by John Wilcox
Rhodes nodded his head slowly and removed a tureen cover. ‘Do have another egg, Fonthill. They come from my house up towards Table Mountain outside the city. I have a little farm there.’ He nodded towards the pale blue flowers arranged in a bowl on the table. ‘Plumbago. My favourites. They’re from there too.’ He ladled an egg. ‘Come along. I insist.’
Fonthill sighed and accepted the egg.
Helping himself to bacon, Rhodes nodded his head again. ‘All true, my dear fellow. All true. Incidentally, how is the king’s gout?’
Shifting uncomfortably on his chair, Simon resisted the temptation to cry, ‘Oh do get on with it,’ and carefully explained Alice’s treatment of the king and of her champagne diagnosis.
‘Quite right. Best thing is to give it up. I only drink moderately, you know. Much too much to do. Now, turning to the king’s message . . .’ He pushed his plate away from him and, turning his head, shouted, ‘Tony. Toast and marmalade, please.’ He fixed his big grey eyes on Fonthill. ‘Yes, the payment. As you can imagine, my dear fellow, it has not been exactly easy to get together the contingent parts of that. But I have done so. At least, the steamer on the Zambezi is certainly not there yet - and more of that later - but the gold, the guns and the ammunition are all now gathered together and are waiting in Kimberley to go north.’
‘I am glad to hear it, sir. Why do they not go now?’
‘Because, Fonthill, I am waiting for you to lead the expedition to take them to Bulawayo. It will not be an easy journey - particularly in view of what you tell me of de Sousa and his behaviour, although I had already had some indication of the man’s determination to undo my treaty. No. It needs a person of great resource and qualities of leadership, with knowledge of the country, and yes, someone I could trust. My dear fellow, you would do me a great service if you could take this precious cargo to Lobengula and secure from him his confirmation that he will accept a party of my people, who will march north to Mashonaland to develop the land. I had heard you were somewhere in South Africa, and knowing of the fine reputation you have earned since last we met, I have waited until we could meet here and I could explain to you my plans and beseech your help.’
Fonthill’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, sir, you certainly flatter me. But I don’t know . . .’
Rhodes silenced him by raising his hand and standing. ‘Let me first of all fill in some all-important details. Do come over here, there’s a good fellow.’ And then, over his shoulder: ‘Tony, where’s the toast and marmalade? Stir yourself, lad.’
They moved to a large table set against the panelled wall and covered with documents. Selecting one of them, Rhodes untied the red tape that bound it and smoothed it flat with his hand. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘One of the three original copies of the treaty of friendship that I persuaded the British Government to enter into with Lobengula last year. This is important because it precludes the making of any other treaty or ceding of land with any other foreign power. Got it?’
Fonthill smiled as he remembered from their first meeting the staccato questions that so often ended Rhodes’s statements. He nodded. ‘Got it.’
‘Good. Now.’ Rhodes threw aside the document and unrolled another one of similar size. ‘Here’s the treaty the king signed with me. Look, see, there’s Lobengula’s cross and his great elephant seal. It gives me, as you say, the right to prospect and dig for minerals on his land.’
‘Quite so, sir. But has the British Colonial Office seen this and approved it? If so, I am a bit surprised that it was happy to arm the Matabele with rifles. You know that these people are fierce warriors, and I understand that a law was passed here some years ago prohibiting the provision of arms to the natives.’
Rhodes threw back his head. ‘Ah, that only applied to the Basutos. And don’t worry about the Imperials back home. The deal was done before they’d adjusted their pince-nez and I got them to rubber-stamp it, though they looked down their noses at it a bit. These rifles won’t make the Matabele an armed force, because there’s no one to train ’em to use ’em. But Lobengula wants them to frighten the Boers, who are his main worry in terms of invasion, and they will probably do that, which also helps our cause, y’see. Old Kruger in the Transvaal would love to get his hands on Matabeleland and Mashonaland, and these guns and this document will stop him, or at least make him pause, because the treaty has legal viability.’
Fonthill gave a half-smile. ‘But not, of course, if Lobengula renounces it on the grounds that you have not carried out your side of the bargain.’
‘Exactly. By Gad, Fonthill, that’s where I need you. And not just in terms of delivering the cash and the hardware, although that’s vital.’ Rhodes seized Simon by the shoulder. ‘There’s two other vital things that I want you to do for me and your country. Firstly, I want you to get the king’s permission to allow a column of my men to go through Matabeleland - in fact, I intend to skirt it more or less, but that’s a detail - to Mashonaland to start prospecting . . .’
‘Is there gold or silver there?’
‘There may be, but it’s important to get men on the land up there. Once they are there, nobody will get ’em off. Occupation is the thing. Got it?’
‘Yes, but what’s the point of occupying the land? What do you want the men there for, if not to dig for minerals?’
Rhodes pulled from the table a map of South Africa, extending from the tip of the Cape to the great lakes north of Mashonaland. ‘A road to the north, and homes, my dear Fonthill, homes. Mainly for the British, but I don’t mind providing for the Cape Afrikaners too, if they want to go north - although not those dull Boers of Kruger’s in the Transvaal.’ He spread his hand across the northern part of the map. ‘I would like to see all of that red.’
