King of Cane Valley

Chapter One

Holland, 1889

‘C ome on, can’t you do better than that?’ Gert Frober challenged as, with a flick of his wrist, he threw the flat stone as hard as he could.

The boys watched it skim, then skip across the mirror-smooth pond almost to halfway, before it sank with a gentle plopping sound.

Willem Dewar, youngest of six boys, and a veteran of all kinds of irritations, roughhousing, practical jokes and teasing from his older brothers, rose to his friend’s challenge. He took his time choosing a smooth pebble from among those scattered around the pond’s shoreline, then grinned at Gert as he effortlessly launched his missile. It danced and skipped across the water, eclipsing the distance of Gert’s throw by more than three feet.

‘Good one, Willem.’ Gert, the shorter of the two slapped the other boy on the back and ruffled the blond hair that tended to curl at the ends over his collarless shirt and coarse woollen jacket.

Willem nodded, accepting the acclamation, but he was not interested in his friend’s praise. Serious matters were on his mind and there was no one but Gert to discuss them with. He could not talk to any of his brothers; they would either laugh, scoff and cuff him soundly for his foolish ideas, or ignore him. Just because he was the youngest they treated him like a mewling baby, he grumbled to himself, though he was fully grown. Willem was not overly tall but already at fourteen he was thickset and broad of shoulder, with strong muscles from years of work on the farm and helping out in the Dewars’ brush factory, from which the family derived their living. The factory provided sufficient guilders to put food on the table, supplemented with vegetables and chickens from their small farm by the canal. They were well clothed too, even if the only new clothes Willem ever got were for church. And his father, Willem senior, and mother, Frieda, had ensured that all their sons were educated up to sixth grade level before they began work in the factory.

Willem growled under his breath. The factory! He hated the place with a passion equal to his desire to escape from labouring within its walls. The smell of lacquer and lead-based paint made his nose alternately stuffy or runny. He got rashes from the animal hair — horse and pig hair — as well as the straw they used to make the brooms and brushes. Worst of all though was the constant domination he had to endure from his brothers, especially Hans. Hans, the eldest son, thought he already owned the place and lorded it over everyone, particularly his youngest brother.

Willem looked at Gert and made a decision. ‘I am going to Rotterdam on Saturday. Want to come?’

Gert’s plain features lit up, his grin exposing a row of white teeth, two of which crossed at the centre. He scratched his brown hair as he thought about the invitation. ‘Rotterdam is almost twenty miles from here. Why do you want to go?’

Willem shrugged as he looked to the west. The sun was dropping low on the horizon. He’d have to get home to milk their three cows before dark or his mother would scold him. His gaze moved to survey the land. All around there was hardly a ripple or a rise in its contours for as far as he could see. Oh, for a mountain or two, he thought wistfully, even a small hill to break the monotonous flatness. Green grass, like a lush carpet, lay between fields of brown that had been recently ploughed in preparation for planting, and along the road’s verge, from the Dewars’ farmhouse to the pond, wild tulips had finished blooming and were dying off as the days grew warmer. He sighed. The seasons, his life and his future were predictable, all mapped out for him, and it was … boring.

‘To find work,’ he replied, turning back to his friend.

Gert stared at Willem, blinking owlishly as he shook his head. ‘There’s a regular job waiting for you in your father’s factory. You’re lucky, Willem. I am the one who will have to look for work, probably in the city, when school ends. Papa knows a bootmaker there and says he can get me an apprenticeship with him.’ He made a face and tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘It would be nice to always have warm boots to wear instead of these.’ He pointed to his muddy clogs and thick stockings, from between which strands of straw, inserted for warmth during the cold weather, sprouted.

‘I am not going to work in the factory.’ Willem was adamant. ‘If I have to, I will run away rather than work there.’

A good reader, he devoured books loaned to him by their teacher, Herr Blomfeld. The books, some fiction, some factual, painted exciting images of faraway lands, people, cities and customs. His young mouth, its upper lip already showing a clear line of pubescent fuzz, set firmly as he thought of the wondrous places he had read about. He longed to explore some of them, to see for himself if what had been written about such places was true.

