Yesterday's Promise

by Linda Lee Chaikin

  So he knows too, Rogan thought. I suppose they all do now.

  “Too bad we didn’t meet first,” Frank Johnson said with a meaningful grin, shaking hands with Rogan, who was near his age.

  Dr. Jameson did not look pleased by Johnson’s remark.

  “Well, gentlemen, we’re all in this together now. Whatever gold Henry Chantry discovered there in the seventies is needed by the Company, and we’ll mine and transport it out by building a railroad. I doubt you or Frank could have pulled that off on your own.”

  “Not necessarily,” Rogan said. “Chantry resources and determination could have accomplished more than Mr. Rhodes may think.”

  Sir Julien threw back his dark head and laughed.

  “But alas!” Rogan smiled pleasantly at Dr. Jameson. “Her Majesty’s award of a Royal Charter goes without dispute. As you say, sir, we’re in this together—just as long as forty percent of the gold goes to the map owner, I will give the BSA little trouble.” Rogan continued to smile as Jameson’s hard eyes flickered.

  Then Jameson laughed too. “Julien and Rhodes agreed. Forty percent. Who am I to protest? We need you along, Rogan.”

  Frank Johnson chuckled and relaxed into his saddle, and Captain Ryan Retford grinned at Rogan. But Peter said quickly, as though Rogan’s banter might ruffle feathers, “And you know Mornay’s good friend, Frederick Selous, our chief pathfinder.”

  Selous, a nice-looking man with a walrus mustache, was a stalwart South African with a shiny reputation and had a confident, quiet way about him.

  “Mornay tells me you’re a better pathfinder than he,” Rogan said. “For a Frenchman to admit such a thing takes rare humility, so he must be right.” Rogan shook Selous’s hand.

  The others laughed when Mornay, seated on his horse behind Selous, sniffed loudly and said something in French.

  The brief introductions done, the conversation continued between the officials.

  Frederick Selous then spoke up. “If all proceeds as planned, we should be beyond Bulawayo and as far northeast as Mount Hampden before the rains come!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Here comes the official brass Mr. Rhodes said he’d send from the Cape,” Parnell told Rogan.

  Rogan’s leather saddle squeaked as he turned to squint against the burning sun and dust.

  Major General Methuen, apparently oblivious to the film of dust that covered his dressy red-and-gold uniform, came cantering toward them, as though just leaving a parade ground at the Cape. Behind him followed a large group of soldiers and African servants, all of them in parade dress as well. The Pioneer Column lined up for the final and formal send-off. Rogan sat in his saddle beside Peter and Mornay. Derwent was farther down the column among the pioneers. Rogan felt the wind blowing against him and the warm sun on his back, and he blinked against the dust that seemed to stir constantly. The wagons were neatly in line, and he glanced to see his sister sitting with straight shoulders and thought, Well done, Arcilla. Darinda, too, and Alice were at attention.

  Then came a roll of drums, a blast of trumpets, and a show of colors. The Union Jack snapped proudly in the breeze, with the BSA flag alongside it, and then the guns fired a salute.

  The official formalities over, Rogan turned his horse aside to go check on his supply wagon.

  Derwent came riding up from his spot in the column. “Mr. Rogan, it’s one of the Ndebele indunas. He’s come from Bulawayo with a message from Lobengula, but he’s asking to speak only with you outside camp. His name is Jube.”

  Peter was listening, but the others had not overheard. It was just as well, since Rogan did not want Julien to follow and confront the induna, especially if Jube actually was Dumaka.

  “I’ll bring Retford and come with you,” Peter said quietly.

  Rogan, with Peter, Captain Retford, and Derwent, rode outside the camp to some white rocks that jutted upward like bleached bones. The wind whipped up the dust around the horses, and the sky appeared like an iron shield.

  They waited astride their horses, keeping a watchful eye on the rocks around them. A few minutes later, Rogan saw Jube, the same induna he’d met at Bulawayo some two months earlier, step out from behind the largest white boulder. He was tall and dark. The leopard-skin draped over his shoulders moved in the wind. His hair, touched with gray, looked like a skull cap.

  “I’ll talk to him alone.” Rogan swung down from the saddle and left the reins with Derwent.

