Power of the Sword Read online

  He felt a prickle of excitement and turned to the open window. They were crossing the shoulder of hills above the town of Windhoek, and the street lights came on even as he watched. The town was the size of one of Cape Town’s suburbs and only the few central streets were lit.

  The train slowed to a walking pace as they reached the outskirts of the town, and Shasa smelled wood-smoke. Then he noticed that there was some sort of encampment amongst the thorn trees beside the tracks. He leaned out of the window to see more clearly and stared at the clusters of untidy shanties, wreathed in the blue smoke of campfires and shaded by the deepening dusk. There was a crudely lettered sign facing the tracks and Shasa read it with difficulty: ‘Vaal Hartz? Hell No!’ It made no sense and he frowned as he noticed two figures standing near the sign, watching the passing train.

  The shorter of the two was a girl, barefoot and with a thin shapeless dress over her frail body. She did not interest him and he transferred his attention to the taller, more robust figure beside her. Immediately he straightened in shock and rising indignation. Even in the poor light, he recognized that silver-blond shock of hair and the black eyebrows. They stared at each other expressionlessly, the boy in the white dress shirt and black tie in the lighted window and the boy in dusty khaki. Then the train slid past and hid them from each other.

  ‘Darling—’ Shasa turned from the window to face his mother. She was wearing sapphires tonight and a blue dress as filmy and light as woodsmoke. ‘You aren’t ready yet. We’ll be in the station in a minute – and what a mess you have made of your tie. Come here and let me do it for you.’

  As she stood in front of him and shaped the bow with dextrous fingers, Shasa struggled to contain and suppress the anger and sense of inadequacy that a mere glimpse of the other boy had aroused in him.

  The driver of the locomotive shunted them off the main track onto a private spur beyond the sheds of the railway workshop and uncoupled them beside the concrete ramp where Abraham Abrahams’ Ford was already parked, and Abe scampered up on to the balcony the moment the coach came to a stop.

  ‘Centaine, you are more beautiful than ever.’ He kissed her hand and then each of her cheeks. He was a little man, just Centaine’s height, with a lively expression and quick, alert eyes. His ears were pricked up as though he were listening to a sound that nobody else could hear.

  His studs were diamond and onyx, which was flashy, and his dinner jacket was a little too extravagantly cut, but he was one of Centaine’s favourite people. He had stood by her when her total wealth had amounted to something less than ten pounds. He had filed the claims for the H’ani Mine and since then conducted most of her legal business and many of her private affairs as well. He was an old and dear friend but, more important, he did not make mistakes in his work. He wouldn’t have been here if he did.

  ‘Dear Abe.’ She took both his hands and squeezed them. ‘How is Rachel?’

  ‘Outstanding,’ he assured her. It was his favourite adjective. ‘She sends her apologies, but the new baby—’

  ‘Of course.’ Centaine nodded, understanding. Abraham knew her preferences for masculine company and seldom brought his wife with him, even when invited to do so.

  Centaine turned from her lawyer to the other tall stoop-shouldered figure that was hovering at the gate of the balcony.

  ‘Dr Twentyman-Jones.’ She held out her hands.

  ‘Mrs Courtney,’ he murmured like an undertaker.

  Centaine put on her most radiant smile. It was her own little game, to see if she could inveigle him into the smallest display of pleasure. She lost again. His apparent gloom deepened until he looked like a bloodhound in mourning.

  Their relationship went back almost as far as Centaine’s with Abraham. He had been a consulting mining engineer with the De Beers Diamond Company, but he had evaluated and opened the H’ani workings for her back in 1919. It had taken almost five years of her most winning persuasion before he had agreed to come to work for the H’ani Mine as Resident Engineer. He was probably the best diamond man in South Africa, which meant the best in the world.

  Centaine led the two of them into the saloon and waved the white-jacketed barman aside.

  ‘Abraham, a glass of champagne?’ She poured the wine with her own hands. ‘And Dr Twentyman-Jones, a little Madeira?’

  ‘You never forget, Mrs Courtney,’ he admitted miserably as she carried the glass to him. Between them it was always full titles and surnames, although their friendship had stood all the tests.