‘All right, I will come.’

‘Good! We will keep our trip secret, yes?’ Willem watched Gert’s confirming nod. It was settled.

The two boys wiped their dirty hands on their breeches and raced each other back to the Dewars’ farmhouse.

As it was, it didn’t quite come to Willem and Gert having to run away. The timing of their trip to Rotterdam couldn’t have been better. Several of the ships were hiring crew and the boys spent the day roaming the port, looking at the multitude of vessels which sported flags from a dozen different nations. And, as luck would have it, both were offered work on the same ship, a Stenmark line freighter — the Andover Lady out of Denmark — that was sailing to the Americas on the evening tide in two days’ time. Gert, caught up in the excitement of it all, signed on as cabin boy and Willem, because he was bigger, as a galley hand. It was what Willem had been praying for: an escape from a dreary existence at the brush factory. Not normally the type to make hasty decisions, he took all of five minutes to accept the offer.

Then they went home to tell their families what they’d done …

Willem’s family didn’t stay quiet for long when he made his announcement at dinner. His mother Frieda promptly burst into tears.

‘You’ve never been to sea. You’ll probably be seasick for half the voyage,’ Hans predicted with a malicious grin.

‘Yah! You will be puking all over the place,’ Samuel, the Dewars’ second son agreed. ‘You don’t even like sailing on the pond in the middle of summer.’

‘Don’t think that Papa will hold a place for you in the factory if, after a while, you decide you don’t like a sailor’s life,’ added Kurt, the third son.

‘Enough,’ Willem’s father commanded from the head of the table. No one was sure whether he was speaking to his wife, ordering her to stop crying, or whether the call for silence was aimed at his noisy brood. ‘You are sure this is what you want to do, Willem? You have never been away from home before, except to visit your grandparents in Medemblik.’

‘Yes, Papa.’ Willem’s voice strengthened, deepened. ‘I am sure.’

‘He is only fourteen,’ Frieda complained between sniffles. ‘Still a boy. Besides, who will do the chores if Willem is not here?’

‘We will all help, Mamma.’ Hans’s promise earned him baleful looks from his siblings, each of whom disliked the tedium of farm work and happily left young Willem to cope with it. ‘And this summer, when I wed Erica and she comes into the household, she can take over most of the chores.’

Hans’s words caused a few ribald comments from the older siblings on his forthcoming marriage, and then one of the younger brothers spoke up.

‘Willem doesn’t look like a boy, Mamma. He is already shaving — every third day. Aren’t you, Willem?’ said Arndt, who was closest in age to his younger brother and shared a bedroom with him and Stefan, the fourth son. He sounded as if he admired his brother’s determination.

Willem nodded solemnly. In all the excitement of embarking on a great adventure, he hadn’t given a thought to how leaving home would affect his mother. He was the youngest, her baby, as she often told him privately and to his embarrassment. He struggled to get the words out without sounding sentimental, an emotion his brothers would deride straight away.

‘It is a real opportunity for me, Mamma. To see the world, to make something of myself.’ In days gone by, he and his mother had discussed the lack of choice available to him. In the Dewar factory, because of his other brothers’ seniority he would always be last in line for promotion, for responsibility. ‘I will write from every port we call into, Mamma. I promise.’

Frieda mopped her tear-stained cheeks and bestowed a sad smile on her youngest son. With a sigh she accepted the inevitable. ‘Be sure that you do, Willem.’

She stood and began to clear the table. She was a busy woman, always cooking, cleaning, sewing, knitting, keeping herself active physically and mentally.

‘Tomorrow night I will bake your favourite dessert, apple strudel, for your farewell dinner.’

Later that evening, as he stood by the fire in the communal kitchen-cum-sitting room, Willem senior presented his son with a black leather belt with a scrolled silver buckle. ‘For you, Willem. Take good care of this belt.’

‘I will, Papa.’

Willem unbuckled his own worn cloth belt which, together with braces, held his breeches up, and then laced the new belt through the loops of his waistband. He looked up at his father who was half a head taller than him.

‘It is too big!’ The leather went around his waist one and a half times.

