Rough Diamond

BOOK I: Diamonds!

KIMBERLEY

PROLOGUE

March 1867

The two boys were ten and twelve years old, their names were Piet and Erasmus Jacobs, and they were bored. They sat on the steps leading to the rear stoep of the main house on their father’s farm in Griqualand in southern Africa, and considered various means by which they might relieve that boredom. There was always the balance of their chores, of course, tasks that never seemed to end, but the majority of their assigned work had been attended to and the others, they felt, could wait, at least until a little entertainment had been indulged in.

I’ll race you to the barn!

I’m too tired. Besides, you always win. Anyways, it’s too nice a day.

It was a nice day, indeed; a warm pleasant autumn day with the cackle of hens from the yard, the grunt of the varks wallowing in the mud of their sty, the smell of fresh hay in the air and the mealies drying in the crib, the sight of cattle grazing peacefully in the distance, and, far off the kopjes, the rounded hills, bordering the river.

What’s a nice day got to do with it? Younger brothers! All right; I’ll wrestle you.

You’re too big.

A deep sigh. All right. What do you want to do?

I don’t know… How about a game of five stones?

A solution, at least. Good enough. Let’s find some decent stones for a change.

They looked, finding many, discarding most. A stone for the game of vyf klip had to be just right. Hoy! It was Erasmus. Here’s a beauty! It almost looks like glass, doesn’t it?

Yes, Piet said, doubtful as always, but it could break and one of us’d get cut—

It won’t break! It’s hard as rock! It’ll do fine. D’you have enough? Who goes first?

But there was to be no first, or second, either. Their mother, coming out onto the stoep, raised her voice in a tone they both recognized. Erasmus! Piet! Are your chores done?

Mostly, Ma.

There is no such thing as mostly! Mostly! Things are either done or they’re not done! Now, come into the house, both of you. I need one of you at the churn, and the other one—

Aw, Ma—

And no arguing! Come along, now.

An apologetic shrug, one to the other, as if to explain what never had to be explained on a Boer farm, that work came before all else, that work never ended. And that night after the boys had gone to bed, their mother, fishing in the bulging pocket of Erasmus’ trousers before putting them in the wash, pulled out the glasslike stone.

That boy! He’d put an ox in his pocket, horns and all, if he thought it would fit! And with a sigh the stone went up on the mantelpiece. Until later that evening when a friendly commercial traveler dropped by to exchange news and share a schnapps or two and a pipe of tobacco, and he happened to notice the stone on the mantelpiece. He picked it up and studied it.

Rather a pretty thing, this. Where did you get it?

I’ve no idea, Jacobs said, puffing away, not knowing what the man was talking about.

Oh, it’s just a stone Erasmus found, said Mevrou Jacobs, not pausing in her mending as she spoke. He had it in his pocket. She shook her head. That boy! You’d think trousers grew on trees, the little care he gives his!

Still, it’s rather a pretty thing…

If you care for it, take it.

I don’t mind if I do, said the traveler, pocketing the stone; and the conversation turned to more practical matters: the ridiculous rising of prices for almost everything, wherein the traveler was in complete sympathy with the Jacobses and others of his customers; the dearth of rain and the consequent lack of forage; the recent raids of some Mashona tribesmen on the border farms north of Pretoria in the neighboring Transvaal; an outbreak of rinderpest on some farms not far from Bloemfontein in the Orange Free State—all bits of gossip carried by the handelaars as they made their rounds from farm to farm, and often as valuable as the goods they carried in their ox wagons to the news-starved farmers.

And the traveler, the next time he was in Grahamstown to replenish his wares, out of curiosity happened to show the glasslike stone to an expert, and the expert checked the stone for hardness, and then with a frown went further and checked it for specific gravity. When he was done he looked up.

My friend, he said quietly, what you have here, without a question, is a diamond …

But of course the stone might have come from anywhere. It might well have been dropped by an ostrich, since they were birds that were attracted to anything that glittered, and since they ranged far and wide in Africa. Or the stone might even have been planted by some owner of huge properties, not knowing its true value, in the vain hope that somehow word of the discovery might enhance land values in Griqualand, and bring customers to whom he might unload his worthless land at a proper profit.

Until the day, almost a year later, when a Hottentot shepherd, tending his flocks not far from where Erasmus Jacobs had found his pretty glasslike klip, found another shining stone and was amazed to eventually be offered five hundred sheep, ten oxen, and a horse for his discovery, a price he was quick to accept. And when the stone finally found its way to London and eventually was cut to become the famous Star of Africa, the word was soon out.

