by Wilbur Smith
‘They are coming out of the hospital.’ Juba was righteously indignant. ‘And tomorrow they will all be sick again.’
‘You’ll never stop them.’ Elizabeth sighed with resignation. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ And then she exclaimed, ‘There they are! Moses was right – just look at them!’
The starlight was bright enough to reveal the torrent of dark horsemen pouring down the road from the neck of hills. They rode two abreast and a length between each rank. It was too dark to see their faces under the broad brims of their slouch hats, but a rifle barrel stuck up like an accuser’s finger behind each man’s shoulder, silhouetted against the frosty fields of stars that filled the heavens. The deep dust of the track muffled the hooves to a soft floury puffing sound, but the saddles squeaked with the rub of dubbined leather and a curb chain tinkled as a horse snorted softly and tossed its head.
Yet the quiet was uncanny for such a multitude. No voice raised above a whisper, no orders to close up, not even the usual low warning, ‘‘Ware hole!’ of massed horsemen moving in formation across unfamiliar terrain in darkness. The head of the column reached the fork in the road below the church, but took the lefthand turning, the old wagon road towards the south.
‘Who are they?’ Juba asked with a thrill of superstitious awe in her voice. ‘They look like ghosts.’
‘Those aren’t ghosts,’ Robyn said flatly. ‘Those are Jameson’s tin soldiers, that’s his new Rhodesian Horse Regiment.’
‘Why are they taking the old road?’ Elizabeth, too, spoke in a whisper, infected by Juba and by the unnatural quiet. ‘And why are they riding in the dark?’
‘This stinks of Jameson – and his master.’ Robyn stepped forward to the edge of the road and called loudly, lifting the lantern above her head, ‘Where are you going?’
A low voice from the column answered her: ‘There and back to see how far it is, missus!’ and there were a few low chuckles, but the column flowed on past the church without a check.
In the centre of the column were the transports, seven wagons drawn by mules, for the rinderpest had left no draught-oxen. After the wagons came eight two-wheeled carts with canvas covers over the Maxim machine-guns, and then three light field guns, relics of Jameson’s expeditionary force that had captured Bulawayo a few short years ago. The tail of the column was again made up of mounted men, two abreast.
It took almost twenty minutes for them all to pass the church, and then the silence was complete, with just the taint of dust in the air as a reminder of their going. The patients from the hospital began to slip away from the roadside, back into the darker shadows beneath the spathodea trees, but the little family group stayed on silently, waiting for Robyn to move.
‘Mummy, I am cold,’ Bobby whined at last, and Robyn roused herself.
‘I wonder what devilry they are up to now,’ she murmured, and led them back up the hill towards the homestead.
‘The beans will be cold by now,’ Elizabeth complained, as she hurried back into the kitchen hut, while Robyn and Juba climbed up the steps onto the stoep.
Juba let Bobby down from her hip, and he scampered back into the warm lamplight of the dining-room. Juba was about to follow him, but Robyn stopped her with a hand upon her forearm. The two women stood together, close and secure in the love and companionship they bore each other. They looked out across the valley, in the direction in which the dark and silent horsemen had disappeared.
‘How beautiful it is!’ Robyn murmured. ‘I always think of the stars as my friends, they are so constant, so well remembered, and tonight they are so close.’ She lifted her hand as though to pluck them from the firmament. ‘There is Orion, and there is the bull.’
‘And there Manatassi’s four sons,’ Juba said, ‘the poor murdered babes.’
‘The same stars,’ Robyn hugged Juba closer to her, ‘the same stars shine upon us all, even though we know them by different names. You call those four white stars Manatassi’s Sons – but we call them the Cross. The Southern Cross.’
She felt Juba start and then begin to shiver, and Robyn’s voice was instantly concerned.
‘What is it, my little Dove?’ she asked.
‘Bobby was right,’ whispered Juba. ‘It is cold, we should go in now.’ She sat silent during the rest of the meal, but when Elizabeth took Bobby through to his bedroom, she said simply, ‘Nomusa, I must go back to the village.’
‘Oh Juba, you have only just returned, whatever is the matter?’
‘I have a feeling, Nomusa, a feeling in my heart that my husband needs me.’
‘Men,’ said Robyn bitterly. ‘If we could only be shot of all of them – life would be so much simpler if we women ran the world.’
‘It is the sign,’ whispered Tanase, holding her son to her bosom, and the light from the small smoky little fire in the centre of the hut left her eyes in shadow like those of a skull. ‘It is always the way with the prophecy of the Umlimo, the meaning becomes clear only when the events come to pass.’
‘The wings in the dark noon,’ Bazo nodded, ‘and the cattle with their heads twisted to touch their flanks, and now—’
‘And now the cross has eaten up the hornless cattle, the horsemen have gone south in the night. It is the third, the last sign for which we waited,’ Tanase exulted softly. ‘The spirits of our ancestors urge us on. The time of waiting is over.’
‘Little Mother, the spirits have chosen you to make their meaning clear. Without you we would never have known what the white men call those four great stars. Now the spirits have other work for you. You are the one who knows where they are, you know how many are at Khami Mission.’
Juba looked at her husband, and her lips trembled, her great dark eyes were swimming with tears. Gandang nodded to her to speak.
‘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 induna rose on one knee.
‘Baba?’ 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 induna 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 Chawala 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 lo
nely mine was given to one of them with a recountal 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 Chawala 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 impis 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 approve 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.