  ‘I give you good health, gentlemen.’ Centaine saluted them, and when they had drunk she glanced across at the far door.

  On cue Shasa came through and Centaine watched critically as he shook hands with each of the men. He conducted himself with just the correct amount of deference for their age, showed no discomfort when Abraham over-effusively embraced him and then returned Twentyman-Jones’s greeting with equal solemnity. She gave a small nod of approval and took her seat behind her desk. It was her sign that the niceties had been observed and they could get on to business. The two men quickly perched on the elegant but uncomfortable Art Deco chairs and leaned towards her attentively.

  ‘It has come at last,’ Centaine told them. ‘They have cut our quota.’ They rocked back in their seats and exchanged a brief glance before turning back to Centaine.

  ‘We have been expecting it for almost a year,’ Abraham pointed out.

  ‘Which does not make the actuality any more pleasant,’ Centaine told him tartly.

  ‘How much?’ Twentyman-Jones asked.

  ‘Forty per cent,’ Centaine answered, and he looked as though he might burst into tears while he considered it.

  Each of the independent diamond producers was allocated a quota by the Central Selling Organization. The arrangement was informal and probably illegal, but nonetheless rigorously enforced, and none of the independents had ever been foolhardy enough to test the legality of the system or the share of the market they were given.

  ‘Forty per cent!’ Abraham burst out. ‘That’s iniquitous!’

  ‘An accurate observation, dear Abe, but not particularly useful at this stage.’ Centaine looked to Twentyman-Jones.

  ‘No change in the categories?’ he asked. The quotas were broken down by carat weight into the different types of stones, from dark industrial boart to the finest gem quality, and by size from the tiny crystals of ten points and smaller to the big valuable stones.

  ‘Same percentages,’ Centaine agreed, and he slumped in his chair, pulled a notebook from his inside pocket and began a series of quick calculations. Centaine glanced behind her to where Shasa leaned against the panelled bulkhead.

  ‘Do you understand what we are talking about?’

  ‘The quota? Yes, I think so, Mater.’

  ‘If you don’t understand, then ask,’ she ordered brusquely and turned back to Twentyman-Jones.

  ‘Could you appeal for a ten per cent increase at the top end?’ he asked, but she shook her head.

  ‘I have already done so and they turned me down. De Beers in their infinite compassion point out that the biggest drop in demand has been at the top end, at the gem and jewellery level.’

  He returned to his notebook, and they listened to his pencil scratching on the paper until he looked up.

  ‘Can we break even?’ Centaine asked quietly, and Twentyman-Jones looked as though he might shoot himself rather than reply.

  ‘It will be close,’ he whispered, ‘and we’ll have to fire and cut and hone, but we should be able to pay costs, and perhaps even turn a small profit still, depending upon the floor price that De Beers sets. But the cream will be skimmed off the top, I’m afraid, Mrs Courtney.’

  Centaine felt weak and trembly with relief. She took her hands off the desk and placed them in her lap so the others might not notice. She did not speak for a few moments, and then she cleared her throat to make certain her voice did not quaver.

  ‘The effective date for the quota cut is the first of M
arch,’ she said. ‘That means we can deliver one more full package. You know what to do, Dr Twentyman-Jones.’

  ‘We will fill the package with sweeteners, Mrs Courtney.’

  ‘What is a sweetener, Dr Twentyman-Jones?’ Shasa spoke for the first time, and the engineer turned to him seriously.

  ‘When we turn up a number of truly excellent diamonds in one period of production, we reserve some of the best of them, set them aside to include in a future package which might be of inferior quality. We have a reserve of these high quality stones which we will now deliver to the CSO while we still have the opportunity.’

  ‘I understand,’ Shasa nodded. ‘Thank you, Dr Twentyman-Jones.’

  ‘Pleased to be of service, Master Shasa.’

  Centaine stood up. ‘We can go in to dinner now,’ and the white-jacketed servant opened the sliding doors through into the dining-room where the long table gleamed with silver and crystal and the yellow roses stood tall in their antique celadon vases.