  Jube came toward him at the same moment, leaving three impis back among the white rocks.

  Rogan stopped, seeing a slithering movement in the shade of a rock. A poisonous serpent watched him. The wind tugged at Rogan’s leather hat. He kept a safe distance, while also trying not to give Jube the wrong impression.

  After several cautious moments, the serpent slid away into low brush.

  Rogan walked to where Jube stood.

  “I see you, Jube.”

  Jube came toward him. He was very tall, well over six feet, thin and sinewy, and the skin on his fine facial features was drawn smooth and tight, giving his features the appearance of chiseled marble. As before he was unsmiling.

  “The Ndebele king wants to know why there are so many warriors at Motloutsi. Has the king committed any fault, or has any white man been killed, or have the white men lost anything that they’re looking for? How is it that the doctor agreed at Bulawayo to dig only at a place pointed out by the king?”

  “I am not in command of this expedition, Jube. The decisions are not in my hand. I can tell them my ideas, but the doctor speaks for the white men. They say your king has signed a treaty for them to dig for gold. To dig for gold, we need oxen and wagons, and white men and Africans to work for us. We go far from your king’s kraal at Bulawayo, beyond the Limpopo, to the land of the Shona people.”

  He had deliberately mentioned the Shona, hoping to show Jube that the Ndebele too had entered a land not theirs by birth and invaded and cruelly subjugated the Shona, reducing them to Lobengula’s slaves.

  For a brief moment Jube’s eyes appeared to show contempt.

  “Cetshwayo was my king. I am Zulu. Lobengula is related. When the white men invaded Ulundi and scattered the mighty Zulu, we went where we could go. Now Zululand is servant of the British queen. Cetshwayo was shamed and carried to a place he did not want to go. They put white man’s clothes on him. He died in his heart. Now you want to do the same to the Ndebele.”

  Rogan caught the word Zulu, but affected no surprise. He measured Jube with a more careful eye.

  “Why do you seek me out?”

  Jube was silent and motionless for a long moment. “You are of the family of Julien Bley. Unlike him”—he looked over at Peter—“I have heard you are against Julien Bley. I am against him too.”

  “Jube is not your name, is it? You must be Dumaka.”

  Jube cracked his first smile, and it was unpleasant. “So you guessed. Yes, I am Dumaka. You tell Julien he has taken the bones from my hut at Cape House, but the curse he cannot take away and hide.”

  The bones…the bones Henry had written about in his diary. Could that be the cause for the look of consternation Henry had seen on Julien’s face that day? Julien had found the bones of witchcraft in Dumaka’s hut and taken them. Maybe Julien had understood the devilish belief behind them and recognized that Dumaka wanted to curse him with death.

  “Why do you want to kill Julien Bley? The Black Diamond?”

  “Yes.”

  Dumaka offered no more information. “Did you take the Black Diamond to King Cetshwayo?” Rogan persisted.

  “Yes. But it was taken from Zululand the night of the battle.”

  “You took it?”

  “I took it,” he said proudly. “Now it is gone again, but it must be found. It must be brought to the sacred hills.”

  Dumaka looked away into the far distance, and Rogan followed his gaze to the southern end of the Matopos Mountains. Witchcraft, Rogan thought. Mornay had told him something about the mountains,
which were considered sacred to the Matabele and Zulu, perhaps the Shona as well. There were secret caves there where the Umlimo lived, witch doctors who supposedly prophesied to the tribes. The Umlimo would yield to some sort of demonic oracle, giving forth dark sayings. Lobengula put great trust in the dark sayings, as did all the ruling indunas.

  “The white man who once went to the Zambezi, your father, the hunter who drew the map, he told you where the Black Diamond was?”

  So that was the reason why Jube—Dumaka—had sought him out at Bulawayo. Dumaka thought he might know who had the diamond. He had mistaken Henry Chantry for his father.

  “I travel as a lone rider. It is gold I seek, not the Black Diamond.”

  “Hawk has the map?”

  Caution…could it be? Could he possibly think Henry’s map in some way led to where the diamond was hidden?

