11

November 1895

A few miles north of Warrenton, at the border checkpoint on the newly completed railway between Kimberley and the Transvaal, the train was stopped for the usual customs check by the Transvaal authorities. This was always an onerous delay for any shipper or traveler, for the taxes imposed on each load varied greatly and had to be calculated and paid at the moment, but at least this time the calculation had to be easier, as each of the three wagons in question contained exactly the same load, sixty drums of oil. And each of the freight cars was also accompanied by a separate guard, which did not surprise the border officials, since the stealing from the railway wagons was not unknown.

Still, the size of the shipment was unusual: a total of one hundred and eighty drums of oil, all consigned to the Consolidated Gold Fields of Africa Ltd. To the customs officials this seemed rather excessive, since most of the steam produced at the mines to run their donkey engines and their winches was produced by coal, and oil was a luxury used by those who could afford to keep lamps burning late, or small heaters to keep out the chill of the Witwatersrand winter. But this was November, approaching the hottest months of the year here below the equator, and the customs officials were suspicious by nature. Besides, they had been instructed quite recently by Pretoria to be overly cautious in what they permitted to pass their station, especially from the Cape, as guns had been discovered under loads of hay, and beneath piles of potatoes up to the roof of the cars carrying them, and gunrunning, or even the owning of guns by anyone other than Boer burghers was strictly prohibited. The officials’ suspicions were further aroused by the fact that all the guards were, or sounded like, Americans, and these were rarely used in such menial labor as loading and unloading heavy objects, yet there were no Kaffirs along to handle that phase of the transport.

So the customs authorities asked to have a few of the drums unloaded and opened to see if their cargo was indeed oil. The lead guard complained bitterly in his poor Afrikaans that not only were the drums heavy and difficult to lift without proper hoisting equipment, since each drum weighted in excess of three hundred pounds, but their baas would think they had drained a little oil from each drum, a ploy not unknown, since it would reward each guard with a sum of money greater than his pay for the journey. But the customs men were only amused by these excuses and became more adamant than ever, so, with a sigh at the unexpected vicissitudes of the job, the guards wrestled down a few drums from each railway wagon as specified by the customs men and set them heavily on the ground. The customs officials then proceeded to open the bottom bung on each of the selected drums and then stared as oil began to gush from each opening. The guards cried in anguish at this senseless waste of their boss’s oil, and hurriedly shut the taps. The drums were then finally wrestled back in place on the wagons, the total duty calculated and paid by the lead guard—who also demanded and received a proper receipt, as any other procedure would have been suspicious—and the car doors were closed and the train permitted on its way up the newly laid spur track toward Johannesburg.

In the warehouse that had been selected for the purpose since it was the closest to the center of Johannesburg and therefore the most accessible when the time came to gather there and arm themselves and the other citizens of the city for their revolution, the heads of the Reform Committee—less Captain Leander Starr Jameson, who was already in position on the border—considered the opened oil drums. Colonel Frank Rhodes, in charge of the city’s actions in the uprising, shook his head.

“So far we’ve gotten in roughly thirteen hundred rifles and maybe forty thousand rounds of ammunition,” he said mournfully. “That’s less than thirty-one rounds per gun. Our experience in the British Army is that a foot soldier on the average causes one casualty for every eight hundred and fifty rounds that he fires. And those are experienced troops with target training, not inexperienced diggers or draper’s clerks. On that basis we’ll be lucky to stop the greengrocer on the corner, let alone the Johannesburg Police, never mind any Boer commandos old Kruger may throw at us.”

“We still have time to bring in more,” Phillips said consolingly.

“Do we?” Colonel Rhodes looked at Phillips almost pityingly. “More than half of the arms we’ve shipped here from Kimberley have been confiscated at the border. Do you really think that Kruger is a complete idiot? Do you think he doesn’t hear of this? Do you think he figures that somebody has been planning a gigantic hunting expedition that was supposed to leave from the Transvaal? Believe me, anything coming in now will be searched from top to bottom, including oil drums, and a few drops of oil from a bung isn’t going to stop them from being opened. Plus the fact we’ll be lucky if he doesn’t have the police here in Jo’burg do a thorough search of the town itself, and come up with what we’ve got here!”

