Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you none to mind your own business!”

“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you any to look her up,” Harry said, and reached into the pot to bring out the already overcooked mealies.

And maybe Harry’s right, Barney thought. Only I can’t go see her until I’ve got somethin’ to show her. And Harry is also right; it wouldn’t do no harm to let Fay help me with me English — I mean, any harm to let Fay help me with my English. Of course, Harry could help just as well, but, well—

The first thing in the morning, Barney Isaacs put into practice the idea he had developed the day before, sitting culling the dirt in Jerry Weston’s sorting shed. He hung around the sorting yard until a kopje walloper appeared with his little box and leather belt, a different one from the small ferret-faced man of the day before. This one sported a horse and cart: a horse that had obviously seen better days and ambled down the road as if his mind was on distant prairies and better years and a youth far enough back to precede diamonds and anything else on the high plateau; and a cart whose life-span had already been spent. Barney watched the man manage to buy a few stones from Jerry, after which he followed the ambling horse and his kopje walloper owner on his rounds the entire morning, making sure he remained inconspicuous. At noon he abandoned the man and his sad, spavined horse, and tried to benefit from what he had learned. That evening, as he sat down to his evening meal around the fire, he explained his ploy to Harry.

“The blokes what deal with them kopje wallopers,” he said, “are blokes what usually need the money pretty bad. So they’re blokes what cull their dirt with a fine-tooth comb. They don’t let nothin’ by, see — they can’t afford to.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “But the blokes what send the kopje wallopers packin’ without wastin’ time on them, the ones what deal with the big traders like your boss — they’re lookin’ for bigger stones. They don’t work the earth so fine. I stood and watched a few of them. There was a Canadian I talked to, seemed like a decent bloke. Said I could work his fines for five shillin’.”

“What kind of a business was that?” Harry said, and sneered. “You’d have to come up with over a carat to break even!”

Barney reached into his pocket and brought out some silver. He tossed it on the ground before his brother. “Twenty shillin’,” he said quietly. “One quid even. For five shillin’ in front and four hours’ work. And I got the same deal tomorrow, but all day.”

“Tomorrow your Canadian will cull a lot closer, I can promise you that,” Harry said.

Barney grinned. “And so will I.” He looked up at a strange face that had come to stand before him, staring down at him. “Yes?”

“They say you have books to let.”

“A penny a day.” Barney brought out a ruled sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it up to the man with the stub of a pencil. “The books are inside on a box. Take your pick. One book at a time. Then put down your name and the name of the book.” He looked up warningly. “And be careful! They’re a quid each you lose one of them, or ruin it, or don’t bring it back.”

“Right.” The man went into the tent and came out in a few minutes with a book. He wrote on the sheet, “Thos. Williams, Faerie Queene, Spenser.”

“That’s a hard ’un,” Barney said. “Wrote funny. Don’t understand it meself. But I picked it up on the cheap, thought it was somethin’ else.” He watched the man walk off and winked at his brother. “We’re in business, like I said. Now, teach me everythin’ you learned at the trader’s shop today…”

Bless the girl, whoever she is! Harry thought, and began to explain to Barney what a Very Slight Imperfection was.

Charles Rudd stepped back, wiping his oily hands on a bit of cotton waste, viewing with a bit of skepticism the monster he had just finished creating. He just hoped the damned thing would work. It had taken three weeks of hard labor, trying to follow blueprints that were wrinkled and oil-stained — not to mention several being missing — and even with the help of the Kaffirs to clean and lay out the various pieces, and to lift the heavier sections into place, it had been a job. And now it would be nothing less than a shame if, after that much time and trouble, the ogre failed to pump. Or if the boiler didn’t develop the necessary steam because of some organic fault or, of course, if he had assembled it incorrectly. Rudd was aware of his limitations as a mechanic, but he also knew that in comparison with his partner, Cecil Rhodes, he was a bleeding genius. Still, one had to recognize that the machine was secondhand, and while that meant that the price had been right and the machine had been available in Cape Town instead of waiting a year for manufacture and delivery from England, there were still a lot of things that could go wrong with a used machine. Especially with a machine that hadn’t been designed as a pump in the first place, but as a compressor. Oh, of course the principle was the same, pistons working against pressure, and of course he was fairly sure the changes he had made and the necessary parts he had fabricated for the changeover would do their job, still, one never knew until one tried. Rudd mentally crossed his fingers, checked to make sure the native hadn’t forgotten his instructions to fill the brute’s belly with sufficient water, and swung open the door to the boiler’s firebox. He pointed to the stack of firewood, pointed to a Kaffir, and then said in his best Afrikaans, “Hout! Brand!”

The Kaffir dutifully piled wood into the box. When the box was filled to his satisfaction, Rudd gave it a brief bath of kerosene, stepped back, and tossed in a lighted taper. There was a whoosh and the wood caught fire. “Meer hout,” he commanded, and moved back to sit on one of the packing crates beside Cecil Rhodes. Rhodes looked at him.

“Will it work?”

“We’ll know when we get up steam. But it should, I think,” Rudd said with more optimism in his tone than he was feeling. He sat back and lit a cheroot, watching the black toss in the hard-to-come-by logs. He took the cigar from his mouth and turned to Rhodes. “We’re going to have to bring in coal if we’re not going to go bankrupt in this venture. Wood costs a bloody fortune—”

“We’ll bring in coal, and we won’t go bankrupt in any event,” Rhodes said, and smiled. “This little machine is going to make us a lot of money. And with the money—” He shrugged.

“We’re not running yet, but you’re already spending the money,” Rudd said cheerfully. “With the money, what?”

“With the money, more claims,” Rhodes said evenly. “In De Beers. And with more claims, more diamonds. And then, of course — more money.”

Rudd considered him with a grin. “And then?”

“More claims, more diamonds, still more money. Endlessly. Until we have control of all the diamonds in all the mines—”

“—in all the world,” Rudd finished for him cheerfully. “And then?”

Rhodes frowned at his partner. “I’m quite serious.”

Rudd considered him for several seconds, his smile fading. “I’m quite sure you are,” he said quietly.

“If your machine works…”

Now it’s my machine, Rudd thought, a trifle resentfully. Then his good nature prevailed as it usually did. “If it works,”he agreed, still sounding cheerful. There was no point in sounding anything but cheerful; there was little to do about it at this stage in any case, except try the machine out and hope for the best. And there was obviously no purpose in discussing Cecil Rhodes’ dream of controlling all the diamonds in all the mines, because when Cecil John Rhodes was in one of his moods it was better to simply agree with him. Besides, it would be nice to be half partner in all the diamonds of Kimberley, insane as the idea was. If it had to be a choice between rich and poor, Rudd was willing to opt for rich. It was what had brought him to the fields in the first place. His eye kept moving between the roaring flame in the firebox and the steam gauge above the boiler. “We’re getting there. Another half hour and we should have enough pressure to try the pump.”