"There is Nomusa," she whispered. "Nomusa, who is more than a mother and a sister to me. Nomusa who cut the chain that held me in the slave ship--" "Put those thoughts from your mind," counselled Tanase gently. "There is no place for them now. Tell us who else is at the Mission." "There is Elizabeth, my gentle sad Lizzie, and Bobby, who I carry upon my hip." "Who else?"Tanase insisted.
"There are no others, "Juba whispered. Bazo looked at his father.
"They are yours, all of them at Khami Mission. You know what must be done." Gandang nodded, and Bazo turned back to his mother. "Tell me, sweet little Mother." His voice sank to a soothing rumble. "Tell me about Bakela, the Fist, and his woman. What news do you have of him?" "Last week he was in the big house at King's Lynn, he and Balela, the One who brings Clear and Sunny Skies." Bazo turned to one of the other indunas who sat in the rank behind Gandang.
"Suku!" The and una rose on one knee. "Babo?" he asked.
"Bakela is yours, and his woman," Bazo told him. "And when you have done that work, go on to Hartley Hills and take the miners there, there are three men, and a woman with four whelps." "Nkosi Nkulu," the and una acknowledged the order, and no one queried or demurred when he called Bazo, "Nkosi Nkulu! King!" "Little Mother, where is Henshaw and his woman, who is the daughter of Nomusa?" "Nomusa had a letter from her, three days ago. She is at the railhead, she and the boy. She carries an infant, which will be born about the time of the Chauula festival. She wrote of her great joy and happiness." "And Henshaw?"
Bazo asked patiently. "What of Henshaw?" "In the letter she said he was with her, the source of her happiness. He may still be with her."
"They are mine," Bazo said.. "They and the five white men who are at the railhead. Afterwards we will sweep up the wagon road and take the two men and the woman and three children at Antelope Mine." He went on quietly allocating a task to each of his commanders, each farm and lonely mine was given to one of them with a recount al of the victims to be expected there, the telegraph lines were to be cut, the native police were to be executed, the drifts were to be guarded, all the wagon roads had to be swept for travellers, firearms collected, and livestock carried off and hidden. When he had finished, he turned to the women.
"Tanase, you will see to it that all our own women and children go into the ancient place of sanctuary, you yourself will lead them into the sacred hills of the Matopos. You will make certain that they stay in small groups, each well separated from the others, and the mujiba, the young boys not yet initiated, will watch from the hilltops against the coming of the white men. The women will have the potions and the muti ready for those of our men who are wounded." "Nkosi Nkulu," said Tanase after each instruction, and she watched his face, trying not to let her pride and her wild exultation show. "King!" she called him, as the other indunas had done.
Then the telling of it was over, and they waited for one thing more. The silence in the hut was strained and intense, the white of eyes gleaming in faces of polished ebony, as they waited, and at last Bazo spoke.
"By tradition, on the night of the Chaw aLa moon, the sons and daughters of Mashobane, of Mzilikazi, and of Lobengula, should celebrate the Festival of the First Fruits. This season there will be no cobs of corn to reap, for the locusts have reaped them for us. This season there will be no black bull for the young warriors to kill with their bare hands, for the rinderpest has done their work for them."
Bazo slowly looked about the circle of their faces.
"So on the night of this Chawala moon, let it begin. Let the storm rage. Let the eyes turn red. Let the young men of Matabele run!" "Jee!" hummed Suku in the second rank of indunas, and "Jee!" old Babiaan took up the war chant, and then they were all swaying together with their throats straining and their eyes bulging redly in the firelight with the divine fighting madness coming down upon them.
The ammunition was the most time-consuming of the stores to handle, and Ralph was limited to twenty trusted men to do the work for him.
There were 10,000 rounds in each iron case, with the W.D. and arrow impressed upon its lid. They were secured with a simple clip that could be knocked open with a rifle butt. The British army always learned its lesson the hard way. They had learned this one at isandhlwana, the Hill of the Little Hand, on the frontier of Zululand when Lord Chelmsford left 1,000 men at his base camp, while he took a flying column to bring the Zulu indunas to battle. Avoiding contact with the column, the indunas doubled back and stormed the base camp.
