10

October 1893

Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger, President of the Transvaal Republic and known to both friend and enemy as Oom Paul-Uncle Paul—killed his first game when he was seven years old; he was taken by his parents on the Great Trek from the Cape to the interior, then an uncharted wilderness, when he was ten. He killed his first Kaffir at the age of eleven when their wagon train was ambushed on the trail, and slew his first lion when he was fourteen. Now in his sixties, tough as a rhinoceros, mean as a wounded water buffalo, and with a hatred of the British dating from his earliest childhood memories of being uprooted from land in the Cape Colony which had been settled by his ancestors, and with a deep suspicion and almost equal dislike for the native blacks with whom he had fought innumerable battles in the establishment of the Boer Republic in the midst of what had been Matabele territory, Paul Kruger was not a man to compromise.

Now, presiding over a small group of the Volksraad in the living room of his home in Pretoria, he was propped up in a huge chair to accommodate his large body, swathed in blankets and with a cup of hot tea laced with brandy at his elbow. His wife, hoping to manage a word that might get her stubborn husband to return to his four-poster and combat his cold sensibly—a cause she knew before she started was hopeless—finally sighed at the definite look of dismissal in his eyes, and picking up a full ashtray as if to prove her entrance had been with purpose, retired to the kitchen. Kruger returned his attention to the meeting. It was far from even being a quorum of the membership; it contained only a few of the cabinet, but it was all the important members Paul Kruger had been able to reach by messenger upon hearing news he considered warranted such a meeting.

“You say it’s a new process?” He was addressing a member of the Raad named Kaspar Enslin; as a graduate of the Cape University, Enslin was the most educated and was therefore considered an expert on anything beyond the experience of the others in the room. He also made his home in the city of Johannesburg and was therefore also considered an expert on anything pertaining to that city. It was not a position Enslin enjoyed; basically he was a most modest person, and knew that he was wrong as often as he was right.

“Yes,” Enslin said. “It seems to promise the total recovery of the gold from the rock.” They spoke Afrikaans. Although most of them could manage well enough in English, the use of the hated language was almost forbidden in the Kruger presence.

“What chemical is it?” This was from Frans Scholtz, and was said most eagerly. Scholtz was a major trader and held the concession for the importation of all dynamite into the Transvaal, dynamite essential to the very existence of the mines. It was claimed that if one placed a shilling under a rock in the Simmer & Jack mine, and put Scholtz in the Robinson mine, miles away, he could tell by merely smelling which side of the shilling showed the old Queen. Kruger raised a hand, cutting off this portion of the discussion. He knew he would have to return to it, for Scholtz would never allow the matter to be dropped so easily, but Kruger had more important matters than Scholtz’s convenience or profits on his mind in calling the meeting.

“Later!” Kruger said in a tone that ended, or at least postponed, the matter, and fell silent, thinking. The others in the large room waited. There were eight men present in addition to the President, the only ones Kruger had been able to reach with the little notice he had upon hearing what to him had been dread news. He looked around, his small, beady eyes passing from man to man, from face to face, assessing them from beneath his bushy graying eyebrows. At last he spoke. “You all realize what this will mean?”

Scholtz, for one, knew it could mean a’ fortune for whoever gained the concession for the chemical, whatever it was, that was essential to the new process, but he also knew that Kruger’s question had been rhetorical. Scholtz, therefore, properly kept his silence. Contrary to the thoughts of many, Scholtz was no fool.

“It will mean the influx of thousands upon thousands of diggers, Uitlanders, outsiders, foreigners, strangers!” Kruger said heavily. His big hands gripped the edge of the large chair. “Most of them will be English, with a few Americans. It will mean all the people who left in the last few years will be coming back to the Transvaal, bringing with them all their vices, their filth, their gambling, their whores—” He paused without mentioning their bars and their liquors, and took a sip of his brandy-laced tea, wiping his lips afterward on the back of his large hand, as if to punctuate his statement.

“I don’t think so,” Enslin said slowly.

Kruger’s bushy eyebrows rose dramatically. “You don’t think so? With more gold in sight? You don’t think they’ll come flocking in like vultures over a dead bokram?”

Enslin shook his head. “No, sir. The diggings have changed, Meneer President. The small digger, the individual miner, no longer has the force, the financial strength, to become involved in the mining of gold. It is now in the hands of the big companies, the corporations, the stock companies, a lot of them with Kimberley money, and there is no longer room for the digger the way there was when they dug the outcropped tailings and washed them in a rocker pan. It’s a different business, and will be even more different with the new process. Now they will use mostly Kaffir labor. I do not see any great increase of the Johannesburg population, at least not of English. Of Kaffirs, yes, but I am sure the whites will keep them under the same strict control they use in the diamond fields.”

“But this new process does not require skilled labor? White labor?”

Another man spoke up, Theunis Leyds, a farmer from just outside Johannesburg, a man who provided many of the fresh vegetables the city used, and therefore made frequent trips there.

“I do not believe so,” he said. “I think Kaspar is right.” He spoke slowly, as he did all things slowly, as if after a considerable amount of thought, although this was not always the case, as Kruger well knew. Leyds puffed on his pipe a moment, as if considering his words, and then removed it from his thin lips to continue. “They are building compounds at all the mines for the blacks as they did in Kimberley, for while the gold is more difficult to steal than the diamonds were, apparently with this new process it is not impossible. And they are saying that while the chemical fumes are bad for white men, and the chemicals burn the skin, this is not true for the Kaffirs, that the chemicals have no effect on the skin or lungs of the blacks. So it will be the Kaffirs, in the main, who will handle the chemicals in the new process, I imagine.”

It was a long speech for Leyds, and for once it made sense to Kruger. The President smiled, a humorless smile.

“How like the English! They are the ultimate hypocrites. I remember as a child—they sold us the slaves and then came around saying the slaves were free—after taking our money. Slaves, incidentally, we treated well, considering the admonitions of the Bible against all the sons of Ham, condemning them to be servants for all their lives and the lives of all the generations to follow. And then they lock the blacks in compounds, feed them worse than animals, treat them worse than even the Matabele treated their captives, and now they are going to poison them, as well!”

“We might pass a law forbidding it.” The man who spoke allowed his thoughts to trail to silence. It was the Reverend Karl Hofmeyr, the pastor of the Dutch Reformed Church in Pretoria.

Kruger waved the notion away; he was sure the reverend felt the same on the subject as he did; how could he feel otherwise in view of the strictures of the Good Book?

