Yesterday's Promise

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  Rogan stopped on the busy street and pushed his hat back. Had he heard right?

  “What do you mean, waiting for my direction?”

  “Aye. Didn’t think you’d want me to talk money with Giles, since it wasn’t wise to talk about the trek north until you sent me word for the go-ahead. Besides, you hadn’t authorized me to talk money, an’ there’s no telling how much he wants. Could be costly, I daresay.”

  “Hold on.” Rogan was baffled. “Are you telling me you already wired me in London about locating Mornay?”

  Derwent, too, looked baffled. He crinkled his eyelids against the bright morning sun. “Sure I did, Mr. Rogan. ’Twas the first thing I did. Thought you’d want to know how I managed to hire on with him. Seemed like the wise thing to do, getting to know Mr. Mornay like that.”

  Rogan pulled his hat lower. “So it was. Clever of you.” His suspicions rose, not of Derwent, but of Parnell. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  “I wasn’t trying to be clever, sir. Just thought it was a good thing to do.”

  Rogan stood still, hands on his hips, thinking, then scowling to himself.

  “So why did I not get that wire?” he mused aloud.

  “Now, that’s an odd one, sir. I sent it straight to the train junction in Grimston Way.” Derwent shook his head. “Something went wrong, then.”

  “Something did,” Rogan said. “And I doubt if it went wrong at Grimston Way.” His anger flared like a match. Julien again, who else? Or even Parnell, that weasel brother of his pretending to worry about him when all the time—Parnell had mentioned Company spies.

  “From where did you send it? Kimberly, I suppose?”

  “Aye, from the train depot.” Derwent hunched his shoulders in a glum stance. “What do you think it means?”

  “Spies.”

  “Spies?”

  Just how pervasive was the Company’s spy ring? “Do you remember what you wired me?” It would be worse if he’d mentioned Henry by name.

  “Don’t recall everything I said. Just that I’d made contact with Giles Mornay, son of Mr. Henry’s hunter-guide to the Zambezi, the man you mentioned to me. And should I try to hire him for the trek?”

  Rogan tipped his mouth into a quirkish smile. “Anything else?”

  “No, that was it.”

  And that was enough. Enough to let either Parnell or Julien himself know of Rogan’s plans to hire Giles Mornay.

  “I didn’t know Giles was doing the map until Mr. Parnell and another man from the Company came to pick it up and bring it to Sir Julien Bley. Guess he didn’t think it was important for me to know.”

  “I studied that map, and it’s uncomfortably close to what Henry drew and left me in his will. If I don’t move fast, Julien and the Company will be ahead of us, and all my planning will be for naught.”

  Derwent looked startled. “Aye, Mr. Rogan, you’re not saying, are you, that you found that old map of Henry Chantry’s?”

  Rogan grinned and threw an arm around his friend’s slim shoulders. “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Derwent, but don’t breathe a word to anyone. That includes Alice when you’re with her at night.”

  Derwent flushed. “No, I wouldn’t say a thing to anyone. Does this mean you’ll be wanting to arrange that expedition soon, then?”

  “You bet I do. But I want the best guide available. That means Giles Mornay.”

  “Looks like I made a blunder sending that wire the way I did. I should have been more careful and sent a letter, Mr. Rogan.”

  “Forget it. There was no way you could know of BSA spies crawling around like rats. Cheer up, friend Derwent, we’re not beaten yet. Henry’s map includes information even Mornay doesn’t know.” He thought of those strange symbols Henry had sketched. If Giles Mornay did have knowledge of the symbols, he hadn’t included them on the map hanging in Parnell’s office.

  “If Giles Mornay knew where to look, he’d have gone there himself by now,” Rogan said. “That means we are still a lap ahead in the race, Derwent. But we have to start as soon as possible.”

  “Spies,” Derwent was saying, shaking his head in disbelief. “Seems folks will do most anything for diamonds or gold. What was it Vicar Havering used to tell us on Sunday mornings?”

  “I don’t remember,” Rogan said. “Come on, take me to Mornay’s shack. We’ve got to get things moving.” Before Derwent starts preaching!

