The Angels Weep (39 page)

She felt Juba start and then begin to shiver, and
Robyn’s voice was instantly concerned.

‘What is it, my little Dove?’ she asked.

‘Bobby was right,’ whispered Juba. ‘It is
cold, we should go in now.’ She sat silent during the rest
of the meal, but when Elizabeth took Bobby through to his
bedroom, she said simply, ‘Nomusa, I must go back to the
village.’

‘Oh Juba, you have only just returned, whatever is the
matter?’

‘I have a feeling, Nomusa, a feeling in my heart that my
husband needs me.’

‘Men,’ said Robyn bitterly. ‘If we could
only be shot of all of them – life would be so much simpler
if we women ran the world.’

‘I
t is
the sign,’ whispered Tanase, holding her son to her bosom,
and the light from the small smoky little fire in the centre of
the hut left her eyes in shadow like those of a skull. ‘It
is always the way with the prophecy of the Umlimo, the meaning
becomes clear only when the events come to pass.’

‘The wings in the dark noon,’ Bazo nodded,
‘and the cattle with their heads twisted to touch their
flanks, and now—’

‘And now the cross has eaten up the hornless cattle, the
horsemen have gone south in the night. It is the third, the last
sign for which we waited,’ Tanase exulted softly.
‘The spirits of our ancestors urge us on. The time of
waiting is over.’

‘Little Mother, the spirits have chosen you to make
their meaning clear. Without you we would never have known what
the white men call those four great stars. Now the spirits have
other work for you. You are the one who knows where they are, you
know how many are at Khami Mission.’

Juba looked at her husband, and her lips trembled, her great
dark eyes were swimming with tears. Gandang nodded to her to
speak.

‘There is Nomusa,’ she whispered. ‘Nomusa,
who is more than a mother and a sister to me. Nomusa who cut the
chain that held me in the slave ship—’

‘Put those thoughts from your mind,’ counselled
Tanase gently. ‘There is no place for them now. Tell us who
else is at the Mission.’

‘There is Elizabeth, my gentle sad Lizzie, and Bobby,
who I carry upon my hip.’

‘Who else?’ Tanase insisted.

‘There are no others,’ Juba whispered.

Bazo looked at his father.

‘They are yours, all of them at Khami Mission. You know
what must be done.’

Gandang nodded, and Bazo turned back to his mother.

‘Tell me, sweet little Mother.’ His voice sank to
a soothing rumble. ‘Tell me about Bakela, the Fist, and his
woman. What news do you have of him?’

‘Last week he was in the big house at King’s Lynn,
he and Balela, the One who brings Clear and Sunny
Skies.’

Bazo turned to one of the other indunas who sat in the rank
behind Gandang.

‘Suku!’

The induna rose on one knee.

‘Baba?’ he asked.

‘Bakela is yours, and his woman,’ Bazo told him.
‘And when you have done that work, go on to Hartley Hills
and take the miners there, there are three men, and a woman with
four whelps.’

‘Nkosi Nkulu,’ the induna acknowledged the order,
and no one queried or demurred when he called Bazo, ‘Nkosi
Nkulu! King!’

‘Little Mother, where is Henshaw and his woman, who is
the daughter of Nomusa?’

‘Nomusa had a letter from her, three days ago. She is at
the railhead, she and the boy. She carries an infant, which will
be born about the time of the
Chawala
festival. She wrote
of her great joy and happiness.’

‘And Henshaw?’ Bazo asked patiently. ‘What
of Henshaw?’

‘In the letter she said he was with her, the source of
her happiness. He may still be with her.’

‘They are mine,’ Bazo said. ‘They and the
five white men who are at the railhead. Afterwards we will sweep
up the wagon road and take the two men and the woman and three
children at Antelope Mine.’ He went on quietly allocating a
task to each of his commanders, each farm and lonely mine was
given to one of them with a recountal of the victims to be
expected there, the telegraph lines were to be cut, the native
police were to be executed, the drifts were to be guarded, all
the wagon roads had to be swept for travellers, firearms
collected, and livestock carried off and hidden. When he had
finished, he turned to the women.

‘Tanase, you will see to it that all our own women and
children go into the ancient place of sanctuary, you yourself
will lead them into the sacred hills of the Matopos. You will
make certain that they stay in small groups, each well separated
from the others, and the
mujiba
, the young boys not yet
initiated, will watch from the hilltops against the coming of the
white men. The women will have the potions and the
muti
ready for those of our men who are wounded.’

