Роберт Фиш - Rough Diamond

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted. A trap had turned into the narrow entranceway leading from the main road below, up the slope to the front of the small cottage, a most unusual event. Tradesmen came to the rear of the house, and visitors were rare since he was no longer in power and practically hidden away in Muizenberg. Neville Pickering had come from the house at the sound of the trap and stood beside him on the stoep , one hand on his shoulder as if for support, also watching the small vehicle make its way to the end of the entranceway and stop. The driver’s identity was not immediately discernible, his face being hidden by a wide-brimmed hat as he came down and started to climb the remaining distance to the elevated cottage. Pickering frowned.

“Who do you suppose that could be?”

Rhodes had recognized the man as he came closer. He made a grimace. “Luckner.” He reached back with one hand to pat the hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Neville. I know the man. I can handle him. I’d rather handle him alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Pickering went back into the house as Luckner mounted the steps to the stoep . The mustached, scarfaced man pushed his hat to the back of his head and stood, staring down at the seated man, studying the drawn face, noting the obvious signs of ill health. So much for the high and mighty! Luckner thought with an inner sneer, but his voice was properly respectful when he spoke. Disrespect was no way to gain favors.

“Hello, Mr. Rhodes.”

“Mr. Luckner. What brings you here?”

Luckner looked around, saw a chair, pulled it up, and sat down a few feet from Rhodes, facing him. “Why shouldn’t I come here? After all, if you want to look at it fairly, it’s because of you that I’m not allowed in the Transvaal any longer.” Might as well establish the conditions of responsibility at the very start, Luckner thought, and reached into his pocket for a cigar, lighting it and leaning back.

Rhodes’ lips quirked in a humorless smile. “I might say, with far more justice, that because of Jameson and you I’m not allowed at Groote Schuur anymore. At least you’re welcome in the Cape Colony, and I’m barely welcome here. Or, of course, you’re perfectly free to go back to Bechuanaland, or Rhodesia.” He drew his shawl a bit tighter about his shoulders. “With my poor state of health, I probably wouldn’t make it there if I wanted to go.”

“I’ve about had all of bloody Bechuanaland or Rhodesia that I want,” Luckner said harshly. “All that I ever had there, or anywhere else as far as that goes, is hard cheese. Bad luck.”

“I’d say you had rather good luck in Pretoria,” Rhodes said, wondering where the conversation was leading. “Thanks to Barney Barnato. I hate to give the man credit for anything, but he did save a few necks from stretching. Including my brother’s. And yours.”

Luckner cursed. “That miserable bastard Jew! He wanted to save that worthless nephew, so he had no choice but to save the rest of us, your brother included, as far as that goes! If that little sheeny nephew of his, Solly Loeb, hadn’t been involved, your precious Barney Barnato would have left the rest of us hang, and even been happy to drop the trap himself, don’t worry!” He grinned cruelly. “Which is a joke in its own way. Solly Loeb has been robbing him blind for years, is what I hear, and the damned fool just got wise a while ago—”

Rhodes considered the man curiously. “You don’t appear to have a very grateful attitude for a man whose life has been saved, it seems to me—”

Luckner sneered. “Grateful? For what? To who? That lying, cheating little kike? If it hadn’t been for him cheating me out of my rightful share of the Paris Hotel, and then throwing me out when he knew it was throw me out or pay me what I rightfully had coming — and he certainly had no intention of ever paying me — if it wasn’t for Barney Barnato, I’d never been in your bloody army in Rhodesia, or up in Pitsani with Jameson, in the first place!”

Rhodes was staring at him. The paranoid maniac actually believes what he’s saying! Rhodes thought with wonder. Luckner was going on.

“Why would I have been there? I had nothing to do with politics. Never. I don’t give a bucket of piss who runs the damned Transvaal, or the Free State or the bloody Cape, either. I’m off to England.”

He suddenly seemed to remember the purpose of his visit. His voice dropped in volume, became more respectful.

“That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Rhodes. The Scott sails on the tide this evening. I don’t have the money for passage. I—” He suddenly held up his hand. “Wait! I’m not asking for money, Mr. Rhodes. I never begged in my life. There aren’t any cabins left, anyway. I tried to sign on as crew, but they said they were full. I’m a good sailor, Mr. Rhodes. And I’m sure that a note from you to the captain and he’d manage to find room for me on the crew somehow.”

Rhodes considered the man for several moments. Then, with a sigh, he nodded. At least it would remove a very disagreeable person from South Africa, be it the Transvaal, the Orange Free State, the Cape Colony, or anywhere else. And probably save some innocent person in South Africa from being booted to death sometime in the future. A note to his old friend the captain of the Scott was a small price to pay for such a rich dividend. He only hoped his friendship with the captain would not be impaired by some act of idiocy or violence on the part of Luckner during the voyage, but that was a chance he was willing to take. It did seem a shame, though, to inflict a man like Luckner on his beloved England; but one thing was sure: no Barney Barnato would be able to save him from the penalty of his next capital offense. In England he’d probably be swinging from a gibbet in a matter of months. He raised his hand. Pickering, who had been watching from a window as Rhodes had been sure he had, was at his side in seconds.

“Sir?”

“Paper, and a pen and ink.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pickering was back in moments. He pulled up a table for Rhodes to write upon, placed down the articles he had brought, and disappeared into the house. Rhodes scribbled for several seconds, blotted the ink, reread what he had written, and handed it over. Luckner read the note, smiled, folded the paper, and tucked it into his pocket. He came to his feet and started down the steps, and then paused, turning.

“I imagine you wrote this just to get me out of Africa, eh?”

Rhodes looked at him without expression. “Yes,” he said.

Luckner chuckled and went on down to his trap. As he climbed in and started to turn his horse, the chuckle died in his throat. A grim look came to his face. What old Rhodes didn’t know was that Barney Barnato and his family were also sailing on the Scott . If he had, and knowing how Luckner felt about the man, would he still have written that note? Probably, Luckner thought, dwelling on the heady feeling of revenge he would extract from Barnato for having ruined his life with his cheating, and remembering how Rhodes had once hired him in an attempt to put the little Jew on the Cape Breakwater as an illegal diamond trader. Had he known Barnato was sailing on the Scott , would Rhodes still have written that note? Not probably, Luckner thought, giving another the worst of intentions, as always; undoubtedly.

His chuckle returned as he whipped his horse back toward Cape Town.

Fay was belowdecks in their cabin, directing their stewardess and steward in the unpacking of their luggage for the long trip. Leah Primrose, now a grown-up four years of age, had taken her maid by the hand and was dragging her all about the ship, getting in everyone’s way but not worrying about it particularly, exploring the wonderful vessel with its odd corners and narrow, steep steps, its strange odors and queer passageways. Solly Loeb, unpacking his bags himself — for he never trusted servants with his finery — had come upon a bottle of whiskey in one of his suitcases and had paused in his unpacking to sample it. Barney Barnato, on deck, was leaning on the rail of the ship still anchored in Table Bay, remembering the first time he had seen the sight now spread out before him.