Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

He climbed back into his trap, turned his horse, and returned to the mine shaft, climbing down as Barney drew up beside him and got down.

“I’ll wait here,” Fay said, smiling at both men. “Get a little sun.”

“I won’t be long,” Barney promised, and walked over to the cage beside Armando.

Armando swung open the gate and waited until Barney had entered the mesh-sided, open-topped cage before waving to the donkey-engine operator who handled the cable winch. “Slow, all the way to the bottom,” he shouted and got into the cage, ducking his unusual height under the top crossbeam of the cage, reaching back to swing shut the gate that prevented anyone from falling down the open shaft. When he stood erect his head went above the mesh sides of the cage, almost touching the large iron eye bolt that held the rope cable that raised and lowered the cage. Armando grinned down at Barney. “See shaft a lot easier from up here,” he said, and then swayed slightly as the cage began to descend. But it only went five or six feet before it stopped with a jerk. Both men looked upward with a frown at the daylight just above them. There was the voice of the operator, heard in a faint shout from above.

“Something’s caught. I’ll get it fixed right away.”

There was the ringing of a hammer on metal; Armando had to raise his voice a bit to be heard. “You see, Barney? Winch gears worn—”

He paused as the cage suddenly dropped another two or three feet and stopped again with another jerk. At the sudden stop there was a short snapping sound and one of the rope strands of the cable parted with a sharp report just above Armando’s head. Armando opened his mouth to yell for the operator to stop his hammering and drop them some ropes to secure the cage, when a second strand of the cable snapped. The beating of metal on metal continued from above. The two men looked at each other; then Armando reached up, grasping the slippery cable with one hand, used his enormous strength to raise himself enough to brace his feet under the top crossbeam and then to lift the cage a foot or more, leaving a bit of slack in the cable. His other arm was quickly inserted in the slack, taking a bite. He released his first grip and stood, the cable now wrapped about his other arm, his body stretched with the strain, and looked at Barney.

“You climb over me, get out. Tell operator drop rope. I tie her somehow. Go now. Quick.”

“If he stops that damn hammering we can call him and I can tie the ropes a lot easier while you hold her—”

“He never stop that damn hammerin’! Don’ waste time! In shaft, me the boss! Climb! Dammit, climb!”

Barney hesitated a moment and then went up the wire mesh to the top crossbeam. He stepped up on Armando’s shoulders and then to the top of the big Angolan’s head, reaching up to grip the top edge of the shaft. He drew himself up to the surface, pushing aside the swinging gate, and scrambled to his feet. Fay had come down from the trap, her face registering her concern, but Barney paid no attention to her. The donkey-engine operator, his back to Barney, was still beating against the recalcitrant gearing of the winch with his hammer. Barney ran over and tore the hammer from the man’s hands.

“Ropes!” he roared. “The cable’s breaking at the cage! It’s only a few feet down! Armando’s holding it—”

The operator stared at him in confusion. “Ropes?” he asked in a dazed voice.

“Where d’you keep spare cables? Ropes, damm it—”

There was a sudden clatter from the shaft and both men rushed over, staring down. The last strand of the cable had parted and the cage had dropped away, leaving Armando swinging in the shaft at the end of the rope. Even as the operator, finally understanding, started at a sprint for the rope shed, Armando’s arm began to slip from the greasy cable. He tried to use his other hand to reach up and halt the slide; then attempted to swing to the side of the shaft where he might try for a grip on one of the runners that guided the cage, but it was too late and Armando knew it. He looked up and tried to smile; then he slipped from the frayed cable and disappeared without a sound down the shaft. Barney squeezed his eyes shut in shock, as if to blot out the sight, and then opened them as, after what seemed an eternity, there was the muffled sound of the cage striking bottom, echoing up the shaft walls. He turned away before he could hear any sound of Armando’s body striking, tears suddenly scalding his cheeks, and bent over, vomiting uncontrollably, with Fay’s arms about him, holding him tightly.

The miners from the various levels came up in the buckets normally used for hauling the dynamited rock to the surface; Armando’s body was brought up wrapped in a tarpaulin. He was buried the following day, a closed-casket funeral, in a grave dug beside the shaft in which he died. The stone that was to cover the grave had been ordered by Barney himself, and promised to be one of the most impressive in Johannesburg: a life-sized statue of Armando as he had been twenty years before, bare-chested, in his boxing trunks and boxing shoes, a true giant of a man.

Most of the important people of Johannesburg attended the funeral, partly for Armando, but mainly in deference to Barney, for while they had their differences, primarily regarding the position of the Reform Committee, the name Barnato still meant a great deal in Johannesburg. Besides, in the face of a mine disaster, a disaster that might have overtaken any one of them when inspecting a new seam in one of their mines, they all stood together. And as the priest made his eulogy beside the open grave, the huge casket hastily made the night before waiting patiently to be interred, a trap came tearing into the open space where the mourners were gathered. The driver pulled on the reins hurriedly, as if such commotion was somehow indecent in face of the bared heads and long faces, in face of the very presence of death. He got down quietly, as if attempting to efface himself, but walked quickly, nonetheless, to the side of Colonel Frank Rhodes. He whispered something in the colonel’s ear, and then stepped back at the colonel’s startled exclamation.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“The idiot! The damned idiot!”

The colonel looked about; the priest droned on, but now everyone was looking toward Frank Rhodes, and that included Barney. But the colonel knew, to his unhappiness, that it was far too late for secrets at this point. Frank Rhodes shouldered his way to the front of the crowd; the priest, aware that something extraordinary was going on, stopped talking as Rhodes mounted the pile of dirt beside the open grave, looking out over the crowd from his vantage point.

“Ladies, gentlemen,” he said gravely, quietly, for there was no need for speaking loudly in that sudden and complete silence, “Jameson is on his way to Jo’burg. The messenger I sent to be sure he did not move met him twenty miles inside of the Transvaal; he had left Pitsani the night before last, Sunday night. I suggest the Reform Committee meet at once to decide on a course of action.” He looked down at Barney, standing quite close to him. “I’m sorry to disrupt the funeral, Barney, but as soon as you are through here, I suggest you join us. We’ll be meeting at the Rand Club. This matter will affect every man in this town.”

He came down from the dirt pile and walked quickly toward his horse, tethered to one side, followed by a good number of the men present, including Solly Loeb. The priest looked at the large coffin resting on the two wooden horses, then at the four Kaffirs, their shovels stabbed in the dirt beside them, waiting to place the heavy coffin in the ground and cover it, then at Barney Barnato and his wife, each with a handful of dirt to cast on the coffin once it was in the ground, in proper Jewish tradition, and finally at the backs of the retreating men and horses.