by Wilbur Smith
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘The hotel is full.’
‘Who is in the Blue Diamond suite?’ Ralph asked affably.
‘Sir Randolph Charles,’ the clerk’s voice was filled with reverence.
‘Get him out,’ said Ralph.
‘I beg your pardon?’ the clerk reared back, and his expression was frosty. Ralph reached across the desk, and took him by his watered silk cravat, and drew him closer.
‘Get him out of my suite,’ Ralph repeated, his lips an inch from the man’s ear. ‘Quickly!’
It was at that moment that the day clerk came into the reception office.
‘Mr Ballantyne,’ he cried with a mixture of alarm and feigned pleasure as he rushed to the rescue of his colleague. ‘Your permanent suite will be ready in a minute.’ Then he hissed in the night clerk’s other ear. ‘Clear that suite immediately, or he’ll do it for you.’
The Blue Diamond had one of the very few bathrooms in Kimberley with laid-on hot water. Two black servants stoked the boiler outside the window to keep steam whistling from the valve while Ralph lay chin-deep and adjusted a trickle of scalding water with his big toe on the tap. At the same time he shaved his jaws with a straight razor, working by touch and scorning the mirror. The day clerk had supervised the removal of Ralph’s steamer trunk from the box-room, and hovered over the valets as they pressed the suits and tried to improve upon the perfect shine of the boots that they unpacked from the trunk.
At five minutes before noon, Ralph, smelling of brilliantine and eau de Cologne, marched into Aaron Fagan’s office. Aaron was a thin stooped man, with threadbare hair brushed straight back from a deep intellectual forehead. His nose was beaked, his mouth full and sensitive and his sloe-eyes aware and bright.
He played a cruel game of kalabriasz, giving no quarter, and yet there was a compassionate streak in his nature which Ralph valued as highly as any of his other qualities. If he had known what Ralph intended at this moment, he would have tried to dissuade him, but after having put the case against it, he would then have gone ahead and drawn up a contract as mercilessly as he would have elevated his jasz and menel for a winning coup at kalabriasz.
Ralph didn’t have time to argue ethics with him now, so as they embraced and patted each other’s shoulder-blades affectionately, he forestalled the question by asking: ‘Are they here?’ and then pushing open the door to the inner office.
Roelof and Doel Zeederberg did not rise as he entered and neither they nor Ralph made any attempt to shake hands. They had clashed viciously, but indecisively, on too many occasions.
‘So, Ballantyne, you want to waste our time again?’ Roelof’s accent was still thick with his Swedish ancestry, but under his pale ginger brows, his eyes were quick with interest.
‘My dear Roelof,’ Ralph protested, ‘I would never do that. All I want is that we should resolve this tariff on the new Matabeleland route before we put each other out of business.’
‘Ja!’ Doel agreed sarcastically. ‘That’s a good thought, like my mother-in-law should love me.’
‘We are willing to listen, for a few minutes anyway.’ Roelof’s tone was casual, but his interest was quicker still.
‘One of us should buy the other out, and set his own tariffs,’ said Ralph blandly, and the brothers glanced at each other involuntarily. Roelof made a fuss of relighting his dead cigar to hide his astonishment.
‘You are asking yourselves why?’ Ralph said. ‘You want to know why Ralph Ballantyne wants to sell out.’ Neither brother denied it; they waited quietly as vultures in the tree-tops.
‘The truth is this, I have over-extended myself in Mata-beleland. The Harkness Mine—’
The lines of tension around Roelof’s mouth smoothed out. They had heard about the mine, the talk on the Johannesburg stock exchange floor was that it would cost £50,000 to bring it into production.
‘I am behind on the railway contract for Mr Rhodes,’ Ralph went on quietly and seriously. ‘I need cash.’
‘You had a figure in mind?’ Roelof asked, and took a puff on the cigar.
Ralph nodded and gave it to him, and Roelof choked on his smoke. His brother pounded him between his shoulders until he regained his breath, and then Roelof chuckled and shook his head.
‘Ja,’ he said. ‘That’s good. That’s a very good one.’