“He won’t,” Phillips said, although with less assurance than before. “I’m sure the raid of Captain Jameson, as well as the arms we have here, is still a secret—”

“Are you? And if they are,” the colonel said witheringly, “how long do you suppose it will remain a secret when Jameson keeps sending those telegraphs of his in that idiot code of his that wouldn’t fool a ten-year-old child? ‘The veterinarian is getting impatient. His four hundred horses are almost ready to race and are champing at the bit.’ From Pitsani, for God’s sake, where an elephant would be happy to trade his tusks for a week’s vacation from the place! A great place to train horses!”

“If there had been any suspicion,” John Hammond said mildly, “don’t you suppose Kruger would already have done something about it?”

“Old Kruger is no fool,” the colonel said, his voice irritated. “They say that before he ambushed our boys once, during the ’eighty–’eighty-one affair, when he was being pushed to act faster, he was supposed to have said, ‘When you’re after killing a tortoise, wait until it puts its head out before you cut it off.’ We don’t know how much he knows or how much he doesn’t know; that’s one of our problems. And when I think that Jameson thinks he can obtain his objective with four hundred untrained men, rather than the fifteen hundred he promised he could raise! Gentlemen, we are nowhere near being prepared for any military action against the Boers, certainly not yet! Am I the only one to see this very apparent fact?”

“The people of Johannesburg will fight with their hands, if need be, against Kruger’s tyranny—” George Farrar, another of the leading Reformers, began stoutly, but Frank Rhodes interrupted angrily.

“Save me the flag-waving, please, George! The people of Johannesburg talk a lot, but most of them will be hiding under the carpet when the first shot is fired. Maybe if they had proper arms and sufficient ammunition, enough of them could do a proper job, but the fact is they haven’t, and I doubt many of them are martyrs at heart. And as for Jameson and his—well, victims, I suppose the best word for them is they won’t be facing Lobengula’s spears this time. They’ll be facing Boer farmers with rifles, who can take down a running springbok at two hundred yards!”

“Except that nobody is supposed to be aware of the attack, certainly not the Boers,” John Hammond said gently. He had taken on the responsibility of getting the proper arms and ammunition into Johannesburg from Kimberley, past the border guards, and was aware of his failure to do a better job. “The answer to success in this venture isn’t just in arms. It lies, in my opinion, in surprise, and so far, despite your evident fears, Colonel, we still seem to have that on our side.”

“And how long do you think we’ll have it—if we have it at all—once four hundred armed men on horseback start marching toward the city? I know Jameson is supposed to cut the telegraph lines when he starts, but the Boer got his messages back and forth damned quick in ’eighty and ’eighty-one long before the telegraph was installed! Don’t get me wrong: surprise is fine, and we need it, but we also need more men and far more ammunition and rifles. And until we get them, I, for one, suggest we postpone this entire venture!”

“I don’t know if Jameson will wait,” Farrar said worriedly. “You know how impatient he is—”

Colonel Rhodes stared at him. “This is a military operation, sir! Jameson is a soldier in it, and that’s all he is, like you and me and the others involved! The commander in chief is my brother, Cecil, in Cape Town. Jameson will do what he is told; he will obey orders! For myself, I intend to go to Cape Town and discuss this matter with Cecil. And I suggest that you, sir,” he added, turning to Hammond, “increase your efforts to bring in ammunition in sufficient quantities, as well as more rifles and several larger weapons, if possible. No, sir, not if possible. They must be brought in!”

There were several moments of silence, all eyes on the colonel.

“Then we’ve said all that needs to be said,” the colonel concluded. “Let’s get somebody in here to get these rifles out of these drums and properly serviced so at least something will be ready, though God knows for what! I will return from the Cape as soon as I can. In the meantime, Jameson will simply have to cool his heels in Pitsani. I suggest that you, Farrar, inform him of that fact, trying to be a bit more subtle in your telegraphic codes than Jameson has been in his. ‘Veterinarian getting impatient!’ My God!” He snorted. “You might also add that the veterinarian would do well to use some of that time to recruit the number of men he promised when this matter was first discussed!”

