Authors: Wilbur Smith
Zouga was puzzled. This little act was too theatrical to be Rhodes’ usual style, and he would never go to such lengths to impress a woman, even a beautiful one; for by jumbling up a bucket
of stones he had given his own sorters many days of extra work. Every one of those stones would have to be re-graded and appraised and returned to its own little white envelope.
‘Here is a perfect stone,’ Jordan picked a diamond the size of a green pea. ‘Look at that colour, blue as a bolt of lightning and as full of fire.’
Rhodes took it from him, considered it a moment, holding it between thumb and forefinger, then he leaned across the table and placed it before Louise St John.
‘Madam, your first diamond. I sincerely hope not your last,’ said Rhodes.
‘Mr Rhodes, I cannot accept such a generous gift,’ said Louise, her eyes wide with delight, and she turned to Mungo St John. ‘Can I?’
‘If I agreed with you, you would never forgive me,’ Mungo St John murmured, and Louise turned back to Rhodes.
‘Mr Rhodes, my husband insists, and I can find no words to express my gratitude.’
Zouga watched the scene attentively; there was so much happening here, so many nuances, so many undercurrents.
It was on the surface merely a demonstration of the remarkable effect that these bright hard pebbles had upon a woman. That was their true value, perhaps their only value. When he looked at
Louise St John’s face he could see that it was not avarice that lit it so, but a mystical emotion not far removed from love – the love of a living thing, a child, a horse, a man, a
warming thing to watch.
Quite suddenly Zouga found himself wishing that he had been the author of such joy. That it had been he and not Rhodes who had made the gift which had transformed her, and it took a moment for
him to free himself of that desire, so that he almost missed the glance that Rhodes shot beyond the woman’s face.
Suddenly it was clear to Zouga. Rhodes was not baiting for the woman; he was fishing for the man. That display of treasure was for Mungo St John, the man with half a million sterling to dispose
of.
Rhodes needed capital. When a man sets out to buy up every single claim on the Kimberley field, and when he is in a desperate hurry to do it, he must always be starved of capital. Rhodes’
ambition was no secret. Zouga himself had been present at the long bar of the Kimberley Club when Rhodes had made the declaration of his intent.
‘There is only one way to stabilize the price of the goods—’ Rhodes’ euphemism for diamonds – ‘and that is an orderly, centralized marketing policy. There is
only one way to stop the stealing of goods by the I.D.B., and that is through the institution of a rigorous security screen; and there is only one way to achieve both these objects, and that is to
have every claim on the fields owned by one company.’ Everyone listening to him had known who Rhodes intended that the head of that company should be.
That had been a year previously, and now the bucket of diamonds on Zouga’s luncheon table was proof of how far Rhodes had made good his threat and had eaten up the field. Already he was
more than halfway towards his goal, but he had been forced to take in partners and still he was short of capital, desperately short.
For the serious obstacle that stood between him and complete ownership of the field was Barney Barnato’s company. He would need millions – literally millions of sterling – for
that final step.
So the reason for the little charade was clear to Zouga now, and he was about to turn his head to study General Mungo St John’s reaction to it when the tableau at the far end of the table
struck him forcibly.
The untidily dressed young man, heavy in the shoulders, hunched forward in his chair, unruly curling hair spilling over onto the broad forehead above the florid meaty face, thick arms and square
powerful hands enclosing a glittering mound of treasure. At his shoulder the slim and graceful figure of the boy with the bright and lovely face, and behind them both, towering above them, holding
them both in its thrall, the graven statue of the falcon god.
Zouga shivered, touched for the first time in the presence of the falcon by a superstitious chill. For the first time he was aware of the sense of evil that the old Hottentot had immediately
detected in the statue’s stony eyes. For one horrifying instant Zouga was convinced that the bird was about to spread its sharp blade-shaped wings and hold them like a possessive canopy over
the two human figures beneath it – and then the moment was past. The tableau broke up.
Rhodes was sweeping the gems back into the bucket, talking quietly to Jordan.
‘Are you still studying the book of Mr Pitman’s shorthand that I sent you, Jordan?’
‘Yes, Mr Rhodes.’
‘Good – you’ll find it of great value one day.’
