Men of Men - Smith Wilbur - Страница 9
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in the door of the back room Zouga paused, and felt a sickening little lurch in the pit of his stomach. A woman knelt beside the bed. She had a shawl spread over head and shoulders. Her hands clasped before her face were roughened and reddened by the drudgery of labour over the diamond sorting-table.
She lifted her head and looked at Zouga in the doorway. She might once have been a pretty girl, but the sun had coarsened her skin and her eyes were swollen and reddened with grief. The wisps of hair that hung lankly from under the shawl were greasy and prematurely greyed.
After that one glance she lowered her head again and her lips moved silently as she prayed.
A child lay upon the bed, a boy no older than Jordan.
His eyes were closed, his features very pale, bloodless as candlewax, but infinitely peaceful. He was dressed in a clean nightshirt, his limbs neatly arranged, the hands folded on his chest.
It took Zouga a full minute to realize that he was dead.
"The fever," whispered Jock at Zouga's side. He broke off and stood dumb and massive as an ox awaiting the butcher's stroke.
Zouga took Jock Danby's cart down to Market Square and. purchased a dozen rough-sawn planks of lumber, paying the transport rider's price without haggling.
In the dusty yard in front of Dariby's shack he stripped to his shirtsleeves and planed the raw planks, while Jock sawed and shaped them. They worked in silence except for the whicker of plane and saw.
The rough coffin was ready before noon, but as Jock lifted his son's body into it Zouga caught the first whiff of corruption; it happens very swiftly in the African heat.
Jock's wife rode on the battered cart with the coffin and Zouga walked beside Jock Danby.
The fever was ravaging the camp. There were two other carts already at the burial ground, a mile beyond the last tents on the Transvaal road, each surrounded with a silent knot of mourners; and there were graves ready dug, and a grave-digger to demand his guinea.
On the way back from the burial ground Zouga stopped the cart in front of one of the canteens that fronted the market square, and with the remaining coins in his pocket he bought three bottles of Cape brandy.
He and Jock sat facing each other on the over-stuffed green velvet chairs, with an open bottle and two tumblers on the table between them. The tumblers were embossed with cheery gold letters:
"The Queen, God Bless Her."
Zouga half-filled the tumblers and pushed one across to Jock.
The big man studied the contents of the tumbler, holding it in his huge fists between his knees, hunching his shoulders and drooping his head.
"It was so quick," he muttered. "Yesterday evening he ran to meet the cart, and rode home on my shoulder."
He took a swallow of the dark liquor and shuddered. His voice was husky as he went on. "He was so light. No meat on his little bones."
They drank in unison.
"There was a jinx on me from the moment I drove my first peg on these bloody claims." Jock shook his great shaggy head. "I should have stayed on the river-diggings, like Alice told me."
outside the single lace-covered window the sun was already setting, a lurid red show through the dust clouds; and as the gloom gathered in the room, Alice Danby came through and placed a smoky hurricane lantern on the table between them and followed it with two bowls of Boer-meal porridge swimming in a thin and oily mutton stew. Then she disappeared silently into the back room and, from time to time during the long night, Zouga heard her gentle sobs through the thin dividing wall. In the dawn Jock Danby lolled in the green velvet armchair, his shirt open to the navel and his hairy stomach bulging out of it. The third bottle was half empty.
"You are a gentleman," Jock slurred unevenly. "I don't mean a swell or a toff but a bloody gentleman, that's what you are."
Zouga sat upright, grave and attentive; except for a slight reddening of his eyes he seemed totally unaffected by the night's drinking.
"I wouldn't want to wish the Devil's Own on a gentleman like you." Zouga said quietly, "If you're going, you have to sell to someone."
"They're jinxed, those two claims," mumbled Jock.
"They've killed five men already, they've broken me, they've given me the worst year of my life. I've seen men on each side of me pull big stones; I've seen them become rich, while me --" he made a drunken gesture that encompassed the sordid little shack, "look at me."
The canvas that screened the connecting doorway was jerked aside and Alice Danby stood bareheaded beside her husband. It was evident by her drawn grey features that she had not slept either.
"Sell them," she said. "I cannot stay here another day.
Sell them, sell everything, let's go, Jock, let's get away from this dreadful place. I cannot bear to spend another night here."
The mining commissioner was a dour little magistrate appointed by President Brand of the fledgling Boer Free State, who laid claim to the diggings.
Brand was not the only one to have done so. Old Waterboer, the chief of the Griqua Bastaards, made cross claim to the and plains where his people had lived for fifty years and more. In London, Lord Kimberley, Secretary of State for the Colonies, had only just awakened to the potential wealth of the diamond diggings, and for the first time was listening attentively to the pleas of the Imperialists to support old Nicholaas Waterboer's claim and take Griqualand into the sphere of British influence.
In the meantime the Free State mining commissioner was trying, with only qualified success, to maintain some order over the unruly diggers. just as his roadways were crumbling into the surrounding pits on Colesberg kopje, so his authority was eroding before the onrush of events with the gathering of national interests and the emergence from obscurity of the first powerful figures as the financial aristocracy of the fields.
Zouga and Jock Danby found the commissioner bewailing his task over a liquid breakfast in the bar of the London Hotel and, supporting him by each elbow, they escorted him back across Market Square to his office.
By midmorning that day, the commissioner had copied the details of the Devil's Own, claims Nos 141 and 142 held under perpetual quit-rent letter, from J. A. Danby, Esq. to Major M. Z. Ballantyne, and noted payment in full in the sum of 2,000 pounds by cheque drawn on the Standard Bank.
An hour after noon, Zouga stood at the corner of Market Square, and watched the cart piled high with the green velvet armchairs and the brass bedstead pull away towards the northern corner of the square. Jock Danby led the team, and his wife sat thin and erect upon the load.
Neither of them looked back at Zouga, and the moment they disappeared into the maze of narrow alleys and shanties Zouga turned towards the kopie.
Despite the night of sleep that he had missed, he felt no fatigue, and his step was so light that he almost ran out along the narrow causeway that intersected the jumble of claims and workings.
The Devil's Own were deserted, two forlorn patches of raw yellow earth, neatly squared off and littered with abandoned equipment. Jock Danby's black workers had gone, for there was always a desperate shortage of labourers on the diggings. When Jock had not mustered them the previous dawn they had simply wandered away to take daily hire with one of the other diggers.
Most of the mining gear left on the claims seemed worn out, the buckets on the point of bursting and the ropes furry as fat yellow caterpillars. Zouga would not trust them with his own weight.
Gingerly he climbed down the swaying ladder, his cautious movements alerting the diggers on the neighbouring claims that he was an outsider.
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