  Derwent smiled suddenly and snapped his fingers. “Aye, I’ve got it. ‘The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.’ Something like that. I’ll need to look it up—in First Timothy I think it is.”

  Rogan, too, remembered. The strange thing was, the more he tried to push aside spiritual teachings he’d grown up with, the stronger the memories became.

  “Where does Mornay live?” he asked abruptly.

  “A few miles outside Kimberly. We’ll need us horses, for sure. He just came back from a safari. Some Germans hired him. They were up hunting around the Limpopo River.”

  “All right. Where can we buy some good horses? Not the broken-down animals I’ve seen since arriving.”

  “Sheehan has good horses. A Dublin man, he was. Just like you when it comes to knowing a good horse, Mr. Rogan.”

  “John Sheehan, with the bad leg?”

  “Aye, that’s him, all right. You know him?” Derwent sounded surprised.

  “I met his uncle on the train from Mafeking.” He didn’t mention the problem with John Sheehan’s claim, but Derwent already looked upset about it.

  “John’s filed on a high-grade coal deposit in the north. He’s waiting to find out if the mining board approved his register yet. He’s a good fellow, Mr. Rogan. A man to trust. It worries me, all this trouble he’s been having.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve enough troubles with the Company myself.”

  “Seems like the BSA wants that claim too. Doesn’t seem just.”

  Rogan didn’t like the implications on that coal deposit claim, either. He had liked what he saw of the young Irishman. In fact, the way the mining board was keeping Sheehan going round in circles made Rogan just plain angry.

  “Let’s go see those horses of his.”

  They strode on. “We’ll need to take a taxi, Mr. Rogan. Sheehan’s farm is a ways from here. I’m glad we’re going there, though. Maybe you can help John. Seeing as how Mr. Parnell is your brother and all, and Sir Julien your uncle.”

  Rogan remembered telling John at breakfast that he would speak a word for him to Parnell. That discussion had screeched to a dead end.

  “I already mentioned Sheehan’s problem to Parnell. I don’t know what good it will do.”

  Sheehan wasn’t at his farm when they arrived in the old mule-drawn taxi trap, but his uncle was there, and the old man recognized Derwent. As Gerald Sheehan walked closer, carrying a rifle, he seemed to recognize Rogan as well. If anything, there was relief on his lined face. Rogan supposed he carried the rifle for protection against the wilds, but from what he’d gathered in the short time he’d arrived, there might be human dangers as risky as poisonous snakes.

  “Horses?” he said when Rogan asked to buy them. “Aye, me lads, we have us good horses aright. Fair uns too. But Johnny’s not here now to make the sell. I was expecting him back this mornin’, but he hasn’t shown up yet. Suppose he’s looking into the claim he pegged.”

  “He didn’t come home last night, Mr. Sheehan?” Derwent asked. “Now, that’s a mite strange, sir. It isn’t like John.”

  “Yer right, laddie. It isn’t the least like my nephew, but he was determined to see Mr. Cecil Rhodes himself about that coal claim before tomorrow’s meeting with the lawyers. Johnny won’t be doing less than going to the big man himself about it.”

  “Then he ought to go see Sir Julien Bley,” Rogan said dryly. “I doubt if Rhodes is the one holding up the legality of that claim file. Can I have a look at your grandson’s horses?”

  “You can, but I’d rather Johnny were here himself to deal with you.”
>
  “We need horses right now, Mr. Sheehan,” Derwent urged. “Mr. Chantry, here, is wanting to pay Giles Mornay a visit out at his bungalow.”

  The old man scratched his beard and seemed to hesitate.

  “I’ll pay you more than a fair price,” Rogan said. “Or if you can’t sell without your nephew’s approval, let them to me for a few days. I’ll pay twice the usual rate.”

  “Sounds good, me lads. But Johnny wouldn’t take double. He believes in being fair to a fellow. I’ll let them out to you for a deposit now. Then you come back in the next few days and settle on a price with Johnny.”

  “More than fair.” Rogan shook hands with him, pleased to see the man’s honesty.

  Gerald Sheehan led as Rogan and Derwent walked to the stables in back.