“I care not what the English do with their Kaffirs. Let them starve them, poison them, do what they will with them. The English are fools; when they finish exploiting the black, they send him home with a gun in his hands. Someday they will face those guns. No, what happens to the Kaffirs is out of our hands; what happens to the English is what interests me.” He turned to look at Andries Pirow, who had been sitting silently during the discussion. “You, my old friend, are much in touch with these English. Do you agree with Kaspar and Leyds? Do you think the English will increase in number because of this new process, whatever it is?”

Andries Pirow paused before replying, thinking. At last he shrugged and spoke. In Afrikaans he was much more articulate than he had ever been in English.

“My President, I think the two who spoke before are wrong. I think the English will increase. Not just because of the gold, but because with the gold, Johannesburg is bound to grow, and they will come for the commerce. Johannesburg is already a growing city; it will grow faster. Men will come to build more buildings, to build houses, others to make bricks for those houses, and to dig the clay for those bricks. Others to build roads to reach the houses. Others to bake the bread these people will need, or weave the cloth for their clothes. I saw it happen in Durban, where there was no gold; I saw it happen in Bloemfontein, where there were only farms. It is the way of the world.”

“And the newcomers will be Uitlanders,” Hendryk Rensburg said sourly.

“I agree with both Hendryk and Andries,” Jan Snijman said. He was a trader who traveled widely in the Republic. “It isn’t even a question of will they come, my President; they are coming. I see them every day. And not just to Johannesburg, which—as Andries quite correctly says—will grow because of the gold. They are coming to Springs and places like it, where the coal is, because they need the coal for the gold mines. One thing leads to another. No,” he added with a shake of his head, “they will come. They are coming. Kaspar and Theunis are wrong; the new process will merely make them come faster.”

“I agree,” said Herman Shoemann, the eighth of the group, a successful farmer from Roodepoort on the far side of Johannesburg and one well familiar with the problem because of his proximity to that city. “In a few years the English will outnumber the Boers in our own republic if they don’t already. And they will start to want the vote, the franchise; they already want it and they do not want to wait fourteen years as residents to get it, as the law is now. I hear talk of the franchise every time I go to Johannesburg! And then where will we be? Back on another Great Trek?”

There was the sudden sound of Kruger’s big hand smashing down on the table beside him. His tea sloshed, almost spilling. The short beard that edged his large angry face was bristling with rage.

“No!” Kruger said in a thundering voice. “There will be no more Great Treks! Not if they depend on the Uitlander getting the vote, except as the law allows. This is still our land, our republic, our country! We fought for it, against the Matabele, against the English, and we won it! Have they so soon forgotten eighteen-eighty and eighteen-eighty-one? Have they forgotten Laing’s Nek? Have they forgotten Majuba Hill? How many English dead do they need to convince them that this is our land and we run it as we wish, not as they wish? Do these vermin think they can just walk in and take it away from us with the franchise, just like that? The Volksraad still controls and rules this state, and the Volksraad will never consent to the Uitlander having the vote except under the conditions that were established at the Treaty of Pretoria, not as long as I am President! Nor, I am sure,” he added in a more subdued tone of voice, “long after I am no longer President.”

Andries Pirow cleared his throat. “My President—”

Kruger turned to him, his temper slowly cooling. “Yes, my old friend?”

“My President, may I speak freely?”

Kruger smiled. “When have you ever failed to, my friend?”

“Seldom, I admit,” Andries said, returning the smile. Then the smile disappeared. “But now I may offend you.”

Kruger’s smile also disappeared. “Then offend me. But not with evasions.”

Andries nodded. When he spoke his voice was cool, expressionless; his eyes were fixed on Kruger’s face as if to be able to judge the President’s reaction to his words.

“My President, the question of the franchise—the vote—for the Uitlanders under more reasonable conditions than those established in the Treaty is not so easily avoided, I am afraid. It is like the rain on the mountains when you are trying to haul a heavy wagon over them and God seems to be against you. You can pray or you can curse, you can demand or you can beseech, but in the long run you outspan your oxen and block your wheels and try to keep dry as best you can. You have no choice.”

“What are you trying to say? So far you have failed to offend me.”

“I am trying to say that it is easier to say we will deny the Uitlander the vote than to actually deny him the vote. When we first came to this land as Voortrekkers, were we given the vote by the Zulus as we crossed the Karroo? Were we given the vote by Moselekatse when we established the Transvaal Republic in what had been his Matabeleland? No; we won by force of arms. Nor were we the majority at all; the Matabele were, as the Zulus were in the Karroo.”

“And we were never given the vote by the British, when they forced their control over us, even though we were the majority, then,” Kruger retorted, his face getting red. “Again we won our rights by force of arms. Are you saying the Uitlanders might try to obtain what they consider their rights by force of arms? That they learned nothing at Majuba Hill? That bunch of effete, whoring, gambling scum?” He smiled grimly. “Well, let them try!”

“What I am really trying to say,” Andries replied patiently, “is that there is such a thing as compromise. The Uitlander is unhappy with the conditions that exist. I think you should talk to them.”

“I have talked to them. I spoke to their Premier, is he a big enough man? Cecil John Rhodes. He tried to get on my good side. ‘What you need,’ he said to me, ’is an outlet to the sea. A place like Delagoa Bay, in Portuguese East Africa.’ I said to him, ‘I agree we need such an outlet to the sea, and we’ve spoken to the Portuguese, but they won’t sell the land.’ And he said to me, ‘Then simply take it; you’re strong enough. You took land from the Matabele, take it from the Portuguese.’ That’s the kind of man he is. He couldn’t see the difference between taking land from black savages and taking land from white men. I told him such land would carry God’s curse on it. I’m sure he thought I was crazy.”

“Rhodes is just one man—”

“Oh, I’ve talked to their delegations, too. They send up these mealymouthed men who have never worked a day in their lives, never held a gun in their lives, never killed either a man nor an animal in their lives. And they talk of wanting to build railways, and of voting, of wanting to be good citizens of the Transvaal, and how the vote can give them this opportunity, and how much we Boers would gain if all the English were allowed to become good citizens. Good citizens! They want to become good citizens!” Kruger leaned over and spat into a spittoon. “That’s what I think of their wanting to become good citizens!”

“Good citizens or bad citizens,” Andries said quietly, “the fact is the bulk of our income, the largest part of our treasury, comes from taxes on their production of gold. And taxes on the dynamite they use. And taxes on almost everything that crosses the border into the Transvaal. Without the Uitlander we would have no treasury. That is the truth. Fighting with them is no answer. What would we win?”

Kruger nodded as if in full agreement.

