“Very philanthropic,” Harry said dryly, and laughed.
“Whatever, it’s a good idea,” Barney said stubbornly. “Comin’ back here tonight I stopped at all the hotels and bars and put the word out I got books to rent. And we can push ’em when we’re at the bar, tonight, give a pitch to the blokes lined up gettin’ beered.”
“I wasn’t going to the bar tonight,” Harry said slowly.
Barney frowned. “Why not?”
Harry looked down at his brother. It almost seemed that Barney was the older, and he the younger. There was almost something defensive in his answer, although he knew there was certainly no need for there to be.
“I went out and got a job today,” Harry said slowly. “A regular job. Starting tomorrow. At a trader’s.”
“Doin’ what?”
“Anything he tells me to do.”
Barney thought a moment and then suddenly grinned. “Good-o! You can learn all there is to know about diamonds, the good ’uns, the bad ’uns, the ones in between, what they’re worth, how the trader picks ’em and pays for ’em. Then, at night, you come back here and teach me.” He tugged at Harry’s leg; Harry sat down beside him. Barney slapped his brother on the shoulder. “We’re goin’ to be rich, Harry! We’re goin’ to be rich yet! Because I got lots of ideas! I told you about comin’ up with the idea of lettin’ the books while I was cullin’ dirt today, didn’t I?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, I thought of somethin’ else, too.”
“What was that?”
Barney seemed to simmer down. “I want to try it before I tell you, just to see if it works.” He brightened. “Now, let’s eat them mealies, because afterward we’re goin’ down to that Paris Hotel and put on the best act the Barnato Brothers ever have!”
Harry frowned. “It doesn’t seem right for someone working at a trader’s to be — well, putting on a show—”
“What? We ain’t goin’ to rob the place! There’s nothin’ wrong with it! And we need every penny we can get our meat-grabbers on! We ain’t spendin’ a bloody penny we don’t need to! We need capital and we’re goin’ to get it! And also,” he added more quietly, more under control, “we’re goin’ to put on a show there because you said they give you a sandwich for the act, besides what you pick up on the side from the blokes around the bar.” He suddenly grinned. “Maybe for the famous Barnato Brothers, both of them in person, they’ll hand out a full bloody meal!”
Harry glanced at his brother in silence. He almost didn’t recognize the dynamo his younger brother seemed to have become. Oh, sure, Barney had always been the most ambitious and hardworking in the family, but nothing like this. A suspicion came to Harry. The more he thought about it the less of a suspicion and the more of a certainty it became. And if he were right, maybe something could be done about Barney’s horrible English. It was amazing that a boy who worshiped the theater and the words of Shakespeare could mangle the language whenever he became excited or started to quote his favorite actors or playwrights.
“Who is she?” Harry asked innocently.
“Who is who?”
“The girl you suddenly want to get rich for.”
Barney felt his face getting red. “You’re goin’ off your chump, Harry!”
“I hope not,” Harry said, “because I have a feeling it’s the same girl who almost had you speaking English there for a while. And if it is, and you know where she is and how to get in touch with her, I think it’s time she gave you some more lessons.”
“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you none to mind your own business!”
“And I think it wouldn’t hurt you any to look her up,” Harry said, and reached into the pot to bring out the already overcooked mealies.
And maybe Harry’s right, Barney thought. Only I can’t go see her until I’ve got somethin’ to show her. And Harry is also right; it wouldn’t do no harm to let Fay help me with me English — I mean, any harm to let Fay help me with my English. Of course, Harry could help just as well, but, well—
The first thing in the morning, Barney Isaacs put into practice the idea he had developed the day before, sitting culling the dirt in Jerry Weston’s sorting shed. He hung around the sorting yard until a kopje walloper appeared with his little box and leather belt, a different one from the small ferret-faced man of the day before. This one sported a horse and cart: a horse that had obviously seen better days and ambled down the road as if his mind was on distant prairies and better years and a youth far enough back to precede diamonds and anything else on the high plateau; and a cart whose life-span had already been spent. Barney watched the man manage to buy a few stones from Jerry, after which he followed the ambling horse and his kopje walloper owner on his rounds the entire morning, making sure he remained inconspicuous. At noon he abandoned the man and his sad, spavined horse, and tried to benefit from what he had learned. That evening, as he sat down to his evening meal around the fire, he explained his ploy to Harry.
