Once, like herself, Miss Schreiner’s brother Will had been among the Colossus’ most ardent disciples. In his mind there was no question but that this man of genius would unite the Colony’s disparate elements and open up all of Africa to the benevolent influence of Great Britain.
‘But below the fascinating surface the worms of falsehood and corruption were creeping,’ hissed Miss Schreiner. ‘He thought nothing of betraying his loyalest supporters in order to become the most powerful man in South Africa!’ On the night of Jameson’s fiasco, as the gallant raiders galloped across the Transvaal border to their own destruction and that of the entire country, Will, by then the Colony’s Attorney General, had visited the Colossus in his library. He had found a broken man, in the company of a sycophantic secretary.
Miss Schreiner, wheezing horribly, said to me: ‘You must know the sonnet Ozymandias by Shelley. The traveller from an antique land finds a shattered visage of stone, half sunk in the desert sands, its wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command still intact, though the mighty statue is wrecked. That is the image that instantly occurred to Will as he entered the library and saw his Prime Minister hunched in his chair, his eyes red, his face unshaven. He had aged ten years. He did not greet my brother, but lifted his mighty head and exclaimed at once –’ (and here Miss Schreiner placed the back of her hand against her brow and rolled her eyes, in a satire of despair) ‘“Yes yes, it’s true! Old Jameson has upset my apple-cart: he has ridden in!” Will grew frantic, understanding at once the implications of this act of rashness, and begged his master to think of some way of stopping the madcap doctor from his dash to disaster. Even at this stage a telegram could have halted the futile incursion. But Ozymandias knew he was already ruined.
‘“I thought I’d stopped him! I sent messages to stop him! Twenty years we’ve been friends, and now he goes in and ruins me! I can’t hinder him. I can’t go and destroy him!”
‘Attempting to assume a mantle of calm, Will asked: “How far are you implicated?”
‘Ozymandias replied in his strange, soprano voice: “It had my backing, Will – the whole thing, from first to last. Johannesburg, Jameson, everything.”
‘Will stared at the man whom he had loved and trusted with all the purity of his simple heart. It was almost impossible for him to believe what he was hearing: he longed to awaken and find that this was but a terrifying nightmare. But there was to be no such solace. After a long silence Will asked: “Will you resign?” And Ozymandias replied: “I have done so already! I am finished!” He did not disguise his bitterness.
‘Even though he was aghast at these revelations, my brother stayed with his master for four hours that dreadful night. During this time, Ozymandias cried out repeatedly that he was finished, that it was Jameson’s fault for going in when he knew there was to be no uprising in Johannesburg, no frantic women or children to save, that it was his own fault for setting Jameson up. Every now and then he would stagger up from his desk and begin to pace back and forth in the library, scarcely touching the whisky and soda at his elbow, so great was his agitation. Tobacco was his only solace: Will says the smog of London was nothing compared to the fog of guilty smoke that filled the library that night. And in these surges of impotent energy he would call out the name of our Colonial Secretary: “Chamberlain! He’s in it up to the neck!” Then a grimace that was intended to be a smile would distort his mouth. Even in his anguish he could be cunning. “If he denies it, I’ve got him by the short hairs!”
‘My poor brother enquired as to the meaning of this assertion. Ozymandias pointed to a pile of telegrams and letters dating back some years which now lay in a heap on his desk. Will glanced through them. His heart sank even lower. The telegrams indicated beyond doubt that Chamberlain had long been in favour of the Raid as a means of ousting the Afrikaners who stood in the way of his imperial designs! He had supported it in the usual convoluted, ambiguous way of politicians: at the very least he knew it was going to happen and that Great Britain would benefit immeasurably. Yet at that very minute Chamberlain was publicly condemning the Raid as a flagrant piece of filibustering, and sending off apologies to the old Boer President himself!’
Miss Schreiner fixed her fierce dark eyes on me, and I returned her gaze meekly. ‘During the Committee of Inquiry, set up to discover exactly who the guilty parties were in this bungled affair, we expected these telegrams to be produced and Chamberlain’s involvement revealed to the world. But the telegrams – eight of them – went mysteriously missing!’ Miss Schreiner’s indignation caused her bronchial string-trio to multiply into a veritable orchestra, and her shoulders heaved painfully at the effort of speaking. Ignoring these obstacles, she continued with her scornful denunciation. ‘Needless to say, everyone was squared to keep quiet: Ozymandias and Chamberlain were intent on saving their own bacon, and the Lying in State at Westminster achieved nothing. Professor Wills, I have failed to convince Milner that war will utterly destroy this land. There is only one other course of action left to me. I must have those telegrams! And only you can get them for me!’
‘Good God, woman!’ I exploded, my meekness evaporating in a trice. ‘Have I not done enough for you? You are asking me to commit a crime not only against the State but against my host! I can scarcely believe what I am hearing!’