Willem senior, serious most of the time, chuckled. ‘You will grow into it, son. It is special. See.’

He undid the belt, took it off and showed Willem why. Finely sewn into the lining were several sealed pockets. ‘Inside the pockets are five gold guilders.’

He watched his son’s amazed expression, knowing he had never possessed so much money in his life. ‘Seeing that you will not be entering the family business, consider the belt your legacy.’ There was a brief pause. ‘It is all your mother and I can afford. Keep the coins safe and only use them in an emergency. Will you do that, Willem?’

‘I will, Papa. Thank you.’

Willem senior looked at his youngest son. A flicker of sadness passed across his eyes, vanishing as quickly as it came. He held out his hand and Willem responded. His hand was smaller but his grip was as firm as his father’s.

‘Try to get home for Christmas. Your mother would like that.’

Southern Africa, 1895

The tousle-haired young man stood at the many-paned upstairs window of the dockside inn in Durban, watching the scene below. A habitual early riser no matter what hour he got to bed, his blue eyes were decidedly bloodshot from last night’s carousing in and out of half a dozen bars along the docks, and from several hours of lovemaking with a youthful, pretty whore. The exotic whore named Esmeralda had long since left his room to ply her trade elsewhere.

It was two days after Christmas Day and Willem Dewar was feeling, apart from hungover, melancholy. Once again he had not been home for Christmas. In fact, only once in the many years he’d been at sea had he managed to celebrate the holy season with his family, though he had visited at other times over the years. How good it had been to see his family the last time, three years ago. His brothers were married with children now and didn’t tease him anymore, but the high point was always seeing his mother and father. Mamma fussed over him, and Papa saw him as a man, on equal footing to himself. Sadly, though, after each visit Willem felt a distance from them all, a sense of having grown away from Amsterdam, the farm and the brush factory.

Home, he reflected. Nowadays he didn’t really have a home as such. His berth was the only permanent place he knew now, and what kind of home was that — a bunk, a locker, his sea bag. It would be nice to have a proper house one day, with walls, a ceiling, furniture …

Between such bouts of melancholy, his mind mulled over other things, rumours, the scuttlebutt he’d heard in bars and around the docks about a recent diamond strike northwest of Kimberley. According to gossip, sailors were deserting their ships in droves and heading for Africa’s hinterland in search of instant riches.

Willem had become excited by the possibility of making enough money after a few months’ grubbing in the soil to set himself up for life. For, sadly, in all his time at sea he had not accumulated the goodly amount he believed he needed to achieve his dream of modest wealth. A sailor’s wage was not grand by any stretch of the imagination, and shore leave regularly depleted much of what he earned.

His time aboard the Andover Lady had certainly taught him much. That work above and below decks was hard, the watches were long, his bunk never completely comfortable and the pay little more than a pittance. Not that Willem feared hard work, he had relished it from a young age, but the monetary reward at the end of long months at sea could have been better.

In the street below, he watched life begin to stir. Carts laden with freight for export were reining in near their allotted ships. Teams of dark-skinned natives, naked to the waist, were beginning to heave boxes and crates into various holds. Mobile vendors were hawking food and drink to those labouring, and several horse-drawn carriages bearing passengers and their luggage were queued close to the ships, all of which added to the congestion and pre-sailing confusion on the docks. Above that and against a clear blue sky, trails of grey smoke billowed from metal funnels as stokers and engineers filled ships’ boilers, and further along the dock several older sailing ships, their sails furled, bobbed on the incoming tide.

Willem raised a hand to feel his chin. Yesterday he had shaved off five months’ growth of beard and the skin felt tender to the touch. He ran his other hand through his hair, pushing the blond locks, bleached by the sun, back from his forehead. What he needed was a hearty breakfast to settle the queasiness brought about by last night’s surfeit of rum, beer and womanising. Not normally a heavy drinker, he had spent much of the evening farewelling his mate, Gert, who had sailed at sunrise on the morning tide as second engineer on a White Star line ship bound for ports in the South Pacific.