  “I do not seek the Black Diamond,” Rogan repeated. “I seek treasure from the earth of another kind, gold. But someone is blamed for stealing the Black Diamond, and a woman’s reputation must be given back to her. She is the daughter of Katie van Buren, the woman your sister Jendaya protected.”

  At the mention of Jendaya, his smile left his face.

  “Jendaya is cursed by the Umlimo.”

  “Where is Jendaya now? At Bulawayo? Bring me to her.”

  He shook his head. “She is not at Bulawayo. I will not bring you to her. I do not know where she hides.” He turned to walk away and stopped, looking back at Peter and Captain Retford, then Derwent. “The one who is a friend of Julien, the warning is for him. The white men will die if they intrude into the sacred hold of the Umlimo.”

  Rogan was more interested in what he could learn than in responding to his threats.

  “Umlimo?” he asked, pretending ignorance.

  “The sacred speaker. The one who interprets the oracle. The great warrior spirits warn through the Umlimo that the white man brings a curse.”

  “Lobengula has signed with his own elephant seal the paper sent to the British government allowing the white men to come and dig for gold.”

  Dumaka’s eyes fixed on Rogan, as though holding him responsible. “The doctor lies. Lobengula, he speaks well when he says fat is rubbed on their mouths. Be warned.” He looked deliberately at Rogan’s gun belt. “Go back.”

  Rogan frowned, holding back harsh words. He held up one hand to silence Dumaka. “Not all white men speak with the same words, but neither does any man welcome threats. Those who are my friends wish you no harm. And there are more like Moffat at Kuruman mission, and Jakob van Buren on the Zambezi, who wish you good from the God over all gods. But the men I travel with—none of us will allow ourselves to be killed. It is better we work together as friends, in peace.”

  “Friends? Peace?” Dumaka shook his head. “We are warriors!”

  Peter maneuvered his horse closer, raising dust, and said loftily, “That is a threat. You are a fool if you think we could not kill you now!”

  Rogan made a sharp hand gesture to silence Peter, angry he had interrupted. Peter looked startled. Dumaka stared back. There was no hope for peace in his hot gaze. Rogan felt the hatred. Dumaka gestured to his impis to follow him, and like tall, ebony shadows they melted away among the rocks.

  Peter now looked furious with Rogan. “I tell you, Rogan. You do not know these savages as we do. You made a grave mistake letting him speak that way to you. He takes your reasonableness for weakness. It only emboldens them to further provocations.”

  “If anything goads them to further provocations, it is suspicion and British presumption. I’m not worried about him mistaking my willingness to talk as weakness. He knows better.”

  Peter scowled. “Am I assistant commissioner or not?”

  Rogan maintained a hard glitter of challenge in his dark eyes.

  “I respect the fact that you were chosen to assist Jameson. I’m here willingly to assist you. That means my opinion is worth something if I remember what you told me at the Limpopo camp. If you expect a yes-man, Peter, then you no longer want me.”

  Peter’s scowl deepened. He started to speak, then apparently changing his mind, he exhaled and paused before answering.

  “When I said I respected your opinion, I meant it. I still do. I’ll consider what you said. Otherwise, let’s forget this dispute. We had better get back before we are missed.”

  Rogan turned his horse back toward the river camp. “Are you going to tell Jameson the induna threatened us?”

  Peter looked at him as though he were a man with African fever. “But naturally I’ll relay his threat. I must. It’s my job.”

  “Why the need now? Are we not already on guard and expecting trouble?”

  “Yes, of course, but Great Scott, man, I can’t simply let the induna get away with this.”

  “He’s getting away with nothing. What he said to me, he said on his own. Those were not the words of Lobengula. If you ride back in a ruddy huff, you’ll only give Jameson and the others a reason to attack Bulawayo. Jameson is looking for an excuse. You’ll give it to him if you go back there and play Dumaka’s words for more than they were.”

  Peter’s scowl had never diminished, and it didn’t now. He said nothing in response and looked at him for a studious moment.

  “Let it pass,” Rogan urged quietly. “It’s gold we want. Let’s worry about finding it. The sooner we cross the river into Mashonaland and get farther from the old king’s kraal, the safer we’ll be—and the closer to our goal.”

  Peter did not reply, but Rogan thought he saw a relinquishing of his adamant mood.