‘It looks as though you were right,’ Ralph agreed. ‘I am wasting your time.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘Sit down.’ Roelof stopped laughing. ‘Sit down and let’s talk,’ he said briskly, and by the following noon Aaron Fagan had drawn up the contract in his own hand.
It was very simple. The purchasers accepted the attached statement of assets as complete and correct. They agreed to take over all existing contracts of carriage and the responsibility of all goods at present in transit. The seller gave no guarantees. The purchase price was in cash, no share transfers were involved, and the effective date was that of the signatures – walk out, walk in.
They signed in the presence of their attorneys, and then both parties, accompanied by their legal counsellors, crossed the street to the main branch of the Dominion Colonial and Overseas Bank where the cheque of Zeederberg Bros was presented and duly honoured by the manager. Ralph swept the bundles of five-pound notes into his carpet bag, tipped his hat to the brothers Zeederberg.
‘Good luck to you, gentlemen,’ and then he took Aaron Fagan’s arm and led him in the direction of Diamond Lil’s Hotel.
Roelof Zeederberg massaged the bald spot on his crown. ‘I suddenly have this strange feeling,’ he murmured uneasily as he watched them go.
The next morning, Ralph left Aaron Fagan at the door of his office.
‘You’ll be hearing from the good brothers Zeederberg again sooner than you expect,’ he warned him affably. ‘Try not to bother me with their accusations, there’s a good fellow.’ He sauntered away across the Market Square, leaving Aaron staring after him thoughtfully.
Ralph’s progress was slow, half a dozen acquaintances stopped him to enquire solicitously after his health, and then seek confirmation of the sale of his transport company, or to find out if he intended making a public issue of Harkness Mine shares.
‘Give me a nod when you decide, Ralph.’
‘Any help I can give, it will be my pleasure, Mr Ballantyne.’
Rumours of the ‘payable’ values of the Harkness ore put it as high as sixty ounces to the ton, and everybody he met wanted to be let in, so it took him almost an hour to cover the five hundred yards to the offices of the De Beers Consolidated Mines Company.
It was a magnificent edifice, a temple dedicated to the worship of diamonds. The open balconies on all three floors were laced with white grilles of delicate ironwork, the walls were of redbrick with corners picked out in worked stone blocks, the windows were of stained glass and the doors were oiled teak with polished brass fittings.
Ralph signed his name in the visitors’ book and a uniformed janitor with white gloves led him up the spiral staircase to the top floor. There was a brass plate on the teak door, a name only, with no title to accompany it: ‘Mr Jordan Ballantyne’. But the grandeur of the office beyond the door gave some indication of Jordan’s importance in the hierarchy of De Beers Diamond Company.
The double windows looked out over the Kimberley mine; the excavation was almost a mile across, and it was impossible even from this height to see into its depth. It seemed as though a meteor had struck and ploughed this crater through the earth’s crust. Each day saw it driven deeper and deeper still, as the miners followed the fabulous cone of blue kimberlite conglomerate downwards. Already that hole had delivered up almost ten million carats of fine diamonds, and Mr Rhodes’ Company owned it all.
Ralph merely glanced once at this view of the pit in which he had spent most of his youth grovelling and scratching for the elusive stones, and then he surveyed the room appraisingly. The panelling was of seasoned oak, the intricate carving worked by craftsmen, the carpets
over the floor were silk Qum, and the books in the shelves were matching sets bound in morocco and stamped in gold leaf.
There was the sound of running water from the open door of the bathroom, and a voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
Ralph spun his hat onto the stand, and turned to face the door as Jordan came through it. He was in his shirtsleeves with protectors over his cuffs, his shirt was the finest Irish linen and the cravat under his stock was watered silk. He was drying his hands on a monogrammed towel, but he froze when he saw Ralph, then he threw the towel aside and crossed to him with three long lithe strides and a cry of delight.
At last Ralph broke the brotherly embrace and held Jordan off at arm’s length to study him.
‘Always the dandy,’ Ralph teased him, and ruffled his thick fashionably dressed golden curls.