“I agree that fighting is no answer. As you say, what could we win that we do not already have? We have control of our country, and that is a control we shall continue to hold as long as the Uitlander is not given a chance to take it away from us. With the franchise, for example. The law states—as a result of the Treaty, I might mention, a Treaty that would never have been signed had I been President at the time—that the Uitlander can vote after fourteen years as a resident. And even that isn’t long enough, in my view. He’ll be the same man in fourteen years as he is today-worthless scum aching to take the Transvaal from us!”

“Fourteen years is still a long time,” Andries said mildly.

“Not too long to wait to get what they want!” Kruger said flatly. “Andries, Andries! Think! Why do they want the vote and want it today? They want to control the Volksraad as they control the Cape Assembly, so they can make the laws to suit themselves. And what laws would they make? First they would see to it they could mine their gold without paying a penny of those taxes you spoke of before; they would make laws that would give them control of all imports, tax-free. They would milk the Transvaal of all its riches and not pay a pound for the privilege, all in the name of good and fair democracy, the rule of the majority.” He raised a finger and laid it against his nose. “And who would pay the necessary taxes? The farmers; the Boers. And you expect me to agree to this?” He shook his head. “No. Giving them the vote at all was a mistake, even after fourteen years’ residency. But to reduce it? To change it? That would be suicide for the Boer.”

“There are reasonable men among the Uitlanders,” Andries said, still keeping his tone moderate. “Forget the delegations that have come up here; forget Cecil Rhodes. Speak to the people themselves. The Boer and the Uitlander need each other; that is the first thing to recognize. Go to Johannesburg; I know you have been invited by the Miner’s Committee. Accept their invitation, my President. Stand up before the people and say what you have said here; what you have said here makes sense. This is a Boer state and must remain a Boer state, but there is a place here for the Uitlander. The answer has to lie in compromise of some sort, or I promise you there will be trouble. There will be fighting. And nobody will win.”

Kruger sighed. “Andries, you fought beside me when we were young. I know you have spent much time with the English, but I also know you are a Boer and I trust you. If it makes you happy, I will go to Johannesburg and speak with the people there. But I think I will be wasting my time.” He finished his brandy-laced tea and stood up. “And now, my friends, I am tired. I am going to my bed. I thank you all for coming at such short notice, but I think our discussion has been useful.”

“But about this new chemical—” Scholtz said desperately.

“The Boers shall control its import, I can assure you of that,” Kruger said, eyeing the man coldly.

“But—”

“We will discuss the means of control at the next full meeting of the Volksraad,” Kruger said, dismissing the matter, and walked from the room, dragging his blankets behind him.

Four men sat about a campfire inside a fort called Fort Salisbury in the newly formed state of Rhodesia, named for the Premier of the Cape Colony and firmly under the control of the British South Africa Company, a chartered company under the British flag that Cecil Rhodes had formed for the purpose of both expanding British influence in central Africa, and exploiting the territory’s riches. The land had been two areas under the control of a chieftain named Lobengula, areas named Mashonaland, and the balance of what had been Matabeleland, and although a treaty of friendship had been signed between Lobengula and the representative of the British Government, a small army under the leadership of Dr. Leander Starr Jameson nevertheless had invaded the territory and taken it over, with Lobengula fleeing his kraal to die shortly thereafter in the bush.

Now, the area secure, the four men were talking about the second purpose in acquiring the land. The night was chilly and the campfire welcome, but the news that Cecil Rhodes was hearing from one of the men was not.

“There is no gold here that we have been able to find,” said the man. He was John Hays Hammond, an American mining engineer employed by Rhodes and a man whose word Rhodes respected. “Nor the slightest sign of diamonds, either.”

“Even if there were diamonds here,” Charles Rudd said, “we already have an ample supply from De Beers to control the world market. We were hoping for gold. There’s no limit to the market for gold. Or silver. Or any of the precious minerals.”

“We found no sign of anything valuable,” Hammond said. “And we looked. I’ve had good men searching, in every part of the territory.”

“If we want to keep the Chartered Company going, Cecil,” said the fourth man, Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, “it’s going to have to be financed from the Rand. Or any railway you plan to connect the Cape with Fort Salisbury or go any further. It will have to be done by increasing the production and the income from the gold of the Rand. And there’s only one way to do that, and we all know what it is.”

“Get rid of Kruger, you mean,” Rhodes said slowly, staring into the fire.

“Of course,” Jameson said, surprised at Rhodes’ tone. “We’ve talked about it long enough; it’s time to do something about it. The Reform Committee in Jo’burg has simply been waiting for someone to take the bull by the horns and show them how. All we need is some pretext to start the ball rolling.”

“Finding a pretext is no problem,” Rudd said with a short laugh. “The fact that they paid the taxes but didn’t have any representation was all the cheeky Americans needed to fob off dear old King George. And the taxes they objected to would be lost in your eye compared to what we have to hand over each month—or each shipment of goods—to dear old King Kruger.”

“That’s not exactly a pretext,” Rhodes said slowly. “No, what we need is something far stronger. Suppose the women and children were threatened in some way, and the good citizens of the Reform Committee were to ask for help—”

“Which would be forthcoming from the Cape?” Rudd asked.

Cecil Rhodes shook his head. There was a faint smile on his face.

“No,” he said, “or, rather, not officially. From someplace in Bechuanaland nearest Johannesburg, a rescue party of outraged citizens of Rhodesia, joined by any volunteers from the Cape Colony—without the knowledge of the authorities, of course-would respond to that touching plea for help and ride to Johannesburg to bolster the morale of the citizens there in any way they could. And this band of citizens, led by this almost military force at its head, would rise in revolt, taking their arms from the rafters of their homes, from the springhouses, from their many hiding places, and take control of the city of Johannesburg.”

“And under these conditions, I imagine, the Government of the Cape Colony would be forced, in the name of Peace and Order, to step in.”

“To protect its citizens? Obviously,” Rhodes said.

“And this rescue party, of course, would be under the leadership of Captain Leander Starr Jameson,” Jameson said, a grin on his face. The doctor’s small war against Lobengula had whetted his appetite for battle; his success had made him realize for the first time the excitement, the actual fun of killing as opposed to curing; the pleasures of war. Then his grin disappeared. Despite his profound agreement with the plan being discussed, the good doctor was no fool. “There would have to be a letter—undated—from the Reform Committee asking for this help,” he said. “Signed by at least some of the leaders of the committee.”

“Of course,” Rhodes said smoothly. “And it would be logical for you to lead the rescue party, since you won Rhodesia and the men respect you. And for a second in command? In case you—ah, might be harmed in any way?”

“Not your brother Frank!” Jameson said hastily. “He was visiting Johannesburg not too long ago and I sent a messenger asking him to come to a rather important meeting of the Reform Committee, and he replied by messenger that he couldn’t make it as he had promised to give some lady a bike lesson!”