A muscle flexed in his jaw. He would miss Gert. It could be years before their paths crossed again, their lives were moving in different directions. Gert loved the sea and had ambitions to be a ship’s master, while Willem had already accomplished much of what he’d set out to do when he’d left home. He rummaged through his canvas sea bag for clean clothes and a bar of soap as he thought about it.

Willem had seen as much of the world as he wanted to see. Wonders, terrors, the inexplicable and the extraordinary. He grinned as he mentally catalogued some of their momentous experiences. The mystique of Shanghai and the Chinese people. The time he and Gert had been temporarily imprisoned in a Caribbean prison over the suspicious demise of a policeman — they’d been lucky to get out of that one. The memory could still make him smile. Then there were the willing, soft-skinned women of Tahiti. How could he forget the passionate, languorous Liana? Remembering her and their time together had warmed him in his lonely bunk for many a month. Then he recalled the wonders of Rio de Janeiro. So many different places and cultures … but now he knew his sailing days were over.

He had had his fill of rolling ships, of being soaked to the skin in storms, and months on board with, at times, few companions who matched his intellect or shared his interests. And with Gert going off to realise his own dream, nothing remained to hold him to a life at sea.

Willem continued to reflect as he paced across the small room to the table where a pitcher of water, a chipped enamel bowl and a folded towel lay ready for use. Going to sea had served its purpose and he was ready for something else. At twenty-one it was time for him to start thinking about the future. Not that he wanted to settle down with a woman as three of his brothers had, already producing a brood of grandchildren for his parents. For him the time was ripe for a new endeavour.

Feeling marginally better after a wash, and in clean clothes that didn’t smell of beer or the whore’s cheap perfume, he picked up his belt to lace it through the off-white cotton trousers he’d bought last year in Hong Kong. They were perfect for the heat, as was his white silk shirt.

He paused in the act of threading the belt to feel for the guilders. They were there. Several times he had been tempted to spend them, but something always stopped him. Perhaps his reluctance was fuelled by the memory of home and his father telling him they should only be used in an emergency. He grinned. Gert had said more than once that the guilders were a symbol of his self-sufficiency, but he saw them rather as a bond between himself and his parents. Perhaps that was the reason he was loath to spend them. So they remained inside the lining, safe.

Downstairs in the inn’s smoky parlour, his nose led him to a buffet table that contained a selection of food. Fried and boiled eggs, strips of bacon, thin spicy sausages, chunks of crusty bread, a bowl piled high with fruit, and a large teapot of black tea. It was only an hour after sunrise but even so Durban’s steamy summer had invaded the room, enhancing the mixture of stale ale and food smells, mustiness and the press of early risers stuffing breakfast into their mouths as fast as they could. The combination of odours and his hangover almost turned his stomach.

He found an isolated table and chair at the back of the room and sat there with his plate and mug of tea. A scantily dressed, half-caste barmaid brought him a set of clean cutlery. She smiled fetchingly but when Willem did not respond she sniffed and turned on her heel, wiggling her rump at him as she walked away in search of more receptive company.

Willem smiled good-naturedly at the barmaid’s antics. After last night’s romp with the whore, his energies in that area would take a while to rebuild. Several months at sea — it had been a long haul to and from Australia — had built up a head of sexual energy, which he’d spent almost entirely on the marathon of lovemaking with Esmerelda. Besides, today he had more important things to think about than women. He wanted to check out the possibilities of that diamond strike, the one everyone seemed to be talking about.

As he forked egg and slices of bacon into his mouth he wondered how hard mining might be. Harder than being a sailor? Would he have to outlay much money? He hoped not, for already, after a shopping spree, a night’s carousing and the cost of the whore, his money pouch had been sorely depleted. He wished Gert was here to talk things through with. Willem was the impulsive one and Gert was the thinker who would analyse matters thoroughly before making a decision.

What would his friend think about him leaving the sea to follow a dream, maybe a pipe dream, of riches in the African jungle? Last night had not been the right time to broach the subject with Gert, but before Willem left Durban he intended to write to him, care of his new shipping line, telling him of his intentions. Both had said their farewells the previous night knowing that opportunities for them to meet again would be few. That knowledge had lent a deal of emotion to their final handshake.

