by Frank Harris
Rhodes, you could not want that!"
"Krueger would have given in," he said.
"You know better," I cried, "you know Krueger would never give in and his Boers would back him to the last."
"Evidently you know South Africa better than I do," was his final fling.
"I am appealing," I said, "to Rhodes sober, the Rhodes I knew years ago, who taught me a good deal about South Africa and the Boer stubbornness."
"Well," he said smiling, "the end is not yet; don't condemn me before the end."
To that I nodded my head.
This talk was only preliminary; I wanted to know Rhodes better: his real view of life and what he wanted to do in it. At length, one evening, I came to an understanding of his peculiar view of the world.
He had already spoken to me of Ruskin, who had influenced him profoundly through a lecture at Oxford; and he had come to believe that the Darwinian theory of evolution was the most probable explanation of the world, that it is the law of some supreme being, rather than the result of blind forces. God, he thought, was obviously trying to produce a type of humanity the best fitted to bring peace, liberty, and justice into the world, and thus make, as Heine said, "A Kingdom of God on this earth." One race to him seemed to approach God's ideal type-his own, the Anglo-Saxon. He knew no language but English, and that only imperfectly, and so was easily convinced of the superiority of the Anglo-Saxon character. God's purpose, to him, was to make the Anglo-Saxon race predominant.
As an ideal, it seemed to me grotesque. The races of the world to me were like flowers in a garden, and I would cherish every variety for its own especial excellence; far from being too numerous, they were not numerous enough, and there was not enough variety. The French seemed to be dropping into the second class, according to the judgment of force and numbers, but how could humanity afford to lose the French ideal of life? The French had done more for abstract justice in their social relations and more, too, for the ideal in art than any other race; we couldn't afford to lose the French. Yet, there are only forty millions of French people, whereas there are already nearly two hundred millions of Anglo-Saxons, and soon there will be a thousand millions, and yet what mistakes they make! Would not the consciousness of power make them increasingly intolerant?
I couldn't influence Rhodes; he talked to me repeatedly of Bartle Frere's idea: the English should possess Africa from the Cape to Cairo. "They already own more than one-half of the Temperate Zone," I said; "isn't that enough for them? And they don't know how to use it."
Still, I had already come to see that the vast central plateau of Africa from the Cape to Cairo was the most magnificent possession in the world, finer far than even the North American colonies that England had thrown away. Was it the chance of insular position, or really some superiority in the race, that had given one empire after the other into their possession? On the surface, it was merely the greed of the aristocratic English class to get ever more land into their power. But their continual extraordinary growth perhaps shows some spiritual ascendency. I should like to believe it, though I later found certain special virtues in the attempts at German colonization.
One day at dinner I ventured on a jest which distressed Rhodes dreadfully. I said I could understand God, in His youth, falling in love with the Jews, an extremely attractive race, but in His old age to fall in love with the Anglo- Saxon was a proof of senility that I could hardly forgive Him. Rhodes cried out at once: "You say things, Harris, that hurt."
"I would like to shock your idolatry of the English," I cried; "fancy the race that loves commerce and wealth more than any other and yet refuses for a century to adopt the metric system in weights and measures and coinage!
Harold Frederic used always to talk of the stupid Britons.
"The masters of the world," Rhodes retorted.
"Nonsense," I replied. "The Americans are already far stronger and more reasonable."
We parted friends but disagreed profoundly.
Rhodes was completely uneducated, ignorant, indeed, to a degree that was painful; an almost blind force from which as much might be feared as hoped.
Yet perhaps of his want of education, he was in most intimate sympathy with the intense patriotism and imperial ideas of the English governing class, and he was rich enough to advance his views in a hundred ways; money, to him, was chiefly a means to an end.
