Rogan’s frown deepened as he rode on, his thoughts swirling. Dumaka was a Zulu induna, so why had he been working on Julien’s estate before the Zulu War in 1879? Their king, Cetshwayo, had been alive at that time, strong and greatly feared. No induna of Zulu blood would normally work for Julien at Capetown, yet Dumaka had done so. Strange… considering he hated Sir Julien and anyone now associated with him. What had happened at Cape House so many years ago when Katie van Buren escaped with Jendaya and Henry Chantry?
Could it be Julien hadn’t realized who Dumaka really was but had mistaken him for a Bantu? Dumaka could have come to work there in search of the Black Diamond. That would surely suggest a different history for the diamond than what was presently thought. Could the diamond have been stolen from the Umlimo?
“I say, it was a bit strange, how Dumaka talked about Sir Julien and the Black Diamond,” Derwent said.
“I wonder. I’m beginning to worry about its history.”
“You mean, you think there have been some lies about how it was discovered at Kimberly?”
“Look, Derwent, forget everything we’ve been told. Now think. What if there’s another story concerning its origin? One that Julien alone knows about—or maybe Carl van Buren, or even my grandfather, Sir George.”
“You mean one of them could have stolen it—like a temple robber?”
“Something like that. Maybe there was something between the two partners we don’t yet know. Van Buren, they say, was killed in a mine explosion at Kimberly.”
“You questioning the report?”
“I don’t know…but what if the report is hiding the truth? What if something else happened?”
Derwent pushed his hat back thoughtfully. The wind ruffled his russet hair. “Say, I never thought of that. I wonder. I see what you’re thinking, all right. Maybe the two of ’em didn’t find the diamond?”
Rogan was silent, thinking. Or maybe only one of them?
“That would certainly be an evil thing to lie about.” Derwent scratched his long nose. “Your kin may have been thinking the wrong thing for two generations.”
Rogan scowled. “The place to learn about this is Jakob van Buren’s mission. I want to talk to him about a few things, including Jendaya and where she could be. Dumaka said he didn’t know. He had an unpleasant look in his eyes when I asked him.”
“Doesn’t sound a bit good to me. Maybe she’s hiding from him?”
Was she even still alive after all these years?
Rogan looked off toward the Matopos. “You see those distant hills?”
“Aye, a beautiful land, Mr. Rogan. Thought so the moment I laid my eyes on it.”
“Somewhere in those hills, there’s a secret valley and a cave—more than one, probably—that’s considered sacred. It’s a stronghold of demonic powers, with an Umlimo speaking all kinds of evil curses.”
Derwent shook his head. “I heard all about the Umlimo. They use witchcraft—that’s what it’s all about. They seem to have certain powers, but I’m thinking Satan has his way in these parts, Mr. Rogan. It sure makes me feel good in my heart to know Jakob van Buren’s a light for truth at his mission station. And Moffat’s Kuruman, too. His son runs the station now. And I guess Jendaya is a Christian. Now, would that be enough cause for Dumaka to be angry with his sister?”
“Yes. And I think there could be even more to all this and the diamond than we dreamed of back in Grimston Way.”
“Maybe it took our coming to South Africa to settle it. That would give us another reason for coming all the way on this expedition, wouldn’t it? Maybe a more noble reason, I’m beginning to think.”
Rogan looked at him, his serious mood gone, and irritation in his smile.
“Not beginning to feel guilty about getting a little gold in your hands, are you?”
Derwent shifted in his saddle. “No, not if it’s all fair and legal. But look here, Mr. Rogan, things are getting a bit troubling. I don’t know if I can trust the motives of some of those adventurers.”
“Trouble is everywhere, friend Derwent. Maybe you’re missing the life of a vicar after all.”
“I don’t think I’m called as a vicar… I don’t have the way with words. I haven’t changed my mind about getting land and some gold, either. But I admit to missing Grimston Way. And Evy. Wonder how she’s doing? Must have gotten her music school by now.”
Rogan forced Evy from his mind. He ignored Derwent’s musing. “Trouble…is certainly bound to come to Rhodes’s company. What worries me most is the hotheads in charge of the new colony.”
“Aye, for sure. That Dr. Jameson is sure to cause trouble, if you ask me.” Derwent shook his head again.