‘Nkosi Nkulu,’ said Tanase after each instruction,
and she watched his face, trying not to let her pride and her
wild exultation show. ‘King!’ she called him, as the
other indunas had done.

Then the telling of it was over, and they waited for one thing
more. The silence in the hut was strained and intense, the white
of eyes gleaming in faces of polished ebony, as they waited, and
at last Bazo spoke.

‘By tradition, on the night of the
Chawala
moon,
the sons and daughters of Mashobane, of Mzilikazi, and of
Lobengula, should celebrate the Festival of the First Fruits.
This season there will be no cobs of corn to reap, for the
locusts have reaped them for us. This season there will be no
black bull for the young warriors to kill with their bare hands,
for the rinderpest has done their work for them.’

Bazo slowly looked about the circle of their faces.

‘So on the night of this
Chawala
moon, let it
begin. Let the storm rage. Let the eyes turn red. Let the young
men of Matabele run!’

‘Jee!’ hummed Suku in the second rank of indunas,
and ‘Jee!’ old Babiaan took up the war chant, and
then they were all swaying together with their throats straining
and their eyes bulging redly in the firelight with the divine
fighting madness coming down upon them.

T
he ammunition
was the most time-consuming of the stores to handle, and Ralph
was limited to twenty trusted men to do the work for him.

There were 10,000 rounds in each iron case, with the W.D. and
arrow impressed upon its lid. They were secured with a simple
clip that could be knocked open with a rifle butt. The British
army always learned its lesson the hard way. They had learned
this one at Isandhlwana, the Hill of the Little Hand, on the
frontier of Zululand when Lord Chelmsford left 1,000 men at his
base camp, while he took a flying column to bring the Zulu
indunas to battle. Avoiding contact with the column, the indunas
doubled back and stormed the base camp. Only when the swarming
impis broke through the perimeter did the quartermasters realize
that Chelmsford had taken the keys for the ammunition chests with
him. Isazi, Ralph’s little Zulu driver, had given him an
eye-witness account of the end.

‘They were tearing at the boxes with axes, with bayonets
and with their bare hands. They were swearing and screaming with
rage and chagrin when we brought the assegais to them, and at the
last they tried to defend themselves with their empty
rifles.’ Isazi’s eyes had gone misty with the memory,
the way an old man recalls a lost love. ‘I tell you, little
Hawk, they were brave men and it was a beautiful
stabbing.’

Nobody could be certain how many Englishmen had died at the
Little Hand, for it was almost a year before Chelmsford retook
the field, but it was one of the most terrible disasters of
British military history, and immediately after it the War Office
redesigned their ammunition chests.

Now the fact that the .303 ammunition was packed in these WD
chests was some indication of how deep was the understanding
between Mr Rhodes and the colonial secretary in Whitehall.
However, the bulk packets had to be broken down and repacked in
waxed paper. One hundred rounds to the packet, then these had to
be soldered into tin sheets before going into the oil drums. It
was an onerous task and Ralph was pleased to escape for a few
hours from the workshops of the De Beers Consolidated Mines
Company where it was being done.

Aaron Fagan was waiting for him in his office, with his coat
on and his Derby hat in his hand.

‘You are becoming a secretive fellow, Ralph,’ he
accused. ‘Couldn’t you have given me some idea of
what you expect?’

‘You will learn that soon enough,’ Ralph promised,
and put a cheroot between his lips. ‘All I want to know
from you is that this fellow is trustworthy, and
discreet.’

‘He is the eldest son of my own sister,’ Aaron
bridled, and Ralph struck a Vesta to the end of the cheroot to
calm him.

‘That is all very well, but can he keep his mouth
shut?’

‘I will stake my life on it.’

‘You may have to,’ Ralph told him drily.
‘Well, let us go to visit this paragon.’

David Silver was a plump young man with a pink scrubbed
complexion, gold-rimmed pince-nez and his hair glossy with
brilliantine and parted down the centre so that his scalp gleamed
in the division like the scar of a sword-cut. He deferred
courteously to his Uncle Aaron, and went to pains to make certain
that both his guests were comfortable, that their chairs were
arranged with the light from the windows falling from behind and
that each of them had an ashtray beside him and a cup of tea in
his hand.

