When the Lion Feeds Page 25

  Not so loud here but now the grinding noise was punctuated with an occasional metallic snap like the breaking of a knife blade. Strange, very strange; he had never heard anything like it before. He walked on down the drive, his bad mood lost in his preoccupation with this new problem. Before he reached the face he met Francois. Hello, Mr Courtney. Sean had long since given up trying to stop Francois calling him that. Gott, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you. I thought you were coming at three. That’s all right, Francois, how are you? My rheumatism’s been giving me blazes, Mr Courtney, but otherwise I’m all right. How’s Mr Charleywood? He’s fine. Sean couldn’t restrain his curiosity any longer. Tell me something, Franz, just now I put my ear against the wall of the drive and I heard an odd noise, I couldn’t make out what it was. What kind of noise? A sort of grinding, like, like... . I Sean searched for words to describe it, like two pieces of glass being rubbed together. Francois’s eyes flew wide open and then began to bulge, the colour of his face changed to grey and he caught Sean’s arm.

  whererBack along the drive.

  The breath jammed in Francois’s throat and he struggled to speak through it, shaking Sean’s arm desperately. Cave-in! he croaked. Cave-in, man! He started to run but Sean grabbed him. Francois struggled wildly.

  Francois, how many men up at the face? Cave-in. Francois’s voice was now hysterically shrill. Cave-in. He broke Sean’s grip and raced away towards the lift station, the mud flying from his gumboots. His terror infected Sean and he ran a dozen paces after Francois before he stopped himself. For precious seconds he wavered with fear slithering round like a reptile in his stomach; go back to call the others and perhaps die with them or follow Francois and live. Then the fear in his belly found a mate, a thing just as slimy and cold; its name was shame, and shame it was that drove him back towards the face. There were five blacks and a white man there, bare-chested and shiny with sweat in the heat. Sean shouted those two words at them and they reacted the way bathers do when someone on the beach shouts shark. The same moment of paralysed horror, then the panic. They came stampeding back along the tunnel. Seanran with them, the mud sucked at Ins heavy boots and his legs were weak with easy living and riding in carriages. One by one the others passed him.

  “Wait for me, he wanted to scream. Wait for me. He slipped on the greasy footing, scraping his shoulder onthe the rough wall as he fell, and dragged himself up again, mud plastered in his beard, the blood burning in his ears.

  Alone now he blundered on down the tunnel. With a crack like a rifle shot one of the thick shoring timbers broke under the pressure of the moving rock and dust smoked from the roof of the tunnel in front of him.

  He staggered on and all around him the earth was talking, groaning, protesting, with little muffled shrieks. The timbers joined in again, crackling and snapping, and as slowly as a theatre curtain the rock sagged down from above him.

  The tunnel was thick with dust that smothered the beam of his lamp and rasped his throat. He knew then that he wasn’t going to make it but he ran on with the loose rock starting to fall about him. A lump hit his mining helmet and jarred him so that he nearly fell. Blinded by the swirling dust fog he crashed at full run into the abandoned cocopan that blocked the tunnel, he sprawled over the metal body of the trolley with his thighs bruised from the collision. Now I’m finished, he thought, but instinctively he pulled himself up and started to grope his way around the cocopan to continue his flight. With a roar the tunnel in front of him collapsed. He dropped on his knees and crawled between the wheels of the COCOPan, wriggling under the sturdy steel body just an instant before the roof above him collapsed also. The noise of the fall around him seemed to last for ever, but then it was over and the rustling and grating of the rock as it settled down was almost silence in comparison. His lamp was lost and the darkness pressed as heavily on him as the earth squeezed down on his tiny shelter. The air was solid with dust and he coughed; he coughed until his chest ached and he tasted salty blood in his mouth. There was hardly room to move, the steel body of the trolley was six inches above him, but he struggled until he managed to open the front of his overalls and tear a piece off the tail of his shirt. He held the silk like a surgical mask across his mouth and nose.

  It strained the dust out of the aft so he could breathe. The dust settled; his coughing slowed and finally stopped. He felt surprise that he was still alive and cautiously he started exploring. He tried to straighten out his legs but his feet touched rock. He felt with his hands, six inches of head room and perhaps twelve inches on either side, warm mud underneath him and rock and steel all around.