Only when the swarming imp is broke through the perimeter did the quartermasters realize that Chelmsford had taken the keys for the ammunition chests with him. Isazi, Ralph's little Zulu driver, had given him an eye-witness account of the end.
"They were tearing at the boxes with axes, with bayonets and with their bare hands. They were swearing and screaming with rage and chagrin when we brought the assegais to them, and at the last they tried to defend themselves with their empty rifles." Isazi's eyes had gone misty with the memory, the way an old man recalls a lost love. "I tell you, little Hawk, they were brave men and it was a beautiful stabbing." Nobody could be certain how many Englishmen had died at the Little Hand, for it was almost a year before Chelmsford retook the field, but it was one of the most terrible disasters of British military history, and immediately after it the War Office redesigned their ammunition chests.
Now the fact that the.303 ammunition was packed in these WD chests was some indication of how deep was the understanding between Mr. Rhodes and the colonial secretary in Whitehall. However, the bulk packets had to be broken down and repacked in waxed paper. One hundred rounds to the packet, then these had to be soldered into tin sheets before going into the oil drums. It was an onerous task and Ralph was pleased to escape for a few hours from the workshops of the De Beers Consolidated Mines Company where it was being done.
Aaron Fagan was waiting for him in his office, with his coat on and his Derby hat in his hand.
"You are becoming a secretive fellow, Ralph," he accused.
"Couldn't you have given me some idea of what you expect?" "You will learn that soon enough," Ralph promised, and put a cheroot between his lips. "All I want to know from you is that this fellow is trustworthy, and discreet." "He is the eldest son of my own sister," Aaron bridled, and Ralph struck a Vesta to the end of the cheroot to calm him.
"That is all very well, but can he keep his mouth shut?" "I will stake my life on it." "You may have to," Ralph told him drily. "Well, let us go to visit this paragon." David Silver was a plump young man with a pink scrubbed complexion, gold-rimmed pince-nez and his hair glossy with brilliantine and parted down the centre so that his scalp gleamed in the division like the scar of a sword cut He deferred courteously to his Uncle Aaron, and went to pains to make certain that both his guests were comfortable, that their chairs were arranged with the light from the windows falling from behind and that each of them had an ashtray beside him and a cup of tea in his hand.
"It's orange pekoe, he pointed out modestly, as he settled beside his desk. Then he placed his fingertips together, pursed his lips primly and looked expectantly at Ralph.
While Ralph briefly explained his requirements, he nodded his head brightly and made little sucking sounds of encouragement.
"Mr. Ballantyne - "he kept nodding like a mandarin doll when Ralph had finished' that is what we stockbrokers " he spread his hand deprecatingly, -"in our jargon call a "bear position" or "selling short". It is quite a commonplace transaction." Aaron Fagan squirmed a little in his chair, and glanced apologetically at Ralph. "David, I think Mr. Ballantyne knows-" "No, no," Ralph raised a hand to Aaron."please let Mr. Silver continue. I am sure his discourse will be enlightening." His expression was solemn, but his eyes twinkled with amusement. The irony was lost on David Silver and he accepted Ralph's invitation.
"It is an entirely short-term speculative contract. I always make a point of mentioning this to any of my clients who contemplate entering into one. To be entirely truthful, Mr. Ballantyne, I do not a
pprove of this speculation. I always feel that the stock exchange is a venue for legitimate investment, a market where capital can meet and mate with legitimate enterprise. It should not have been made into a bookmakers" turf where sportsmen bet on dark horses." "That is a very noble thought," Ralph agreed.