Miss Schreiner was unmoved by my outburst. ‘I can assure you you would be doing your host the greatest favour by revealing the contents of the telegrams. He would have liked nothing more than to drag the Colonial Secretary down into the mire with which he was now so thoroughly coated!’
‘So why didn’t he release the telegrams at the time?’ I enquired irritably.
‘There is no simple answer to that question,’ replied Miss Schreiner. ‘But judging by the outcome of the Inquiry, I would guess that Chamberlain had promised the survival of Ozymandias’ beloved Chartered Company and railway plans in return for the withholding of the telegrams. By rights the Charter should have been withdrawn and Ozymandias should have found himself in gaol.’
I tried to be patient. ‘But surely all this is buried in the past now? The Inquiry was heard over two years ago –what benefit is there in producing telegrams that everyone’s forgotten about? Who would be interested?’
I realised as I spoke that I was allowing myself to be ensnared in her grotesque plans simply by discussing them. Perhaps something in me wanted to find out just how far she was prepared to go, and what her crazed expectations were of this unlikely burglar.
‘Don’t you understand? I’ve failed with the High Commissioner, so now I must go a step higher. If I can prove to the British public that their wonderful Brummagem Joe, Pushful Joe, was lying to save his career, their sympathies will shift to the Boer cause – where there is considerable sympathy already! If the telegrams are published, Chamberlain will have to resign! The British government won’t be able to survive his fall, and in the confusion war will become impossible!’ Her eyes blazed with furious triumph, but I could hear that her breathing had become a battle which she could not win.
‘Miss Schreiner, calm yourself. You will have another attack. Let us drop this fruitless subject. I cannot hunt for missing telegrams.’ I kept my speech plain, in the vain hope that she would listen to me.
Once again she seized my arm. I could feel her fingertips burn into my flesh and was certain there would be bruise marks by evening. Her face had assumed a new seriousness.
‘Professor Wills, people think this war is a straightforward conflict between the British and the Boers. Let me tell you, something far larger is at stake. Six million people stand to lose their freedom, their land, their social organisation, for the greater advantage of gold-greedy ghouls! The indigenous peoples of this country will be cast into the position of near-slaves; they will be utterly deprived of the franchise; and the ghouls, whether English or Afrikaner, will be assured of an endless source of cheap labour which they need if their deep-cast mines are to be profitable. Though the white men may do battle, it is the black men, women and children who will be vanquished, whoever wins the war! And then, God help us all, such a gulf will open between the races, and this country will be cursed by every nation that believes in justice to all men. Believe me, Professor, the catastrophe will endure from one generation to the next – but we can prevent it yet!’
If Miss Schreiner expected this argument to cause me to change my mind, she was indeed mistaken. ‘I’m afraid I am not much interested in the fate of the natives of this land – they mean nothing to me,’ I said coldly. ‘They are an alien race. And now I must return to attend to my birds. That is my responsibility.’
At this Miss Schreiner fell upon her knees and flung her arms about my legs. I was utterly trapped as she spoke in a low, sobbing voice, quite unlike anything I had yet heard from her.
‘Professor Wills, I will do anything to help you in return for the telegrams. You will find them somewhere in his bedroom, where he keeps everything of any value to him. I have considerable influence in Great Britain: there must be some way I can be of assistance to you in return.’
For a few moments I considered her wild offer. Then I disentangled my legs and stepped backwards.
‘In fact, there is something you could do for me.’
She stared up at me from her kneeling position, her grief-stained face suddenly transformed by joy.
‘Professor, I will do anything! Anything!’
And so did we square each other that fateful afternoon.
Back at the aviaries, Salisbury and Chamberlain were playing their games in the gravel, and moving their mysterious pebbles into new positions. As usual they leapt up and began whistling and chirruping in an attempt to convince me of their dedication to the task for which they were being generously paid.
I looked down at the weaving patterns in the gravel, and in an inspired flash I guessed their meaning.
‘Ah-toh-mah-beel?’ I pointed at the motor-car pebbles and road-grooves.
‘Beep-beep!’ giggled Chamberlain. ‘Vroom-vroom!’ cried Salisbury. I heard myself chuckle rustily. Was I growing fond of them? Could it be true that I was a dear, good Englishman who loved children and birds? A sinew in my heart gave a pleasant flicker.
Six corpses were laid out by the cages, two of them nightingales. The remaining birds drooped. All except, of course, the European starlings, who seemed relaxed and confident, singing with gusto and imitating the sounds they heard around them – including the ring of the Colossus’ telephone. The boys continued to whistle to the non-singers. I could see they thought it was pointless.
My fob-watch told me it was already four o’clock. My stomach had not reminded me about lunch – perhaps because the koeksuster still sat undigested upon my sensitive duodenal lining. In fact, I felt an overwhelming desire to sleep after my crowded day, and soon made my way to the front steps of the Great Granary, deliberately avoiding the back verandah where I saw the Kiplings’ family nursemaid playing with the two children who had not gone on the seaside trip.
A profound and dreamless sleep was granted to me almost as soon as I entered my bedroom.