  He took off his helmet and used it as a pillow. He was in a steel coffin buried five hundred feet deep, He felt the first flutter of panic. Keep your mind busy, think of something, think of anything but the rock around you, count your assets, he told himself. He started to search his pockets, moving with difficulty in the cramped space. One silver cigar case with two Havanas. He laid it down next to him. One box of matches, wet. He placed it on top of the case. One pocket watch. One handkerchief, Irish linen, monogrammed. One comb, tortoishell, a man is judged by his appearance. He started to comb his beard but found immediately that though this occupied his hands it left his mind free. He put the comb down next to his matches. Twenty-five pounds in gold sovereigns - He counted them carefully, yes, twenty-five.

  I shall order a bottle of good champagne. The dust was chalky in his mouth so he went on hurriedly, and a Malay girl from the Opera.

  No, why be mean, ten Malay girls. I’ll have them dance for me, that’ll pass the time. I’ll promise them a sovereign each to bolster their enthusiasm.

  He continued the search, but there was nothing else. Gumboots, socks, well-cut trousers, shirt torn I’m afraid, overalls, a tin hat, and that’s all. With his possessions laid out carefully beside him and his cell explored he had to start thinking. First he thought about his thirst. The mud in which he lay was too thick to yield water. He tried straining it through his shirt without success, and then he thought about air. It seemed quite A fresh and he decided that sufficient was filtering in from the loosely packed rock around him to keep him alive.

  To keep him alive, alive until the thirst killed. Until he died curled up like a foetus in the warm womb of the earth. He laughed, a worm in a dark warm womb. He laughed again and recognized it as the beginnings of panick! he thrust his fist into his mouth to stop himself, biting down hard on his knuckles. It was very quiet, the rock had stopped moving. How long will it take? Tell me, Doctor. How long have I got? I Well, you are sweating. You’ll lose moisture quite rapidly. I’d say about four days, he answered himself. What about hunger, Doctor? Oh, no, don’t worry about that, you, will be hungry, of course, but the thirst will kill you And typhoid, or is it typhus, I can never remember.

  What about that, Doctor? If there were dead men trapped in here with you there’d be a good chance, but you’re alone, you know Do you think I’ll go mad, Doctor, not immediately, of course, but in a few days? Yes, you’ll go mad. I’ve never been mad before, not that I know of anyway, but I think it will help to go mad now, don’t you? If you mean, will it make it easier, well, I don’t know! now you’re being obscure, but I follow you. You mean in that sleep of madness what dreams will come? You mean, will madness be more real than reality? You mean, will dying mad be worse than dying thirsty? But then I may beat the madness. This cocoPan might buckle under the strain, after all there must be thousands of tons of rock bearing down on it. That’s quite clever, you know, Doctor; as a medical man you should appreciate it.

  Mother Earth was saved but, alas, the child was stillborn, she bore down too hard. Sean had spoken aloud, and now he felt foolish. He picked up a piece of stone and tapped the cocopan with it. It sounds firm enough.

  A most pleasing noise, really. He beat harder on the metal body, one, two, three, one, two, three, then dropped the stone. Soft as an echo, distant as the moon, he heard his taps repeated. His whole body stiffened at the sound, and he
started to shiver with excitement. He snatched up the stone: three times he rapped, and three times the answer came back to him. They heard me, sweet merciful Christ, they heard me.

  He laughed breathlessly. Dear Mother Earth, don’t bear down, please don’t bear down. Just be patient. Wait a few days and by Caesarian they’ll take this child out of your womb. Mbejane waited until Sean disappeared down the Number Three shaft before he took off his new jacket. He folded it carefully on the driver’s seat next to him. He sat and enjoyed the feel of the sun on his skinfor a while, then he climbed off the carriage and went to the horses. He took them one at a time to the through for water then returned them to their harnesses, buckling them in loosely. He picked up his spears from the footboard and moved across to a patch of short grass next to the administrative building. He sat down and went to work on the blade, humming softly to himself as he honed. At last he ran an expert thumb along each edge, grunted, shaved a few hairs off his forearm, smiled contentedly and laid his spears beside him in the grass. He lay back and the sun warmed him to sleep.

