not that it matters to me. But you seem to dislike Rhodes.”

  “Not Rhodes so much, but—”

  Again, he looked at Rogan and seemed about to back off. Rogan offered him a cheroot, and the man bit off the end and bent to light it from Rogan’s match. Rogan peered into his eyes. “You mean Sir Julien Bley, then?”

  “If you wanna know, I hate him.”

  Rogan dropped the match and stepped on it. “A real bloke, is he?”

  “Neither diamonds nor gold is enough. He’s got to have the coal, too. Though he didn’t discover it. Him and those lawyers at De Beers—Wolf Pack, I heard some call ’em. Don’t know how many there are, but maybe a dozen, maybe less. They form some sort of board that interprets the mining laws and such. There are those who say the laws all favor Rhodes’s company. I wouldn’t trust any o’ them.”

  Rogan felt his own jaw tensing. “How did you hear about the coal?”

  The old man drew himself up. “Johnny discovered it, that’s why. Johnny Sheehan, my nephew. They’re stealing him blind. Julien Bley is taking it right out from under him. The Wolf Pack says he didn’t abide by the mining laws, so he’s lost his claim by a hair. Rubbish! They got some skinny crack in the law they can slither through and steal the coal claim, is all. Johnny’s trying to fight them, but what can he do against such powerful men? But he’ll try. He’s meeting with them this afternoon at De Beers.”

  Rogan studied the old, weathered man bent with age, and then he saw a young man coming toward them, walking with a limp.

  “That’s my nephew here now, Johnny Sheehan. Irish lad, he is, through and through. He’s a fighter, that one. But sometimes fighting ends up getting you hurt. That’s how he’s got that bum leg. He came here when he was sixteen with a dream. Worked long days and nights in the diamond mines. He got injured, and there weren’t any doctors around in these here parts to patch him up, so the bone’s still not set straight. Too late now. But he don’t cry none about it.”

  The young man walked up. He was tall and skinny with alert blue eyes and fair brown hair.

  “Morning, Uncle. How was the run from the Cape?”

  “Fine, fine, nice stop at Mafeking. Johnny, this is—” Suddenly the old train man looked at Rogan, realizing he didn’t even know his name.

  “Rogan,” he said simply.

  “Johnny Sheehan, Ireland. England, are you? Aye, it tells.” He grinned. “Looking for work? You can always find it at the Big Hole.”

  “Big Hole?”

  “Sure, that’s what everyone calls the diamond mine. It’s as deep as a large crater now. Diamonds are coming out of there every day.”

  “I was telling Mr. Rogan about your coal find,” the old man said, and Johnny’s face went stolid.

  “Let’s not talk about that now, Uncle Gerald.”

  “You keeping that meeting with those lawyers from De Beers?”

  “You bet I am.” He pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and squinted at it. “Tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”

  “You need them spectacles. You be careful, now, Johnny boy, when you’re talking to them. You be dealing with spittin’ cobras. A whole mess of ’em.”

  The willowy Irishman waved off his uncle. “You know me. I’m always careful.”

  He looked at Rogan, and friendliness returned to his face. “There’s a good eatery not far from here. Kittleman’s, it’s called. Fair prices. They give you a good breakfast. No cheating on the eggs and mealies.”

  Rogan had already learned that mealies were some sort of a grain cereal popular with the Boers.

  “Thanks. I think I’ll try it. You going that way?”

  Johnny Sheehan looked at him a moment. “Don’t mind if I do.” He turned to his uncle. “See you later.”

  Kittleman’s eatery was warm and clean with plain tables and dishes. It was owned and run by an Australian couple who had come to Kimberly in the 1880 gold rush on the Witwatersrand. They hadn’t struck it rich, but they’d made enough to settle down and feed miners and prospectors instead of resorting to a pick and shovel.

  Rogan ordered his breakfast of eggs, bacon, and coffee. He avoided the mealies, which reminded him of bland mush, a breakfast he had turned down when a boy at Rookswood. As he ate with John Sheehan, the Irishman loosened up, and the talk soon turned to the coal deposit he’d found farther north. It was just as the old train man Gerald had said. John had pegged a claim, and now the Rhodes’s company was disputing it.

  “It’s Sir Julien Bley,” Johnny was saying over his bowl of mealies. “He wants that claim all for himself.”

  Rogan felt empathy for the young Irishman as he thought of his own interests in the Zambezi and the clutching hands of his uncle.

  “I’d better tell you who I am,” he said over his coffee. “My name is Rogan Chantry. Sir Julien is an uncle.”

  Sheehan’s face seemed to lose its blood. Rogan saw his fingers tighten on the spoon in his hand.

  “So that’s it. He’s hired a spy. You’re laying a trap with my own mouth.”

  “No.” Rogan set his cup down. “I’m not working for my uncle. I’m here on my own. I’m headed north of the Limpopo on an expedition. I want no part of my uncle. I like my independence.”

  The young man relaxed a little but looked wary now. Rogan didn’t blame him.

  “Maybe you can put a word in for me with Parnell Chantry over at the mining office of De Beers. I suppose you two are related?”