“If we’re not careful, Jameson could do something reckless and virtually hand a lighted match to the indunas to set the whole thing ablaze. All it would take is for something to go badly, followed by a dark utterance from the Umlimo to stir the indunas to action.”
“Aye.” Derwent looked again toward the Matopos. “Still, it’s only the beauty of the Creator’s handiwork I see.”
Rogan agreed. The sun shining through the spiraling mist cast the hills in a rosy glow that looked peaceful.
“It’s just like the devil to take the good things that God made and try to get people to use them in ways that are twisted and destructive,” Derwent said.
How true, Rogan thought as they rode into camp, but what about his own life? Could he keep his desires and ambitions from leading him in paths that were dark?
The Pioneer Column was ready to move out. Nothing, it seemed, would halt the expedition now. Their destination was Mount Hampden—before the seasonal rains came.
The first horseman splashed across the Motloutsi River, followed by the Pioneer Column, their wagons and oxen, and a host of African laborers.
After months of planning, the expedition had finally begun. The BSA had leaped over the two Boer Republics—the Transvaal and the Orange Free State—as well as Lobengula’s Matabeleland. Their intent was to form a new country between the Limpopo and Zambezi rivers three hundred miles north of the Transvaal. It would be called Rhodesia, in honor of Cecil Rhodes. After crossing the river, the long Pioneer Column was soon enveloped in a great dust cloud, which trailed behind them, visible for miles, until it was at last borne away by the wind.
The company moved forward, and wagons creaked and shuddered under heavy loads. Arcilla groaned as she thought of the weeks of riding in a wagon that lay ahead. Each bump and clank of the springless axles jarred her teeth as wagon wheels jostled across the expansive empty veld and over rocky stream beds. The dry season brought dust everywhere. Unlike the children of Israel who were safely led by God’s pillar of cloud, everyone in this column was hounded by the swirling clouds of dust. From the first covered wagon to the men bringing up the rear—all were smothered in dust. For one of the few times in her life, Arcilla prayed without her prayer book, “Oh God, help us, protect us, and help Peter to be wise. In the name of our Savior, amen.”
In July the Pioneer Column reached Tulie, where they began construction of their first fort, a place of rest for those who would follow in coming years to join the new colony of Rhodesia.
“Sorry you came along, Miss Bley?”
Darinda, weary and exhausted, was looking on the ground where she’d lost a button from her jacket, knowing she’d not likely find it or get another to replace it in a very long time. She straightened and looked up at Captain Ryan Retford astride his horse. It was irksome that he looked confident, relaxed, and at home in such wild territory. His hair glinted in the sun, and she found the cleft in his chin attractive. The last time she had talked to him was on the other side of the Limpopo weeks ago. She had parted from him in a rage, humiliated by her indiscretion that he so bluntly pointed out. Since then she had stayed far afield of him, Parnell, and Rogan Chantry as well. She refused to even think about the ruddy map. So far it had only caused trouble for her.
“I’m not in the least sorry, Captain,” she said coolly.
He smothered a smile and touched his hat in salute, his dark blue eyes glinting with humor. “I suppose not. If you ever need any help with anything, just call.”
“I’ll manage on my own, thank you.”
“This is a far cry from Cape House.”
“If you will excuse me?” She started to sidle past him.
“I understand why you’ve avoided me on the trek, Miss Bley, but what’s happened between you and Parnell Chantry?”
“That, Captain, is none of your business.” And she brushed past.
“Wait—”
She slowly turned. He’d swung down from his saddle and picked something up from the ground.
“Looking for this, Miss Bley?”
He walked up to her and extended his palm. Her golden button gleamed in the sunlight.
He would have to be the one to find it. Darinda snatched it from him and was turning away when she glanced up at his face. As his dark blue eyes flicked over her, she felt herself flush. She jerked her shoulder at him and walked away.
“You are welcome,” his calm, amused voice followed after her.
She gritted her teeth.
After building the fort at Tulie, the Pioneer Column pushed forward, mindful of the inclement weather to come.
The Ngwato laborers hacked out bush for the wagon roads. The pioneers rode and marched along this track, sweating in the southern hemisphere winter sun, alert for possible surprise attacks by Lobengula’s impis.