Rhodes shrugged a bit unhappily. “Yes, Frank likes women. Then who?”

“Oh, I’ll find someone. We had quite a bunch of adventurers come with us when we went up against Lobengula. One of them in particular impressed me. Chap by the name of Carl Luckner. Damned good fighter. Terrible temper, but that’s what you want in battle, of course.”

“Luckner?” Rhodes frowned as if he had never heard the name before. “From the Cape?”

“I don’t know where he came from last, but I recall him when he was in Kimberley. He was the manager of the Paris Hotel there for a while. Had a run-in with Bamato, as I recall, and left the place. I was out of town at the time. But he showed up here, in Salisbury, when we were taking up volunteers and he turned out to be a fine soldier. Why?”

“I remember Luckner from the Paris Hotel,” Rudd said. “I wasn’t out of town at the time. The man’s completely insane. He kicked Mrs. Barnato’s father to death. The old man had pulled a sort of knife on him, or Luckner would have hung. Still,” Rudd added, as if thinking about it, “maybe crazy men are what you need. How many d’you think you can raise for this so-called rescue attempt?”

“I should say fifteen hundred easily,” Starr said confidently. “At least a thousand from Rhodesia, and then there’s the Bechuanaland Police; they’ll all come along for a price.”

“And these guns that the uprising citizens are supposed to find in their rafters or their springhouses?” Rudd went on, ever the pragmatist. “How are they to get there to be found?”

“It will take planning, of course,” Rhodes said. “We’ll get the guns into Jo’burg some way.”

“I can handle that end from Kimberley,” Hammond said. “That’s no problem.”

“There’s only one real problem,” Rhodes said quietly, evenly.

“What’s that?”

“It better not fail,” Rhodes said flatly, and came to his feet, ready for his tent and bed.

The visit of Oom Paul Kruger to Johannesburg for the purpose of addressing the people of the newly formed town was one that would remain an integral part of the legends that grow up around any city’s early days.

“Bloody tyrant!” Solly Loeb said bitterly as he stood in the Market Square with several other members of the Reform Committee awaiting the President’s arrival. The Market Square had been cleared of ox wagons for the occasion and a large platform had been erected to seat the Miner’s Committee and serve as the dais for the President’s speech. To one side a flagpole had been planted, and flying from it was the Vierkleur, the four-colored flag of the Transvaal Republic. Solly eyed the crowd gathering, crowding in toward the still-empty platform. “Ought to be the other way around,” he said sourly. “Instead of riding into Jo’burg, he should be ridden out. On a rail. With a nice coat of tar and feathers to keep him warm.”

“He will be, one of these days,” Lionel Phillips predicted.

“And a lot sooner than he suspects,” Colonel Frank Rhodes said. Colonel Rhodes was the Premier’s brother, visiting Johannesburg from Cape Town. He turned to Solly. “I suppose now that cyanide is an important adjunct for the gold-mining business, it’s all in the hands of the Boers?”

“D’you even need to ask? Of course it is. And the duty to bring it in is ridiculous. By the time bloody old Kruger gets through with us, with all his bloody taxes, we might as well go back to the amalgam process! We get all the gold from the rock, it’s true, but the taxes eat up most of the additional profits. The man is a bloody maniac!”

“Well,” Phillips said philosophically, “I suppose we at least ought to listen to the man. It may be the last time we get to hear him, if your plans go through,” he added with a smile.

“They’ll go through,” Solly said with assurance. “God! To think of Jo’burg without Kruger, and the Volksraad a thing of the past, together with their tax laws and imposts and anything else the damned man can think to hang around our necks!” Solly enjoyed being in the presence of such important men as his two companions, and was happy to agree to their principles, as well as having them listen to his opinions and undoubtedly respect them.

“I say,” Frank Rhodes said, changing the subject, “isn’t that your uncle, Barney Barnato, over there? With a baby in his arms and a striking beauty beside him? Don’t tell me anyone that lovely—” He broke off in some confusion.

“That’s him and his wife,” Solly said contemptuously. “My aunt Fay. She’s my age. And you don’t have to be careful about what you say about Barney to me. God knows what Fay ever saw in Barney Barnato. He certainly isn’t one of nature’s more handsome specimens.”

“He’s rich, though,” Phillips said.

“As I hear it, he wasn’t always rich,” Colonel Rhodes said, eyeing Fay admiringly. “Chap must have something…”

“He has luck,” Solly said shortly. “He also has a contempt for the Reform Committee.”

Rhodes frowned at the statement. “You mean he enjoys paying the excessive taxes?”

“No, he doesn’t like the taxes, but he’s a great believer in not rocking the boat. He says, ‘We’re making money. What the devil do you need the vote for?” he says. He forgets we could and should be making a devil of a lot more money than we are.”

Colonel Rhodes looked at Phillips a moment and then back at Solly. “What does your uncle think of—of—our plan?”

Solly stared at the man as if he were mad.

“He doesn’t know a thing about it, of course! Good God! Barney would be at Kruger’s doorstep with it in five minutes after he heard it. He would be violently against anything that might mean the slightest trouble. I know Barney better than anyone in the world, and I can tell you he’s far from being as smart as people give him credit for. He’s just been lucky. Oh, I’m sure he’ll be happy once it’s over and we have control of the Transvaal, when we’re a part of the Cape, but before then? He’d be the last man in the world to be told anything!”

“Then let’s just hope he doesn’t hear anything,” the colonel said, and turned to view Fay from a better angle.

Not far from the colonel, and completely unaware of his wife’s being scrutinized so carefully, Barney stood and waited for the arrival of President Kruger. He held Leah Primrose in his arms, and with Fay at his side was aware that he was standing with one outstanding beauty nuzzling his cheek, and the other holding his arm, and he was proud to be here with the two of them, to be seen with them, much rather than with the important people Solly chose to associate with. Barney was also anxious to hear what the President had to say. Contrary to Solly’s opinion, Barney was quite aware of the trouble brewing through some scheme or other of the Reform Committee, and while he knew nothing of the exact plans, nor did he particularly care to know, nor did he know of the depth of Solly’s involvement with the plans, he did know of the committee’s resentment against Kruger and the Volksraad. And he also felt that nothing good could possibly come from this sort of active opposition to the old man. Andries had told him of the meeting in Kruger’s living room, and Barney could only hope that Kruger was coming to Johannesburg with some concessions that would cool down the heated heads of the committee.