Willem watched two young men with loaded plates sit at a table close to him. One asked if he could borrow the salt shaker and Willem passed it over. It wasn’t intentional but, as he ate, Willem couldn’t help overhearing their conversation. They talked exclusively about the diamond strike, about kitting themselves out for the journey and where they could get transport. By their accents he could tell they were English.

‘Uncle Percy’s already there,’ the darker of the two said confidentially. ‘We can bunk in his tent and help with his claim till we learn the ropes.’

‘Yes,’ the smaller man with the moustache nodded. ‘After all, Bertie, how hard can it be? Remember that article I showed you in The Times about the first strike in the Kimberley? A Boer boy, probably not much younger than us, picked up an unusual-looking rock on his parents’ farm. His mother found it in the pocket of his breeches, thought it interesting and put it on the kitchen mantelpiece. Later, when a commercial traveller called in and showed interest in it, she gave it to him.’ He paused for a sip of tea. ‘The traveller showed it to a gem assayer who identified it as a diamond. A year later, a shepherd in the same area found another similar stone, only bigger.’

Bertie took over the tale. ‘Word went out that in Southern Africa one could bend down and pick diamonds up straight off the ground.’ He nodded to his friend. ‘That led to diamond strikes in the Transvaal and other places. That’s how it started, Donald, back in the late eighteen sixties.’

‘I remember. The problem is, now every get-rich-quick adventurer thinks he can be a diamond miner. The trail to the digs is supposedly strewn with chaps coming and going.’ Donald shook his head and prophesied, ‘Don’t think it will be a cup of tea, old chum. It might have been once, but now, with diamond and gold strikes reported sporadically around the countryside, too many are trying their luck.’

Willem, unable to contain his interest in their conversation any longer, spoke to the man named Bertie.

‘Excuse me, my name is Willem Dewar. I couldn’t help but overhear you. I, too, am thinking of going to the diamond digs. You seem to know so much, perhaps you could advise me on how to go about things?’

The man blinked in surprise, then, with an engaging grin, said, ‘Bertie and Donald here. We’ve heard that it’s easier if you have reasonable funds.’

‘Yes. There’s equipment to buy, transport to arrange, and Bertie’s uncle said we’ll need money for food till we can barter with the diamonds we’ll find,’ Donald informed their new acquaintance.

Willem nodded understandingly.

‘Also, one has to think about the political situation. It’s a tad unstable, you know. Boers agitating for complete independence again, that sort of thing,’ Bertie advised with a nonchalant shrug. ‘But, I say, we’re here so we might as well have a go.’

‘The innkeeper told me that prospective miners meet at a place in town called the square. That’s where they outspan the loads,’ Donald told Willem.

‘What does outspan mean?’ Willem asked curiously.

‘It’s an area where traders and oxen carts load and offload goods. That’s where we’ll get provisions and transport,’ Donald explained.

‘We should go there as soon as we finish here, before this infernal heat becomes unbearable,’ Bertie suggested. Fanning himself with a cloth serviette, he looked at Willem. ‘Why not come with us?’

Willem glanced at the Englishmen. Both were dressed in the latest London fashion: three-piece suits, high starched collars with stick pins in their ties, and highly polished shoes on their feet. He also took note of their hands. White, soft, not a callus between them. Both looked as if they’d never done a hard day’s work in their lives. The corners of his mouth twitched with the effort of not grinning at the would-be diamond miners. If Bertie and Donald were typical of the competition at the digs — men who didn’t have a clue about hard work, the heat or the mental strength needed to survive under such conditions — then he should do well.

‘I can’t go just yet,’ Willem told them. Already Bertie and Donald were on their feet, expecting him to join them. ‘I have to resign my position on my ship and get my gear.’

‘The outspanning area is about two blocks back from the docks, to the west,’ Donald advised, twirling the ends of his waxed moustache. ‘Don’t leave it too long. We’ve heard that seats on the transport to the digs are limited.’

The Englishmen shook hands with him. As they walked away, Bertie turned and said, ‘Good luck, Willem. No doubt we’ll see you at Johan’s Glen in a week or two.’