After much talk with Sivewright, I called on Jan Hofmeyr, who greeted me with the old kindness. "Very glad you've come out," he said; "now there's some chance of making title truth known." He did not conceal his profound disappointment with Rhodes. "Another Briton," he said, "whom we had taken for a great Afrikander," and he added, with rare prescience, "he may do worse for us yet! He's really madder than Oom Paul." We talked for hours day after day and at length, when I had to say "Goodbye," he gave me a letter to Chief Justice Kotze at Pretoria, whom he praised cordially: "He will give you pure wine to drink on almost every South African subject."
From Sivewright and Jan Hofmeyr I got the truth about the raid and then called on Sir Hercules Robinson, the Governor General. He was before all an official, and an English official at that, but he had a certain understanding of South Africa and the best South African opinion; and though he sympathized with Rhodes's imperial ambitions, he would never defend such an outrage as the raid.
He seemed to have aged a good deal in the three or four years since I had seen him in London. I noticed signs of nervousness in him that I had not expected. He astonished me almost at once by saying: "We are still friends, are we not?"
"Of course; always," I replied warmly.
"People have been saying," he went on, "that you were sent out by Chamberlain, but that can hardly be true. He would surely have let me know. Still, he is capable even of that, I suppose."
His words and tone set me marveling. But for the moment I could not occupy myself with his opinion of Chamberlain. I noted that he was a good deal irritated and left it at that.
"No," I replied, "no, I have nothing to do with Mr. Chamberlain. I imagine he would hardly be likely to send me as an agent."
"I am glad of that," said Hercules Robinson. "We can then be on the old footing, can't we?"
I nodded.
"Why didn't you come to see me at once?"
"To tell you the truth," I answered frankly, "I wanted to see Jan Hofmeyr, wanted certain information before I came. I had to get clear in my own mind about the raid and Rhodes's complicity in it, and I didn't think it would be fair to question you in your position-I, your friend."
"You have found out all you wanted to know?"
"I have found out that you were all in it," I replied, thinking the challenge would excite him. "Rhodes planned it of course, but you winked at it."
"Winked at it," he repeated hotly; "you are mistaken: it isn't true."
"Oh, no," I laughed. "I was saying, 'winked' at it to be very diplomatic and polite. You knew all about it."
"Indeed, I did not," he took me up. "What put that into your head?"
"Come," I said gravely. "Surely you won't maintain that an armed force could have lain weeks on the border without your knowing it."
"But I assure you," he said, "you are mistaken. I knew nothing of the raid."
"I should like to take your word," I persisted, "but it is impossible. I have absolute proof."
"Proof?" he cried. "That's impossible. You must explain: you must see that your statement is-is-dishonoring. I have assured Krueger on my honor that it isn't true; he accepted my assurance, so must you."
I shook my head. "I'm afraid I can't."
"But I can explain everything," he went on. "For the first time in my experience the Colonial Office acted over my head. If you must know the whole truth, Chamberlain withdrew the political officer who was on the border; Chamberlain said he would deal with the matters connected with Jameson directly. I shrugged my shoulders, and let it pass. It was all a part, I thought, of his new method of doing business. He has his own peculia
r methods," he concluded bitterly.
New light began to drift in on me; at least a hitherto unthought of suspicion.
"But you saw Rhodes on the matter," I ventured. "He must have told you at any rate that Jameson's forces were there to bring a little pressure on Krueger; he must have talked to you about the reform agitation he had helped to get up in Johannesburg."
"I shouldn't have listened to such nonsense for a moment," cried Robinson.
"The way to get things out of Krueger is to behave straightforwardly with him."
"Rhodes got something out of him over the Drifts business by threatening war."
"That was different," Robinson admitted reluctantly. "Krueger felt he was in the wrong there. But now I hope you understand that I had no complicity in that shameful, stupid raid."
I had resolved to continue, so I persisted.
"I told you I had proofs," I replied. "You have destroyed one supposition, but the proofs remain."
"Proofs?" he said, in an anxious, irritated tone of voice. "There are none; there can't be any, Harris."
"Indubitable proofs," I repeated.