“The blokes what deal with them kopje wallopers,” he said, “are blokes what usually need the money pretty bad. So they’re blokes what cull their dirt with a fine-tooth comb. They don’t let nothin’ by, see — they can’t afford to.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “But the blokes what send the kopje wallopers packin’ without wastin’ time on them, the ones what deal with the big traders like your boss — they’re lookin’ for bigger stones. They don’t work the earth so fine. I stood and watched a few of them. There was a Canadian I talked to, seemed like a decent bloke. Said I could work his fines for five shillin’.”
“What kind of a business was that?” Harry said, and sneered. “You’d have to come up with over a carat to break even!”
Barney reached into his pocket and brought out some silver. He tossed it on the ground before his brother. “Twenty shillin’,” he said quietly. “One quid even. For five shillin’ in front and four hours’ work. And I got the same deal tomorrow, but all day.”
“Tomorrow your Canadian will cull a lot closer, I can promise you that,” Harry said.
Barney grinned. “And so will I.” He looked up at a strange face that had come to stand before him, staring down at him. “Yes?”
“They say you have books to let.”
“A penny a day.” Barney brought out a ruled sheet of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it up to the man with the stub of a pencil. “The books are inside on a box. Take your pick. One book at a time. Then put down your name and the name of the book.” He looked up warningly. “And be careful! They’re a quid each you lose one of them, or ruin it, or don’t bring it back.”
“Right.” The man went into the tent and came out in a few minutes with a book. He wrote on the sheet, “Thos. Williams, Faerie Queene, Spenser.”
“That’s a hard ’un,” Barney said. “Wrote funny. Don’t understand it meself. But I picked it up on the cheap, thought it was somethin’ else.” He watched the man walk off and winked at his brother. “We’re in business, like I said. Now, teach me everythin’ you learned at the trader’s shop today…”
Bless the girl, whoever she is! Harry thought, and began to explain to Barney what a Very Slight Imperfection was.
4
January 1873
Charles Rudd stepped back, wiping his oily hands on a bit of cotton waste, viewing with a bit of skepticism the monster he had just finished creating. He just hoped the damned thing would work. It had taken three weeks of hard labor, trying to follow blueprints that were wrinkled and oil-stained — not to mention several being missing — and even with the help of the Kaffirs to clean and lay out the various pieces, and to lift the heavier sections into place, it had been a job. And now it would be nothing less than a shame if, after that much time and trouble, the ogre failed to pump. Or if the boiler didn’t develop the necessary steam because of some organic fault or, of course, if he had assembled it incorrectly. Rudd was aware of his limitations as a mechanic, but he also knew that in comparison with his partner, Cecil Rhodes, he was a bleeding genius. Still, one had to recognize that the machine was secondhand, and while that meant that the price had been right and the machine had been available in Cape Town instead of waiting a year for manufacture and delivery from England, there were still a lot of things that could go wrong with a used machine. Especially with a machine that hadn’t been designed as a pump in the first place, but as a compressor. Oh, of course the principle was the same, pistons working against pressure, and of course he was fairly sure the changes he had made and the necessary parts he had fabricated for the changeover would do their job, still, one never knew until one tried. Rudd mentally crossed his fingers, checked to make sure the native hadn’t forgotten his instructions to fill the brute’s belly with sufficient water, and swung open the door to the boiler’s firebox. He pointed to the stack of firewood, pointed to a Kaffir, and then said in his best Afrikaans, “Hout! Brand!”