  The shouting woke him. He sat up and automatically checked the height of the sun. He had slept an hour or more. Duff was shouting and Francois, mud-splattered and frightened-looking, was answering him. They were standing together in front of the administrative building.

  Duff’s horse was sweating. Mbejane stood up and went across to them; he listened closely, trying to understand their staccato voices. They went too fast for him, but something was wrong, that much he knew. It’s caved in almost to the Number Ten lift station Francois said.

  You left him in there, accused Duff. I thought he was following me, but he turned back. What for, why did he turn back? To call the others -’Have you started clearing the drive? No, I was waiting for you You stupid bloody idiot, he might be alive in there...

  every minute is vital. But he hasn’t a chance, Mr Charleywood, he must be deadShut up, damn you. Duff swung away from him and started running towards the shaft. There was a crowd gathered beneath the high steel structure of the head gear, and suddenly Mbejane knew it was Sean. He caught up with Duff before he reached the shaft. Is it the Nkosi? Yes.

  What has happened? The rock has fallen on him Mbejane pushed his way into the skip next to Duff and neither of them spoke again until they reached the tenth level. They went down the drive, only a short way before they reached the end. There were men there with crowbars and shovels standing undecided, waiting for orders, and Mbejane shouldered a path through them. He and Duff stood together in front of the new wall of broken rock that sealed the tunnel, and the silence went on and on.

  Then Duff turned on the white shift-boss. Were you at the face? Yes. He went back to call you, didn’t he? Yes. And you left him there? The min couldn’t look at Duff I thought he was following us, he muttered.

  You thought only of your own miserable skin, Duff told him, you filthy little coward, you slimy yellow bastard, you, .

  Mbejane caught Duff Is arm and Duff stopped his tirade.

  They all heard it then, clink, clink, clink. It’s him, it must be him! whispered Duff, he’s alive! He snatched a crowbar from one of the natives and knocked against the side of the tunnel. They waited, their breathing the only sound, until the answer came back to them louder and sharper than before. Mbejane took the crowbar out of Duff’s hands. He thrust it into a crack in the rock jam and his back muscles bunched as he heaved.

  The bar bent like a liquorice stick, he threw it away and went at the stone with his bare hands. You! Duff snapped at the shift-boss. We’ll need timber to shore up as we clear the fall, get it. He turned to the natives. Four of you working on the face at one time the rest of you carry the stone away as we loosen it.

  Do you want any dynamite? asked the shift-boss. And bring the rock down a second time? Use your brains, man. Go and get that timber and call Mr du Toit while you’re at the surface. In four hours they cleared fifteen feet of tunnel, breaking the larger stabs of stone with sledge hammers and prising the pieces out of the jam. Duff’s body ached and his hands were raw. He had to rest. He walked slowly back to the lift station and there he found blankets and a huge dish of soup. Where did this come from? Candy’s Hotel, sir. Half Johannesburg is waiting at the head of the shaft. Duff huddled into a blanket and drank a little.

  of the soup. Where’s du Toit? I couldn’t find him, sir.

  Up at the face Mbejane worked on. The first four natives came back to rest and fresh men took their place.

  Mbejane led them, grunting an order occasionally but otherwise reserving his strength for the assault on the rock. For an hour Duff rested and when he returned to the head of the tunnel Mbejane was still there. Duff watched him curl his arms round a piece of stone the size of a beer keg, brace his legs and tear the stone out of the jam. Earth and loose rock followed it burying Mbejane’s legs to the knees and Duff jumped forward to help him.

  Another two hours and Duff had to rest again. This time he led Mbejane back with him, gave him a blanket and made him drink a little soup. They sat next to each other with their backs against the Wall of the tunnel and blankets over their shoulders. The shift-boss came to Duff. Mrs Rautenbach sent this down for you, sir It was a half-bottle of brandy.

  Tell her, thank you Duff pulled the cork with his teeth and swallowed twice. it brought the tears into his eyes, he offered the bottle to Mbejane.

  It is not fittingl Mbejane demurred.

  Drink Mbejane drank, wiped the mouth of the bottle carefully on his blanket and handed it back. Duff took another swallow and offered it again but Mbejane shook his head.

  A little of that is strength, too much is weakness.