He turned and stumped from the room, consulting his pocket watch. He was late for his date with a young widow to teach her the rules of the new game bezique, but there was still time before the train left for Kimberley, where he could change for Cape Town. It was a long and tiresome journey, but possibly he might convince the young widow to travel with him …

At Groote Schuur, the beautiful home of the Premier of the Cape Colony, set down and back from the road behind Table Mountain, Barney Barnato was waiting for Cecil John Rhodes, the Premier, to appear for the meeting that had been requested and confirmed by telegraph. The rumors that were beginning to become more and more overtly discussed in Johannesburg regarding the possibility of some direct action by the Reform Committee against the Boer authorities had brought Barney to forsake all other duties and hurry to Cape Town to try to do his best to avert what he was sure could only result in disaster for all concerned. As he waited, looking out at the flowering gardens of the sprawling house, with the rear of Table Mountain rising sharply across the distant road, he wondered how much Cecil Rhodes was involved with the Reform Committee and their prospective action, or whether it was merely another rumor that Rhodes was behind the entire scheme. It was certainly in Rhodes’ interest to try to add the Transvaal to the growing British Empire. Still, it could do no harm to talk to the man; they certainly knew each other well enough by this time. Barney wondered if things might have been different had he taken up Mr. Breedon’s suggestion and run for the Kimberley seat in the Assembly, but he was sure it would have made little difference.

His thoughts were interrupted as the door opened and Rhodes came into the room. Rhodes had aged greatly since he had become Premier, it seemed to Barney; his disappointments in the mineral wealth—or, rather, lack of it—in Rhodesia, together with the responsibilities of running the affairs of the large Cape Colony, seemed to have weighed on Rhodes to an unusual degree. His big body, always tending to slouch, was now bent more than ever, his complexion was pasty as if it missed the sun of Kimberley, and he looked unwell, as if the illnesses of his youth had returned multiplied by the intervening years. Yet, as Barney knew, the man was only forty-two years of age, a year younger than Barney himself.

Rhodes merely brushed Barney’s outstretched hand and sank into an upholstered chair, looking at Barney broodingly, as if the meeting were taking his time from things more important.

“Well, Barney, you said your mission was urgent. Has it anything to do with the mines or their output?”

Barney disregarded the question entirely. He sat down in a chair across from Rhodes. “You know there’s trouble in Johannesburg, Cecil,” he said without attempting to beat about the bush. “There has been for years, but it’s coming to a head. The Reformists are looking for a fight, and if they’re not careful they’ll get one. And it may well be one they won’t like. I don’t know how much you’ve kept up to date on the activities of the Reform Committee—”

“Johannesburg is in the Transvaal,” Rhodes said with a faint smile, interrupting. “This is the Cape Colony. This is where I’m Premier.”

“—or what your involvement with it might be,” Barney went on, quite as if Rhodes had not spoken, “but if you have any influence with its members, I think there are a few things you ought to consider. As you know, I met with Kruger almost two years ago—”

“When you got him to agree to the railway,” Rhodes said. “That was well done,” he added almost grudgingly. “But that’s ancient history.”

Barney shook his head. “Look, Cecil, I’m a lot closer to the thing than you are, stuck down here in the Cape and getting your information—or often misinformation—by telegraph. I tell you the Reform Committee is going about this thing the wrong way. The way to work on Kruger is certainly not to antagonize him. He came around on the railway thing; he’ll come around on other things as well.”

“He hasn’t come around on the franchise,” Rhodes said, a stubborn set to his thin lips, “and as I understand it, that’s the main complaint of the Reform Committee.”

Barney snorted. “If Kruger gave the Uitlanders the vote right now, he’d be crazy, and one thing Paul Kruger is not is crazy! Johannesburg is almost as advanced as Kimberley, now. We’ve got streetlights, they’re working on a sewage system, it’s already bigger than Kimberley. He has given in on things; give him time and he’ll give in on more. What I’m trying to say is that this is no time for the Reform Committee to do anything foolish.”