There was a parting of the crowd at the edge of the square, a wave that communicated itself through the crowd as people pressed back. Barney stood on tiptoe to see who was coming. It was President Paul Kruger, alone, handling the reins of an ancient oxcart, drawn by an aging and swaying span of oxen. He should have come by coach, Barney thought critically; while it was only thirty miles from Pretoria to Johannesburg, the old man probably took at least two days to make it and looked as if he had slept the night before in his clothes. Or if not by coach, he could at the least have come by trap, with outriders along, and a proper driver. It was undignified for the President to appear in that ancient oxcart. He was making a poor impression on the crowd, who were sniggering as the cart slowly made its way toward the platform, with Kruger sitting impassively in the center of the warped seat, holding the worn reins steadily with the middle fingers of his crippled left hand. But possibly he doesn’t care, Barney suddenly thought. Possibly he came by oxcart purposely, to show these people what he thought of them, what he considered proper protocol for them.

The Miner’s Committee had hurriedly gathered themselves together from the gossip they had been exchanging with friends in the square while awaiting Kruger’s arrival; they hurried up the steps to the platform and formed a welcoming line on it, ready to greet the President. Then, just as the President came to the platform and began to descend from the vehicle, one of the oxen spread his legs and decided to relieve himself. The sniggering grew to a roar of laughter as Kruger had to move quickly to avoid getting his trousers splashed. Someone in the crowd called out, “By God, the ox is political!” and the laughter rose even higher. Kruger’s face reddened, his big jaw under his chin-curtain beard tightened, but he held his temper and otherwise showed no reaction as he climbed the steps of the platform slowly and easily. He shook the hands extended to him by the committee one by one, the beady eyes on each side of his large squashed nose examining each face before him as if to memorize it for future use, or to estimate its sincerity. His crippled left hand—crippled when his four-pounder exploded as he shot at a charging rhinoceros when he was young—was held politely behind him, the fingers curled about the space where the thumb had been, hiding the grisly scar. He then stood a moment, looking contemplatively at the Vierkleur waving in the breeze, before taking the seat to which he was shown by the spokesman for the Miner’s Committee. The man, Carter Wellman, held up his hand for silence, waited while the sniggers diminished, and when the silence reached a point to permit speech, spoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wellman said, his powerful voice clearly heard across the wide square, “we are honored today with the presence of the President of the Republic in which we live, a man we all know as Uncle Paul, and the man for whom our proud and great city has been named. It is needless for me to explain who Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger is, nor what his great contribution has been to the development of the Transvaal in the more than fifty years that he has lived here, or the more than eleven years since he was first elected President. So, without wasting any more of your time, may I present the man you all came here to hear, the Honorable Paul Kruger, President of the Republic!”

There was the briefest smattering of applause as Kruger came to his feet; the Miner’s Committee all rose, clapping as hard as they could, but the comparison between the applause on the platform and the applause from the audience only made the embarrassment worse, and the committee sat down abruptly. Kruger walked to the edge of the platform, took a large red kerchief from a bulging pocket and blew into it noisily; the crowd reacted with another shout of laughter. He took a pinch of snuff, sneezed loudly, and then looked down at the faces grinning delightedly at his exhibition of uncouth behavior, his small eyes exuding suspicion and hatred. But he forced himself to calmness; he was, after all, the President of this unruly mob, and the speech he had prepared was the one he would give despite all provocation.

“Burghers, vriende—en ander, waarvan ek seker is dat daar baie hier vandag—hoor my woorde. Ek kom vriendelik om my stand te verduidelik. Julle sê dat julle die reg om te stem wil hê, en maar julle wil nie daarvoor viertien jaar wag nie. Julle sê dis ’n lank tyd; laat ek julle vertel hoe lank ons Boere daarvoer gewag het—en van die moeite intussentyd—”

“Speak English!” The cry came from far back in the crowd, but it was immediately taken up by other members of the Reform Committee scattered throughout the square. “Speak English! Speak English!” The crowd took it up, shouting it with rhythm, as at a football match.

“Stil maak!” Kruger held up both hands, the torn left hand waving in their faces as if to chill them. “Skurke! Skelms! Blikskottels! You wish me to speak English? Very well! Let me address you so: Thieves, murderers, gamblers, whores, rogues, filth!” He spat. “I have had enough!”

He climbed down the steps from the platform, getting into his cart, cracking the sjambok over the oxen’s ears so that the tip almost touched some of the bystanders. People pushed hastily back as the cart swung around, the oxen lumbering at a faster and faster rate as the whip continued to crack in their ears, the crowd moving away from the enraged Kruger and the frightened span of oxen. There was a moment’s stunned silence as the oxcart reached the edge of the square and veered around a corner, disappearing, with old Paul Kruger half standing in the cart, continuing to wield the sjambok. Then a near-riot broke out. Men swarmed over the platform, pushing aside the efforts of Wellman and the other members of the Miner’s Committee to control them. They took the chair where Kruger had been seated and ripped it to pieces as others tore the Vierkleur from its standard and proceeded to put a lit match to it, holding it up triumphantly as it burned. Someone began to sing “God Save the Queen” and the song quickly took hold and swelled to a paean as it rose from the hundreds of throats.

Barney thrust little Leah Primrose into her mother’s arms and began to fight his way through the crowd toward the platform, his jaw hardened, his eyes narrowed. Fay, knowing his probable objective, did not try to stop him; to begin with, there was no stopping Barney in that mood, and besides, Fay was sure she knew what he was going to do and was in full agreement. She held Leah Primrose, now whimpering in excitement, shushing the child quietly, and watched.

Barney had managed to get to the platform steps; he climbed them quickly, pushing aside a few who were trying to tear the very platform to bits, and stood at the front, holding up his arms for silence, whistling loudly between his teeth to gain attention, alternating the whistling with loud and insistent, if incoherent, shouts. The singing slowly eased as the crowd turned to stare. What was their old friend Barney Barnato so excited about? What did he feel necessary to say at this moment of—well, of jubilation, practically? After all, Barney was almost the only one who had shown faith in the Rand just a few short years ago; he had saved many of them from desperation if not from starvation; now that their enemy, Kruger, had got his proper comeuppance, what did Barney seem to be so angry about? Surely he must have been aware that the demonstration had been planned by the Reform Committee? Even those who were not members of the committee—and that was the large majority of those there—had been aware of that. Surely he must have known that the committee had counted on Kruger losing his temper to hear himself laughed at, him being the President and all. The Boers were a proud people, and Paul Kruger was the proudest of the lot. Barney must have known that just the cry of “Speak English!” was enough to start old Kruger off; and the results were the proof that the tactic had been eminently correct. Old Oom Paul had scooted with his tail between his legs! What was the matter with Barnato, anyway? Slowly the crowd calmed down and let the man speak.