The boy understood the dismissal and slipped away down the verandah to his kitchen, while Rhodes casually handed the bucket of diamonds to his clerk and addressed General St John directly.
‘In the section of the workings that we own we are recovering an average of ten carats to each ton of gravel that we process, to that we must add at least another two carats a ton which is
being stolen by the labourers between the pit floor and the grading room. As our security system becomes more efficient and as we have better laws to control the I.D.B. we can expect to eliminate
that wastage—’ Rhodes was talking in that high-pitched voice so incongruous in such a big man, gesturing with strong square hands, persuasive and articulate. Reeling off figures for
production costs and anticipated recovery, the expectations of profits on tonnage worked, returns on capital outlaid, he was addressing himself to one man only, the erect bearded figure with the
black eye-patch, yet his manner was so persuasive that every one of them was listening with full attention, even Louise St John.
Zouga glanced at her and saw that she was concentrating on the confusing jumble of figures, and that she seemed to be able to absorb them. She proved that immediately.
‘Mr Rhodes, you said earlier that working costs on the No. 9 Section were ten shillings and sixpence; now you use a new figure – twelve shillings?’ She challenged unexpectedly,
and Rhodes paused, gave a little nod of recognition for her perception before he replied.
‘At the deeper levels the costs rise. Ten and six is our present cost, twelve shillings our projected cost for twelve months hence.’ His voice had a new note of respect. ‘I am
flattered that you have followed my discourse so closely, madam.’ Then he turned back to St John. ‘From this you will see, General, that the returns on capital invested are about the
best you will find anywhere: ten per cent is certain, fifteen per cent is possible.’
St John had been holding an unlit cigar between his teeth; now he removed it and stared hard at Rhodes with his single eye.
‘So far, Mr Rhodes, you have not mentioned the blue.’
‘The blue.’ Every single one of them at the long table froze.
‘The blue.’ It was as if St John had spoken a gross obscenity, shocking them all into silence.
‘The blue’ was the main reason why Rhodes was hungry for capital.
‘The blue’ was the reason why the banks were calling on all diggers who had borrowed against the collateral of their claims to reduce their overdrafts by fifty per cent; and Rhodes
had borrowed a million pounds to finance his attempt to acquire every single claim on the New Rush field. As he had acquired each block, Rhodes had immediately used it as security to borrow money
to buy the next block, pyramiding loan upon loan, debt upon debt.
Zouga was one of the few who so far had resisted Rhodes’ advances, resisted with pain and heart-searching an offer of £5,000 for his claims on the Devil’s Own. The offer had
been made six months before, before those dreaded words ‘the blue’ were whispered in the inner sanctum of the long bar of the Kimberley Club.
Nobody would offer Zouga £5,000 for his claims now. On the contrary, a week after he first heard those two dreaded words, the manager of the Standard Bank had sent a note asking him to
call.
‘Major Ballantyne, in view of recent developments, the bank has been forced to review the value of collateral securing our clients’ overdrafts. We have calculated the present market
value of your claims as five hundred pounds each.’
‘That’s ridiculous, sir.’
‘Major, the blue has shown on the claims of the Orphen Company.’ The bank manager did not have to elaborate. The Orphen block was only separated from the Devil’s Own by a dozen
intervening claims. ‘I don’t enjoy doing this, Major, but I must ask you to reduce your overdraft to one thousand pounds.’
‘The blue’ was the reason why many of the town’s merchants were running down their stocks, preparing themselves to pull out.
‘The blue’ was the reason why many of the transport riders were re-routing their wagons to the new goldfields at Pilgrims’ Rest.
‘What is the blue?’ asked Louise St John, and when none of the others spoke, Zouga’s duty as host placed the burden of reply upon him.
‘The blue is the diggers’ name for a type of rock formation, Mrs St John. A volcanic conglomerate, dark blue in colour and very hard – too hard to work easily.’ Zouga
picked up his champagne glass, sipped the yellow wine and then studied the rising pinpricks of bubbles.
‘Is that all?’ Louise asked quietly.
‘It has zircons in it, small zircons the size of sugar grains, but there is no market for zircons,’ Zouga went on grudgingly.