  There is work to do now Duff corked the bottle.

  How long before we reach him? asked Mbejane. Another day, maybe two. A man can die in two days, mused the Zulu. Not one with a body like a bull and a temper like a devil, Duff assured him. Mbejane smiled and Duff went on groping for his words in Zulu.

  “You love him, Mbejane? Love is a woman’s word Mbejane inspected one of his thumbs; the nail was torn loose, standing up like a tombstone; he took it between his teeth, pulled it off and spat it onto the floor of the drive. Duff shuddered as he watched. Those baboons will not work unless they are driven. Mbejane stood up. Are you rested? Yes, lied Duff, and they went back to the face.

  Sean lay in the mud with his head on the hard pillow of the helmet. The darkness was as solid as the rock around him. He tried to imagine where the one ended and the other began, by doing that he could stop himself feeling his thirst so strongly. He could hear the ring of hammer on stone and the rattle of rock falling free but it never seemed to come any closer. The whole side of his body was stiff and sore but he could not turn over, his knees caught on the cocopan every time he tried and the air in his little cave was starting to taste stale, his head ached.

  He moved again, restlessly, and his hand brushed the small pile of sovereigns. He struck at them, scattering them into the mud. They were the bait that had led him into this trap. Now he would give them, and all the millions. of others, for just the feel of the wind in his beard and the sun in his face. The darkness clung to him, thick and cloying as black treacle; it seemed to fill his nose, his throat and eyes, smothering him. He groped and found the matchbox. For a few seconds of light he would burn up most of the precious oxygen in his cave and call it fair exchange, but the box was sodden. He struck match after match but the wet heads crumbled without a spark and he threw them away and clenched his eyelids to keep the darkness out. Bright colours formed in front of his closed eyes, moving and rearranging themselves until suddenly and very clearly they formed a picture of Garrick’s face.

  He hadn’t thought about his family for months, he had been too busy reaping the golden harvest, but now memories crowded back. There were so many things he had forgotten. Everything else had become unimportant when compared with power and gold, even lives, men’s lives, had meant nothing. But now it was his own life, teetering on the edge of the black cliff
.

  The sound of the sledge-hammers broke into his thoughts again. There were men on the other side of the blocked tunnel trying to save him, working their way into the treacherous rock pile which might collapse again at any minute. People were more valuable than the poisonous metal, the little gold discs that lay smugly beside him in the mud while men struggled to save him.

  He thought of Garry, crippled by his careless shotgun, father to the bastard he had sired, of Ada whom he had left without a word of goodbye, of Karl Lochtkamper with the pistol in his hand and half his head splattered across the floor of his bedroom, of other nameless men dead or broken because of him.

  Sean ran his tongue across his lips and listened to the hammers; he was certain they were nearer now. If I get out of here, it’ll be different.

  I swear it Mbejane rested for four hours in the next thirty-six. Duff watched the flesh melt off him in sweat. He was killing himself, Duff was worn out; he could no longer work with his hands but he was directing the teams who were shoring up the reclaimed tunnel. By the second evening they had cleared a hundred feet of the drive. Duff paced it out and when he reached the face he spoke to Mbejane. How long since you last signalled to him? Mbejane stepped back with a sledge-hammer in his tattered hands; its shaft was sticky and brown with blood. An hour ago and even then it sounded as though there were but the length of a spear between us. Duff took a crowbar from one of the other natives and tapped the rock. The answer came immediately, He’s hitting something made of iron, Duff said.

  It sounds as though he’s only a few feet away. Mbejane, let these other men take over. If you wish you can stay and watch but you must rest again now. For answer Mbejane lifted the hammer and swung it against the face. The rock he hit cracked and two of the natives stepped up and levered it loose with their crowbars. At the back of the hole it left in the wall they could see the corner of the cocopan. Everyone stared at it, then Duff shouted. Sean, Sean, can you hear me? Stop talking and get me out of here. Sean’s voice was hoarse with thirst and dust, and muffled by the rock. He’s under the cocopan. It’s him. Nkosi, are you all rightVWe’ve found him. The shouts were picked up by the men working behind them in the drive and passed back to those waiting at the lift station. They’ve found him, he’s all’right, they’ve found him.