“Yer a fine bunch, I must say,” Barney said almost conversationally, although there was a biting, scornful tone to his voice. The silence grew deeper as he went on. His Cockney, seemingly lost these many years, was back in full force, apparently returned automatically. “A fine bunch—but o’ what? Hate t’ say, in front o’ women. Tell th’ truth, th’ lot o’ you—he called y’ rogues an’ rascals, an’ that’s what y’are! Most o’ you couldn’t bully yer way out o’ a paper bag, an’ yet y’ stand there and jeer an’ laugh at a man what’s ten times bigger than y’are or ever will be! Where were any o’ you when Paul Kruger was winnin’ this land yer livin’ in? Suckin’ yer ma’s tit, if y’could find it! Or pullin’ yer pud, if y’could find that! Where were y’ when the Matabeles were killin’ anyone what came inside a mile o’ where yer standin’ right now? Y’were sittin’ in some pub as far from danger as y’could get, suckin’ on a substitute fer yer momma’s tit, a gin bottle, most likely. Yer lucky Paul Kruger didn’t stop and take y’ on one by one; he’d o’ gone through the lot o’ you in ten minutes!”

He took a deep breath, looking over the startled, now completely silenced crowd with disgust.

“Yer enough to make a man give up his supper, that’s what y’are. You an’ yer cryin’ fer the vote! When was the last time y’ ever voted when y’ lived in the Cape? When was the last time y’ voted when y’ lived in England, fer that matter? Y’ really think Paul Kruger’s a fool? Well, I can tell y’ where t’ look if it’s fools yer wantin’. Try lookin’ over yer left or right shoulders. Or in a mirror! I come here to South Africa when I was eighteen year old, an’ I worked me bloody arse off to get where I am, an’ if anyone thinks they can take it from me jus’ like that, they better think twice! Well, Paul Kruger was born in South Africa, an’ he worked his arse off to get where he is, an’ if anyone here thinks y’ can take it away from him jus’ like that, y’ better think twice, too. I come here to Johannesburg to make money, an’ I thought most o’ you come fer the same reason. But I guess not. You and yer bloody vote! Y’ want concessions from the President, that’s what y’ want, or at least that’s what y’ should really want. Y’ think yer goin’ t’ get concessions from the man actin’ like y’ did today? You an’ yer bloody politics! Y’ make me sick! Yer blind, the lot o’ you!”

He stamped off the platform and pushed his way back through the crowd to Fay’s side, taking Leah Primrose from her and putting his face against her soft and slightly fuzzy skin as he led the way through the crowd to their trap in the next street. Men scowled at him with hatred as he marched along, but nobody dared put a finger on him, nor was it due to the fact that he was holding a baby that prevented them from doing so. It was the look in his eye and the hard set of his jaw, and the known fact that even though he was almost forty years old, Barney Barnato would tackle anyone, anytime, anywhere, and probably beat the daylights out of him, if he thought he or any of his family were being threatened in any way. And there was no doubt from the way Barney had just spoken that he felt the crowd’s actions that afternoon, that the objectives of the Reform Committee, had set back any hopes of concessions from Pretoria for a long time to come, and that Barney considered that fact a threat.

Andries stepped from the crowd to walk alongside Barney. He tipped his hat politely to Fay, smiled at Leah Primrose, who smiled back in delight at her uncle Andries, and then turned back to Barney.

“That was quite a speech you made back there,” Andries said mildly.

Barney stopped abruptly, staring at Andries, making up his mind on the spot as he so often did. Then he continued marching along, a frown on his face, but now talking.

“Andries, I want to meet Kruger. Face to face. I want to talk to him. You can arrange it, I know.”

Andries looked doubtful. “I doubt the President would be in any mood to talk to any Englishman at the moment, Barney.”

“Put him in the mood,” Barney said stubbornly. “You can do it. I’m not like most of those idiots here today, but all the blame isn’t on their side, either; Kruger and the Volksraad rate their share. The crowd acted like bloody fools today, there’s no doubt, but this thing is working itself up into what could become a major confrontation, and when it comes to that, we’re all of us going to lose.”

“Exactly my words to the President.”

“Then set up a meeting with him for me. I’ve got to talk to him. I’m sure he knows who I am, but I’m equally sure he doesn’t know how I feel about things. Unless you’ve told him. Have you?” He glanced sideways at Andries.

“Just that there were some Uitlanders who weren’t fools. And that the Boer and the Uitlanders need each other here in the Transvaal.”

“Exactly! That’s why I have to talk to him. I don’t claim that my stand on things is the same as everyone else’s in Johannesburg, but I know there are plenty of people in town who agree with me. The Reform Committee is spoiling for trouble, you know that, and they won’t be happy until they get it. Somebody has got to stop this thing. Trouble is no answer.”

They had come to the trap with the driver waiting patiently on his seat. Andries helped Fay get in and waited as Barney handed the baby up to her and then climbed in to seat himself beside her. Andries nodded.

“I’ll do my best, Barney.”

“That’s all I can ask. And thanks, Andries. It’s important.”

The heavy-set Boer watched the trap move from the curb under the driver’s whip. Then he sighed mightily. It would not be easy to convince Kruger that a meeting with an Englishman—any Englishman, even Barney Barnato—could do anything at this point except possibly make matters worse. Especially an Englishman like Barney Barnato, who had taken as much gold from the ground of the Transvaal as any other man, and a man whom Kruger was sure to consider one of the leading exploiters of the Republic’s riches.

Then Andries suddenly smiled. He had thought of the one way that just might do it, to get Kruger to agree to meet Barney; and once they had met to hope they used the opportunity to also discuss matters that could, in turn, help the situation. It was a long shot, but it was worth the attempt…

Barney Barnato, if truth were to be told, was quite surprised to actually be granted an audience with the President of the Transvaal. Despite his feeling that an audience with the President might somehow help resolve the state of growing tension between the Uitlanders and the Boers, and despite his knowledge that Andries Pirow and Paul Kruger were old comrades-in-arms, he was also as aware as Andries as to how Kruger had to feel about any outsider after the reception he had received at their hands in the Johannesburg Market Square. But the plain fact was that Barney had been granted an audience, and although it was now January of 1894, three months after his request, at least it had been granted, and Barney hoped to make the most of it.

