Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

“She took sick a little over a week ago,” she said helplessly. “It started out what we thought was just a cold, you know, from the rain. We were all soaking, inspanning the oxen, but we had to get moving. We’ve been more than three months, so far… We gave her all the medicine we had. If you have any—?”

Andries sighed and looked down at the sick woman again. He was looking at pneumonia and he knew it. He had seen it before, several times on the trail and once in Bloemfontein Hospital, and unfortunately, each time a friend. One man had recovered, two had died. The doctor in Bloemfontein had said that maybe rest and good food might help, although he hadn’t sounded too sure of himself. God alone knew where this poor woman was going to get either rest or good food on this forlorn wagon! Some got better from the disease and nobody knew why. Others didn’t, and nobody knew why. It was the toss of a coin.

Andries came to his feet, considering options. They could, of course, outspan the oxen and give the poor woman some surcease from the jouncing of the wagon. On the other hand… He looked at Bees.

“The river’s only a few days ahead. There’s shade there and water for the oxen. And there are diggers near there, in the wet diggings. Some of them are bound to have horses. One of them could ride ahead to the dry mines for a doctor.”

“The river?”

Good God! Didn’t the poor fool even know where he was? Still, after three months on the trail it was quite possible he had no idea. “The Orange River. We’ll go with you if you need help.” Unspoken was the thought that little help could be offered a victim of the dread disease, other than a prayer and a sharp shovel to dig a deep grave.

“It’s just a simple cold,” Bees said, trying to draw comfort from a statement he didn’t believe himself. “A cold, you know? It’ll be better in a few days—” He stared at Andries hopefully, willing him to give him the answer he wanted, had to have. “A simple cold—”

Andries didn’t bother to contradict the man. “Better get started,” he said, and climbed down, walking to his own wagon. Barney looked at him questioningly.

“Sick woman,” Andries said succinctly. “Probably dying. We’ll stay with them, at least to the river.” He waited until he had seen Bees climb to the wagon seat and crack his whip inexpertly over his team, striking an ox and causing the wagon to jerk as the beast twisted in its traces from the sting of the whip; then the team brought itself together and started off, ragged at first but eventually pulling more evenly. Barney cracked his sjambok and started their team after the other, proud of how evenly the team worked. In the open space of the tied-back tail flaps of the wagon ahead he could see the girl bent over her mother’s pallet, tending the patient. God, she’s beautiful! Barney thought. Sixteen or seventeen at the most, with a lovely figure. And that face! Silky hair framing a complexion tanned by the days on the trek; pert nose, eyes set wide apart. He could not see the color of her eyes but he was sure they were as lovely as the rest of her. He walked along, beside the oxen, daydreaming.

They outspanned the oxen at dusk, Andries keeping his team on the trail for an extra several hours, thinking of the woman in the wagon ahead and the need to reach the river as soon as possible. With the two wagons angled for the night, Barney built a campfire in the space between, setting water on to boil for tea. They all ate in silence, and then the girl disappeared into her wagon to care for her mother. The men sat to one side, their pipes going, speaking in Afrikaans, although both the man and the girl had spoken English before. Barney felt out of things; he was about to doss down under the wagon when the girl climbed down and came to sit beside him. Her eyes, he could now see, were deep hazel, her mouth wide. Lovely! he thought.

“How’s your ma?” he asked.

“I don’t know. She’s burning with fever; she seems worse. She won’t eat a thing.” The girl swept her skirts beneath her unselfconsciously, changing her position, looking at Barney. “You’re very kind to come along with us.”

“The wagon belongs to Andries. It’s his decision.” Barney grinned. “I’m just along for the walk.”

Her eyes widened. “You walked? All the way?”

“Every foot. All the way from Cape Town.” He tried not to sound as if he were bragging; this girl didn’t look as if bragging would impress her. “We got a heavy load there, probably the heaviest load ever come over the mountains—” There went the bragging again. “We both been walkin’; we didn’t have no choice.” He looked at her, trying to sound as if he were merely making conversation. “You goin’ to Kimberley?”

“Bultfontein,” she said, “but that’s a part of Kimberley, isn’t it?”

“I guess it must be pretty close, anyways. Maybe we can see each other there—”

“Maybe.” She frowned and changed the subject. “They say the diamonds are all gone, run out. Some wagons we met going back told us.”

“Naw!” Barney tried to sound convincing. “Me brother’s hit it big in Kimberley and I’m goin’ to hit it big, too.” There he was, bragging again! He looked away and then back at her, trying to hide the open admiration in his eyes. “What — what’s yer name?”

“Fay. Fay Bees. What’s yours?”

“Barney Isaacs.”

Fay stared at him. “You’re a Jew?”

Despite himself a little belligerence crept into his voice. “That’s right. Why?”

“Nothing. I never met a Jew before. But I know they have names like Isaac, after the Bible. We use the biblical names for first names, not last.” Her answer was given so ingenuously, so innocently, that all belligerence disappeared; Barney was back to pure admiration. Fay was staring into the fire; then she looked up from it to study Barney. “What did you do before you came on the trek?”

Barney hesitated. Bragging was one thing, but telling the God’s honest truth was something else. “Me brother and me, we was entertainers, like. In the music halls, in the East End. That’s in London,” he added, and suddenly hoped that Fay Bees had no idea of what the East End of London was like. He went on hurriedly. “Songs and dances, see? Clownin’, acrobat stuff, tumblin’…” She was looking at him with the faintest frown, not as though she doubted him, but rather as if she didn’t understand what he was talking about. “Acrobats, don’t y’know?” he asked. “Tumblin’ and such?”

She shook her head.

“Like this,” Barney said confidently, and came to his feet. He laid his hat to one side not to step upon it, flexed his knees, and did a back flip in place without touching his hands to the ground. Then, taking a forward step or two, he did a front flip, landing gracefully at Fay’s feet. She was looking at him with admiration; he felt his face getting red. The two men had also stopped their conversation and had been watching. “That’s what a acrobat does,” Barney said brusquely. “Things like this, too.” He made a comic face and went into a bit of his clown routine, staggering about as if he were drunk, dropping into a split and then sliding his feet together to come erect once again. Fay clapped her hands in appreciation. “Stuff like that, too,” Barney said in a tone that deprecated his performance. “Stuff to make people laugh.” He was about to sit down next to Fay when a thought came. It was a golden opportunity to impress the girl, one far too good to pass up. He not only had an audience, but one that was obviously an admiring one. “I also do recitations.”

“Recitations?”

“Yeah. From plays, y’know.” He looked at her, frowning, remembering Andries’ confession of never having seen a play. “You know what plays are? You ever seen one?”