“I see. Well, let me think it over. As I said before,” Rhodes said, “the Transvaal is out of my province. I have enough on my hands with the Cape. However, I do know some members of the Reform Committee, and I suppose it would do no harm to discuss this matter with them—”

He paused as the door to the room opened and his brother Frank poked his head in. The colonel frowned to see Barney Barnato sitting there. Cecil Rhodes turned back to Barney.

“Is there anything else you wished to discuss, Barney? I don’t wish to be rude, but I have a rather full schedule, and I would like to spend a little time with my brother—”

Barney stood up. “No, I think I’ve said what I came to say, Cecil. I just hope you fully understood what I was trying to say. Nobody really gains from trouble,” he added, as much for Colonel Frank Rhodes’ sake as for the Premier’s. “It can only cost money. Your money and my money.” He nodded and walked through the door that Frank Rhodes had been holding open for him; the door closed behind him. Neville Pickering was sitting at a desk beyond the door; he nodded stiffly. A butler was waiting to escort Barney to his rented carriage in the drive that would take him back to the railway station.

As he climbed in and gave the necessary directions, he wondered why he had taken the trouble to come to Cape Town. It was evident that whatever was being planned was well along its way. Certainly all his arguing in the Rand Club in Johannesburg had only led to losing him friends, as well as cutting him off from any information as to what was being planned. Even Solly, whom he had treated as well as a brother, hedged when asked about the Reform Committee, although it was evident the man was deeply involved. It was also evident that Cecil Rhodes not only had a finger in the pie, but undoubtedly was up to his elbows in it. “The Transvaal, of course, is not in my province, but I do know some members of the Reform Committee… ”What drek!

Well, maybe it was all talk. Most of the members of the Reform Committee, including his nephew Solly, tended more to talk than to action. At least it was something “devoutly to be wish’d for,” he thought with a faint smile, recalling his Hamlet. He had his own problems with the deepening of the mine shafts in Johannesburg; he’d stop and pick up Armando in Kimberley, borrowing his talents for a while.

He leaned back and watched the scenery.

In the room Barney had just left, Colonel Frank Rhodes was staring down at his seated brother, a frown on his face. “What was Barnato doing here?”

Rhodes laughed. “Apparently our Reform Committee is not as circumspect as it, or they, should be. Barnato seems to sense that there is trouble brewing; his Jew nose is twitching. Two years ago he got Kruger to agree to the extension of the railway to Johannesburg and Pretoria, so now he thinks he knows the old man. It’s his idea that Kruger will bend and, if we wait long enough, maybe break, for all I know. At which point the Reform Committee would have nothing to do but pick up the pieces.” He waved away the matter of Barnato and his dreams with a flick of the wrist. “Don’t pay any attention to Barnato and his hallucinations. He has no idea of what’s really going on. What brings you here, Frank?”

Frank Rhodes seated himself in the chair Barney had been occupying.

“I hate to say it, Cecil, but in one respect I agree with Barnato.”

Rhodes frowned. “I beg your pardon? You think Paul Kruger is going to fold? Give us what we want without a fight?”

“No, no! I don’t mean we should wait to pick up any pieces I don’t think are going to fall from any nonexistent table. What I’m trying to say is that I agree with Barnato that this is not the time to act. We’re simply not ready for it. Jameson is up at Pitsani with fewer than five hundred men, not the fifteen hundred he so blithely promised he could raise, and even that number, in my opinion, would be none too many. Plus a few Bechuanaland Police who are supposed to join him when he leaves—eighty of them, to be exact, rather than the three hundred he was sure would go along—and none of them, by the way, very enthusiastic. And Jameson sending those idiot telegraph messages every five minutes in a code that must be making Kruger laugh himself sick, and you know his sense of humor!”

Rhodes smiled, but he was listening closely. “I’m familiar with Jameson’s telegraph messages; I’ve had a few. But I don’t believe Kruger is aware of what’s going on. If he were he would have done something about it before now. I keep a pretty close eye and ear on Pretoria, and I’m sure I would have heard if Kruger was onto the Reform Committee’s plans.”

