They squeezed past a transport rider who had brought up a wagonload of goods from the coast, six hundred miles, and had set up shop from the tailboard of his wagon, displaying a sign on which he had chalked up a price list: Candles, 1 pound a packet Whisky, 12 pounds a case Soap, 5 shillings a piece.the prices were twenty times higher than those prevailing at the coast.
De Beer's New Rush was probably at that moment the most expensive spot on the surface of the globe. The remaining sovereigns in the wide leather money-belt around Zouga's waist seemed suddenly feather light.
By noon that day they had found space to outspan the wagon on the periphery of the huge circular encampment. While Jan Cheroot, Zouga's Hottentot retainer, drove the cattle away to find grazing and water, Zouga hurriedly erected the heavy canvas tent, Aletta and the boys holding the guy ropes while he drove the pegs.
"You must eat," Aletta mumbled, still not looking at him as she squatted over the smouldering cooking fire and stirred the cast iron stew pot that contained the remains of a springbuck that Ralph had shot three, days before.
Zouga went to her, stooped and with his hands on her shoulders lifted her to her feet. She moved stiffly as an old woman, the long hard journey had taken a heavy toll of her frail body.
"It will be all right," he told her, and still she would not look at him, perhaps she had heard that assurance too often. He cupped her chin and lifted her face, and the tears broke at last and slid down her cheeks, leaving little Funnels through the red dust that powdered her skin. The tears angered Zouga unreasonably, as though they were an accusation. He dropped his hands and stepped back from her.
"I will be back before dark," he told her harshly and, turning from her, he strode away towards the ruined sillhouette of the Colesberg kopje which stood out starkly, even through the stinking miasma of smoke and dust that hovered over the camp.
Zouga might have been a wraith, a thing of air, invisible to human eyes. They hurried by him on the narrow track, or remained stooped over mill and cradle while he passed, without an inclination of head or even a casual glance, an entire community living for one thing only, completely absorbed and obsessed.
From experience Zouga knew there was one place where he might be able to establish human contact, and through it glean the information he so desperately needed. He was looking for a canteen that sold hard liquor.
Below the kopje there was an open space, the only one in the camp.
It was roughly square in shape, bordered by shacks of canvas and iron, cluttered with the wagons of the transport riders.
Zouga selected one of the shacs that grandly announced itself as "The London Hotel" and on the same board advertised:
Whisky 7,"6. Best English Beer 5,"- a schooner.
He was picking his way across the littered, rutted market square towards it when ragged cheers and a bellowed chorus of "For he's a jolly good fellow" from the direction of the kopje checked him. A motley band of diggers came stamping through the dust carrying one of their number upon their shoulders, singing and yelling, their faces brick red with dust and excitement. They shouldered their way into the rickety bar ahead of Zouga, while from the other canteens and from the parked wagons men came running to find the cause of the excitement.
"What happened?" the question was yelled.
"Black Thomas pulled a monkey," the reply was hurled back.
It was only later that Zouga learned the diggers" parlance. A "monkey" was a diamond of fifty carats or more, while a "pony" was that impossible diggers" dream, a stone of one hundred carats.
"Black Thomas pulled a monkey." The reply was picked up and called across the square and through the encampment, and soon the crowd overflowed the rickety canteen so that the frothing schooners of beer had to be passed overhead to the men on the fringes.
The fortunate Black Thomas was hidden from Zouga's view in the crowd that pressed about him, everybody trying to draw close as though some of the man's luck might rub off onto them.
The kopje-wallopers heard the excitement, hastily lowered their flags and hurried across the square, gathering like carrion birds to the lion's kill. The first of them arrived breathless on the fringe of the revellers, hopping up and down for a glimpse of the man.
"Tell Black Thomas that Lion-heart Werner will make an open offer, pass it on to him."
"Hey, Blackie, Lion-arse will go open." The offer changed shape as it was yelled through the packed doorway. An "open offer" was firm and the digger was free to tout the other buyers. If he received no higher bid for his diamond, he was entitled to return and close with the open offer.
Once again Black Thomas was raised by his fellows until he could see over their heads. He was a little gypsydark Welshman and his moustache was rimmed with beer froth. His voice had the sweet Welsh lilt as he sang his defiance: "Hear me, then, Lion-arse the robber, I would soonerwhat he proposed to do with his diamond made even the rough men about him blink and then guffaw with surprise "-rather than let you get your thieving paws on it., His voice rang with the memory of a hundred humiliations and unfair bargains that had been forced upon him.
Today Black Thomas with his "monkey" was king of the diggings, and though his reign might be short, he was determined to reap all the sweets that it promised.
Zouga never laid eyes on that stone; he never saw Black Thomas again; for by noon the following day the little Welshman had sold his diamond, and sold too his "briefies", and taken the long road south on the beginning of his journey home to a fairer, greener land.
Zouga waited in the press of hot sweat-stinking bodies that filled the canteen, choosing a man with care while he listened to the voices grow louder and the chaff coarser as the schooners went down.
He selected one who by his comportment and speech was a gentleman, and home-bred rather than colonial born. The man was drinking whisky, and when his glass was empty Zouga moved closer and ordered it refilled.
"Very decent of you, old man," the man thanked him.
He was in his twenties still and remarkably good-looking, with fair English skin and silky sideburns. "The name is Pickering, Neville Pickering," he said.
"Ballantyne, Zouga Ballantyne." Zouga took the proffered hand and the man's expression altered.
"Good Lord, you are the elephant hunter." Pickering raised his voice. "I say, fellows, this is Zouga Ballantyne.
You know, the one who wrote Hunter's Odyssey."
Zouga doubted half of them could read, but the fact that he had written a book made him an object of wonder. He found the centre of interest had shifted from Black Thomas to himself.
It was after dark when he started back to the wagon.
He had always had a strong head for liquor and there was a good moon, so he could pick his way through the ordure that littered the track.
He had spent a few sovereigns on liquor, but in return he had learned a great deal about the diggings. He had learned of the diggers" expectations and fears. He knew now the going price for "briefies", the politics and economics of diamond pricing, the geological composition of the strike and a hundred other related facts.
He had also made a friendship that would alter his whole life.
Although Aletta and the boys were already asleep in the wagon tent, Jan Cheroot, the little Hottentot, was waiting for him, squatting beside the watch-fire, a small gnome-like figure in the silver moonlight.
"There is no fresh water," he told Zouga morosely. "The river is a full day's trek away, and the thieving Boer who owns the wells sells water at the same price as they sell brandy in this hell-hole." Jan Cheroot could be relied upon to know the going price of liquor ten minutes after arriving in a new town.
Zouga climbed into the wagon body, careful not to jolt the boys awake; but Aletta was lying rigidly in the narrow riempie bed. He lay down beside her and neither of them spoke for many minutes.