At night Rogan helped Mornay and Derwent hobble the horses. Peter and Captain Retford oversaw the grouping of the wagons to form a laager. Each evening before darkness closed in, the men set up the naval searchlight and fired up the steam engine to power it throughout the long night.
Rogan and Parnell helped lay charges of dynamite farther back so that the explosions thundered a stern warning to the Ndebele. Rogan had seen the impis secretly following at a distance, ominously shadowing the column.
Arcilla snuggled deeper into the blankets inside the wagon. “Suppose they break through?”
“Don’t worry, darling. We’ve posted guards all around the laager.”
“Peter, I feel sick. I want to go home to England.”
“Arcilla, my dearest, we cannot go home. This is our new home. Things will be better at Fort Salisbury, I promise.”
Arcilla was sure things would be worse. She longed for Aunt Elosia, pampering her again as her mother had. She remembered her charming bedroom at Rookswood and how all the maids—even chatterbox Lizzie, Mrs. Croft’s niece—would rush to meet her every whim. Now she woke up to warmed-over mealies and dark, bitter coffee. No wonder she was getting thin. “I’ll die here,” she told herself one night as she listened to the calls of the wild animals. “They’ll bury me in Mashonaland.”
By August Frederick Selous had halted the Pioneer Column at Lundi. This was south of the main mountain range that Rogan had studied on Henry’s map. The range separated the bush veld from the high plateau of Mashonaland.
Rogan and Derwent climbed through the bush to explore. When they reached the summit, Rogan pointed at the open veld below.
“This is it, all right,” Rogan said. “This is one of the areas that Henry drew on the map.” Frederick Selous had called this area Providential Pass, since it opened up the main range.
They trekked still deeper into what they called the Zambezi region, though the Zambezi River itself was far distant. On the sixth of August, they resumed their steady advance and reached the main plateau on the fourteenth. Here they built a second fort and named it Fort Victoria, and in September they reached their destination, the site chosen for the new British colony, in sight of Mount Hampden, and christened it Fort Salisbury, after the British prime minister.
The next day Rogan took part in the official ceremony to commemorate the end of a long journey and the beginning of a new British colony. He stood with Peter and Arcilla, Sir Julien, Darinda, and Parnell. The entire Pioneer Column soon gathered, with Lieutenant Colonel Pennyfather dressed in full military garb. They stood solemnly as the officers of the British South Africa Company hauled out two Union Jacks: one belonging to the Cape government and the other to Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s Government of Great Britain.
They located the straightest tree and trimmed its branches. Then they all stood at attention as the flags were solemnly hoisted. Two seven-pound cannons shot off a twenty-one gun salute. Mr. Balfour, the chaplain of the five-hundred-man BSA police, prayed for God’s blessing and gave thanks.
Arcilla felt a tingle of excitement run down her spine as a deafening cheer reverberated across the veld. Peter stood beside her with his shoulders back and a glow in his eyes. “This will one day be called Rhodesia,” he told Arcilla, pride and pleasure in his voice. He drew her aside and planted a kiss on her forehead. “We made it, my dear. I told you we would. We’ll be happy here. You will try, won’t you, Arcilla?”
“I’ll try, Peter. I promise you I’ll do my best.”
“Darling, that’s all a man could ever ask of his beloved wife.”
“Oh, Peter…” She went into his arms, and Peter enfolded her closely.
Darinda turned to her grandfather, Sir Julien, and they embraced as well. Then she turned to Parnell, and laying her palms on his forearms, she smiled up at him. Parnell’s eyes took on new life, and some of the old sparkle appeared to come back to his face. “You did wonderfully well, Darinda. You did better than I did on the trek.”
She laughed, and her eye caught that of Captain Ryan Retford. He stood with the soldiers, watching her and Parnell, and a small smile showed on his tanned face. Darinda turned toward Parnell, looping her arm through his, and met her grandfather’s gaze; he had followed her eyes across the dirt yard to Captain Retford. She turned quickly toward Alice and Derwent Brown.
“Well, Alice, we are finally here in Fort Salisbury. Did you ever think we’d make it, all of us?” Darinda said.
“There were times when I told Derwent we’d all die for sure. But Derwent was right. He said God would bring us here, and He did.” She looked at her husband and smiled.