Alone, he drove a small and unpretentious trap, rented for the occasion, well aware of Kruger’s distaste for and distrust of ostentation. As a result he climbed down before the long low white Kruger home on the southern edge of Pretoria fairly well covered with dust. He had worn some of his oldest clothes—unusual for Barney, as he had tended to become something of a dandy once he had been able to afford it—but again his costume had been calculated. He certainly did not want to be better dressed than the President, and both Andries and Fay had advised him well in this matter, for President Paul Kruger was awaiting him on the front stoep, sitting heavily in a large rocking chair, wearing house slippers rather than shoes, and with an old shawl wrapped about his massive shoulders. There was no expression at all on his meaty face as he watched Barney secure the trap and then slap dust from his trousers and jacket before letting himself through the low front gate. Kruger did not deign to rise; instead he merely motioned to the top step of the porch, inviting Barney to seat himself there, and Barney realized that the fact that there was no second chair had been as calculated as his own means of transportation and costume, as he was sure was the absence of any other participants in their conference. It was to be a meeting unofficial in every sense.

Barney nodded cordially and did not offer his hand to be shaken; he was not sure it would be accepted, and to be rejected would be a poor way to start the meeting. Instead, he sat down on the indicated top step and looked up at Kruger. Kruger remained impassive; he appeared to be waiting for Barney to speak first, so Barney obliged.

“Mr. President,” he said in Afrikaans, glad now that Fay had been so insistent upon his learning the language properly, “I wanted very much to see you and talk to you, but in all honesty I didn’t think you’d see me. Do you mind telling me why you are?”

Kruger’s thick eyebrows rose fractionally; it was as close as he came to demonstrating astonishment. “You speak our language, Mr. Barnato? How is that?”

Barney shrugged. “When I first came to South Africa twenty-two years ago, I came with Andries Pirow from Cape Town to Kimberley, Mr. President. We both walked beside the ox wagon for two months. I was a boy of eighteen. At night, after we’d had our supper and done our chores, Andries started to teach me the language. Then I married a Boer, my wife, Fay. She insisted that I learn the language better. She taught me.”

“Your wife is a Boer?”

“Yes, sir. From Simonstown.”

“Tell her for me that she is a good teacher. You speak very well.”

“Thank you, sir. She will be pleased.”

“Yes. Now,” Kruger said, changing the subject and beginning to rock his chair very slowly, “you wish to know why I agreed to see you. It was not to hear the complaints of the Uitlanders once again, I assure you; I have heard enough of those as it is.” He paused in his rocking momentarily, his small eyes fixed upon Barney’s face, and then began rocking again, now starting to stroke his chin whiskers as he did so. “No, Mr. Barnato. The reason I agreed to talk to you is that Andries tells me you once fought the man they called the Angolan Giant, or Angolan Monster, I forget which. And that you beat him. Is this true?”

Barney stared, astonished. What a reason for a man to grant a presidential audience! “Yes, Mr. President, it’s true. But that was many years ago.”

“I know when it was. I saw the Angolan when he fought here in Pretoria before he went to Bloemfontein and then to Kimberley. When he was here he beat one of our strongest and biggest men. I would have hesitated to fight him myself, even had I been twenty years younger at the time. How is it possible that a small man like you…”

Barney sighed, thinking back to the day of the fight, remembering every moment, including waking in the Scotch cart with his head in Fay’s lap. “I had to beat him,” he said simply. “I had bet everything in the world I had that I would—”

“You gambled?”

Barney grinned ruefully. “I didn’t think it was a gamble, not until the first time he hit me. And I needed the money from the bets to get ahead in the world. There was this girl—” He stopped. After all the years he could still scarcely believe or understand his incredible luck in winning Fay. But the President wouldn’t be interested in that. “Anyway,” he went on quietly, “I knew I was faster than he was, and I’d had a lot of experience in boxing, and I was fairly sure he hadn’t. I felt a man that big had to be awkward. But I had no idea he was as strong as he was. I was very lucky. His attention was distracted a moment and that’s when I hit him. Otherwise he probably would have killed me. As it was I broke my hand with that punch and it took a month to heal. Not to mention the fact that I had a headache for a week.”

“Andries tells me you later hired the man.”

“Yes, sir. Armando is now in charge of the production in the Kimberley Mines; they’re the largest of the four De Beers properties in Kimberley. Armando is a very fine person, and a lot more intelligent than people think. We’re very good friends. He’s become quite an expert on deep shafts and has been most valuable to us.”

“And the girl?” So the President had been interested in that. “Was she the Boer?”

“Yes, sir. We were married the day after the fight.”

“Broken hand and all?”

Barney grinned. “You don’t know my Fay, Mr. President. I would have married her with both arms and legs broken.” Barney’s grin disappeared as he remembered something. “If you’ll pardon me, sir, they tell me you once swam the Vaal at high flood when even the ferryman refused to cross, just to reach the girl you later married.”

Kruger nodded as if pleased to have the incident known and remembered by an Uitlander. “Yes, I was young and strong in those days. More important, like you, I was motivated.” He shook his head in sad memory. “Poor Maria! Her name was Maria du Plessis. She died a little over a year after we were married, in childbirth. The child died, too. It was a tragedy. She was so young! But God was good to me and I found another good woman quickly.” He rocked a few moments, staring at the floor of the stoep in silence, and then sighed and brought his head up. “I wanted to meet the man who had beaten the Angolan Giant. I have heard of you through Andries, of course, Mr. Barnato, as well as through your financial interests, and I have seen your picture often in the newspapers. I would have imagined you much larger to have won that fight. I doubt if I could have done so.”

“I know I couldn’t have swum the Vaal at high flood, Mr. President, or at any other time. Not even for my Fay.” Barney grinned. “I can’t swim.”

“Ah, but you see, I can fight.” Kruger stopped his rocking, leaning forward, looking at Barney steadily. “All right, Mr. Barnato. You now know why I wanted to see you. Why did you want to see me?”

Barney took a deep breath before he answered. It was a question he knew he would face and one he intended to answer honestly, but he still wanted to choose his words carefully.

“Mr. President,” he said slowly, “there are differences between the outsiders and the Boers, and those differences are leading toward trouble in which both sides will stand to lose a great deal. I had hoped to talk to you about some means by which this trouble could be abated, reduced, if not eliminated altogether.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” Kruger raised a hand; his tone became gently sardonic. “Other than those I have already heard—that we allow the Uitlander to vote me out of power, and with me the Volksraad, and then take over control of the Transvaal?”

“I am not so much interested in the franchise, Mr. President, as I am in a few of the objectives the people of Johannesburg have in mind when they ask for them. I agree with you that if the Uitlanders were the majority in the Transvaal at present, it would be foolish from your point of view to allow them the vote. It would mean the end of the Boer state. But, in the first place, I do not believe they are the majority—”

Kruger interrupted, his eyes shining, brightly and deceptively mild, as if he were enjoying the intellectual give-and-take of the discussion.

“Would you take that chance, Mr. Barnato, if you were in my shoes?”