He began to pace the room and his eyes took on a gleam that Fonthill again recalled from their first meeting. ‘I contend, old chap, that we are the first race in the world, and that the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race. I contend that every acre added to our territory provides for the birth of more of the English race who otherwise would not be brought into existence.’ He stopped abruptly and stared sharply at Simon.
‘You’ve fought in more wars than I have been near to. Do you favour wars, Fonthill? Do they serve their purpose, despite the cost?’
‘Absolutely not, sir . . . well, not most of the time.’
‘Absolutely right, my boy. I quite agree. The absorption of the greater portion of the world under our rule simply means the end of all wars. A road and homes, Fonthill, a road and homes. Not more wars.’ He walked back to Simon, and his messianic tone left him for a moment. ‘Do you know, I believe that every man has his price. At this moment in Bulawayo, as you know, there is a veritable foreign legion trying to bribe Lobengula to renege on his treaty with me, including your nasty Portuguese piece of work. Ah. Thank goodness. Here’s the toast and marmalade at last.’
Fonthill tried another tack. ‘Lobengula seemed rather perturbed that you hadn’t been to his kraal to negotiate directly with him. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to talk to him personally? Every man has his price, as you know.’
‘Can’t get away.’ Rhodes shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just can’t do it. I am the only man who can drive these company purchases on and I have to be here to do it. And I also have to be in the Cape Parliament.’ He dropped his voice and growled. ‘Something coming up there that will involve me. No. Just can’t get away. I need you. Come and have some toast. Marmalade’s made on my land too.’
Fonthill smiled slowly. The sheer energy, drive and brutal honesty of Rhodes appealed to him, he had to admit. It was like being in the presence of a charming steamroller. He joined his host back at the table and buttered some toast, as much to gain time to think as to satisfy a hunger long since sated.
‘Rhodes,’ he began, ‘you mentioned that my task would not just be delivering the rifles and persuading Lobengula to confirm the treaty. There was something else . . . ?’
‘Indeed.�
� Rhodes, his mouth already half full, inserted another piece of toast and marmalade under his moustache. ‘Look.’ And again he was on his feet, walking to the map on the table. ‘See here.’
He stabbed a finger on to where Mashonaland was marked, rather indistinctly. ‘Once my pioneers are there, it will take time for them to develop the land to feed themselves, so every damned thing,’ he paused to wipe his moustache with a finger, which he then put into his mouth to remove an errant fragment of marmalade, ‘will have to be carried overland, probably from the Cape, as near as dammit over a thousand miles. I must find a path to the sea, to the east, so that I can supply them that way. If the Portuguese would let me, we could perhaps do it by steamer up the Zambezi, but they control the river mouth and I don’t see the blighters letting me go that way into country they claim as their own. And I am not even sure that the Zambezi is navigable that far to the west - which is another reason, of course, why Lobengula has not had his damned steamer, although I did promise him five hundred pounds to compensate him if I couldn’t manage it.’
‘So . . . ?’
‘So, when you have settled things with the king, I would like you to explore to the east. Find a way through to the coast there, see if the tribes are friendly, then come back and meet up with the pioneer column that I intend to send off as soon as I hear from you that Lobengula has given his consent.’
‘I see. I have to say, Rhodes, that that is quite an undertaking. ’
Rhodes fixed Fonthill with his protuberant grey eyes and spoke earnestly. ‘Indeed it is, but I know that you can do it, Fonthill. You were undoubtedly one of the finest scouts ever used by the British Army. You would be instrumental in opening up this vital route to the north, in extending this remarkable empire of ours and spreading the beneficial rule of the British to that huge unclaimed interior, the great plateau of the continent, stretching from the north of the Transvaal up to the equatorial lakes and then the Sudan. Think of it, Fonthill, cool under the equator, good farming land, a country for white men.’
Rhodes’s eyes were now ablaze. ‘Up in the north there is something to make up to England for the loss of the American states. He who holds the north holds the balance of the map. The north is the trump card, the key position, the bulk of the shares. If Kruger gets the north, he holds a solid block of claims from the Orange river to the Zambezi. If he gets the gold of Witwatersrand, he could build his Delagoa Bay railway, which would make him independent of the British in South Africa.’
He made a dismissive gesture with his arm. ‘I don’t want gold. But I want the promise of it to lure people in and occupy the land. Remember what the great East India Company did? In India there was trade to bring people in. Here it could be gold. If the north was occupied by a British company, it must then become a British colony. The north would be in British hands, and one might therefore federate South Africa on British lines.’
In his head, Simon heard again the words of Lamb: ‘Dominion status is just around the corner . . .’ but Rhodes was continuing.
‘This would be a wonderful opportunity, my dear fellow, to make your mark on history. You would virtually be treading in the footsteps of Livingstone and Stanley - opening up a vast territory.’ Then suddenly the visionary disappeared and the pragmatic man of business replaced him: ‘And of course you will be paid: ten pounds sterling for every day you are away and three thousand acres of good farming land in Mashonaland.’