There were diamonds lying about on the ground just waiting to be picked up in southern Africa!

1

September 1872

From the railing of the combination steam and sailing ship Anglian, anchored in the roadstead of Table Bay in Cape Town after its record run from its dock in the Thames in London, the sight was truly incredible. Young Barney Isaacs, hanging over the rail and trying to realize that he was indeed here in South Africa, had never seen or even imagined anything like it. Short months before he would have sworn he never would see anything like it in his life. The early summer sun was already heating the morning air and under its growing strength the wide harbor shimmered. Ships from all nations dotted the large bay, come to discharge sheets of corregated iron from Birmingham, machinery from Liverpool, cloth from Leeds, tin plate from Spain, casks and bales, cases and crates, all the welter of wares that make up the lifeblood of commerce—and also to offload adventurers intent upon reaching the diamond fields along the Orange and the Vaal Rivers, come, like Barney Isaacs, to make their fortunes.

The lighters that streamed back and forth across the bay, moving goods and men from the anchored ships to the crowded docks, made the normally placid waters choppy; the bright sun winked back at the young boy on the Anglian, reflected from the ruffled waters. To Barney Isaacs the scene looked and sounded like a court regatta he had once seen on the lower Thames staged for the amusement of the Queen, only here the activity was on a truly grand and confused scale. And when he raised his eyes from the bustle and stir in the bay—the shouting of the lightermen as they narrowly avoided one another, the creak of sail, the scream of steam whistles, the grating rattle of anchors being raised or dropped on one ship or another, the rasp of steam-driven winches—when he looked up from these, there was the calm spectacle of Table Mountain rising abruptly from the land, aloof from the tumult beneath it, satisfied to protect the city with its walled strength.

And the city itself, white and gleaming in the sunlight, running from the busy docks to flood the shallow plain between the sea and the mountain with houses and buildings, and even beginning to scatter itself on the little rivulets of land that ran up the slopes leading to the sheer cliffs, giving their inhabitants, Barney was sure, a superb view. It was a far cry from Cobb’s Court and Petticoat Lane where he had been raised in London’s East End slums; a far cry, indeed, from any part of sprawling, crowded London. It was tiny by any comparison with the British metropolis, of course, but distinct in every way. Everything seemed so clean. Especially the air, Barney thought, remembering the pea-soup fogs along the Thames, the coal-fired dank air that made his father choke and cough over his tailor’s bench. Here a man could breathe! And the buildings were so white, not the sooty dark gray that seemed to be the only color to be found in the East End—

Hoy, Barney!

He looked around. It was Tommy Thomas, a stoker on the ship. The two had held a boxing bout for the entertainment of the first-class passengers about a week before landing; the hat passed around for the winner after the bout had gone to Barney. It had brought his total capital up to nearly twenty pounds, still no great amount as he well knew, and one that had to last him to Kimberley and probably awhile afterward.

Hi, Barney said. What’s up?

Ain’t you goin’ ashore?

Sure, in a while. Why?

Last lighter’s gettin’ ready to shove off. Want a ’and with your gear?

Barney grinned derisively. What? Me sixty-four trunks full of me extensive wardrobe? Me fifty-five cases of jools and me eighteen crates of quid notes I carry just to tip the lower classes? He shook his head. I guess I can manage a couple of bags.

The stocky young stoker wet his lips. A more direct approach, it appeared, would be required. Say, Barney, what I was tryin’ to say—’ow about th’ loan o’ a quid?

Loan? Young Barney looked at Tommy with amusement, the amusement of a person who had heard and seen everything in his young life, but nothing quite as comically outrageous as this. It was as good as anything anyone ever tried to pull back home in the King of Prussia. And when d’you suppose we’d ever see each other so’s you could pay me back me loan? We both know the answer to that ’un. Never.

Tommy Thomas grinned, the brash grin of a person with nothing to lose. All th’ better, then. Come on, Barney, be a sport! Y’picked up over eight quid when y’dumped me on me arse. An’ y’got a brother struck it rich in th’ diamonds up Kimberley way, y’said!

That’s right on, Barney said. His voice had become quiet, intent. Me brother struck it rich in the diamonds. Only what’s his is his, it ain’t mine. I ain’t struck it rich yet. When I do, look me up. You’ll get yer loan of a quid. He winked broadly and started toward his cabin to pick up his suitcases.