  Rogan liked the condition of the horses, and John Sheehan knew a good breed. These appeared to have strength and staying power. Rogan settled on a large black one. It reminded him of his prized horse, King’s Knight, back home in Grimston Way.

  He helped Derwent choose a mount more suited to his riding style, a calm roan gelding.

  Rogan handed over several gold pieces for the use of the horses and saddles, thanked him, and then they rode from Sheehan’s farm at a fast gait.

  “Next, I want a good gun or two, plenty of ammunition, and the right clothes.”

  “There’s a Boer family near Mr. Mornay’s bungalow. They sell all manner of guns and leather goods. Best leather is Boer leather. Best hats, too. No nonsense to ’em, and plenty rough.” Derwent grinned. “To your liking, I’ll wager.”

  They paid the Boer farmer a visit, and Rogan bought the goods he wanted, a Winchester rifle and two .45s in an oiled gunbelt. By the time they rode into the fenced dirt yard encircling Mornay’s thatch-roofed bungalow, it was nearing midafternoon.

  What Derwent called mopane trees grew as a border for Giles’s big yard. Rogan found the dark red, heavy timber attractive, thinking it would make excellent and beautiful building timber. The unusual butterfly-shaped leaves were stiff, with clear cells that were apparent when held to the sunlight.

  “Leaves are good fodder,” Derwent added, pointing out some bucks munching them on the ground. Their arrival spooked the animals, and they ran off.

  If I weren’t interested in gold, Rogan thought casually, I’d be interested in horticulture. The flowers and trees he’d seen on his travel in and around the Cape were unusually beautiful at times, and distinctly different from the plants back in England.

  He was still turning over the stiff mopane leaf in his hand when several Bantu came forward and gestured to lead the horses to shade and water. Rogan looked toward the porch. Giles Mornay must have heard them approach, as he had come out and stood waiting.

  He was somewhat older than Rogan had expected. Yet that might be to their advantage, for he should have a fair memory of his father’s expeditions.

  Giles Mornay was of French blood. Like the Hollanders, his ancestors had come to Cape Colony in the 1600s to escape the persecution of Protestants by monarchies loyal to the Roman Church.

  Mornay wore a small, pointed silvery beard. His hard face was long and bony, and charred as brown as wildebeest hide. His almond-shaped, deep-set black eyes looked back with an awareness and appreciation, but with little warmth. He seemed sure of himself. Rogan had seen that look before—wisdom mixed with apprehension. He knew it would take some effort to convince him to trust them.

  Mornay greeted them politely and offered them coffee and beer on a rickety wooden table on his porch. He seemed oblivious to the constant teeny flies that would have distracted Rogan to frustration had he permitted. Mornay opened a box covered with old rhino hide that held cheroots, small, square, untapered smokes with both ends open.

  Derwent chose coffee, but Rogan wanted to see what African beer tasted like. Mornay lit a cheroot.

  Rogan felt Mornay’s eyes, chilly as black stagnant pools, studying him, making their own silent appraisal. “I have heard of you, monsieur. My father knew well your uncle, a bold man.”

  Rogan kept his steady smile. “You speak of Julien or Henry?”

  The humor was not lost on Mornay, and his mouth turned above his beard. “I speak of Henry Chantry.”

  Rogan leaned back in the chair, putting his booted feet on the wooden footrest.

  “Your father brought my uncle to the Zambezi region in the north.”

  “He did. A very long, hard, and dangerous trek.”

  “If I may get right to the point, I’m here from England in the memory of my uncle. A blood uncle I was fond of, and respected, despite the flaws in his reputation—some of which are unproven, by the way.”

  “The theft of the Kimberly Black Diamond, yes?”

  “Then you know.”

  “As do most who have been born and raised here, monsieur. It is a famous tale one grows up with.” His black eyes took on a flicker of malicious amusement. “Like the great deposit of gold reported to have been discovered north of here by your uncle and my esteemed father, Bertrand.”

  Did Giles believe the report? Rogan was cautious. Could he be trusted? He had to proceed carefully, but time was of the essence. If he was to proceed north before Julien, Rogan had to know where Mornay stood.

  “I take it you have doubts about the gold find?”