“What will you do now, Derwent?” Darinda asked amiably.
“I’ll be going with Mr. Rogan, Miss.”
“To look for gold,” Alice said cheerfully. “Oh, wait till I write to Mum.”
“I’m afraid that’ll be a long time,” Derwent said quietly. “Until Mr. Rhodes sends along more pioneers and opens a better road, we’re completely isolated. We’ll have to make things do.”
Within a few days the column was disbanded. Frederick Selous and Frank Johnson were paid for their work by Rhodes’s partners in the BSA, and the pioneers scattered to stake out their farms and ranches.
Rogan stood with Mornay and Derwent. Despite all the obstacles that had crossed his path since he had sailed from England, he was finally here. He pulled out Henry’s map and grinned with confidence.
“Well? What are we waiting for? The land is before us. We’ll join forces to stake our own claim in Rhodesia.”
Six Months Later
Near the Zambezi
Rogan had left his base camp and ridden out with Derwent and Mornay. He stopped his horse and looked up and around him, swiveling in the saddle as he studied the layout of the land.
“This could be the place, all right,” Rogan told Derwent and Mornay as he looked at the map. “See that ridge over there?”
Derwent Brown squinted, following where he pointed. Mornay, too, looked off, puffing on his pipe.
“Shall I ride back and tell ’em to break camp?” Derwent asked.
“Let’s have a closer inspection first,” Rogan said, folding the map and tucking it inside his shirt.
Mornay nodded sagely as they rode forward.
Months had passed since Rogan and the others first arrived with the pioneers in Rhodes’s company to form the British colony. The pioneers had spent long days building farm huts and tilling the land so they could plant crops. Some had brought along chickens and pigs, and cattle and oxen roamed the cleared land.
“The more I compare Henry’s checkpoints with the area before us, the less I’m convinced we’re here, Mornay.”
Mornay nodded gravely. His silver-bearded chin seemed to bristle, and his inky brows pulled low over his eyes. “You could be right, monsieur. The area traversed by my father and your uncle Henry. This might not be the land of the map.”
Rogan looked at the hills and rock formations again, still unsettled, despite what seemed to be ample evidence. Despite Mornay’s knowledge of geography and his own of geology, Rogan still had questions. He removed the piece of quartz from his pocket that he’d taken from the ridge in question yesterday and compared it with the quartz rock Henry had left him. Rogan’s studies at the geology school in London convinced him of the promise of gold in this ridge. But one thing troubled him: the symbols Henry placed on the map of the bird, the lion, and the baobab tree. What could he have meant? Rogan had looked the area over for weeks now and could see nothing that resembled the symbols. He also noticed that the two quartz rocks were different. Was there more to Henry’s map that he had yet to discover in the months ahead?
Back at camp he would discuss his find with the newest man on this enterprise, a geologist he’d hired named Clive Shepherd. The man had ridden in a few weeks earlier on a private trek following the Pioneer Column.
Rogan continued to ponder the ridge that rose before him. He turned in his saddle and with narrowed gaze studied the land, as he had been doing for days. His mouth hardened beneath his dark ribbon mustache. He patted his pocket where he had returned the piece of jagged quartz he’d taken from farther up the ridge.
“We’ll have a talk with Shepherd to see if he backs us up. There’s no geologist I trust more than him. Let’s go back to camp,” he said briskly.
Rogan now had some fifteen Shona working for him in a land where the Matabele warriors frowned upon the white man’s incursion. He’d learned it was useful to use Africans from other tribes as workers and guards, for many of the tribes looked upon one another as the greater enemy. Several African kings had signed treaties with the British government to protect their land from Africans and Boers alike.
That night at their base camp, Rogan, Derwent, Mornay, and Clive Shepherd sat around the fire, discussing the prospects of the site.
Shepherd was shrewd on the subject of mineral discoveries due to his broad experience in the field. A regular bloodhound when it came to sniffing out gold deposits, he was even said to be “canny.” Such men appeared to gravitate to other men like Rhodes and Sir Julien Bley, but Clive Shepherd had wanted to work for Rogan.