No amount of brotherly familiarity could dim the fact that Jordan was still one of the most handsome men that Ralph had ever met. No, he was more than handsome, he was beautiful, and his evident pleasure at seeing Ralph heightened the glow of his skin and the lively sparkle of green behind his long curved fringe of lashes. As always, his younger brother’s charisma and gentle nature recaptivated Ralph.
‘And you,’ Jordan laughed, ‘you look so hard and brown and lean, what on earth happened to that prosperous paunch?’
‘I left it on the road from Matabeleland.’
‘Matabeleland!’ Jordan’s expression changed. ‘Then you’ll have brought the terrible news with you.’ Jordan hurried to the leather-topped desk. ‘The telegraph line has been down for over a week, this is the first message to come through. I finished decoding it not an hour ago.’
He handed Ralph the flimsy, and he scanned it swiftly. The translation was written in Jordan’s fair hand between the lines of teleprinting. The addressee was ‘Jove’, Mr Rhodes’ private code name, and it was from General Mungo St John in his capacity as acting Administrator of Matabeleland in the absence of Doctor Jameson.
‘Outbreak of cattle disease reported from northern Matabeleland. Losses sixty per cent repeat sixty per cent. Company veterinarian recognizes symptoms similar to Peste bovine epidemic Italy 1880. Disease also known as rinderpest. No known treatment. Possible losses 100 per cent failing isolation and control. Urgently request authority to destroy and burn all cattle in central province to prevent southward spread.’
While he feigned astonishment and shock at the first paragraph, Ralph ran his eye swiftly down the remaining text. It was a rare opportunity to read a decoded BSA Company report; the fact that Jordan had handed it to him was a measure of his agitation.
There were lists of police strengths and dispositions, summaries of monies held and dispensed, administrative requisitions, recommendations for trading-licences, and the roster of mineral claims filed in Bulawayo. Ralph passed the sheet back to his brother with a suitably solemn expression.
At the head of the roster of new claims, he had seen a block of forty square miles registered in the name of Wankie Coal Mining Company. That was the name that he and Harry Mellow had agreed upon for their company, and Ralph glowed with satisfaction that did not show on his face. Harry must have got the women and Jonathan safely back to Bulawayo, and he had wasted no time in filing the claims. Once again Ralph congratulated himself on his choice of partner and brother-in-law. The only prickle of uncertainty was the rider to the roster that St John had sent.
Advise soonest Company policy regarding coal and base metals claims – register 198 in favour of Wankie Coal Mining Co. held in abeyance pending clarification.
The claims were filed but not yet confirmed; however, Ralph would have to worry about that later. Right now, he had to concentrate on Jordan’s apprehensions.
‘Papa is right in the path of this thing, this rinderpest. He has worked so hard all his life, and had such rotten luck – oh Ralph, it can’t happen to him, not again.’ Jordan stopped as another thought occurred to him. ‘And you, too. How many bullock teams did you have in Matabeleland, Ralph?’
‘None.’
‘None? I don’t understand.’
‘I sold every last ox and wagon to the Zeederbergs.’
Jordan stared at him. ‘When?’ he asked at last.
‘Yesterday.’
‘When did you leave Bulawayo, Ralph?’
‘What has that got to do with it?’ Ralph demanded.
‘The telegraph lines – they were cut, you know, deliberately. In four places.’
‘Extraordinary, who would have done a thing like that?’
‘I don’t even dare to ask.’ Jordan shook his head. ‘And on second thoughts, I don’t want to know when you left Bulawayo, or whether or not Papa sold his stock as suddenly as you did yours.’
‘Come on, Jordan, I’ll take you to lunch at the club. A bottle of bubbly will console you for belonging to a family of rogues and for working for another.’
The Kimberley Club had a most undistinguished façade. Since its foundation, it had been enlarged twice, and the additions were glaringly apparent, unbaked Kimberley brick abutting upon galvanized iron and finally fired redbrick. The iron roof was unpainted, but there were strange little touches of pretension, the white picket fence, the front door glazed in Venetian glass.
Until a man had become a member, he could not consider himself truly to have arrived in South Africa. Membership was so prized that Barney Barnato, who despite his millions had been steadfastly blackballed, was finally tempted to sell out his diamond holdings to Mr Rhodes only after he had been promised the coveted membership as part of the deal. Even then, with the pen in his hand, Barnato had hesitated over signing the contract.