“No, Mr. President. But you know as well as I do the length of time an outsider remains in the Transvaal under the conditions that would allow him to eventually become a citizen. Two years is a long time; three years is an eternity. Either he becomes settled and makes money, which a few do; or he fails to make money and he leaves—which is true of the vast majority—and he is replaced by Kaffir labor. Were you to agree, for instance, to reduce the fourteen years necessary for citizenship in the Republic to, say, seven years, you would have put a big hole in the arguments of the Reform Committee, without in any way threatening your control of the state. At least that is my honest belief.”

“And if you were wrong in your honest belief, Mr. Barnato? Who would lose the Transvaal in seven years? You or me?”

“You, of course, Mr. President. But I do not believe I am wrong, nor do I believe you believe I am wrong.”

“I see. Anything else, Mr. Barnato?”

“Yes, Mr. President. There’s the matter of taxes—”

“Ah!” Kruger leaned farther forward in his rocking chair, planting his slippered feet firmly on the floor to keep the chair from moving while he fixed Barney with eyes alight with understanding. He laid one thick finger against the side of his bulbous nose. “Now we come to it! You are a rich man, Mr. Barnato. Naturally you oppose taxes.”

“I oppose unreasonable taxes, Mr. President,” Barney said calmly, not at all intimidated by either Kruger’s mien or tone. “But I have never opposed any reasonable taxes that I know of, nor have I ever failed to pay them, whether I like them or not.” Barney smiled. “Nobody likes taxes, Mr. President, but that was not what I was going to say. I was about to say, Mr. President, that for the taxes that are paid—which I must argue are not slight—the citizens of Johannesburg receive very little to show for their considerable contribution. Take street lighting, for example. Kimberley has had lit streets for many years, yet we in Johannesburg lack this vital necessity. Take the matter of a proper sewage system, or the fact that while many of the Uitlanders are English, and most of the others are Americans, the schools—the few we have—are all taught in Afrikaans—”

Kruger held up a hand. “This is a Boer republic, Mr. Barnato.”

“But certainly if the English and the Americans wish their children to be taught in their own language—”

Kruger moved his upheld hand; Barney obediently stopped.

“Mr. Barnato, we were discussing before if the Uitlander or the Boer were in the majority in the Transvaal, yet the true majority is the Kaffir, as he is in the Cape Colony and in Kimberley. Do you teach your children in Bantu in Kimberley, Mr. Barnato, just because the majority of your population is either Zulu or Matabele? Of course you do not, and to expect you to would be ridiculous! Just as to expect us in the Transvaal to teach our schools in English. No. It is bad enough the Uitlander keeps coming in and keeps wanting to take control of our state. I certainly have no intention of helping him by having English taught in schools where Boers may also learn it!”

Barney sighed, sure that it was a point on which Kruger would not move. “Well, Mr. President, then there’s the matter of a railway—”

“Ah!” Kruger looked up once again; there was the look on his face of a cat about to pounce on a mouse. “Now we come to the railway! How many times have I heard it! A railway from Kimberley to Johannesburg to allow the Uitlander, if he isn’t the majority yet, to become the majority in a very short time! What then, Mr. Barnato? Tell me, will you give me a job in one of your many enterprises to support myself and my family when I am no longer President of the Transvaal? When the majority, all speaking English, votes me out of office, according to the other demands you are making? This majority brought here by your railway?”

“I am not making demands, only suggestions, Mr. President,” Barney said calmly. “I am suggesting that the franchise is not at the heart of the unrest of the Uitlander, and if concessions are made on some of the other points, there will never be a threat to your Presidency. I know the mind of the Johannesburger, Mr. President. Of course there are some hotheads, but the large majority do not want trouble. They want something for their taxes; they want to have their children speak their native tongue, as you do; they want a railway to hurry shipments of supplies from Kimberley and to get them home for visits to their families in the Cape without taking weeks to do so. Their requests are not remarkable in any way. With them, or some of them, I am sure this unrest would disappear in a hurry.”

“Ummm …”

“Besides which,” Barney said, as if it were an afterthought, “I wasn’t thinking of a railway from Kimberley to Johannesburg. I was thinking of a railway from Kimberley to Pretoria …”

Kruger leaned forward, frowning. “To Pretoria? Not to Johannesburg?”

Barney shrugged lightly. “Oh, I suppose a spur track from the main line to Johannesburg might be of use to you, Mr. President, since it would connect the two principal cities in your republic and save your burghers much time and expense in getting from one to the other. And, of course, it would also be a link between the capital of the Transvaal and the capital of the Cape Colony.”

Kruger stared a moment and then for the first time, laughed outright.

“Mr. Barnato,” he said, his small eyes twinkling, “you amuse me!” He considered Barney’s placid face as if judging the man’s sincerity. At last he seemed to come to a conclusion. “But you also interest me. A railway to Pretoria, not to Johannesburg …” He began to rock again, stroking his chin whiskers, speaking almost as if to himself, but including Barney in the conversation. “They are working on a railway from Delagoa Bay in Portuguese East Africa to Pretoria, but they are a long way from completing it; there are difficulties with the terrain—”

“A line from Kimberley to Pretoria could be completed in a year,” Barney said quietly. “The terrain is very favorable.”

Kruger continued as if Barney had not spoken. “And Delagoa Bay is not such a port as Cape Town.” He frowned down at the floor of the stoep. “A railway from Kimberley to Pretoria .’. . It might be possible…”

“With a spur from the railway line to Johannesburg,” Barney said evenly.

Kruger smiled and leaned forward in his rocking chair, for the first time extending his large hand for Barney to shake.

“We shall get along, Mr. Barnato,” he said, and clasped his large hand around Barney’s smaller one, surprised but somehow also pleased by the strength of the smaller man’s response. He released Barney’s hand and came to his feet, tightening the shawl about his shoulders. “You will forgive me, but it is time for my rest. Do not get old, Mr. Barnato. It will prevent you from handling men like the Angolan Giant—or even men like me. But you handled me well. You have given me something to think about. Our Volksraad meets in a week. I shall bring up the matter of your—ah, ideas. Your suggestions. I think maybe some of them can be considered …”

Barney had come to his feet with Kruger. “Thank you very much for listening to me, Mr. President.”

Kruger paused on his way into the house. He stood there, a large, hulking man leaning forward a bit, his feet splayed out in his frayed carpet slippers, his rather worn shawl a bit out of place against the elegance of the stoep of the well-kept house, but an impressive figure for all of that. His small eyes were alert as he studied his visitor.

“It never hurts to listen, Mr. Barnato,” he said slowly, as if he were not the most stubborn of men, and with a brief nod of his head he turned and walked into the house, leaving a thoughtful Barney Barnato to climb into his trap and turn his horse’s head back in the direction of Johannesburg.