Alone again, but bolstered by a belief in his abilities, Willem smiled to himself as he scraped his plate clean with the last of the bread and downed the remains of his tea. Later this morning — after he’d squared matters on the Andover Lady — he would check out the square and learn the costs involved. His chair scraped noisily on the timber floor as he pushed himself away from the table and stood up. He sniffed the air, it was distastefully stale. What he needed was a walk by the ocean to clear his lungs and his head.

The Andover Lady was moored at the far end of the dock. Willem had to weave his way through a growing human tide of all shapes, sizes and colours, as well as crates, bales, luggage and other goods awaiting transport, to reach it. As he strode up the gangplank he saw the captain. Ivan Sorensen wasn’t going to be pleased with Willem’s resignation, but his mind was made up. The only sea voyage he intended to make was a future trip home to Amsterdam with whatever booty he found at the diamond fields.

Ten minutes later, with Sorensen’s abuse and jeers about his planned adventure ringing in his ears, Willem emptied the contents of his sea chest under his bunk into the worn canvas bag he’d brought with him for the task. He shook his head. How could he expect Sorensen to understand a young man’s dream of adventure and riches? The captain’s dreams had either been realised or forgotten during his years at sea. Swinging the bag over one shoulder, he nimbly climbed up on deck and took a last look at what he had called home for almost seven years. He knew every plank, porthole, belaying pin, length of rope and railing off by heart.

But, he had to admit, crotchety Sorensen had taught him plenty too: about self-discipline and mateship, self-reliance and being independent. He saluted the ship’s flag and the captain, who promptly turned his back on him, before retracing his steps down the gangplank onto the dock. At once his step felt lighter and a sense of excitement began to build in him. In his mind he pictured a pile of diamonds already in his hand, sparkling, winking at him, beguiling him. Their colours — he’d seen a variety in a jewellery store in town — were wondrous to behold. Most were clear, like glass, but oh, how they sparkled, and there were amber, yellow and pale blue ones too.

As he walked along he decided he should buy a book about diamonds, learn how the stones were mined, how one discerned a worthy stone from one that was valueless, and what the current market value was per carat. He was sure it was important to know that.

He grimaced as he weaved his way back to the inn. He had so much to learn, yet his lack of knowledge in this regard failed to concern him. Willem was the type who welcomed a challenge and the chance to learn new skills. Had he been inclined towards self-analysis he would have recognised this in his nature, and seen that the reason he sought a new endeavour was more because he’d become bored with life at sea than anything else. However, he did not question this aspect of his nature; he simply saw his new direction as another phase in his life, an opportunity to be embraced.

He lifted his face to the sun; already streaks of sweat ran down his back, his forehead and into his blond eyebrows. He would dump his possessions in his room, then go to the square … and buy a book about diamonds.

As he passed a lane, a grunting sound then a barely audible cry of pain caused Willem to stop. Gaze narrowing, he stared into the gloomy recess of the passageway; it was barely wide enough for two men to walk through side by side. Halfway down the lane he spied three men, rough-looking types in ragged trousers, two of them shirtless. The trio were taking it in turns to lay into a slender, well-dressed man who, considering the odds, was giving a good account of himself.

Common sense, of which as a Dewar Willem had plenty, told him to keep walking. Whatever was happening in the lane was no concern of his.

But he hesitated. It was three against one. Not good or fair. He made his decision and, knowing the value of the element of surprise, charged down the cobbled lane towards the affray, moving the bag over his shoulder into a position to swing it at one of the men.

Because it contained several heavy items — books, a small jade statue from Peking, and other trinkets intended for home — the bag acted like a club. The man Willem hit staggered and, as he went down, hit the side of his head on the wall. He stayed down. The other two, startled by the stranger’s intervention, paused in their attack on the man they’d beaten to his knees.

One, a mulatto, had an impressive physique that glistened with sweat. He glared at Willem and then, strangely, smiled. The glittering expression in his eyes urged Willem to join the fight, but as he changed position the mulatto bent low and, from the inside of his boot, pulled out a knife. The knife wasn’t big but it was thin and had a slight curve at the tip; the type used to gut fish. He flashed the blade this way and that, demonstrating his familiarity with the weapon as he continued to smile at Willem.