’Ow about arf a quid, then? Ten stinkin’ shillin’?

When I strike it rich in the fields, I’ll make that a quid, ten shillin’, Barney promised expansively, and walked away.

Behind him, Tommy Thomas shrugged. He hadn’t really had any great hopes of getting the money. The fault, he knew, was his own. He should have knocked the cheeky little Jew on his arse in the ring, instead of being knocked on his own. And the thing was he still couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t…

There were seamen’s quarters at the waterfront, rooming bins over the chandler’s shops and the fish-and-chips shops, and bins they were and no more. Little cubicles with doors that did not lock, slivers of glass for windows in those cubbyholes lucky enough to be placed on an outer wall and then only giving a view of a similar wall a few inches away, with inner walls that were warped partitions that did not reach the ceiling of the long lofts, a small candle for illumination and the proprietor to put the candle out after nine at night. And the constant smell of rancid oil from the chips shops below, or worse, from the slops buckets put out in the narrow passageways for collection and which often waited there a day before being picked up. But the bin was a shilling a night, better than the three to five shillings it would have cost at a fancier rooming place. Barney started to push his two cardboard suitcases under the sagging cot and then with a frown drew them back. It didn’t look the sort of place where his few possessions would be safe the minute they left his sight. He considered a moment and then picked them up, carrying them down the steps. The proprietor eyed him with a frown, and spoke around his cigar.

No refunds, son.

I’ll be back to sleep. Just goin’ out to see the town.

The proprietor removed his cigar from his mouth as if it helped him to stare. Carrying two heavy suitcases? Leave them here. They’ll be safe.

They’ll be safer in me hands, Barney said flatly, and turned, about to walk out into the street. Then he turned back. Where d’they take off from, headin’ for the fields? The diamond fields?

The proprietor tucked his cigar back into his mouth and jerked his thumb toward the ceiling.

Son, he said almost sadly, half the rooms upstairs are filled with men come back from the fields. Ain’t none of them come back rich or they wouldn’t be staying here, and that’s the fact. They’re waiting for ships to get out, ships they can work their passage, but the crews are all full. A year or so ago a ship come into Cape Town and the crew was gone as soon as the anchor went down, off to the fields, all going to get rich! But now it’s a different story. Men who’ve found diamonds in India and Brazil; if they’re giving up it’s because they know more than you and me. No, sir, son. The diamonds are all run out, and that’s the fact.

And I’m goin’ up there anyways, Barney said, so if you’ll be so kind as to tell me where they take off from—?

The proprietor heaved another sigh, shaking his head. Son, how old are you?

Eighteen. Why?

You’re short but you look fairly husky. There’s work to be had, here in Cape Town. Not a bad place to live, either. Damn sight better than Kimberley. I could use a kid in here to help, myself—

I’ll find the bloody place meself, Barney said flatly, and started to walk out into the street again.

Hey! It’s the Grand Parade, son. Up Dock Road to Adderley—that’s the main street—then up a block on the left to Darling. It’s just before the castle. You can’t miss it.

Thanks, Barney said dryly, and walked out.

The proprietor removed his cigar and studied it, as if it could help him make sense of the world about him. That’s a tough little monkey, he thought, but a lot tougher than him got taught their lesson up in Colesberg Kopje and the other mines. I’ll give him six months and he’ll be back, tough as he is. And with a lot less lip. Still, if anyone ought to get by I suppose it would be someone like him. Looks like a bloody Boer with that light hair and them blue eyes, and thinks like an Englishman, with the streetwise brains of an East End kid. But even so, I give him six months. If he was any less tough, the proprietor told the unresponsive cigar, I’d give him three…

The city, seen at close range, was far from as clean as it had appeared from the deck of the Anglian. Heavy traffic choked the Dock Road, wide as it was: carts, coaches, drays, men on horseback, ox wagons, each jostling to pass, raising clouds of dust that settled on everything; and always the danger of a load being dropped from one of the swinging davits that jutted from the decks of ships lucky enough to have found space along the crowded docks. And the wagons awaiting the crate or bale from the ships, blocking the road, their drovers exchanging insults with those forced to try and find passage around them. Still, Barney thought, it was different from the mud of the roads along the Thames, and at least there were not the piles of filth one had to step high to clear in almost every lane or narrow alley that led from the river in London into the city itself.