  Mornay spread a hand expressively. “My father died on the journey, as did the Hottentot, Sam, who is reported to have led them to the deposit. Only your uncle made it out alive, so how can one say for sure?”

  “Because my uncle spoke to me about it many times before his death,” Rogan stated, placing his boots on the porch floor and resting his elbows on the table between them. He met Mornay’s gaze steadily, narrowing his eyes. “And I’m going to find it.”

  Mornay was quiet a moment, brows lifted with a debonair expression. “Ah?” was all he said, but it gave away enough that Rogan grinned.

  “And what’s more, you don’t fool me at all,” Rogan said, standing. “And I think it is only recently that you have had serious thoughts on the matter. I suggest that what affected you was the sizable amount of money that my brother Parnell Chantry was willing to pay you to sketch your recollection of the trek north by your father and my uncle in 1877. He came to you at the request of Sir Julien Bley for De Beers Consolidated.”

  “Ah, monsieur, the sizable amount, as you English say, should it not have been as great as the renown due my father for his brilliant guidance?”

  Rogan looked at him a moment, then sat down on the edge of the porch. “I suggest that the amount you were paid was due more to the possible size of the gold deposit than to any of your father’s due renown.” He smiled. “I want to trek north of the Limpopo, Mornay, as soon as possible, traveling on the same route your father led Henry.”

  Mornay, an unhurried man, considered his words before answering. “You are at odds with the Company, then?”

  “Let’s be forthright, Mornay. The BSA and I have competing goals. You and I both know there is gold on the Zambezi. And the BSA knows it as well. But I intend to stake the claim first on the deposit discovered by my uncle years ago. It’s no secret I’m green when it comes to the ways and wiles of this great land. I’ll need an experienced guide to bring me into Mashonaland. A guide who isn’t afraid of Sir Julien Bley and Rhodes’s company.”

  Mornay chewed the end of his cheroot while studying Rogan. Then he looked at Derwent, who sat quietly but alertly.

  “So this is the monsieur you claim is more worthy than his brother and uncle.”

  “Aye, Mr. Mornay, this is my friend.”

  “Odd, you would have a friend like this one.” Mornay jabbed his cheroot in Rogan’s direction.

  Rogan, surprised by what could be construed an affront, merely watched Mornay, who then offered a suave smile—perhaps the most that could be gotten out of the man.

  “Derwent, your friend is a bold and brash young man. But I like him.”

  Derwent cleared his throat and looked fro
m one to the other. “I’m glad you see it so, Mr. Mornay, because Mr. Rogan’s been a true friend to me since we were boys in England. His father is Sir Lyle, the squire of Rookswood. It was Rogan here who taught me to ride and shoot. Long he’s been planning this expedition, and he’ll do it too. Just you wait and see.”

  Then Derwent surprised Rogan by standing and saying calmly but pointedly, “He’ll do it with or without you, sir. And I’m going with him. And he’ll do better with the gold than either Sir Julien or Mr. Rhodes. So that’s how I see it.”

  Rogan felt a prick to his conscience. Derwent’s guileless ways and loyalty occasionally contrasted with his own tendency toward ruthlessness. He glanced at Mornay to see how he’d taken the little speech.

  Mornay looked neither impressed nor offended.

  “What do you know about my uncle’s expedition back in the seventies?” Rogan asked mildly.

  “I was seventeen, and I knew the Hottentot, Sam, who first told Monsieur Henry of the glitter of gold near the Zambezi. I sat and listened by the hour to their plans, their route, their excitement to find a great treasure of gold. I wanted to go with them. Had I gone”—he gestured dramatically—“I, too, should be dead. I doubt I would have survived the Shona attack. Only one man made it out. Your Monsieur Henry. Why?… Luck was with him, monsieur.”

  Rogan looked at him skeptically.

  Mornay lifted a silver brow. He shrugged. “The only thing that saved me, monsieur, was an unflattering sickness that laid me low. I wept after the expedition party moved out.” He waved his glass of warm beer. “Luck, she was with me, too.”

  “More likely, the good Lord was showing you kindness, Giles,” Derwent said cheerfully.

  Mornay looked across the porch at him, unsmiling. “Perhaps, yes. And sent you along later to preach at me these many long months.”