From the edge of his vision Willem saw the other man move to the side to give his partner in thuggery more freedom; he crouched down menacingly, as if intending to pounce. Willem then decided to try diplomacy.

‘Look, you have had your fun,’ he said. ‘Go now before the port police get here. I will tell them nothing.’

‘You will tell them nothing because you won’t be able to. I am going to slit your throat,’ the mulatto threatened, pleasurable anticipation resonating in his deep voice. ‘Then I’ll finish off this … piece of shit.’ To demonstrate his point, he kicked the fallen man, who went sprawling onto his stomach and lay moaning and gasping for breath. ‘No man, gentleman or otherwise, welches on Herr Domikan and his establishment.’

Diplomacy wasn’t going to do it, Willem realised with a fatalistic sigh as he tossed his canvas bag aside. His gaze glued to the mulatto, he unthreaded his belt with the scrolled silver buckle and wound it around his right hand, bunching it as best he could into a fist. He had used his belt in fights before, to good effect. Willem knew that the first thing he had to do was put the crouching man out of commission, but he doubted the knife-wielding mulatto would stand by and let him accomplish this. Then he saw his chance. The crouching man was edging closer, poised to spring.

Willem bent his left leg and kicked out with his right. The toe of his boot clipped the crouching man under the chin with tremendous force, snapping his head back. Willem shifted his weight to his other leg and kicked again, catching the man in the ribs. That was a martial arts move Kim Chang, the Andover Lady’s cook, had taught him on board ship — he’d learned Chang’s lesson well.

As his partner slumped to the ground, the mulatto, growling with rage, his knife glinting, lunged at Willem …

Chapter Two

A rush of warm air from the swing of the knife wafted close to Willem as he dodged. The blade cut through his shirt and, though it didn’t nick him, its edge was clearly wickedly sharp. With his other hand the mulatto then drove a blow at Willem’s head. It only grazed his cheekbone but had enough strength behind it to make Willem wince. The movement threw the mulatto off balance and, before he could recover, Willem’s belt-bandaged fist flashed out and caught him on the jaw. His opponent retaliated with a misdirected blow, which, fortunately, crashed into Willem’s solid shoulder.

Before the mulatto had a chance to wield the blade again, Willem followed up with a left into his stomach. The blow had little impact, because the man was so fit. Instinct told Willem he wasn’t going to defeat this mulatto in a fair fight but … need it be fair? Stooping down, he groped for and found a length of wood on the ground. He picked it up and, holding it in both hands as firmly as he could with his right hand still bound by the belt, he swung hard.

The wood caught the mulatto on the side of the head. He faltered. Willem hit him again. The mulatto dropped to his knees and Willem finished him off with a crunching blow to the back of the head. The man pitched face forward onto the cobbles. After a few seconds Willem dropped to his haunches and rolled him onto his side; relief raced through him when he saw that the man still breathed.

The next instant, an odd sound echoed from the dark end of the lane: someone was giving him a slow handclap. Willem spun about to take stock of the injured man. His face was badly beaten, one eye had already closed and there were bruises on his cheek, forehead and neck, and his clothes were torn in several places. He sat cross-legged on the cobbles, continuing to applaud.

‘Thank you, young man. Well done.’

As Willem massaged the bruised knuckles of his right hand, he recognised the man’s accent: he was a Boer. He moved towards the man and held out his left hand to help him to his feet. The man rose with difficulty, clutching at the wall to steady himself.

‘Those brutes were going to kill me, you know.’

Willem nodded. Their intent had been obvious and the deed would have been done by now had he not intervened. He turned his head sharply as one of the fallen men moaned. ‘We shouldn’t tarry. That one will wake soon and won’t be very happy with this outcome.’

‘You’re right.’

The man held out his hand in a gesture of friendship. ‘My name is Louis Van Leyden. I cannot thank you enough. You saved my life.’

Willem shrugged as he introduced himself. ‘Willem Dewar, and I was lucky.’

His gaze flicked over Louis in a quick but thorough examination, then he stared at the men lying prostrate on the ground as he laced his belt back through the waistband of his trousers.