And the chandlers’ shops along the Dock Road! Some of them even had samples of their wares stacked before their doors, something no Petticoat Lane merchant would have considered for an instant; he would have been stolen blind in five minutes if not in two. Barney marched along, his bowler far back on his head in the growing heat, his suitcases banging against his legs, his wide eyes trying to take in everything at once and still avoid being ridden down by a rider or a coach forcing its way through the crowd. Up the Dock Road to Adderley Street, no chance of mistaking that main road with its neat buildings on either side; and beyond the head of the road ending in gardens the majesty of Table Mountain giving a feeling of security and beauty to the scene. Then across Adderley, watching out again for the wagons, and up to Darling Street—and there it was, hard to mistake, the Grand Parade, off to the left, a vast space in a city where spaces apparently were ample and far different from crowded London. How fine this is! Barney thought, pleased to be there, pleased with the warmth of the day at a time when he knew London would be starting to get chilly and nasty and damp now that late fall had come, and wondered that he had passed his entire life in conditions he never would have questioned had he not, by pure accident, started out to join his successful brother. Well, the fact was that here he was in Cape Town, in southern Africa, mind you, thousands of miles from home, and to his surprise he was very happy about it.

The Grand Parade had once been exactly that, a parade ground adjoining the castle; now it was the center for the coaches and the mule trains to gather their custom and take off for Durban or Port Elizabeth, or the Colesberg Kopje—now, together with Dutoitspan and Bultfontein, renamed Kimberley in honor of the new Colonial Secretary—or Pretoria in the distant Transvaal, or to the Orange Free State, or places with exciting names waved before each coach or mule train on placards, places with names like Pietermaritzburg, or Bloemfontein; Roodepoort or Potchefstroom.

Barney set his suitcases down and stared about him. The scene was one of utter confusion. Hostlers attended to their charges, leading them to and from the area to stables across Darling Street and down Parliament and Plein streets, while drivers waved their placards and bawled their destinations and their hoped-for prices. Potential passengers moved from coach to coach, or from mule train to mule train, bargaining, attempting to select the least uncomfortable vehicle, studying the seats of the mule wagons or the springs of the coaches upon which they would be painfully jostled for the following weeks, asking after the food they would eat, or the places they would sleep. Arriving coaches discharged bone-weary passengers and immediately took up their place for new custom, the driver being exchanged for a brother or a cousin or an uncle while the exhausted man staggered off for a drink and a pallet. The sweating horses were backed from their traces and replaced with fresh ones while young lads swarmed over the newly arrived coaches with heavy feather dusters, attempting with small success to sweep away some of the grime of the trip coming through the Great Karroo or the Kalahari, depending upon the source of the trip, and older boys packed the wheel hubs with ox grease and made sure in a rapid inspection that the coach was sufficiently intact for the next trip.

Mules stood and stared in their sleepy uninterested way, while their drivers bargained not just for passengers but mainly for freight, freight that had a certain urgency for its delivery to justify its cost but was too heavy for the more fragile horse-drawn coaches, while still being light enough not to require the slower transport by ox wagon. The sight was something Barney could never have imagined, and he was still staring about almost in disbelief when he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into a familiar, friendly face. It was a middle-aged man who had been on the Anglian, a first-class passenger; the one, actually, who had started to pass the hat for contributions after his boxing bout, insisting that an exhibition such as Barney had put on deserved a decent reward.

Ah! Young Barney Isaacs! Ready to go off and make your fortune in the diamond fields, I see.

Yes, sir. You, too?

The man smiled and shook his head. No, no. I’m a Capetonian and prefer it that way. I’m merely here to see that some equipment of mine gets to Bloemfontein within a reasonable period of time. When are you leaving?

I—I dunno, sir. Barney hesitated and then cleared his throat. Sir—I can’t get what they’re all sayin’, there’s so much yellin’ and such. How much d’they want to get to Kimberley?

Oh, they bargain, but in general the cheapest is around sixty pounds to go by coach, and about twenty to go by mule train. Mule train takes almost twice as long, of course. Almost a month, I’m afraid.

Sixty quid! Barney swallowed. Sir, how d’you get there if you ain’t got nowhere near money like that? I mean, if you can’t spare even the twenty quid for the mules?