‘What is the significance of this – blue?’ Louise persisted.
Zouga paused to pick his words with care.
‘The diamondiferous earth is a friable yellow gravel – friable means crumbling.’
‘Thank you,’ Louise smiled without rancour. ‘I do know the word.’
‘Well then, on some of the deeper claims in the northern section the yellow gravel has pinched out, and we have come up short against this hard blue floor, hard as marble and just as
sterile.’
‘That hasn’t been proved,’ Rhodes cut in sharply, and Zouga inclined his head in acceptance.
‘No, it hasn’t been proved, but that is what we all fear. That we have come to the end. That the fields are worked out.’
They were all silent then, contemplating that terrifying eventuality.
‘When will you know for certain?’ Mungo St John asked. ‘When will you know that this blue ground underlies the entire field, and that there are no diamonds in it?’
‘It will be many months still before the shallower claims can be worked down to the level of those that have run into the blue,’ Rhodes answered. ‘Then if we do find it covers
the whole field, we will have to drive pot-holes through it to make sure that it is not a thin layer, and that the yellow gravel does not recur below it.’
‘I see,’ St John nodded. ‘It seems that I was fortunate to delay my visit to Kimberley until after this blue ground was encountered, or I might have found myself the owner of a
mountain of blue marble and no diamonds.’
‘You have always been a fortunate man, Mungo.’ Louise flashed a smile at him, and he replied to it gravely.
‘You, my dear, are the greatest of all my good fortunes.’
With obvious relief the company abandoned the subject of the dreaded blue ground and turned to lighter topics. Only Rhodes did not join them, but sat silent and brooding at the head of the long
table.
Though Zouga smiled and nodded at the repartee, he also was distracted by the talk of lurking disaster, and his thoughts were a barrier between him and the company, so that Louise St John had to
repeat his name to gain his attention.
‘Is that possible, Major Ballantyne?’
Zouga roused himself and turned to her. ‘Forgive me, Mrs St John. Will you repeat the question?’
Louise was not accustomed to having a man’s thoughts wander when she was talking to him. This cold and correct Englishman was truly beginning to irritate her, and she found herself wanting
to shock some natural reaction out of him. She had thought of including a man’s word, one of Mungo’s soldier’s words, in her conversation, but good sense warned her that he would
merely raise an eyebrow at such gaucherie. She had thought of ignoring him, but intuition warned her that he would probably welcome that treatment. The best course open to her was to direct her
queries at him and force him to recognize her existence, and let it nettle him.
‘I was led to understand that you were the Chairman of the Kimberley Sporting Club?’
‘I have that honour,’ Zouga agreed.
‘I have heard also that your steeplechases or point-to-point races – I am never quite sure of your British terminology – are the most popular diversions on the diamond
fields.’
Zouga shook his head and smiled. ‘I’m not sure of the terminology myself. They certainly are not steeplechases, we are critically short of steeples out here, and they are not
point-to-point exactly, for we throw in a little rifle drill. So, we prefer to call them rough rides. A fairly accurate description, I think.’
‘I thought to enter one of my horses – in a rough ride,’ Louise said.
‘We would welcome your participation,’ Zouga agreed. ‘I could prepare a list of our better riders from which you could choose.’
‘I prefer to ride myself,’ Louise shook her head.
‘I am afraid that would not be possible, Mrs St John.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you are a woman.’
Her expression gave Zouga his first truly satisfying moments in her company. She had turned waxen pale so that the freckles stood out boldly on her cheeks and her eyes glowed a lighter,
brighter, angry blue.
Zouga waited for her retort, but she sensed his anticipation and, with a huge effort, denied him the satisfaction. Instead she turned to her husband.
‘It’s after three o’clock. It has been a very pleasant luncheon, but I should like to return to the hotel now.’ She stood up quickly, and Mungo St John shrugged
resignedly and stood up beside her.
‘Please do not let us break up this delightful gathering.’ His smile and his tone asked their indulgence for a womanly whim.
The groom brought her horse to her and she caressed its pale silken muzzle. Then she gathered the reins, looked up at the group of men on the stoep, held Zouga’s eye for a moment, before
deliberately turning away.