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Authors: John Wilcox

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A silence hung over the room. It was broken, of course, by Rhodes. ‘Do have some more toast and marmalade, my dear fellow.’
 
Fonthill grinned at the banality. He could not help liking the open roguery of this strange man - the reference to de Sousa was a sly piece of blackmail. He shook his head. ‘No thank you, sir. You are quite right. You do serve the best breakfast in the Cape, but I have had more than my fill. Now, I would welcome a little time to think this over and to consult with my wife. How long can you give me?’
 
‘Oh, plenty of time. Shall we say twenty-four hours?’
 
‘Good lord.’
 
‘I must get on, Fonthill. These great events don’t wait upon the ponderings of men, you know.’
 
‘Very well. I will give you my decision by tomorrow morning.’
 
‘Good. Think carefully, my dear fellow. Much depends on your decision, for I have no one who could do this as well as you. So weigh my proposition very carefully. Oh, and give my regards to your wife.’
 
‘I will, sir. Goodbye.’
 
Once outside, Fonthill took a circuitous route back to the hotel, to give him time to think before meeting Alice. Jenkins must be involved, of course, in making the decision, but he would go along with whatever Alice and Fonthill decided. Simon’s own mind was already made up. The challenge was too great to resist. The chance to be in at the birth of a great country; the pleasure of ruining de Sousa and his government’s plans for Matabeland; the call to find a route to the eastern coast - they were all too strong and compelling to evade. He and Jenkins had been lying fallow for far too long. It was time to set off again and to follow their star.
 
He grinned at the thought. Then his features hardened into a frown, as he remembered his promise to Lamb. It would not be easy to keep Rhodes on that leash. And Alice, of course, would not be pleased. There was naturally no question of her accompanying them on this mission. It would be far too dangerous, and in any case, it was far from certain that she would approve of the purpose of it all. It was clear that she carried no banner for Rhodes and that she categorically disapproved of empire-building. She was wont to quote Gladstone’s words from his Midlothian campaign - words that she had reported for the
Morning Post
- of his ‘shame’ in thinking of ‘the events which have deluged many a hill and many a plain with blood’ in pursuit of Britain’s colonial ambitions in Africa. Would she not see a danger of this happening again if Rhodes was allowed to release his column of pioneers to ‘develop’ Matabeleland? And was Simon himself not being incredibly selfish anyway in proposing to leave her again to go adventuring? He sighed.
 
Alice, of course, was waiting for him at the hotel, as was Jenkins, who was cleaning shoes in his room, nursing a ripening black eye.
 
‘Sit down, my dear,’ she said, her eyes sharp, ‘and tell me what the great man has offered you. Was it the throne of some mountain kingdom in the hinterland, or merely a seat in the Cape Cabinet?’
 
‘Now don’t tease, Alice. This is quite important.’
 
‘Oh, I’m sure it is. Shall I pack now?’
 
Fonthill sighed. It
was
going to be difficult. He cleared his throat and began to tell her, as accurately as he could remember, all that Rhodes had related. She interrupted him almost at once to call in Jenkins to hear the details, then listened impassively and without further question until the end. Then: ‘You have accepted, of course?’
 
‘Certainly not. I told him I wished to talk it over with you.’
 
‘Good. That was thoughtful. How much time did he give you?’
 
‘Er . . . twenty-four hours.’
 
‘
Twenty-four hours!
How very considerate of him.’
 
Fonthill squirmed in his chair and caught Jenkins’s eye. ‘Now don’t be unfair, my dear. You know yourself that Lobengula is becoming very restive. Time is of the essence.’
 
‘And you wish to go?’
 
‘Well yes, subject of course to your approval. I do consider it the most remarkable opportunity—’
 
She interrupted him quickly.
 
‘And what do you think, 352? Do you wish to go exploring in deepest Africa?’
 
Jenkins screwed up his discoloured eye. ‘Well, you know, Miss Alice, I’ll go anywhere the captain goes.’
 