“I just hope you’re right.” Frank Rhodes sounded far from convinced. “But let me go on. We have exactly thirty-one rounds of ammunition per rifle in Johannesburg at the moment, and this is supposed to be issued to totally inexperienced men for the most part. And the committee, when they are in full session, fight more with each other than I promise you they ever will against the Boer, unless they get a lot more organized than they are at present! The Americans don’t particularly want the Vierkleur replaced with the Union Jack, and believe it or not, neither do a lot of the British. The lot of them feel they’d simply be replacing Kruger’s taxes with Queen Vic’s taxes and they don’t feel this is worth getting shot for. And the fact is that despite the noise the Reform Committee is making, I believe that nine out of ten of the people we’re asking for support in this so-called spontaneous uprising in Jo’burg don’t give a tinker’s dam for the vote! They want to bring in dynamite free, and cyanide free, and everything else they use they want to bring in free. They don’t care if Kruger is President, or you, or me, or Barney Barnato! They want to make more money, that’s all. And I agree with them, but most of them feel that when these concessions are taken from the Boer, they’ll simply be given to some other one who will gouge their pockets as much as the Boer did!”

Cecil Rhodes’ eyebrows rose. When he spoke his voice was cold.

“Frank, are you changing your mind about our objectives?”

“No, dammit! But if you ever want to reach your objectives, listen to what I’m trying to tell you! You asked me to handle the Jo’burg end of this affair, and how do you argue with people who feel that way? How do you convince them to pick up a gun and fight? I’m trying to tell you the truth of the matter, but you don’t seem to want to listen! How do you convince a man to fight when you give him a bloody thirty-one rounds of ammunition and tell him that’s the lot, go out and wipe out the Boers with it, take over their country?” He shook his head decisively. “It would be a massacre, a needless massacre, and I’m not talking about the Boers, either. And what would that gain? Certainly not the overthrow of Kruger, if that’s what you’re aiming for.”

Cecil Rhodes considered his brother for several moments. When he spoke his voice was more sympathetic than anything else.

“Frank, I know that organizing Johannesburg for this uprising has not been an easy job, and I’m sure you’ve done your best. But there’s still time to bring in more arms and ammunition. Possibly if you had paid a bit more attention to it, put a bit more time into it, a bit more effort—”

Frank Rhodes held up a hand quickly, almost commandingly.

“Now, you listen to me, Cecil Rhodes! I know your opinion of me—I like women and you don’t. I drink a lot of whiskey and lately you’ve been drinking almost none. I like a lot of things and do a lot of things you don’t approve of! But don’t blind yourself to one simple fact: I’m the only one in your whole bloody Reform Committee who knows his arse from a cricket bat when it comes to military experience, and that includes your precious Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, who thinks he’s a soldier because he happened to beat a bunch of natives with spears, when his men had guns! And my military experience isn’t slight, either, as you damned well know! I’m no honorary colonel, Cecil; I’m a colonel promoted in grade in the field, dammit! I’ve had thirty years in the army! When we talk gold or diamonds, I’ll listen to you, but when we talk a military operation you’d better listen to me, or you can take your chances with the diggers and shoe clerks you’re planning to use to scare Kruger into handing you the Transvaal on a platter!”

Rhodes had been listening, his face impassive, but his mind was racing. He had never seen his brother Frank in this mood before. One thing was certain: failure was unthinkable. Failure would damage, if not put an end to, his career, and with it his dream of extending South Africa under British rule even farther north—to Cairo, eventually, hopefully. He looked at his brother.

“Are you suggesting we abandon the project?”