"It's impossible," he exclaimed. "Treat me like a friend. I tell you on my word of honor I knew nothing of the raid."
"I am sorry," I replied, "but if you want me to deal like a friend with you, I can only say I can't believe it."
"Good God," he cried, getting up from the desk and walking about the room.
"This is maddening. Speak plainly, lay your proofs before me, and I will undertake to demolish every one of them."
"If I show you proofs that you can't demolish," I said, "will you deal fairly by me and tell me all you really know, and what I want to know?"
"Certainly," he exclaimed. "I give you my promise; I have nothing to conceal."
"All right," I cried, "I will give you the proofs one after another. Here is the first."
Sir Hercules Robinson's face was a study in conflicting emotions as I went on.
"When you first got news on the Sunday morning that Jameson had crossed the frontier, you wired to him to return, and you wired to Krueger saying that you had ordered Jameson to return, and that the raid was not authorized by Her Majesty's Government."
"Yes," Robinson broke in sharply, "that's what I did."
"You must have expected an answer in two hours," I went on. "If not an answer from Jameson, certainly an answer from Krueger."
"Of course," replied Robinson, "and I got a reply from Krueger."
"Pardon me for contradicting you," I replied, "but you did not. You got from Krueger a mere statement that Jameson had crossed the border at a certain hour with an armed force. You must have known from that telegram that President Krueger hadn't had your telegram."
"No," replied Robinson, "I see what you mean, but we were all very much excited and nervous, and I drew no such inference. The first thing I did was to send to Rhodes to ask if he knew anything about Jameson's act. I wanted to consult with him."
"I suppose he was not to be seen?" I said.
"That's true," said Robinson. "But how did you know?"
"Easy to be guessed," I replied carelessly.
"Rhodes returned no reply to any of my messages: in fact, he wouldn't see my messengers," Robinson went on.
"But at ten o'clock," I insisted, "you had a call from Jan Hofmeyr. He asked you to send out a proclamation, a public proclamation declaring that Her Majesty's Government had nothing to do with the raid, and that you had recalled Jameson by wire. You would not do this."
"I didn't see the necessity of it," Hercules Robinson answered. "I had wired to Jameson, and I had wired to Krueger, and I considered that enough. Krueger knew that the raid was unauthorized, and that was the main point."
"But Krueger did not know it," I replied, "and you must have known that he didn't know."
"What do you mean?" cried Robinson. "I knew nothing at all of it." And then he added, as if to himself, "When I was up at Pretoria, Krueger never said that to me."
"Outsiders see most of the game," I went on. "Let us go back to that Saturday.
You have an exciting morning, but you get your lunch, and after lunch at about, I suppose, three-thirty o'clock, you get another wire from Krueger repeating his news, amplifying it, saying that Jameson had crossed the frontier with Maxim guns, and asking you what you are going to do. Now you must have known that he hadn't yet got your first telegram."
"No, I didn't know," said Robinson. "It ail passed in the hurry and excitement of the moment."
"But why didn't you duplicate your telegram to him," I asked, "saying that the raid was not authorized, and that you would order Jameson's return?"
"I did," he said.
"No, you didn't," I replied, "not at once, that is. Later that afternoon," I went on,
"or rather that evening, you got a telegram from Krueger again giving you the news, and insisting on a reply."
"You are right," Robinson broke in, "I remember now; it was that last telegram that I answered. But how did you know all this?"
"How I know doesn't matter," I replied. "The point is, I am giving you facts.
You must have taken great care that the second telegram of yours, after you had received three from Krueger, each of which showed that he had not received your first wire; I say, you must have taken extraordinary care to see that the second telegram reached him at once."
"It must have reached him in an hour," said Robinson carelessly, "just as the first must."
"You would be surprised to know," I replied, "that it didn't reach him at all that night, nor till far on in the next day. You left Krueger to his Hollander counselors for a day and a half without any word from you."