Well, now. The man looked at Barney a bit speculatively and then smiled. You won a bit better than eight pounds on your boxing skills aboard ship, as I recall. And I will be honest and say I did a bit better than that by wagering on you. I liked the way you looked. So suppose I lend you another twelve pounds to add to your eight, and off you go by mule train? You’ll repay me when you can.

Barney shook his head decisively. No, sir. ‘Nei’der a borrower ner a lender be.’ He suddenly grinned. Me, I just said no to Tommy Thomas on board ship to be the one, and I ain’t about to start bein’ the other right after.

The man’s eyebrows went up. Shakespeare? From this youngster from the London slums? Incredible! Almost unbelievable. Tell me, Barney, he said. "Are you familiar with Hamlet? Or was that just something you once heard someplace?" His eyes were steady on the lad, prepared for almost any answer.

"I know ’Amlet—I mean Hamlet," Barney said quietly, almost bitterly. He was accustomed to disbelief whenever he mentioned either his knowledge or his passion for the theater, but it didn’t make him like it any better. He also knew that once he was taken with the dramatics of a scene and was carried away he unconsciously dropped into the worst of his Cockney. He didn’t like that any better either, but it seemed to be a habit he hadn’t been able to break. Yes, sir. I seen Sir Henry Irving do it a dozen times. He unconsciously took a stance. Nei’der a borrower ner a lender be, fer loan oft loses both itself an’ friend, an’ borrowin’ dulls th’ edge o’ ’usbandry. This above all, to thine own self be true.’ He suddenly grinned, a gamin grin that made him look even younger than his eighteen years. I know that ’un by heart. Most of the others I only know the last part.

The man frowned. How’s that?

Barney laughed. Me, I’d stand outside the theater, see? Half the blokes just went because it was expected of them, y’know? They hated the show, but they had wives, y’know, made ’em go. But they couldn’t make ’em stay. They’d sneak off to the nearest pub between acts and ferget to come back. So after the first act or the second act—and sometimes in between—they’d sneak out and I’d cadge the rest o’ their ticket from ’em, see? So I’d see lots o’ second and third acts.

And remember them?

Yes, sir. Mostly.

Remarkable!

Yeah, Barney said. He really didn’t think it was so remarkable. He didn’t see how anyone could fail to learn the beauty of words that took one away from his everyday life. "I know The Bells by heart. I seen that one at least ten times. Even paid to see it a couple o’ times."

The man shook his head in amazement. You are a most remarkable young man, Barney Isaacs. He fished into the pocket of his waistcoat, bringing forth a card case and extracting one. Here’s my card. If you ever get back to Cape Town—and I’m afraid there is a strong possibility of that in the very near future, from what I’ve heard of the diamond trade since our arrival this morning—please look me up.

Barney took the card, read it, and looked up. Sure, Mr. Breedon. Only—

Yes?

Like I said before, Barney said, a touch of desperation in his voice, how d’you get to Kimberley if you ain’t got no twenty quid to spare?

And also have pride? Then you walk. Mr. Breedon held up his hand hurriedly at the angry flash in Barney’s eyes. I’m not making fun of you, he said quietly, and pointed. You go back along Darling Street, back across Adderley, past Greenmarket Square—you can’t miss it, it’s the main market square—and a bit west of that, a few blocks at the most, you’ll find Riebeeck Square. It’s an outspan—

A what?

An outspan, Breedon said patiently. A place where ox wagons come to discharge their goods and rest their oxen and pick up new cargo for the interior. ‘Outspan’ means to unhitch the oxen from the span, to take them out, so to speak. I understand one can arrange with the driver of one of the wagons to walk alongside the cart for the sum of five pounds. It takes a few months to make the trip that way, of course.

I got time, Barney said. In his mind he had more time than money, but he really didn’t have any excess of either. Still, he was relieved to know there was a way to get to Kimberley within his budget, within, in fact, the sum he had won in the fight. He had a feeling his total capital wouldn’t be too much before he managed to start making his fortune. Although, of course, his brother Harry had made it and he hadn’t even won a boxing match on board the ship he’d arrived on.

And you’re sure you won’t accept any help from me?

I’m sure, but thanks, Mr. Breedon. Barney tucked the card into a pocket, reached down and raised his two suitcases. He grinned at Mr. Breedon. Thanks again.