  “My brother. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll talk to Parnell.” Rogan knew Parnell could do little on his own. He answered to the Company, to Julien in particular. Unless Julien agreed, Parnell wasn’t likely to change matters.

  “I don’t want anything that isn’t mine fair and square, Rogan Chantry. That entire claim I filed legally. And I intend to keep it.”

  “Don’t blame you. Fight for it if you will. I’ll mention you to Parnell.”

  “You’re a fair man, Rogan. I believe you.”

  They talked on for a while until Rogan finished his coffee, then he paid for the food and left Sheehan pondering over his coffee.

  A short time later Rogan entered the room at the hotel, preoccupied and restless. He felt a strange kind of anger that didn’t come often. Coal wasn’t as glamorous as gold and diamonds, but it could be worth
millions. The establishment of the Rhodes colony in the north and the growth of this entire area, including Kimberly, would depend on a constant supply of energy. Naturally, De Beers and Julien wanted that coal deposit that young John Sheehan had filed on.

  Rogan was still frowning as he heard the Bantu workers stoking wood into the hotel boiler beneath his window, affording him all the steaming water he wanted for his bath. He shaved with a straight razor while serving boys unpacked his trunk and a valet made sure the trousers and shirt were neatly pressed, his boots polished to a shine.

  A little while later, dressed smartly, his dark hair still damp and smelling of the hotel brilliantine, he left his room, the leather envelope containing the map worn safely in the leather strap beneath his shirt, and strode up De Beers Road.

  At 10:15 he entered the De Beers Consolidated Mining Company to locate Parnell. He smiled to himself. His brother, two years his senior, would be taken aback to see him here now. Rogan wondered if Peter was here too. He might be down at the mine, or off somewhere on business.

  The man who met him was dressed circumspectly in a uniform fit for Queen Victoria’s private guard, white gloves and all. It was on Rogan’s tongue to ask if Her Majesty was holding court today, but he held his flippancy and asked studiously, “I’d like to speak with Mr. Parnell L. Chantry. And if he’s not in his office, then I’ll speak with Mr. Peter J. Bartley.”

  “Mr. Parnell L. Chantry is, indeed, in his office. May I tell him who is here to see him?”

  Rogan could hardly keep from smiling as he said, “Mr. Rogan H. Chantry from Grimston Way, England, is here to call upon his brother.”

  At once the dutiful man mellowed with a swift and flowing apology.

  “We’ve never had the privilege of seeing you here before, Mr. Chantry, sir. I should have known, sir. You do look a bit like your brother.”

  Rogan smiled at the man’s words. Actually, Parnell and he looked less alike than most blood brothers, not that it mattered.

  It was a showy building, and in some unholy way it suggested to Rogan a religious edifice dedicated to secular achievement. Fancy balconies made of intricate white ironwork graced three floors. The walls were made of red brick. The corners of the walls were stylishly made of hewn-out stone blocks, adding to the grandeur. The windows were of stained glass, and all the door fittings were shiny brass.

  The equally fancy guard, if that’s what he was, brought Rogan up a sweeping staircase to the third floor.

  “Here you are, Mr. Chantry. This is your brother’s office. Shall I show you in, sir?”

  “No, I’ll surprise him. He thinks I’m still in London.”

  “Oh, I see, sir…yes, indeed. A pleasant surprise.”

  MR. PARNELL L. CHANTRY, ASSOCIATE, the brass plate read. Rogan opened the door and entered. Parnell was not sitting at his huge desk, but standing before a large map pinned to the wall. His back was toward Rogan when he shut the door.

  What would his meeting with Parnell reveal of Julien’s plans?

  Parnell turned, and seeing Rogan, he first showed complete surprise, then recovered.

  “Rogan!”

  Parnell was a slim, agile young man, an inch shorter than Rogan, with curling chestnut hair and a dark mole on his chin that women seemed to find attractive. He was vain and at times imperious. He wore an impeccable shirt of Irish linen, and the blue cravat was of the finest Italian silk, all typical of Parnell.

  Rogan smiled and walked toward him. “Hello, big brother. Looks like you’re doing well for yourself.” He glanced about at the fine furnishings and large windows. “A splendid office you have here. You must be earning your keep with Uncle Julien.”

  Parnell laughed shortly and came to meet him. They briefly grabbed each other by the shoulders and shook hands.

  “It’s been three years,” Parnell said thoughtfully, measuring him. “You’re looking well. But what are you doing here this soon away from the London shipping office? I’ll wager Julien doesn’t know.”

  “No, I didn’t ask his permission,” Rogan said, feeling irritation. As always, it was Julien. Rogan walked over to the double windows and door that opened onto the balcony. He looked out over the family mine, the BCB, standing for Bley, Chantry, and Brewster.

  “So that’s it,” Rogan said, hands on hips, as he looked below. “Not much to look at, is it?”

  Parnell smiled. “It’s what’s hidden in the ground, dear fellow—what gets honed from the kimberlite. They call the diggings the ‘Big Hole.’ They’ve been excavating diamonds out of there since the 1860s, and there’s no end in sight. The quarry’s almost a mile across.”