“No, dammit, I’m not! I’m merely suggesting we’re not ready for it, not now. It’s your decision, Cecil, but I’m telling you this: Call off this losing operation before it’s too late. Jameson is a fanatic and the ultimate egotist, and this man Luckner he’s picked as second in command is totally unhinged. He’s a bloodthirsty maniac. He kicked a Kaffir to death for spilling some coffee on him, hot coffee. Jameson has fewer than five hundred men under him and while he calls them Rhodesian Police, I’ll wager nine tenths of them are blacksmiths or sailors or ex-breakwater convicts, certainly not trained troops. They’ve each got a horse and a gun; that makes them soldiers! And he was supposed to pick up three hundred Bechuanaland Police, who are trained, but as I said, their number is down to about eighty, and they’d be more enthusiastic if they were being sent out to hunt quail. If you want the truth, they asked if they’d be fighting for the Queen or for Cecil Rhodes’ South African Chartered Company. Now, I’m your brother and I’m trying to help you—”

“Jameson is planning on leaving Pitsani for Johannesburg on the twenty-first of December. That’s just over three weeks away,” Rhodes said, and now his tone was plainly worried. “It may be too late to call it off—”

“Dammit, it’s too late to begin it!” Frank Rhodes retorted. “It has to be postponed, Cecil, for God’s sake! Let Jameson get away from Pitsani before somebody gets the idea of what he’s up there for! Let him get back to Fort Salisbury; let him bring his men up to strength and train them. And let him stop those ridiculous telegraphs before Kruger does know what’s going on, if he doesn’t already know. Let us get proper guns and sufficient ammunition into Johannesburg, and that is going to take time with the border guards as alert as they are these days. With time we can do it, but we can’t do it in any three weeks. And let us have time to convince the people of Johannesburg that it’s to their advantage to be with us one hundred per cent in this thing.” He stared at his brother almost fiercely. “Then, by God, we’d have a chance. We’d have a bloody good chance!”

“How much time are you talking about?”

The colonel shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe six months, maybe more. What difference does it make? You want the Transvaal under British rule; it’s been Boer ever since they kicked the shit out of us fifteen years ago, and it was Boer before that. And, I might mention, they did it against the British Army, not against a ragtag bunch of pseudo adventurers playing soldier. So what’s a few more months to ensure success?”

“What do the other members of the Reform Committee think?”

Frank Rhodes waved that away. “I don’t care what they think. If they have any brains, they think the same as I do. Everyone is afraid to admit the truth of what I’ve just told you. Nobody wants to be the messenger bringing bad news, especially to you. But somebody had to do it, and I don’t mind being the one. I’ve given you the truth of the matter: to move now is to invite complete and certain disaster. And if you want my opinion, you won’t get another chance to do it as easily for a long, long time. All you have to do is wait until you’re properly prepared. And you’re not, right now.”

Cecil Rhodes came to his feet and began pacing the floor. At last he paused and looked up.

“It will be hard to hold Jameson back for six months or more. I know the man …”

Frank Rhodes exploded. “Then replace him! What the devil d’you mean, it will be hard to hold him? Is this a military operation, or some bit of anarchy where everyone goes off on his own and does what he wants? If necessary, go up there and tell him yourself, in person, if a telegraph won’t handle the matter. You’re the only one he’ll listen to. He thinks he’s smarter than the rest of us combined. When I pointed out to him on his last visit that four hundred plus men were far from enough, he simply laughed. He said, ‘I can walk into Jo’burg with twenty men and five revolvers anytime I want. You just be ready with your uprising when I get there.’” He snorted contemptuously.

Rhodes sighed. “All right, Frank,” he said, and walked to the end of the room to tug at a pull rope. A moment later his secretary, Pickering, was in the room. Rhodes turned to him. “Send this telegraph to Jameson, at Pitsani. Say, ‘Polo tournament postponed until further notice.’ Get it off at once, and sign it Rhodes.”

“Sign it Cecil Rhodes,” Frank added. “Otherwise he may think I came down to Cape Town just to send it, and he’ll toss it in the campfire.” He waited until Pickering had left the room, and held out his hand for his brother to shake. “That was the wise move, Cecil. Now we’ve got to get busy. Get Jameson back to Fort Salisbury and start doing his job properly. I’ll get to work in Johannesburg.”

“Very well,” Rhodes said, and touched his brother’s hand. Frank Rhodes turned to go. “And thank you, Frank,” Rhodes said sincerely.

Frank Rhodes merely nodded as he left the room, but he had been profoundly surprised. It was the first time since childhood that he could remember ever having heard his brother thank anyone for anything.