‘It’s orange pekoe,’ he pointed out
modestly, as he settled beside his desk. Then he placed his
fingertips together, pursed his lips primly and looked
expectantly at Ralph.

While Ralph briefly explained his requirements, he nodded his
head brightly and made little sucking sounds of
encouragement.

‘Mr Ballantyne – ‘ he kept nodding like a
mandarin doll when Ralph had finished – ‘that is what
we stockbrokers – ‘ he spread his hand deprecatingly
– ‘in our jargon call a “bear position”
or “selling short”. It is quite a commonplace
transaction.’

Aaron Fagan squirmed a little in his chair, and glanced
apologetically at Ralph. ‘David, I think Mr Ballantyne
knows—’

‘No, no,’ Ralph raised a hand to Aaron,
‘please let Mr Silver continue. I am sure his discourse
will be enlightening.’ His expression was solemn, but his
eyes twinkled with amusement. The irony was lost on David Silver
and he accepted Ralph’s invitation.

‘It is an entirely short-term speculative contract. I
always make a point of mentioning this to any of my clients who
contemplate entering into one. To be entirely truthful, Mr
Ballantyne, I do not approve of this speculation. I always feel
that the stock exchange is a venue for legitimate investment, a
market where capital can meet and mate with legitimate
enterprise. It should not have been made into a bookmakers’
turf where sportsmen bet on dark horses.’

‘That is a very noble thought,’ Ralph agreed.

‘I am glad you see it that way.’ David Silver
puffed out his cheeks pompously. ‘However, to return to the
operation of selling shares short. The client enters the market
and offers to sell shares of a specified company which he does
not possess, at a price below the current market price, for
delivery at some future date, usually one to three months
ahead.’

‘Yes,’ Ralph nodded solemnly. ‘I think I
follow so far.’

‘Naturally, the expectation of the bear operator is that
the shares will fall considerably in value before he is obliged
to deliver them to the purchaser. From his point of view the
larger the fall in value the greater will be his
profit.’

‘Ah!’ said Ralph. ‘An easy way to make
money.’

‘On the other hand’ – David Silver’s
plump features became stern – ‘should the shares rise
in value the bear operator will incur considerable losses. He
will be forced to re-enter the market and buy shares at the
inflated prices to make good his delivery to the purchaser, and
naturally he will be paid only the previously agreed
price.’

‘Naturally!’

‘Now you can see why I try to discourage my clients from
engaging in these dealings.’

‘Your uncle assured me that you were a prudent
man.’

David Silver looked smug. ‘Mr Ballantyne, I think you
should know that there is a buoyant mood in the market. I have
heard it rumoured that some of the Witwatersrand companies will
be reporting highly elevated profits this quarter. In my view
this is the time to buy gold shares, not to sell them.’

‘Mr Silver, I am a terrible pessimist.’

‘Very well.’ David Silver sighed with the air of a
superior being inured to the intractability of the common man.
‘Will you tell me exactly what you have in mind, please, Mr
Ballantyne?’

‘I want to sell the shares of two companies
short,’ Ralph told him. ‘Consolidated Goldfields and
the British South Africa Company.’

An air of vast melancholy came over David Silver. ‘You
have chosen the strongest companies on the board, those are Mr
Rhodes’ enterprises. Did you have a figure in mind, Mr
Ballantyne? The minimum lot that can be traded is one hundred
shares—’

‘Two hundred thousand,’ said Ralph mildly.

‘Two hundred thousand pounds!’ gasped David
Silver.

‘Shares,’ Ralph corrected him.

‘Mr Ballantyne.’ Silver had paled. ‘BSA is
standing at twelve pounds and Consolidated at eight. If you sell
two hundred thousand shares – well, that is a transaction
of two million pounds.’

‘No, no!’ Ralph shook his head. ‘You
misunderstand me.’

‘Thank the good Lord for that.’ A little colour
flowed back into David Silver’s chubby cheeks.

‘I meant not two hundred thousand in total, but two
hundred thousand in each company. That is four million
pounds’ worth altogether.’

David Silver sprang to his feet with such alacrity that his
chair flew back against the wall with a crash, and for a moment
it seemed that he might try to escape out into the street.