That’s quite all right, Breedon said, and watched Barney march off back toward Adderley Street, his suitcases banging against his legs. Maybe this one won’t be back, he thought. Maybe this one will actually make it up in—what did they call it now? Kimberley?—but unfortunately, he added to himself a bit sadly, I am forced to doubt it. A most unusual boy, though. Shakespeare! And in that atrocious East End Cockney accent! With a faint smile at the recollection and a contemplative shake of his head, Mr. Breedon turned back to dickering with the muletrain driver for the transport he required for printing plates for his new presses in Bloemfontein.

The outspan was like a smaller Grand Parade, but far quieter, more subdued, as if the greater time it required to travel by ox wagon made for a slower pace in all activities connected with the slower-moving beasts, a lesser urgency, a more relaxed atmosphere. There were drays drawn up beside many of the sturdy wooden wagons, some loading, others unloading. The unhitched oxen grazed quietly along the edge of the square, or lay passively watching the activity about them with their doelike eyes, patient and uncomplaining, their huge jaws moving rhythmically as they chewed their cuds. Barney walked up to the first wagon he came to. The driver, sitting on an upturned empty nail keg and watching men load his wagon, removed his pipe from his mouth and considered Barney dourly. Barney looked back, wondering how to begin.

Sir—

What, boy?

You goin’ to Kimberley?

No. A simple question answered simply. The pipe was replaced between the thin lips; the driver’s attention returned to the wagon and the men loading it.

D’you know anyone who is? Goin’ to Kimberley, I mean.

The driver sighed at this insistence that he speak once again. Andries.

What?

Andries Pirow. That wagon. The pipe was momentarily pointed and then was clamped once more between the thin lips.

Thanks. Barney walked over to the indicated wagon and set his suitcases down again. The driver was lying under the wagon, sleeping, his broad-brimmed leather hat spread over his face, his booted legs sprawled out, extending from beneath the wagon. The wagon itself appeared loaded; the usual Conestoga-type curved cover had been forsaken in this instance in favor of the canvas being held taut against the bulky load, and was tightly lashed at the corners. Only at the rear end of the wagon had a separate piece of canvas been raised, allowing access to the wagon’s contents there without the necessity of disturbing the carefully stowed load in the front. From the curved steel bar holding this separate cover swung bags and small casks; a battered teapot hung there as well. Barney squatted to peer beneath the wagon at the sleeping man.

Sir? A faint snore, muffled by the hat, was his only response. Barney hesitated a moment and then put out his hand, tentatively touching the rough-spun shirt. Sir? Again there was no response. Barney looked back over his shoulder at the first driver helplessly. The man returned the look with no expression at all. Barney turned back to the sleeping Andries, shaking him gently once again. Sir?

Like this.

Barney looked up in surprise. The first driver had abandoned his nail keg and was standing beside him. The man drew back his foot and kicked the boot sole of the sleeping man with all his force. On’y way, he said succinctly, removing his pipe to speak. Ol’ Andries, he sleep like a dead. He replaced the pipe in his mouth, walked back to his inverted nail keg, and sat down.

The blow, however, had the desired effect. Andries Pirow pushed the hat from across his face and looked around to see who or what had brought him from his slumber. Then he crawled from beneath the wagon and stood up, yawning prodigiously. He was a huge man in his mid-forties with a face that had been deeply lined by wind and sun; he wore a graying beard that had been cut square a few inches from his chin. His hands were the largest hands Barney had ever seen on a human being. Andries stretched and yawned again, and then stared at Barney. Barney backed up a step.

I didn’t kick you, mister—

I know. Andries stared at the other driver a moment; the man returned his stare without the slightest change of expression. Andries bit back a smile and turned to Barney. Well? You want to talk to me, boy?

Barney fought down his first flush of anger. He was getting tired of being called boy. And he was, after all, a paying customer, or anyway, at least a potential one. You goin’ to Kimberley?

I am.

I want to go with you. They said—five quid’d do it.

Andries shook his head. "I’m not a wagon for passasier. No people. Got a load of machinery for Dutoitspan. No room."

I’ll walk. They said I’d have to, anyways.

Your bags won’t walk.

I’ll— Barney fell silent. Obviously he wasn’t going to carry his two heavy suitcases all the way to Kimberley.

Andries studied him a moment. What you want to go to Kimberley for, boy? The man spoke with a decided Boer accent, but his English was quite respectable.

Got a brother there. Made it big in the diamonds.

And you want to walk beside an ox wagon?

"He made it big. I ain’t, yet. Barney looked around. Any other wagons goin’ to Kimberley?"

