Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

“Well,” Phillips said philosophically, “I suppose we at least ought to listen to the man. It may be the last time we get to hear him, if your plans go through,” he added with a smile.

“They’ll go through,” Solly said with assurance. “God! To think of Jo’burg without Kruger, and the Volksraad a thing of the past, together with their tax laws and imposts and anything else the damned man can think to hang around our necks!” Solly enjoyed being in the presence of such important men as his two companions, and was happy to agree to their principles, as well as having them listen to his opinions and undoubtedly respect them.

“I say,” Frank Rhodes said, changing the subject, “isn’t that your uncle, Barney Barnato, over there? With a baby in his arms and a striking beauty beside him? Don’t tell me anyone that lovely—” He broke off in some confusion.

“That’s him and his wife,” Solly said contemptuously. “My aunt Fay. She’s my age. And you don’t have to be careful about what you say about Barney to me. God knows what Fay ever saw in Barney Barnato. He certainly isn’t one of nature’s more handsome specimens.”

“He’s rich, though,” Phillips said.

“As I hear it, he wasn’t always rich,” Colonel Rhodes said, eyeing Fay admiringly. “Chap must have something…”

“He has luck,” Solly said shortly. “He also has a contempt for the Reform Committee.”

Rhodes frowned at the statement. “You mean he enjoys paying the excessive taxes?”

“No, he doesn’t like the taxes, but he’s a great believer in not rocking the boat. He says, ‘We’re making money. What the devil do you need the vote for?” he says. He forgets we could and should be making a devil of a lot more money than we are.”

Colonel Rhodes looked at Phillips a moment and then back at Solly. “What does your uncle think of… of… our plan?”

Solly stared at the man as if he were mad.

“He doesn’t know a thing about it, of course! Good God! Barney would be at Kruger’s doorstep with it in five minutes after he heard it. He would be violently against anything that might mean the slightest trouble. I know Barney better than anyone in the world, and I can tell you he’s far from being as smart as people give him credit for. He’s just been lucky. Oh, I’m sure he’ll be happy once it’s over and we have control of the Transvaal, when we’re a part of the Cape, but before then? He’d be the last man in the world to be told anything!”

“Then let’s just hope he doesn’t hear anything,” the colonel said, and turned to view Fay from a better angle.

Not far from the colonel, and completely unaware of his wife’s being scrutinized so carefully, Barney stood and waited for the arrival of President Kruger. He held Leah Primrose in his arms, and with Fay at his side was aware that he was standing with one outstanding beauty nuzzling his cheek, and the other holding his arm, and he was proud to be here with the two of them, to be seen with them, much rather than with the important people Solly chose to associate with. Barney was also anxious to hear what the President had to say. Contrary to Solly’s opinion, Barney was quite aware of the trouble brewing through some scheme or other of the Reform Committee, and while he knew nothing of the exact plans, nor did he particularly care to know, nor did he know of the depth of Solly’s involvement with the plans, he did know of the committee’s resentment against Kruger and the Volksraad. And he also felt that nothing good could possibly come from this sort of active opposition to the old man. Andries had told him of the meeting in Kruger’s living room, and Barney could only hope that Kruger was coming to Johannesburg with some concessions that would cool down the heated heads of the committee.

There was a parting of the crowd at the edge of the square, a wave that communicated itself through the crowd as people pressed back. Barney stood on tiptoe to see who was coming. It was President Paul Kruger, alone, handling the reins of an ancient oxcart, drawn by an aging and swaying span of oxen. He should have come by coach, Barney thought critically; while it was only thirty miles from Pretoria to Johannesburg, the old man probably took at least two days to make it and looked as if he had slept the night before in his clothes. Or if not by coach, he could at the least have come by trap, with outriders along, and a proper driver. It was undignified for the President to appear in that ancient oxcart. He was making a poor impression on the crowd, who were sniggering as the cart slowly made its way toward the platform, with Kruger sitting impassively in the center of the warped seat, holding the worn reins steadily with the middle fingers of his crippled left hand. But possibly he doesn’t care, Barney suddenly thought. Possibly he came by oxcart purposely, to show these people what he thought of them, what he considered proper protocol for them.

The Miner’s Committee had hurriedly gathered themselves together from the gossip they had been exchanging with friends in the square while awaiting Kruger’s arrival; they hurried up the steps to the platform and formed a welcoming line on it, ready to greet the President. Then, just as the President came to the platform and began to descend from the vehicle, one of the oxen spread his legs and decided to relieve himself. The sniggering grew to a roar of laughter as Kruger had to move quickly to avoid getting his trousers splashed. Someone in the crowd called out, “By God, the ox is political!” and the laughter rose even higher. Kruger’s face reddened, his big jaw under his chin-curtain beard tightened, but he held his temper and otherwise showed no reaction as he climbed the steps of the platform slowly and easily. He shook the hands extended to him by the committee one by one, the beady eyes on each side of his large squashed nose examining each face before him as if to memorize it for future use, or to estimate its sincerity. His crippled left hand — crippled when his four-pounder exploded as he shot at a charging rhinoceros when he was young — was held politely behind him, the fingers curled about the space where the thumb had been, hiding the grisly scar. He then stood a moment, looking contemplatively at the Vierkleur waving in the breeze, before taking the seat to which he was shown by the spokesman for the Miner’s Committee. The man, Carter Wellman, held up his hand for silence, waited while the sniggers diminished, and when the silence reached a point to permit speech, spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wellman said, his powerful voice clearly heard across the wide square, “we are honored today with the presence of the President of the Republic in which we live, a man we all know as Uncle Paul, and the man for whom our proud and great city has been named. It is needless for me to explain who Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger is, nor what his great contribution has been to the development of the Transvaal in the more than fifty years that he has lived here, or the more than eleven years since he was first elected President. So, without wasting any more of your time, may I present the man you all came here to hear, the Honorable Paul Kruger, President of the Republic!”

There was the briefest smattering of applause as Kruger came to his feet; the Miner’s Committee all rose, clapping as hard as they could, but the comparison between the applause on the platform and the applause from the audience only made the embarrassment worse, and the committee sat down abruptly. Kruger walked to the edge of the platform, took a large red kerchief from a bulging pocket and blew into it noisily; the crowd reacted with another shout of laughter. He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed loudly, and then looked down at the faces grinning delightedly at his exhibition of uncouth behavior, his small eyes exuding suspicion and hatred. But he forced himself to calmness; he was, after all, the President of this unruly mob, and the speech he had prepared was the one he would give despite all provocation.