  “I’ll think it over,” Peter mumbled.

  Rogan watched Peter and Retford ride alone back toward camp, dust flying from pounding hooves.

  Rogan buried his face in his sleeve, sick of the unrelenting dust. A moment later, coughing, he walked back to where Derwent waited, holding the horses’ reins. Derwent was scowling. Rogan knew he did not like the squabbles with Peter. Derwent quickly handed him a skin of water.

  Rogan rinsed the dust from his mouth, then mounted and rode slowly across the dry field toward camp, Derwent beside him.

  “I think we’re making a mistake, Mr. Rogan. I think we ought to pack our bags and head back to Kimberly. The pioneers are as determined as bulls. But so are the king’s indunas. I always say that when two determined bulls decide to face each other—”

  Rogan pulled his hat lower and cantered a length ahead. At this moment he, like Peter, had little patience for another opposing view. If he was a determined bull, then so be it. He wanted to locate Henry’s gold. Nothing was stopping him now, not even the Zulu. Dumaka was making a blunder if he, as Peter had said, mistook Rogan’s cooperation for lack of resolve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Rogan’s frown deepened as he rode on, his thoughts swirling. Dumaka was a Zulu induna, so why had he been working on Julien’s estate before the Zulu War in 1879? Their king, Cetshwayo, had been alive at that time, strong and greatly feared. No induna of Zulu blood would normally work for Julien at Capetown, yet Dumaka had done so. Strange… considering he hated Sir Julien and anyone now associated with him. What had happened at Cape House so many years ago when Katie van Buren escaped with Jendaya and Henry Chantry?

  Could it be Julien hadn’t realized who Dumaka really was but had mistaken him for a Bantu? Dumaka could have come to work there in search of the Black Diamond. That would surely suggest a different history for the diamond than what was presently thought. Could the diamond have been stolen from the Umlimo?

  “I say, it was a bit strange, how Dumaka talked about Sir Julien and the Black Diamond,” Derwent said.

  “I wonder. I’m beginning to worry about its history.”

  “You mean, you think there have been some lies about how it was discovered at Kimberly?”

  “Look, Derwent, forget everything we’ve been told. Now think. What if there’s another story concerning its origin? One that Julien alone knows about—or maybe Carl van Buren, or even
my grandfather, Sir George.”

  “You mean one of them could have stolen it—like a temple robber?”

  “Something like that. Maybe there was something between the two partners we don’t yet know. Van Buren, they say, was killed in a mine explosion at Kimberly.”

  “You questioning the report?”

  “I don’t know…but what if the report is hiding the truth? What if something else happened?”

  Derwent pushed his hat back thoughtfully. The wind ruffled his russet hair. “Say, I never thought of that. I wonder. I see what you’re thinking, all right. Maybe the two of ’em didn’t find the diamond?”

  Rogan was silent, thinking. Or maybe only one of them?

  “That would certainly be an evil thing to lie about.” Derwent scratched his long nose. “Your kin may have been thinking the wrong thing for two generations.”

  Rogan scowled. “The place to learn about this is Jakob van Buren’s mission. I want to talk to him about a few things, including Jendaya and where she could be. Dumaka said he didn’t know. He had an unpleasant look in his eyes when I asked him.”

  “Doesn’t sound a bit good to me. Maybe she’s hiding from him?”

  Was she even still alive after all these years?

  Rogan looked off toward the Matopos. “You see those distant hills?”

  “Aye, a beautiful land, Mr. Rogan. Thought so the moment I laid my eyes on it.”

  “Somewhere in those hills, there’s a secret valley and a cave—more than one, probably—that’s considered sacred. It’s a stronghold of demonic powers, with an Umlimo speaking all kinds of evil curses.”

  Derwent shook his head. “I heard all about the Umlimo. They use witchcraft—that’s what it’s all about. They seem to have certain powers, but I’m thinking Satan has his way in these parts, Mr. Rogan. It sure makes me feel good in my heart to know Jakob van Buren’s a light for truth at his mission station. And Moffat’s Kuruman, too. His son runs the station now. And I guess Jendaya is a Christian. Now, would that be enough cause for Dumaka to be angry with his sister?”