Fonthill’s mind raced. The task would be prodigious. Hauling the guns and the ammunition to Bulawayo would be daunting enough, especially with Gouela lurking on the edges of the expedition. But exploring a route to the sea, through - what sort of terrain? Probably jungle and swamp. He had heard that the country to the east of Matabeleland was a breeding ground for the tsetse fly and goodness knows what else, and of course it was probably all claimed by Portugal anyway. What on earth would Alice say? He looked closely at Rhodes. The man’s eyes were still alight with his vision of developing the whole of southern Africa for the British and spreading the enlightenment of the Empire. Was he mad? Merely a fanatic aiming to stretch personal power further from his base here in the Cape? Or was he a man of his time, perhaps even ahead of his time, a genuine visionary who would bring a balanced rule to vast territories under the sway of barbarians? Simon remembered his own embarrassment at being formally introduced to Rhodes’s black servant, and the man shaking his hand is a gesture of equality. Well, Rhodes was clearly no conventional, black-hating white colonist. A liberal? Perhaps in some ways, and yet in others he was a prototypical exploiter of land and people. Whatever he was, he was undoubtedly different. No wonder he was treated with suspicion in Westminster and Whitehall. The politicians and the diplomats in London would almost certainly see him as some sort of rogue elephant crashing through the undergrowth of southern Africa-a wild and rich entrepreneur who could do harm but perhaps some good, as long as he was kept on a leash. Yes, a leash. Had the British Government already slipped some sort of harness around him?
Fonthill cleared his throat. ‘Well, sir, I must confess that it all sounds fascinating. But let me tell you now that if I did agree, I would not wish to be paid. I have private means, and I would wish to preserve my independence - although I would expect you to meet all reasonable expenses, and I must add that the land grant could interest me.’ His thoughts turned quickly to General Lamb’s injunction. Would Rhodes rush into Matabeleland with all guns blazing? ‘However,’ he went on, ‘I am anxious to know under what authority you would mount what would seem to be virtually an invasion of Lobengula’s land.’
‘Yes. A fair question. Here, look at this.’ Rhodes returned to the table and picked up yet another sheaf of documents. ‘I would not be marching into the king’s land,’ he said. ‘A pioneer column would be entering Matabeleland under a charter-a royal charter - signed by the Queen herself, allowing the British South Africa Company, my company, to do so under the terms of my original agreement with Lobengula.’ He waved the document. ‘This is the charter. Once it has the Queen’s signature - and I am informed reliably from London that it will be forthcoming very soon - the chartered company can make treaties, promulgate laws, preserve the peace, maintain a police force and acquire new concessions. Here, read it if you like.’
He thrust the document forward, but Fonthill shook his head. ‘I will take your word for it, Rhodes,’ he said.
‘Very well. These powers are wide-ranging.’ Rhodes resumed pacing around the room. ‘We can make roads, railways and harbours,’ he went on, ‘or undertake other public works; own or charter ships; engage in mining or any other industry; make land grants; establish banks and carry on lawful commerce, trade and business. In fact, my dear fellow, this gives me all I want, virtually the panoply of a modern state under British law.’
Fonthill frowned. ‘But does British law apply to Matabeleland?’
‘Given that I have the king’s original agreement, it does. We are a British company, answering to British courts if there is a contravention in any way.’
The frown stayed on Fonthill’s forehead. This didn’t sound a very effective leash. ‘Are there no restrictive clauses?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, usual sort of stuff. Freedom of worship and protection of native rights, of course - the Aborigines’ Protection Society have a strong lobby in Westminster. But I don’t mind that. I wouldn’t dream of exploiting Kaffirs. As I’ve said, on the whole they are fine people. The Secretary of State for the Colonies has limited rights of supervision, and after twenty-five years, or sooner if the company abuses its privileges, the charter can be revoked. No, Fonthill, once Her Majesty has signed this piece of paper - and she will, I am assured - it will give me all I want. And it will be legally and morally watertight.’
Rhodes replaced the document and extended his arm expansively. ‘The capital of the new company will be fixed at one million pounds in one-pound shares. I can tell you now that subscribers will pour in.’ He smiled. ‘But, my dear fellow, it all depends upo
n you. Lobengula has given me the right to develop the land, yet I must have his permission - however informally - to enter it with my men and start road-building. I need you to get it for me.’
Fonthill nodded slowly but did not speak. The silence seemed to present itself as a challenge to Rhodes. He spoke again, but softly this time. ‘My greatest worry, Fonthill, is the Portuguese. Oh, the Boers of the Transvaal are anxious to move in, and they hate us after Majuba. Lobengula is afraid of ’em and detests ’em, so I doubt if he will listen to them. But the Portuguese are on the spot and have always claimed suzerainty over Matabeleland. De Sousa, the man who tried to kill you, will probably be pouring poison into the king’s ear this very moment. Once the king has accepted the rifles and ammunition, though, and given you his word, I am sure that the old buster will not go back on it. I don’t want the Portuguese to have this country, Fonthill, and the Matabeles will not be able to keep it for themselves. Better me than de Sousa. Don’t you agree?’
Simon cleared his throat. ‘Would you . . . er . . . attack the Matabele?’
‘Of course not. Not unless I was unreasonably provoked.’