‘How do I know they still won’t chuck me out again, as soon as I’ve signed?’
‘My dear fellow, we will make you a life governor,’ Mr Rhodes assured him, offering the final plum that was irresistible to the little slum-born Cockney.
On his first night as a member of the club, Barnato strode up to the long bar dressed like a theatrical impresario, and ordered a round of drinks for all, then flashed a magnificent ten-carat blue-white diamond ring on his third finger.
‘What do you gents think of that, hey?’
One of the members studied it for a moment, and remarked, ‘Clashes awfully with the colour of your fingernails, old boy.’ Then ignoring the proffered drink, he sauntered through to the billiard room, and everybody except Barney Barnato and the barman trooped out after him. It was that kind of club.
Ralph’s and Jordan’s own membership had been assured as soon as they came of age. For not only was their father a founder member and a life governor, but he was also a holder of the Queen’s commission and a gentleman. These things counted at the Kimberley Club ahead of vulgar wealth. The porter greeted the brothers by name, and put their cards up on the ‘in’ board. The barman behind the long bar poured Jordan a pink gin and Indian tonic, without being ordered, though he turned to Ralph apologetically.
‘We don’t see you often enough, Mr Ralph. Is it still Glenlivet whisky, sir, water and no ice?’
In the dining-room they both ordered from the carving trolley, juicy young lamb, with the subtle taste of the Karroo herbs on which it had barely been weaned, served with parsleyed baby new potatoes. Jordan declined the champagne that Ralph suggested.
‘I am a working man,’ he smiled, ‘my tastes are simpler than yours, something like Château Margaux ‘73 would suit me better.’
The twenty-year-old claret cost four times more than any champagne on the wine list.
‘By God!’ said Ralph ruefully. ‘Under that urban veneer, you are a true Ballantyne, after all.’
‘And you must be neck-deep in filthy lucre after that timely sale. It’s my brotherly duty to help you get rid of it.’
‘Fire sale price,’ Ralph demurred, but nodded in appreciation of the claret. They ate in contented silence for a few minutes, then Ralph picked up his glass.
‘What does Mr Rhodes think of the coal deposits that Harry and I pegged?’ he
asked mildly, pretending to study the ruby lights in the wine, but watching his brother’s reaction.
He saw the corners of Jordan’s mouth quiver with surprise, saw his eyes flare with some other emotion which he could not read before it was masked, then Jordan lifted a pink morsel of the lamb on the silver fork, chewed it fastidiously and swallowed before he asked:
‘Coal?’
‘Yes, coal!’ Ralph agreed. ‘Harry Mellow and I pegged a huge deposit of high-grade coal in northern Matabeleland – haven’t you seen the filing yet? Hasn’t the Board approved the register? You must know about it, Jordan.’
‘What a fine wine this is.’ Jordan inhaled the bouquet. ‘A big, spicy perfume.’
‘Oh, of course, the telegraph line has been down. You haven’t received it yet?’
‘Ralph, I happen to know through my spies,’ Jordan said carefully, and Ralph leaned closer to him, ‘that the club secretary has just received a twenty-pound Stilton from Fortnum’s. It should be perfect after the voyage.’
‘Jordan.’ Ralph stared at him, but Jordan would not look up.
‘You know I can’t say anything,’ he whispered miserably, so instead they ate the Stilton on water biscuits and accompanied it with a port from the cask that was not listed on the wine card, its existence known only to the privileged members.
At last Jordan took the gold hunter from his fob pocket.
‘I should be getting back, Mr Rhodes and I are leaving for London at noon tomorrow. There is a great deal to do before we go.’
However, as they stepped out of the front door of the club, Ralph took his brother’s elbow firmly and steered him into De Beers Road, lulling him with a flow of family gossip until they were opposite a pretty redbrick cottage almost hidden by dog roses, its diamond-paned windows curtained with frilled lace, and its demure little sign on the gate:
‘French dressmakers. Haute Couture.
Continental Seamstresses. Specialities for