"I am glad you see it that way." David Silver puffed out his cheeks pompously. "However, to return to the operation of selling shares short. The client enters the market and offers to sell shares of a specified company which he does not possess, at a price below the current market price, for delivery at some future date, usually one to three months ahead." "Yes," Ralph nodded solemnly. "I think I follow so far." "Naturally, the expectation of the bear operator is that the shares will fall considerably in value before he is obliged to deliver them to the purchaser. From his point of view the larger the fall in value the greater will be his profit." "Ah!"said Ralph. "An easy way to make money." "On the other hand" David Silver's plump features became stern. - "should the shares rise in value the bear operator will incur considerable losses. He will be forced to re-enter the market and buy shares at the inflated prices to make good his delivery to the purchaser, and naturally he will be paid only the previously agreed price." "Naturally!" "Now you can see why I try to discourage my clients from engaging in these dealings." "Your uncle assured me that you were a prudent man." David Silver looked smug. "Mr. Ballantyne, I think you should know that there is a buoyant mood in the market. I have heard it rumoured that some of the Witwatersrand companies will be reporting highly elevated profits this quarter. In my view this is the time to buy gold shares, not to sell them." "Mr. Silver, I am a terrible pessimist." "Very well." David Silver sighed with the air of a superior being inured to the intractability of the common man. "Will you tell me exactly what you have in mind, please, Mr. Ballantyne?" "I want to sell the shares of two companies short," Ralph told him. "Consolidated Goldfields and the British South Africa Company." An air of vast melancholy came over David Silver. "You have chosen the strongest companies on the board, those are Mr. Rhodes" enterprises. Did you have a figure in mind, Mr. Ballantyne? The minimum lot that can be traded is one hundred shares,-" "Two hundred thousand, "said Ralph mildly.
"Two hundred thousand pounds! "gasped David Silver.
"Shares," Ralph corrected him.
"Mr. Ballantyne." Silver had paled. "BSA is standing at twelve pounds and Consolidated at eight. If you sell two hundred thousand shares well, that is a transaction of two million pounds." "No, no! "Ralph shook his head. "You misunderstand me." "Thank the good Lord for that." A little colour flowed back into David Silver's chubby cheeks.
"I meant not two hundred thousand in total, but two hundred thousand in each company. That is four million pounds" worth altogether." David Silver sprang to his feet with such alacrity that his chair flew back against the wall with a crash, and for a moment it seemed that he might try to escape out into the street.
"But," he blubbered, "but-" And then he could think of no further protest. His pince-nez misted and his lower lip stuck out like a sulky child's.
"Sit down," Ralph ordered gently, and he sank back miserably into his chair.
"I will have to ask -you to make a deposit," Silver made one last effort.
"How much will you need?" "Forty thousand pounds." Ralph opened his cheque-book on the edge of the desk, and took one of David Silver's pens from the rack. The squeak of the nib was the only sound in the hot little office, until Ralph sat back and fanned the cheque to dry the ink.
"There is just one thing more," he said. "Nobody outside these four walls nobody is ever to know that I am the principal in this transaction." "You have my word." "or your testicles," Ralph warned him, as he leaned close to hand him the cheque, and though he smiled, his eyes were such a cold green that David Silver shivered, and he felt a sharp pang of anticipation in his threatened parts.
It was a typical high veld Boer homestead set on a rocky ridge above an undulating treeless plain of silver grass. The roof was of galvanized corrugated iron which had begun to rust through in patches. The house was surrounded by wide verandas, and the whitewash was discoloured and flaking from the wall. There was a windmill on a skeletal tower behind the house. The vanes blurred against the pale cloudless sky, spinning in the dry dusty wind, and at each weary crank of the plunger, a cupful of cloudy green water spilled into the circular concrete cistern beside the kitchen door.
There was no attempt at a garden or lawn. A dozen scrawny speckled fowls scratched at the bare baked earth, or perched disconsolately on the derelict Cape wagon and the other ruined equipment that always seemed to ornament the yard of every Boer homestead. On the side of the prevailing wind stood a tall Australian eucalyptus tree with the old bark hanging in tatters from the silver trunk like the skin of a moulting serpent. In its scant shade were tethered eight sturdy brown ponies.
