Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

“Burghers, vriende — en ander, waarvan ek seker is dat daar baie hier vandag — hoor my woorde. Ek kom vriendelik om my stand te verduidelik. Julle sê dat julle die reg om te stem wil hê, en maar julle wil nie daarvoor viertien jaar wag nie. Julle sê dis ’n lank tyd; laat ek julle vertel hoe lank ons Boere daarvoer gewag het — en van die moeite intussentyd—”

“Speak English!” The cry came from far back in the crowd, but it was immediately taken up by other members of the Reform Committee scattered throughout the square. “Speak English! Speak English!” The crowd took it up, shouting it with rhythm, as at a football match.

“Stil maak!” Kruger held up both hands, the torn left hand waving in their faces as if to chill them. “Skurke! Skelms! Blikskottels! You wish me to speak English? Very well! Let me address you so: Thieves, murderers, gamblers, whores, rogues, filth!” He spat. “I have had enough!”

He climbed down the steps from the platform, getting into his cart, cracking the sjambok over the oxen’s ears so that the tip almost touched some of the bystanders. People pushed hastily back as the cart swung around, the oxen lumbering at a faster and faster rate as the whip continued to crack in their ears, the crowd moving away from the enraged Kruger and the frightened span of oxen. There was a moment’s stunned silence as the oxcart reached the edge of the square and veered around a corner, disappearing, with old Paul Kruger half standing in the cart, continuing to wield the sjambok. Then a near-riot broke out. Men swarmed over the platform, pushing aside the efforts of Wellman and the other members of the Miner’s Committee to control them. They took the chair where Kruger had been seated and ripped it to pieces as others tore the Vierkleur from its standard and proceeded to put a lit match to it, holding it up triumphantly as it burned. Someone began to sing “God Save the Queen” and the song quickly took hold and swelled to a paean as it rose from the hundreds of throats.

Barney thrust little Leah Primrose into her mother’s arms and began to fight his way through the crowd toward the platform, his jaw hardened, his eyes narrowed. Fay, knowing his probable objective, did not try to stop him; to begin with, there was no stopping Barney in that mood, and besides, Fay was sure she knew what he was going to do and was in full agreement. She held Leah Primrose, now whimpering in excitement, shushing the child quietly, and watched.

Barney had managed to get to the platform steps; he climbed them quickly, pushing aside a few who were trying to tear the very platform to bits, and stood at the front, holding up his arms for silence, whistling loudly between his teeth to gain attention, alternating the whistling with loud and insistent, if incoherent, shouts. The singing slowly eased as the crowd turned to stare. What was their old friend Barney Barnato so excited about? What did he feel necessary to say at this moment of — well, of jubilation, practically? After all, Barney was almost the only one who had shown faith in the Rand just a few short years ago; he had saved many of them from desperation if not from starvation; now that their enemy, Kruger, had got his proper comeuppance, what did Barney seem to be so angry about? Surely he must have been aware that the demonstration had been planned by the Reform Committee? Even those who were not members of the committee — and that was the large majority of those there — had been aware of that. Surely he must have known that the committee had counted on Kruger losing his temper to hear himself laughed at, him being the President and all. The Boers were a proud people, and Paul Kruger was the proudest of the lot. Barney must have known that just the cry of “Speak English!” was enough to start old Kruger off; and the results were the proof that the tactic had been eminently correct. Old Oom Paul had scooted with his tail between his legs! What was the matter with Barnato, anyway? Slowly the crowd calmed down and let the man speak.

“Yer a fine bunch, I must say,” Barney said almost conversationally, although there was a biting, scornful tone to his voice. The silence grew deeper as he went on. His Cockney, seemingly lost these many years, was back in full force, apparently returned automatically. “A fine bunch — but o’ what? Hate t’ say, in front o’ women. Tell th’ truth, th’ lot o’ you — he called y’ rogues an’ rascals, an’ that’s what y’are! Most o’ you couldn’t bully yer way out o’ a paper bag, an’ yet y’ stand there and jeer an’ laugh at a man what’s ten times bigger than y’are or ever will be! Where were any o’ you when Paul Kruger was winnin’ this land yer livin’ in? Suckin’ yer ma’s tit, if y’could find it! Or pullin’ yer pud, if y’could find that ! Where were y’ when the Matabeles were killin’ anyone what came inside a mile o’ where yer standin’ right now? Y’were sittin’ in some pub as far from danger as y’could get, suckin’ on a substitute fer yer momma’s tit, a gin bottle, most likely. Yer lucky Paul Kruger didn’t stop and take y’ on one by one; he’d o’ gone through the lot o’ you in ten minutes!”

He took a deep breath, looking over the startled, now completely silenced crowd with disgust.

“Yer enough to make a man give up his supper, that’s what y’are. You an’ yer cryin’ fer the vote! When was the last time y’ ever voted when y’ lived in the Cape? When was the last time y’ voted when y’ lived in England, fer that matter? Y’ really think Paul Kruger’s a fool? Well, I can tell y’ where t’ look if it’s fools yer wantin’. Try lookin’ over yer left or right shoulders. Or in a mirror! I come here to South Africa when I was eighteen year old, an’ I worked me bloody arse off to get where I am, an’ if anyone thinks they can take it from me jus’ like that, they better think twice! Well, Paul Kruger was born in South Africa, an’ he worked his arse off to get where he is, an’ if anyone here thinks y’ can take it away from him jus’ like that, y’ better think twice, too. I come here to Johannesburg to make money, an’ I thought most o’ you come fer the same reason. But I guess not. You and yer bloody vote! Y’ want concessions from the President, that’s what y’ want, or at least that’s what y’ should really want. Y’ think yer goin’ t’ get concessions from the man actin’ like y’ did today? You an’ yer bloody politics! Y’ make me sick! Yer blind, the lot o’ you!”

He stamped off the platform and pushed his way back through the crowd to Fay’s side, taking Leah Primrose from her and putting his face against her soft and slightly fuzzy skin as he led the way through the crowd to their trap in the next street. Men scowled at him with hatred as he marched along, but nobody dared put a finger on him, nor was it due to the fact that he was holding a baby that prevented them from doing so. It was the look in his eye and the hard set of his jaw, and the known fact that even though he was almost forty years old, Barney Barnato would tackle anyone, anytime, anywhere, and probably beat the daylights out of him, if he thought he or any of his family were being threatened in any way. And there was no doubt from the way Barney had just spoken that he felt the crowd’s actions that afternoon, that the objectives of the Reform Committee, had set back any hopes of concessions from Pretoria for a long time to come, and that Barney considered that fact a threat.

Andries stepped from the crowd to walk alongside Barney. He tipped his hat politely to Fay, smiled at Leah Primrose, who smiled back in delight at her uncle Andries, and then turned back to Barney.

“That was quite a speech you made back there,” Andries said mildly.