Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

Frank Rhodes merely nodded as he left the room, but he had been profoundly surprised. It was the first time since childhood that he could remember ever having heard his brother thank anyone for anything.

At the single wayside shack that served as a combination telegraph office, restaurant, bar, general store and stable at Pitsani, a place in Bechuanaland near the Transvaal’s western border, where passengers on the Mafeking-Bulawayo coach could take a sorry meal and their drivers change their mules, Jameson and his second in command, Carl Luckner, stood in the shade and read the telegraph message that had just been handed to them. The storekeeper, who, with the help of his wife and daughter, served as hostler, telegraph operator, cook, bartender, and counterman for the tiny outpost, stood and waited for the answer he knew would be forthcoming; every telegraph received by Jameson seemed to require a response, although the storekeeper could not understand why. Most of them made no sense at all to him.

Jameson glowered at the message. “Three weeks ago it was ‘Polo tournament postponed.’ Without a bloody reason! And when I telegraph to tell them we’re ready and any delay would be most injurious, they come back saying that it was absolutely necessary to postpone flotation until we hear from them. And when I complained again, we get this!” He slapped the piece of paper with his gloved hand. “‘I absolutely condemn further developments at present. We cannot have fiasco.’” He looked up, his face flushing with anger. “This is all Frank Rhodes’ work, take my word for it.”

Luckner shrugged. “Whoever’s work it is, we can’t wait much longer. The boys won’t stand for it. They signed up to fight the Boers, not the heat or the damned flies or the plain boredom of this place.” He might have added that the poor grub didn’t help, or the fact that all the decent whiskey was locked up and the men had to do with the cheap stuff in the bar, or the complete dearth of women other than the storekeeper’s wife and daughter, who was practically under lock and key when there were any men around. “We’ve had fifty men desert in the past month.”

“I know that!” Jameson said in irritation. “I know all the arguments against staying here! It’s those idiots who have Cecil Rhodes’ ear, who don’t. Frank Rhodes is afraid of his shadow; how he ever got to be a colonel in the British Army is a mystery to me! I know the people of Jo’burg and how they feel a damn sight better than Frank Rhodes does. Once we enter the city, we’ll have every man, woman, and child on our side, and the Boers will be running for their lives!” He scribbled a message on his pad and handed it to Luckner to read. Luckner read it and handed it to the storekeeper, but his eyebrows raised at the words. “Send that at once,” Jameson said.

The storekeeper read the message for clarity, and shrugged. At least this message made some sense; the other messages about polo, in a country that didn’t have a polo field anywhere in it, let alone at Pitsani; or the flotation of companies when there wasn’t a decent building, let alone a factory or a mine within fifty miles, had been ridiculous. And while this message indicated he would soon be losing custom and therefore revenue, at least it would also mean his daughter wouldn’t have to hide every time a trooper showed up at the bar, but could do her share of the work once again. For the message read: “Unless I hear definitely to the contrary, we shall leave tomorrow night, December 29, signed, Jameson.”

Luckner stared at him. He waited until the storekeeper had nodded and gone back into the shack, then he said, “And just suppose you get a telegraph hearing to the contrary?”

Jameson grinned. “In the first place, this is Saturday and the company offices are closed weekends. By the time anyone receives that telegraph, we’ll be halfway to Jo’burg. And in the second place, we’re going to cut the telegraph wires before we leave, so that handles the matter of return messages in the first place. Don’t worry, Cecil Rhodes will thank me when this is all over.” He became serious. “Issue the men all the whiskey they want today; they won’t be having any drink for a few days, and they’ll want to celebrate leaving this miserable place. They’ll have tomorrow to sober up. We’ll leave at dusk. And assign some men to cut the telegraph wires tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, sir!” Luckner said with a happy grin, and got on his horse to ride to camp. The stores of decent liquor that had been held back from the men, forcing them to drink the cheap-grade brandewyn at the bar in the shack, had been another sore subject among the troopers. This complaint, however, would be handled as soon as he got back to camp, and the other squawks, he knew, would be forgotten the minute they were on their way. There might be loot; there even might be women; who knew? But there definitely would be action, and that’s what the men needed more than anything else.

President Kruger was reading his Bible; it was his only reading material and he read it whenever he had time from state business. He looked up at the urgent rapping on his door, marking his place in the Bible with a thick finger. “Yes? Come,” he called.

His aide entered, excited, and gave his report.

“Ummm,” Kruger said thoughtfully. “They’re leaving tomorrow night, you say?”

“Yes, sir,” said his aide. “Our man at Pitsani — the storekeeper — sent us the telegraph exactly as he had sent it to Cape Town. As he has reported all of the exchange so far. He’s not the brightest person in the world,” the aide said condescendingly. “He has no idea of what he’s about, but he’s reliable as far as following orders. Oh, yes,” he added, grinning. “He also said he heard them say something about cutting the telegraph wires before they left. A little late, but sounds like the rest of their planning for this ridiculous affair.”

“Ummm,” Kruger said, and returned to his Bible, motioning his aide to leave the room and leave him alone.

“But, Mr. President,” the aide stammered. “Did you hear me? Jameson and more than four hundred armed troopers are planning to invade the Transvaal, leaving Pitsani tomorrow night. Shouldn’t we—”

“Shouldn’t we — what?” Kruger asked mildly.

“Well, I mean, sir, shouldn’t we do — well, something?”

“We will,” Kruger said, his tone dismissing the puzzled aide, and returned to his Bible.

Trooper Jimmy Parkinson, trying to stand more or less erect while suffering the grandfather of all hangovers and with a headache the equal of which he could not remember having encountered in a lifetime made up largely of headaches, spoke out of the side of his mouth to the man next to him, his friend Trooper Billy Watson.

“Billy,” he said in a mournful undertone, “I should ’ave stuck to the ’orrible muck in the telegraph ’ut. I never did ’ave a ’ead fer decent whiskey. Never ’ad a chance t’ get used to it.”

“You feelin’ rough?” Billy said sympathetically.

“Ain’t you?”

“I ’ad me some cookin’ oil afore I ’it the bottle,” Billy said virtuously. “Never get bashed that way. You really feelin’ bad? We’re ridin’ soon.”

“Me teeth all feel like they got little sweaters on ’em,” Jimmy said, “an’ me ’ead’s got t’be the size of a football. Wit’ a youngster inside beatin’ on a drum. I better tie meself on me ’orse,” Jimmy said, “becos’ I’m goin’ t’fall asleep soon’s we start. Better ride close t’me to make sure I don’t fall orf.” He looked down the wavering line. “Looks like th’ whole company’s in th’ same shape.”