As Ralph dismounted below the veranda, a pack of mongrel hounds came snapping and snarling about his boots, and he scattered them yelping and howling with a few kicks and a hissing cut from his hippo-hide sjambok.
"U is laat , meneer." A man had come out onto the veranda. He was in shirtsleeves with braces holding up the baggy brown trousers that left his bare ankles exposed. On his feet, he wore rawhide velskoen without socks.
"Jammer," Ralph apologized for being late. Using the simplified form of Dutch, which the Boer called the taal, the language.
The man held the door open for Ralph and he stooped through it into the windowless living-room. It smelled of stale smoke and dead ash from the open fireplace. The floor was covered with rush mats and animal-skins. There was a single table down the centre of the room, of heavy crudely fashioned dark wood. There was a single hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace, an embroidered copy of the ten commandments in High Dutch script. The only book in the room lay open on the bare table-top. It was an enormous Dutch Bible with leather cover and bindings of brass.
On leather-thonged chairs, eight men sat down the length of both sides of the table. They all looked up at Ralph as he entered. There was not a man amongst them younger than fifty years old, for the Boers valued experience and acquired wisdom in their leaders. Most of them were bearded and all of them wore rough hard-worn clothing, and were solemn and unsmiling. The man who had greeted Ralph followed him in and silently indicated an empty chair. Ralph sat down and every shaggy bearded head turned away from him towards the figure at the end of the table.
He was the biggest man in the room, monumentally ugly, as a bulldog or one of the great anthropoids is ugly. His beard was a grey scraggly fringe, but his upper lip was shaven. His face hung in folds and bags, the skin was darkly burned by ten thousand fierce African suns, and it was lumped and stained with warts and with the speckles of benign skin cancer, like the foxing on the pages of a very old book.
One eyelid drooped to give him a crafty suspicious expression. His toffee-brown eyes had also been affected by the white sun glare of Africa, and by the scouring dust of the hunting veld and the battlefield, so they were now perpetually bloodshot, sore and inflamed-looking. His people called him Oom Paul, Uncle Paul, and held him in only slightly less veneration than they did their Old Testament God.
Paul Kruger began to read aloud again from the open Bible before him. He read slowly, followed the text with his finger. The thumb was missing from his hand. It had been blown off by a bursting gunbarrel thirty years before. His voice was a rumbling basso profunda.
"Nevertheless the people be strong that dwell in the land, and the cities are walled and very great. and moreover we saw the children of the Anak there... And Caleb stilled the people, and said. Let us go up at once and possess it, for we are well able to overcome it." Ralph watched him intently, studying the huge slumped body, the shoulders so wide that the ugly head seemed to perch upon them like a bedraggled bird on a mountaintop, and he thought of the legend that surrounded this strange man.
Paul Kruger had been nine years old when his father and uncles had packed their w
agons and gathered their herds and trekked northwards, away from British rule, driven on by the memory of their folk heroes hanged at Slachters Nek by the Redcoats. The Krugers trekked from the injustice of having their slaves turned free, from the English black circuit courts, from judges who did not speak their language, from taxes levied on land that was theirs and from the foreign troops who seized their beloved herds to pay those taxes.
The year had been 1835 and on that hard trek Paul Kruger became a man at an age when most boys are still playing with kites and marbles.
Each day he was given a single bullet and a charge of powder and sent out to provide meat for the family. If he failed to bring back a buck, his father beat him. He became, by necessity, an expert marksman. it was one of his duties to scout ahead for water and good grazing, and to lead the caravan to it. He became a skilled horseman and developed an almost mystical affinity for the veld, and the herds of fat-tailed sheep and multi-hued cattle that were. his family's wealth. Like a Matabele mujiba, he knew every beast by name, and could pick out an ailing animal from the herd at a mile distant.
Wilbur Smith - B3 The Angels Weep Page 29