While a student at the geological school in London, Rogan had noticed several of Clive Shepherd’s treatises on gold, emeralds, and diamonds. It had seemed a stroke of luck when two months ago Clive had ridden into Fort Salisbury with a new group of pioneers, some fifty in number. Peter had introduced him to Rogan one night at supper.
Rogan reached into his pocket and removed the piece of quartz he’d chipped from the ridge. He looked across the campfire at Shepherd.
“What do you think, Clive?”
Shepherd caught the rock Rogan tossed him.
“This looks very promising.”
Rogan wasn’t surprised over Clive’s conclusions. They confirmed his own findings, but he didn’t believe he’d found Henry’s deposit.
“This outcrop might run for miles. It could go very deep,” Rogan stated intently.
Shepherd, a tall, gangling man with a high forehead and a jutting chin, blew smoke rings into the darkness.
“I’m a cautious fellow, Chantry, but I think you’ve got something here.”
Mornay squatted on his haunches before the fire, his white hair gleaming. “Yes, do not forget, mon ami, how the BSA holds a large portion of whatever is discovered.”
Rogan did not like to think of that, but Mornay was right. Rogan put down his empty cup and stood. He thought of Evy and the Black Diamond. He knew a great deal more about the van Burens now that he had visited Dr. Jakob van Buren at his medical mission station farther up the Zambezi River. Jakob had told him about Heyden’s earlier trip to locate Jendaya and demand that the Zulu woman contact her brother Dumaka to bring the Black Diamond. Dr. Jakob worried that Heyden might be planning to use Evy in some way to get Jendaya to cooperate. “It would be dangerous,” Jakob kept telling him, “much too dangerous.”
Rogan’s thoughts flew back across the sea to Grimston Way, to a girl with green-flecked amber eyes and hair the color of a lion’s mane. A woman he should not think about but who filled his memory at night beneath the lonely stars.
“Don’t worry,” Rogan said abruptly. “We’ll all get our share from the Company. The BSA needs us more than we need them. We’re all in this together now.” The arrangement he had been forced to accept disturbed him, but he had settled into it for lack of any way out. And he wanted the gold, regardless. But…those symbols on Henry’s map.
“We’d better turn in early,” he said. “Come sunrise, I want those prospect holes sunk from here to the hills north of us, along the Zambezi.”
Next morning, when the dawn painted a crimson sky, a rider on horseback from Fort Salisbury entered the camp. It was Captain Retford, Peter’s military assistant.
“A letter for you, sir. Mr. Bartley thought it might be important.”
Rogan took the envelope and saw that it was from Capetown, sent by Lady Camilla Brewster.
Rogan frowned. Why would Anthony’s wife be writing to him?
He opened the letter and read:
My Christian conscience will not permit me to sleep well without alerting you to two important facts that affect your future happiness and Evy van Buren’s. Evy has had a dreadful accident. Anthony has sent a wire to Sir Julien, telling him about Evy’s fall. It seems she tripped down the attic steps at her cottage. She’s been in the hospital for a month and is in a slow recovery. There is a fear she will never walk again without crutches.
Rogan’s heart stopped. Evy. He read on:
The second important fact is crucial to both of you. Evy is not the daughter of Henry Chantry. She is Anthony’s by Katie van Buren. Of course, sadly, Evy has not been told this news. I realize Julien has lied to you, insisting Henry is her father. He has done this because it is his aim to keep you separated from her on account of the diamonds and her inheritance through Katie. But I have long believed you cared for her. Now I have told you the truth. What you do with it is your decision. I wish you well.
Yours truly,
Lady Camilla Montieth Brewster
Cape House
Capetown, South Africa
Rogan was still standing there in the warm wind when Derwent came up beside him. The paper scuffled in the wind.
“Bad news, Mr. Rogan?”
Rogan looked at him, hearing Derwent’s worry. He set his mouth in a confident smile.
“Both bad and good, Derwent. I must drop everything and return to England immediately.”
Derwent looked at him, stunned.
“I’m turning matters here over to you, Shepherd, and Mornay.”
“Not a funeral, Mr. Rogan?” Derwent asked anxiously.
Rogan folded the letter and put it back into his leather pocket. “Not if I can help it, Derwent. Rather, a wedding.”
Derwent looked after him as Rogan strode off to find Mornay and Shepherd. Derwent scratched his angular nose. Now what could that mean?