  Rogan was intrigued that even looking down from three stories up, he could not see into its depth. The Hole looked as if a meteor had struck and ripped through the ground. He saw what were known as donkey engines being used to keep water out of the Hole. Diggers—black, white, and in-between skin colors—were all grubbing around in that giant hole scratching and sweating with backs bent beneath the broiling sun for the enigmatic stones, not for their own gain, but for the Company. He knew that guards painstakingly searched each digger before they left at the close of each day, making certain that diamonds were not being smuggled from the mine. Even so, there were always a few who somehow managed to spirit one or two out. These ended up being sold to a smuggling ring and then into the world on the black market.

  Parnell pointed through the window. “Each day we burrow deeper and deeper into the Big Hole, following the blue kimberlite conglomerate downward. Already that Hole’s produced ten million carats of diamonds.” His hazel-green eyes burned. His mouth widened into a grin. “And Mr. Rhodes’s company owns it all.” Parnell’s voice came off proud and satisfied. “That means ‘our family’ owns plenty, and Uncle Julien is the manager.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Parnell chuckled, then glanced over his shoulder as if he were worried that someone might have overheard and caught him laughing. His laughter ended abruptly, although no one was there. He caught Rogan looking at him soberly, and his gaze slanted away and out the window again, as though he knew Rogan’s thoughts.

  “Julien is not a man to lock horns with. Anyone foolish enough to try ends up the loser. I don’t need to warn you. We both know what he’s like from our days at Rookswood. That’s why I’m worried you’re here now.” Parnell looked at him. “He won’t like it, you know. I wish you hadn’t come now.”

  “Arcilla feels quite the opposite.”

  Parnell looked suddenly alert. “You saw her already at Cape House? But Julien is there.”

  “I didn’t go to Cape House. I came straight here to Kimberly. She met me at the harbor.” He could see Parnell’s curiosity and surprise as he tried to understand how Arcilla, and not Julien, knew of his arrival.

  “Elosia sent a wire, but Arcilla intercepted it in Julien’s absence.”

  Parnell jammed his hands into his expensive trouser pockets and shook his head. “She shouldn’t have done that. It’s not wise to keep things back from Julien. He has spies everywhere. He’ll find out, and she’ll be in more trouble than she is now.”

  Rogan did not like what he saw in his brother. Parnell had always wanted to please Julien because he had dreams of getting greater wealth and prestige through marriage to Sir Julien’s granddaughter. That had been no secret. But Rogan noticed Parnell seemed more driven now, not by ambition alone but by worry. He’d grown more tense since Rogan last saw him in London.

  “Everyone’s afraid of Julien. It’s disgusting. Arcilla, now you. What could be worth living in the shadow of his displeasure or favor?”

  “Julien knows what he’s doing. He has great plans, Rogan. He and Mr. Cecil Rhodes, both.”

  Rogan already knew that Julien was more than a well-placed partner in De Beers Consolidated. Julien was allied with Rhodes in his determination to forge South Africa into a British colony.

  “Naturally, Uncle Julien is temperamental, maybe even ruthless at times, but the cause is
so great, the burden on his mind so heavy that he needs our understanding.”

  Rogan gave a short laugh. “If that isn’t rubbish, I don’t know what is. He’s driven by a selfless cause, is that it? Like Rhodes—it’s all for Her Majesty and the good of the world. What about that young Irishman, Sheehan? Is Julien also trying to steal his claim on that coal deposit north of here for an honorable, selfless cause?”

  At the mention of John Sheehan, Parnell looked away. He walked over to his polished desk and arranged a stack of already neat paper.

  “Who told you about Sheehan?”

  “I met him by chance when I got off the train this morning. We had breakfast together, and he told me his unhappy story. What do you know about this?”

  “I can’t talk about business dealings, and you know that. But I do know Sheehan’s a feisty troublemaker. The mining laws rule here, Rogan. Fair and square.”

  “Fair and square? You’re sure about that? Then he should have no trouble, right? Everything out in the open?”

  Parnell’s mouth thinned. “Don’t get involved. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Rogan read the warning in his brother’s voice, almost a plea.

  “I didn’t come all the way from England to Kimberly to play advocate for John Sheehan. I can’t help it if Julien’s mask is slipping a bit and what I’m seeing is rather ugly. Not that his ruthless ambitions ever fooled me much. I always knew he was a hard man, one I wouldn’t trust. But a hard man is one thing…a common thief is another.”

  “If he heard you talking like that—”

  “Oh, I know. He’d be tempted to use that sjambok he favors so well.” A sjambok was a Boer whip made from rhinoceros hide, used by Boer farmers to drive oxen and, more recently, for flogging troublemakers and slaves. “He’d best not give in to his rage with me. Wise up, Parnell. You’ll get nothing decent submitting to his greed, just dirty hands. You want Sheehan to lose that claim?”

  “I told you,” he said miserably, “I don’t make final decisions here. I obey them.”

  “And you like that?”

  “Of course not.”