  A mile down the railway track from where Centaine’s coach stood, two men sat huddled over a smoky campfire watching the maize porridge bubbling in the billy-can and discussing the horses. The entire plan hinged on the horses. They needed at least fifteen, and they had to be strong, desert-hardened animals.

  ‘The man I am thinking of is a good friend,’ Lothar said.

  ‘Even the best friend in the world won’t lend you fifteen good horses. We can’t do it with less than fifteen, and you won’t buy them for a hundred pounds.’

  Lothar sucked on the stinking clay pipe and it gurgled obscenely. He spat the yellow juice into the fire. ‘I’d pay a hundred pounds for a decent cheroot,’ he murmured.

  ‘Not my hundred, you won’t,’ Hendrick contradicted him.

  ‘Leave the horses for now,’ Lothar suggested. ‘Let’s go over the men we need for the relays.’

  ‘The men are easier than the horses.’ Hendrick grinned. ‘These days you can buy a good man for the price of a meal, and have his wife for the pudding. I have already sent messages to them to meet us at Wild Horse Pan.’

  They both glanced up as Manfred came out of the darkness, and when Lothar saw his son’s expression he stuffed the notebook into his pocket and stood up quickly.

  ‘Papa, you must come quickly,’ Manfred pleaded.

  ‘What is it, Manie?’

  ‘Sarah’s mother and the little ones. They are all sick. I told them you would come, Papa.’

  Lothar had the reputation of being able to heal humans and animals of all their ills, from gunshot wounds and measles to staggers and distemper.

  Sarah’s family was living under a tattered sheet of tarpaulin near the centre of the encampment. The woman lay beneath a greasy blanket with the two small children beside her. Though she was probably not older than thirty years, care and punishing labour and poor food had greyed and shrunken her into an old woman. She had lost most of her upper teeth so that her face seemed to have collapsed.

  Sarah knelt beside her with a damp rag with which she was trying to wipe her flushed face. The woman rolled her head from side to side and mumbled in delirium.

  Lothar knelt on the woman’s other side, facing the girl. ‘Where is your pa, Sarah? He should be here.’

  ‘He went away to find work on the mines,’ she whispered.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Long ago.’ And then she went on loyally, ‘But he is going to send for us, and we are going to live in a nice house—’

  ‘How long has your ma been sick?’

  ‘Since last night.’ Sarah tried again to place the rag on the woman’s forehead but she struck it away weakly.

  ‘And the babies?’ Lothar studied their swollen faces.

  ‘Since the morning.’

  Lothar drew back the blanket and the stench of liquid faeces was thick and choking.

  ‘I tried to clean them,’ Sarah whispered defensively, ‘but they just dirty themselves again. I don’t know what to do.’

  Lothar lifted the little girl’s soiled dress. Her small pot belly was swollen with malnutrition and her skin was chalky white. An angry crimson rash was blazoned across it.

  Involuntarily Lothar jerked his hands away. ‘Manfred,’ he demanded sharply. ‘Have you touched them – any of them?’

  ‘Yes, Pa. I tried to help Sarah clean them.’

  ‘Go to Hendrick,’ Lothar ordered. ‘Tell him we are leaving immediately. We have to get out of here.’

  ‘What is it, Pa?’ Manfred lingered.

  ‘Do as I tell you,’ Lothar told him angrily, and when Manfred backed away into the darkness, he returned to the girl.

  ‘Have you been boiling your drinking water?’ he asked, and she shook her head.

  It was always the same, Lothar thought. Simple country people who had lived far from other human habitation all their lives, drinking at sweet clean springs and defecating carelessly in the open veld. They did not understand the hazards when forced to live in close proximity to others.

  ‘What is it, Oom?’ Sarah asked softly. ‘What is wrong with them?’

  ‘Enteric fever.’ Lothar saw that it meant nothing to her. ‘Typhoid fever,’ he tried again.

  ‘Is it bad?’ she asked helplessly, and he could not meet her eyes. He looked again at the two small children. The fever had burned them out, and the diarrhoea had dehydrated them. Already it was too late. With the mother there was perhaps still a chance, but she had been weakened also.

