Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

“Frank, are you changing your mind about our objectives?”

“No, dammit! But if you ever want to reach your objectives, listen to what I’m trying to tell you! You asked me to handle the Jo’burg end of this affair, and how do you argue with people who feel that way? How do you convince them to pick up a gun and fight? I’m trying to tell you the truth of the matter, but you don’t seem to want to listen! How do you convince a man to fight when you give him a bloody thirty-one rounds of ammunition and tell him that’s the lot, go out and wipe out the Boers with it, take over their country?” He shook his head decisively. “It would be a massacre, a needless massacre, and I’m not talking about the Boers, either. And what would that gain? Certainly not the overthrow of Kruger, if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

Cecil Rhodes considered his brother for several moments. When he spoke his voice was more sympathetic than anything else.

“Frank, I know that organizing Johannesburg for this uprising has not been an easy job, and I’m sure you’ve done your best. But there’s still time to bring in more arms and ammunition. Possibly if you had paid a bit more attention to it, put a bit more time into it, a bit more effort—”

Frank Rhodes held up a hand quickly, almost commandingly.

“Now, you listen to me, Cecil Rhodes! I know your opinion of me — I like women and you don’t. I drink a lot of whiskey and lately you’ve been drinking almost none. I like a lot of things and do a lot of things you don’t approve of! But don’t blind yourself to one simple fact: I’m the only one in your whole bloody Reform Committee who knows his arse from a cricket bat when it comes to military experience, and that includes your precious Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, who thinks he’s a soldier because he happened to beat a bunch of natives with spears, when his men had guns! And my military experience isn’t slight, either, as you damned well know! I’m no honorary colonel, Cecil; I’m a colonel promoted in grade in the field, dammit! I’ve had thirty years in the army! When we talk gold or diamonds, I’ll listen to you, but when we talk a military operation you’d better listen to me, or you can take your chances with the diggers and shoe clerks you’re planning to use to scare Kruger into handing you the Transvaal on a platter!”

Rhodes had been listening, his face impassive, but his mind was racing. He had never seen his brother Frank in this mood before. One thing was certain: failure was unthinkable. Failure would damage, if not put an end to, his career, and with it his dream of extending South Africa under British rule even farther north — to Cairo, eventually, hopefully. He looked at his brother.

“Are you suggesting we abandon the project?”

“No, dammit, I’m not! I’m merely suggesting we’re not ready for it, not now. It’s your decision, Cecil, but I’m telling you this: Call off this losing operation before it’s too late. Jameson is a fanatic and the ultimate egotist, and this man Luckner he’s picked as second in command is totally unhinged. He’s a bloodthirsty maniac. He kicked a Kaffir to death for spilling some coffee on him, hot coffee. Jameson has fewer than five hundred men under him and while he calls them Rhodesian Police, I’ll wager nine tenths of them are blacksmiths or sailors or ex-breakwater convicts, certainly not trained troops. They’ve each got a horse and a gun; that makes them soldiers! And he was supposed to pick up three hundred Bechuanaland Police, who are trained, but as I said, their number is down to about eighty, and they’d be more enthusiastic if they were being sent out to hunt quail. If you want the truth, they asked if they’d be fighting for the Queen or for Cecil Rhodes’ South African Chartered Company. Now, I’m your brother and I’m trying to help you—”

“Jameson is planning on leaving Pitsani for Johannesburg on the twenty-first of December. That’s just over three weeks away,” Rhodes said, and now his tone was plainly worried. “It may be too late to call it off—”

“Dammit, it’s too late to begin it!” Frank Rhodes retorted. “It has to be postponed, Cecil, for God’s sake! Let Jameson get away from Pitsani before somebody gets the idea of what he’s up there for! Let him get back to Fort Salisbury; let him bring his men up to strength and train them. And let him stop those ridiculous telegraphs before Kruger does know what’s going on, if he doesn’t already know. Let us get proper guns and sufficient ammunition into Johannesburg, and that is going to take time with the border guards as alert as they are these days. With time we can do it, but we can’t do it in any three weeks. And let us have time to convince the people of Johannesburg that it’s to their advantage to be with us one hundred per cent in this thing.” He stared at his brother almost fiercely. “Then, by God, we’d have a chance. We’d have a bloody good chance!”

“How much time are you talking about?”

The colonel shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe six months, maybe more. What difference does it make? You want the Transvaal under British rule; it’s been Boer ever since they kicked the shit out of us fifteen years ago, and it was Boer before that. And, I might mention, they did it against the British Army, not against a ragtag bunch of pseudo adventurers playing soldier. So what’s a few more months to ensure success?”

“What do the other members of the Reform Committee think?”

Frank Rhodes waved that away. “I don’t care what they think. If they have any brains, they think the same as I do. Everyone is afraid to admit the truth of what I’ve just told you. Nobody wants to be the messenger bringing bad news, especially to you. But somebody had to do it, and I don’t mind being the one. I’ve given you the truth of the matter: to move now is to invite complete and certain disaster. And if you want my opinion, you won’t get another chance to do it as easily for a long, long time. All you have to do is wait until you’re properly prepared. And you’re not, right now.”

Cecil Rhodes came to his feet and began pacing the floor. At last he paused and looked up.

“It will be hard to hold Jameson back for six months or more. I know the man…”

Frank Rhodes exploded. “Then replace him! What the devil d’you mean, it will be hard to hold him? Is this a military operation, or some bit of anarchy where everyone goes off on his own and does what he wants? If necessary, go up there and tell him yourself, in person, if a telegraph won’t handle the matter. You’re the only one he’ll listen to. He thinks he’s smarter than the rest of us combined. When I pointed out to him on his last visit that four hundred plus men were far from enough, he simply laughed. He said, ‘I can walk into Jo’burg with twenty men and five revolvers anytime I want. You just be ready with your uprising when I get there.’” He snorted contemptuously.

Rhodes sighed. “All right, Frank,” he said, and walked to the end of the room to tug at a pull rope. A moment later his secretary, Pickering, was in the room. Rhodes turned to him. “Send this telegraph to Jameson, at Pitsani. Say, ‘Polo tournament postponed until further notice.’ Get it off at once, and sign it Rhodes.”

“Sign it Cecil Rhodes,” Frank added. “Otherwise he may think I came down to Cape Town just to send it, and he’ll toss it in the campfire.” He waited until Pickering had left the room, and held out his hand for his brother to shake. “That was the wise move, Cecil. Now we’ve got to get busy. Get Jameson back to Fort Salisbury and start doing his job properly. I’ll get to work in Johannesburg.”

“Very well,” Rhodes said, and touched his brother’s hand. Frank Rhodes turned to go. “And thank you, Frank,” Rhodes said sincerely.