‘Not quite
everywhere
, I trust.’ Her tone was acerbic. ‘Good. Then that’s settled. I’m afraid we can’t set off immediately, my dears, because I need at least one new pair of breeches. My present ones are virtually transparent. But I will only need a couple of days . . .’
 
Fonthill set his jaw. ‘No, Alice. That is out of the question. I am afraid you cannot accompany us. This will be far too dangerous for a woman. You have seen already how de Sousa likes to play things, and goodness knows what other dangers will lie in wait once we start to head to the east. Please, my dear, stay here in the Cape and—’
 
‘And do my knitting and embroidery while you two are having fun in the bloody jungle? Certainly not. No. I shall have work to do.’
 
‘Work? What on earth do you mean?’
 
She leaned forward, and Simon realised that her eyes were gleaming in anticipation. To the side, he caught a glimpse of Jenkins grinning. ‘Simon,’ she said, ‘this will be a damned good story, don’t you see? I shall cable Cornford, the editor of the
Morning Post
immediately. I’m sure he will take me on again. The birth of a new nation, or at least a new colony, that sort of stuff. Those damned jingoes back in London will lap it up, and I shall have an exclusive.’
 
‘You can’t do that. What would Rhodes say?’
 
‘To hell with Rhodes. The man can’t operate in a vacuum. The world outside should know what he’s up to. Oh, when his column starts to invade - and that is what it means, a bloody
invasion
- the correspondents for the nationals down here will be on board, I expect, so I shan’t have that to myself. But they won’t be coming with you first, my darling, taking your guns and bullets up to the dear old king, but
I
shall and I shall tell the world, from deepest, darkest Africa.’
 
‘You can’t. There are no cable facilities up there.’
 
She sighed. ‘What sort of journalist do you think I am, my love? I have been solving those kind of logistical problems for years. The cable in the north begins from somewhere in the Free State, if I remember rightly, and I shall instruct a bearer to take my stuff back to be sent from there. I shall arrange all this myself with dear old Mzingeli. I presume that you will take him with you?’
 
‘Well, I don’t know . . .’
 
‘Then I shall take him myself.’ She turned round and gave Jenkins the sweetest smile. ‘Does all that sound logical and sound to you, 352?’
 
‘Well, Miss, I must say that—’
 
‘Oh for goodness’ sake be quiet, Jenkins.’ A scowl was now firmly settled on Fonthill’s face. ‘Alice, it is dangerous and you will be a hindrance. This will be no place for a woman.’
 
‘Oh, really?’ The scowl was reflected in Alice’s features. ‘And who was it that treated old Lobengula’s gout? Who fired the shot that stunned the lion when it charged? And who took part in the defence of the wagon? Was I a hindrance then? Come along, my dear. Was I?’
 
Fonthill bent his head for a moment in silence, but when he looked up he was smiling. ‘Of course not. You were and are the bravest woman in the world. What do you think, 352?’
 
‘Well I must say, Miss Alice seems quite determined.
 
‘You would say that. Very well, my darling, you will come with us. But for goodness’ sake, don’t criticise Rhodes in your dispatches. If you do, he might well recall us.’
 
She beamed at him. ‘Oh my love. He might recall you two but he has no power to recall
me
- and if he did abort your mission I would just have to tell the world about it, wouldn’t I? Now, if you will excuse me, I must send a cable and buy a new pair of breeches. I won’t be long. While I am away, why don’t you two find a nice little bar and start another war with the locals?’
 