"Good God!" cried Robinson. "It can't be true; yet it would explain his attitude to me at first. But how can it be? It's absurd."
"Send and find out when your telegrams went," I urged. "You must have a book of telegrams, where times and everything are entered?"
"Of course, of course," he cried. "That is all in the hands of the Imperial Secretary, Sir Graham Bower. I will ring for him."
He rang, and when a man came, sent him to ask Sir Graham Bower to come at once. Two minutes later Sir Graham Bower appeared: an ordinary dark man, unimportant looking, smiling, I thought, a little nervously, a set smile.
"Oh! Bower," broke out Robinson, "Harris has a most extraordinary tale.
Pardon me, I must introduce you. This is Sir Graham Bower, the Imperial Secretary, and this is a friend of mine, Frank Harris, the editor of the Saturday Review whom we have talked about."
We bowed and shook hands.
"Bower," Robinson broke in again, "Harris has brought a most extraordinary story that on the Sunday morning when we got the first news of the raid, my telegram to Krueger, telling him we had wired ordering Jameson to return, and that the raid was not authorized by Her Majesty's Government, never went oft. I don't know how he knows, but that is what he says."
"No, no," I broke in. "I say that it didn't reach Pretoria that day, and not till well on in the next day."
"Nonsense," cried Robinson. "Please get the telegraph book, Bower, and prove it to Harris."
Bower turned and went out of the room, still with the same smile on his face. I felt sure then he was playing a part. I thought I had found the villain of the piece, but waited for the proof. Meanwhile Robinson and I stood together in tense expectation.
In two minutes Bower returned with a large book in his hand.
"The telegram," he said, "I find, went off at twelve-thirty."
"Twelve-thirty!" cried Robinson. "You must be mistaken. That is hours after I sent it."
"It went off in the usual way," Bower remarked, with studied carelessness.
"Usual way!" said Robinson, looking at him. "But it was of the first importance."
"There was a great deal of excitement and running to and fro," he said.
"I know, I know," said Robinson. "I sent you to Rhodes-but still, Bower- twelve-thirty."
A tho
ught came to me, and I drew the bow at a venture.
"But you have a special form," I said, "for telegrams from power to power, a special form of telegram that takes precedence over all others. Why was this telegram sent as an ordinary telegram, and not on your special form?"
I had hardly begun to speak when Bower's face changed expression. I knew I had guessed right.
"Of course it went on the proper form," cried Robinson. "There can be no doubt of it, can there, Bower? You can prove it."
I smiled. Bower said very lightly, too lightly, "I suppose so."
"But think, Bower," Robinson went on, "think what it means."
"I can't be sure. I'm not sure," replied Bower.
"Not sure," cried Robinson, turning on him, "not sure! But you can't realize what it means, man. Harris here says that we got a second telegram from Krueger in the afternoon, telling us of the raid again and asking us what we were going to do. We believed, or I believed, that my first telegram had already reached him, telling him that we disavowed the raid, and had ordered Jameson to return. Harris says that when we got that second telegram we must have known that Krueger hadn't got my first telegram; and Harris is right. I should have drawn that inference; I remember it struck me at the time as curious that Krueger should merely repeat the news. Then came Krueger's third telegram, and of course Harris insists again it must have made me see that Krueger had not received my first telegram. We answered it, and now Harris says that both these telegrams of mine, official telegrams, must have been sent as ordinary telegrams, for Krueger didn't get even the first of them in the day; Krueger got no word from us till the Monday afternoon, Harris asserts."
"I can only tell Mr. Harris," said Bower, "that the whole place was in a state of the intensest excitement. I went twice or three times to Rhodes and couldn't see him; visitors called at every moment, Hofmeyr and others, who had to be seen: everyone was running about."
"All the more reason," I said, "for sending such important telegrams on the special official forms.
"My God!" said Robinson, putting his hands to his head. "My God! That's what Krueger's cold reception of me meant."