  ‘Yes,’ Lothar said. ‘It is bad.’ The typhoid would be spreading through the encampment like fire in the winter-dry veld. There was already a good chance that Manfred might have been infected, and at the thought he stood up quickly and stepped away from the foulsmelling mattress.

  ‘What must I do?’ Sarah pleaded.

  ‘Give them plenty to drink, but make sure the water is boiled.’ Lothar backed away. He had seen typhoid in the concentration camps of the English during the war. The death-toll had been more horrible than that of the battlefield. He had to get Manfred away from here.

  ‘Do you have medicine for it, Oom?’ Sarah followed him. ‘I don’t want my ma to die – I don’t want my baby sister – if you can give me some medicine—’ She was struggling with her tears, bewildered and afraid, turning to him in pathetic trust.

  Lothar’s only duty was to his own, yet he was torn by the child’s little display of courage. He wanted to tell her, ‘There is no medicine for them. There is nothing that can be done for them. They are in God’s hands now.’

  Sarah came after him and took Lothar’s hand, tugging desperately at it as she tried to lead him back to the shelter where the woman and the two small children lay dying.

  ‘Help me, Oom. Help me to make them better.’

  Lothar’s skin crawled at the girl’s touch. He could imagine the loathsome infection being transferred from her warm soft skin. He had to get away.

  ‘Stay here,’ he told her, trying to disguise his revulsion. ‘Give them water to drink. I will go to fetch medicine.’

  ‘When will you come back?’ She looked up trustingly into his face, and it took all his strength to tell the lie.

  ‘I will come back as soon as I can,’ he promised, and gently broke her grip.

  ‘Give them water,’ he repeated, and turned away.

  ‘Thank you,’ she called after him softly. ‘God bless you, you are a kind man, Oom.’

  Lothar could not reply. He could not even look back. Instead he hurried through the darkened camp. This time, because he was listening for them, he picked up the other little sounds from the huts he passed: the fretful feverish cry of a child, the gasp and moan of a woman in the terrible abdominal cramps of enteric fever, the concerned murmurs of those who tended them.

  From one of the tarpaper huts a gaunt dark creature emerged and clutched at his arm. He was not sure whether it was man or woman until she spoke in a cracked almost demented falsetto.

  ‘Are you a doctor? I have to find a doctor.’

  Lothar
shrugged off the clawed hand and broke into a run.

  Swart Hendrick was waiting for him. He had the pack on his shoulder already and was kicking sand over the embers of the campfire. Manfred squatted on one side, beneath the thorn tree.

  ‘Enteric.’ Lothar said the dread word. ‘It’s through the camp already.’

  Hendrick froze. Lothar had seen him stand down the charge of a wounded bull elephant, but he was afraid now. Lothar could see it in the way he held his great black head and smell it on him, a strange odour like that of one of the copper-hooded desert cobras when aroused.

  ‘Come on, Manfred. We are getting out.’

  ‘Where are we going, Pa?’ Manfred remained squatting.

  ‘Away from here – away from the town and this plague.’

  ‘What about Sarah?’ Manfred ducked his head on to his shoulders, a stubborn gesture which Lothar recognized.

  ‘She is nothing to us. There is nothing we can do.’

  ‘She’s going to die – like her ma, and the little kids.’ Manfred looked up at his father. ‘She’s going to die, isn’t she?’

  ‘Get up on your feet,’ Lothar snarled at him. His guilt made him fierce. ‘We are going.’ He made an authoritative gesture and Hendrick reached down and hauled Manfred to his feet.

  ‘Come, Manie, listen to your Pa.’ He followed Lothar, dragging the boy by his arm.

  They crossed the railway embankment and Manfred stopped pulling back. Hendrick released him, and he followed obediently. Within the hour they reached the main road, a dusty silver river in the moonlight running down the pass through the hills, and Lothar halted.

  ‘Are we going for the horses now?’ Hendrick asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Lothar nodded. ‘That’s the next step.’ But his head turned back in the direction they had come and they were all silent, looking back with him.

  ‘I couldn’t take the chance,’ Lothar explained. ‘I couldn’t let Manfred stay near them.’ Neither of them answered. ‘We have to get on with our preparations – the horses, we have to get the horses—’ His voice trailed off.