Andries shrugged. Maybe next week. Maybe the week after.

Next week!

Andries studied Barney some more. Look, boy. Your folks know you want to go to Kimberley?

Me folks are in England, but they know.

Andries shrugged, making up his mind. After all, the boy looked to be over sixteen and in that country that made him a man and able to make his own decisions. And he might even be of some use on the long trek, someone to talk to if nothing else, although Andries was quite used to talking to his oxen if need be to pass the time. All right, boy. You can come.

Five quid, ain’t it? Barney started to reach for his purse.

No hurry for that. Andries continued to study the boy. The five pounds normally charged by an ox wagon to allow a person to walk beside it while it carried his luggage on the two-month trek did not include food. Andries was sure the boy had no notion of this. Ah, well! in for a shilling in for a pound. It would be his charitable contribution to the lad. We leave at seven in the morning. Be on time. He turned and dug a pipe from his pocket, stared at it a moment and then realized he would be going back to sleep in a few moments, and put it back. You got a place to sleep tonight, boy?

Yes, sir. A room down by the docks.

Good. Tomorrow at seven, then. Andries squatted, prepared to return beneath the wagon for his rest, and then looked over his shoulder. You can leave your bags here. They’ll be safe.

Barney hesitated, but only for a moment. He had the feeling the big man was testing him, somehow. Anyway, he was going to be with the man a long time, and mutual trust was going to be necessary; might as well start right now. Sure, he said easily, as if he left his bags with strangers all the time. Where d’you want them?

In the wagon. In front with the crates; there’s no room in the back. And tie up properly when you’re done. Andries thought a moment and then came to his feet. Better let me. He untied a corner of the canvas, lifted the bags, and placed them where he wanted them, retying the rawhide thongs carefully when he was done. He looked at Barney with a faint frown. What you got in them suitcases, boy? Rocks?

Books, mostly, Barney said. Plays.

You an actor, boy?

I wanted to be, Barney said quietly, and changed the subject. Tomorrow at seven, then.

Right, Andries said. He got down and crawled under the wagon. He started to lie down and then raised his head. You got a name, boy?

Barney. Barney Isaacs.

Right. You call me Andries. See you tomorrow, boy. His head went down; the hat was pulled over his face.

Am I an actor! Barney thought as he walked away. A bloody good ’un, if they’d have ever given me a bloody chance! He grinned to himself, happy that he’d gotten transportation to Kimberley. Anyway, on the second and third acts. The thought made him laugh.

2

September 1872

The twelve oxen, six on either side of the long disselboom, strained up the tilted slopes leading from the town, around the western base of Table Mountain toward the Drakenstein Valley leading to Parow where the road would split, one branch leading westward to Milnerton and Caledon and eventually all the way to the Kalahari and Windhoek and the strange unknown lands beyond. Another branch led to Stellenbosch to the east and in time to Mossel Bay and to Durban on the Indian Ocean. The main trail—for it was little more than a trail—led north across the Karroo desert to Beaufort West and Bloemfontein, Kimberley, Pretoria, and beyond. Except that very few people other than hunters or adventurers ever went very far beyond Pretoria.

They left Riebeeck Square in tandem with three other ox wagons, all with different destinations, the four gradually spreading apart to give the dust between them a chance to settle. It was a vain maneuver; the dust was regenerated almost at once as faster mule trains and coaches passed them on the trail, their passengers looking down from their perches in superior fashion at the less fortunate ones trudging along beside the ox wagons. Behind them the city spread below in panorama with the wide bay beyond, gradually disappearing as they advanced around the spur of the mountain and up toward the valley with its orchards and farms. Barney took one last look at the lovely view and then turned to face the front, gritting his teeth at their slow pace. I must have picked the slowest bloody wagon in the entire bloody country, he thought almost savagely. Turtles could pass us, the rate we’re going! I should have taken the money Mr. Breedon offered; after all, he said he won it on me. But he shouldn’t have taken the money from Breedon and he knew it. It wasn’t his style and style was important to Barney Isaacs.

Andries, walking steadily along on the other side of the swaying wagon and glancing across the tightly drawn canvas at the scowling boy every now and then, could almost read Barney’s mind. He wants to run now, Andries thought; he can’t wait to get to the diamond fields. Well, it’s always that way at the start of a long trek; wait until we’re crossing the Karroo and he has more important things to worry about, like sore feet and keeping the wagon going. Then we’ll see how much of a rush the