Chapter 7
 
It was not, in fact, until three days later that Fonthill, Alice and Jenkins were able to set off for Kimberley. There was no train link north to the Transvaal, but Rhodes insisted that they take a ship round the Cape to Port Elizabeth, where a rail network had been established between that port and Durban and from which a line north was being built to Bloemfontein in the Free State. It had only reached as far as the northern Cape border, but it would still be much quicker than going by wagon or horseback overland from Cape Town. Fonthill sent a message to Mzingeli at his farm asking him to meet with them at the Kimberley headquarters of the de Beers diamond mining company of which Rhodes was chairman. He then went shopping with Jenkins to acquire two more up-to-date Martini-Henry rifles and a brace of revolvers, before meeting with Rhodes for a final briefing.
 
The meeting was disconcertingly vague. Firstly, Rhodes mentioned - almost in passing - that the number of rifles and cartridges awaiting Fonthill in the diamond town had been halved, to five hundred and fifty thousand respectively. ‘All the promised money is there, my dear fellow,’ he explained, ‘but it’s been damned difficult to find all the shooters, et cetera, in the time available. But don’t worry. Old Lobengula will never notice, and if he does, just explain that this is the first down-payment on account. Anyway, this will lighten your load. The original consignment would have been dashed difficult to manage in one go.’
 
Rhodes was also less than precise with his instructions about finding a route to the eastern coast. ‘Just head east. See if you can come to an agreement with the tribes out there - get a treaty of friendship between the chiefs and the company. We may have to build a road through to the coast eventually. Take plenty of gifts for the chiefs - lengths of cloth, hatchets, mirrors, that sort of thing. You can get all this from old Fairbairn up in Bulawayo. Don’t let him overcharge you. But he knows the territory a fair bit and he could be helpful all round. I have used him before. I have given instructions for you to be able to draw on the company’s account in Kimberley. Use the de Beers office as a means of communicating with me. They can telegraph me from there. Got it?’
 
On the day before their departure, Alice received an enthusiastic cable from the editor of the
Morning Post
agreeing to her proposal, and Fonthill felt it honourable to inform Rhodes that she would be accompanying him and of her journalistic role. He seemed remarkably sanguine about it all. ‘I’m open about what I do, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Nothing to hide. As for her alerting the opposition, by the time she gets her reports back to London, you should have settled the whole business with the king, eh, what? Oh, and tell her to use my name in full, Cecil John, there’s a good fellow. It’s just a small vanity I have, you know.’
 
It only remained for Fonthill, this time with Jenkins, to pay a farewell visit to Major General Lamb. The little man had heard, of course, of Simon’s decision - was there nothing that escaped his attention in Cape Town? - and he showed his pleasure also at meeting Jenkins again. The last time we met, 384,’ he reminisced, ‘was on the ramparts at Sherpur, just outside Kabul, when the Pathans were attacking. I remember you had blood pouring down your face then. Now you’ve got a black eye. Where’d you get it, eh?’
 
‘Walked into a door, General.’
 
‘Lord, the same old barrack-room excuse. Well, good luck to you both, and God speed. Remember, Fonthill, curb the beast as best you can.’
 
‘I will do my best, sir.’
 
And so they set off the next day, just the three of them, for Alice was not the sort of woman to employ a lady’s maid on a journey such as this. Within two and a half weeks they were in Kimberley, thanks to the new railway. The town had changed a little since Fonthill’s last visit nine years before. It still sprawled out on to the veldt in surprisingly orderly rows of single-storeyed wooden shacks, with their sad veranda
stoeps
. But the centre had become more sophisticated, with two- and even three-storeyed buildings predominating, many of them now made of brick and offering financial and other commercial services. Most of these were set around the large market square at a crossroads, big enough to turn an oxen team without it outspanning, and which seemed to be an open-air meeting place for an eclectic mixture of dust-covered miners, bearded Boer farmers and barefooted Kaffirs in overalls. The de Beers headquarters, however, seemed exactly the same: an unpretentious low wooden building, set, like most of those in Kimberley, under a corrugated iron roof. There was nothing to indicate that the company now handled ninety per cent of all the diamonds mined in South Africa, or that its chairman could airily promise to launch a steamer on the upper Zambezi for a native king to play with.

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