‘We were both lucky! Let’s put some distance between them and us.’ Willem picked up his discarded sea bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Louis, limping because of a blow to his thigh, leaned heavily on Willem as they walked onto the docks, where daily life was proceeding as if nothing untoward had happened in the narrow lane. They could both have been murdered and no one would have known until their bodies were found. Such was the nature of the docks, the seediest area in Durban, where as many illegal as legal deals were done.

‘I am staying at an inn close by. Come with me and I’ll have someone tend to your wounds.’

Louis shook his head. ‘I cannot.’ He took a timepiece from the inside pocket of his coat. ‘I must meet my father on a business matter within the hour. Perhaps you could help me find a carriage?’

‘Of course.’

Carriages and traps were continually arriving and departing from the docks, disgorging passengers, picking up new arrivals. In the sunlight Willem could see Louis more clearly. He looked to be in his late twenties and, while dressed in the latest fashion, his lightweight clothes were more suited to the climate here than the attire of the Englishmen at the inn had been. A large ruby ring adorned his right hand, jewelled cuff links held his shirt cuffs together and a gold stick pin kept his tie in place.

All of a sudden, curiosity prompted Willem to ask, ‘Mr Van Leyden, what did you do that made those men so angry?’

Louis’ tanned cheeks coloured. ‘Call me Louis. The man they mentioned, Domikan, owns a high-class brothel. I paid for a … certain lady, but another, less attractive one came to my room. Later, after she and I had completed our business, I complained to the major-domo, refusing to pay the full amount because I felt I hadn’t been treated fairly by the establishment. I gave what I considered a reasonable fee and left, vowing never to return to the place.’

His left eyebrow lifted dramatically. ‘Evidently Herr Domikan was not pleased. He sent those thugs to teach me a lesson. I thought I’d given them the slip at the docks but they were too wily for me.’

Good manners prevented Willem from smiling at the man’s story. How foolish was Louis Van Leyden. Even he, a humble seaman by comparison, knew that one did not challenge brothel owners. They were renowned around the world for their toughness, towards the whores they employed as well as recalcitrant customers.

‘You will be sailing soon?’

It was Louis’ turn to be curious. One look at Willem, his build and his clothes, was enough to tell that he earned his living as a merchant seaman.

‘No. Until this morning I was third mate on the Andover Lady, a Stenmark ship. I’ve had enough of the sea,’ Willem admitted. ‘Every inn and bar in town is abuzz with news of a new diamond strike. I plan to go there and find my fortune.’

Louis gave Willem a questioning look and opened his mouth, intending to say something. Then he shook his head and said instead, ‘I’ve heard that life is rough at the digs, but judging from what you did in the lane, you can take care of yourself.’

Willem nodded. ‘Life at sea taught me that.’ ‘Where do you hail from, Willem?’ ‘Amsterdam, Holland. I went to sea when I was fourteen.’

‘How wonderful to be able to choose the life you want,’ Louis commented; there was envy in his voice.

Willem made a comical face. ‘I don’t know about fortunate. It was mostly that, as the youngest of six brothers, I didn’t want to work at the bottom of the pile in my father’s brush factory.’

He watched Louis smile understandingly and then he found himself telling him, a perfect stranger, his reasons for seeking this new adventure. ‘I wanted to see the world, and I have. Now it’s time to try something different.’

‘Well, my friend, mining for diamonds will certainly be different from sailing the seven seas.’ Louis’ tone was tinged with a cynicism that Willem failed to notice.

Within minutes Willem succeeded in hailing a two-wheeled trap drawn by a single horse. He helped Louis up into the cabin.

Louis reached into the pocket of his coat and handed him a card. ‘Here. Willem, if you’re ever up my way, please call in. My family will want to thank you personally for the service you accorded me today. I wish you good fortune at the digs.’

Louis gave an address to the driver and the small carriage lurched away, heading towards town.

Willem looked at the card: Louis Van Leyden, Kraaldorf Sugar Plantation & Mill, Saringal via Esbawe. Smiling, he tucked the card into his trouser pocket and made his way back to the inn, where he deposited his sea bag, then sought directions to the square.

For the