Solly looked at his uncle with amusement, and then made a motion as if to rise again. “If that’s all you have to say—”
“Not quite. I took you from the London slums and made you. By the same token I can break you and put you right back there again, fancy speech, fancy clothes, fancy bank account, fancy friends, and all. I’m a good friend but a bad enemy; you should have learned that much about me after all these years. You will either come back to London with me or sit here and wonder what I plan to do to ruin you. But believe me, on my mother’s life, I’ll ruin you if it costs me every penny I have.”
Solly had settled back, looking at his uncle with slightly widened eyes.
“That’s right,” Barney said approvingly. “Think about it. It’s something to think about. You know I can do it and you know I will, and the fact that you’re my sister’s boy will make no difference. There are a hundred ways, and I’m sure you know most of them as well as I do. I will make your name stink in the nostrils of every investor in the Transvaal, in the Cape Colony, in the Orange Free State. I will see to it that you’re not allowed within fifty yards of any stock exchange or brokerage house in all South Africa. I will guarantee you that before I’m through with you, your dear friends in the Rand Club will spit at hearing your name. I can and will break you into little, tiny pieces.” He paused and shrugged. “Or, you can come to London with me and face the music. Maybe even retrieve something. I don’t know.”
Solly wet his lips. “Does… does Harry or any of the others in the family know any of this?”
“Nobody in the family knows any of this,” Barney said contemptuously. “Not even Fay. I don’t make a practice of advertising my mistakes. But I imagine everyone in South Africa knows I’ve been made a fool of by you. Still, think of the pleasure you’ll get when you face the board of directors and let them in on the secret most of South Africa has been sharing for quite some time.” He watched Solly come to his feet and walk a bit unsteadily to the sideboard, pour himself a large whiskey, and down it in a single gulp. Barney’s voice remained expressionless. “Well?”
“I’ll… I’ll come to London with you…”
“Fine,” Barney said, and came to his feet. “We sail on the Scott a month from now. Your cabin has already been reserved. And don’t bother to come to the office to clear your desk. It’s being cleared right now.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my dinner.”
14
June 1896
From the front stoep of his summer cottage at Muizenberg, some ten miles from Groote Schuur in distance over the winding mountain road, but a million miles from it in influence and power, Cecil John Rhodes sat, wrapped in a shawl, and stared bleakly out over the ocean. Beneath him the road that rimmed the sea leading from Cape Town east to Port Elizabeth and Durban was busy with morning traffic, but neither the wagons that passed along the twisting highway, raising dust, nor the many small pleasure craft that beat their way either into or out of Vaalsbai before him, held his attention. His mind was far from the beauty about him. God! Forced to resign the premiership at his young age, and to be in his poor state of health at that same young age? There was no possible chance of ever coming back to power; his dream of a British Africa stretching from Cape Town to Cairo undoubtedly smashed, if not for all time, certainly for the few years he had remaining in his disease-racked body! It would have been better for everyone concerned had he died while still at Groote Schuur, still in power, before his old friend Jameson had stupidly been able — admittedly with the best of intentions — to ruin his career and with it his plans. How could the man have possibly made that ill-considered invasion of the Transvaal against all orders? At least had he died while still at Groote Schuur he would never have known of the fiasco. Had he died it was even possible that Jameson might have delayed while more intelligent men set a new course for the Reform Committee, and for the plan to add the Boer territory to the British Empire. To Rhodes, his own life was unimportant; the life of the empire was all that counted.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted. A trap had turned into the narrow entranceway leading from the main road below, up the slope to the front of the small cottage, a most unusual event. Tradesmen came to the rear of the house, and visitors were rare since he was no longer in power and practically hidden away in Muizenberg. Neville Pickering had come from the house at the sound of the trap and stood beside him on the stoep, one hand on his shoulder as if for support, also watching the small vehicle make its way to the end of the entranceway and stop. The driver’s identity was not immediately discernible, his face being hidden by a wide-brimmed hat as he came down and started to climb the remaining distance to the elevated cottage. Pickering frowned.
“Who do you suppose that could be?”
Rhodes had recognized the man as he came closer. He made a grimace. “Luckner.” He reached back with one hand to pat the hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Neville. I know the man. I can handle him. I’d rather handle him alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.” Pickering went back into the house as Luckner mounted the steps to the stoep. The mustached, scarfaced man pushed his hat to the back of his head and stood, staring down at the seated man, studying the drawn face, noting the obvious signs of ill health. So much for the high and mighty! Luckner thought with an inner sneer, but his voice was properly respectful when he spoke. Disrespect was no way to gain favors.
“Hello, Mr. Rhodes.”
“Mr. Luckner. What brings you here?”
Luckner looked around, saw a chair, pulled it up, and sat down a few feet from Rhodes, facing him. “Why shouldn’t I come here? After all, if you want to look at it fairly, it’s because of you that I’m not allowed in the Transvaal any longer.” Might as well establish the conditions of responsibility at the very start, Luckner thought, and reached into his pocket for a cigar, lighting it and leaning back.
Rhodes’ lips quirked in a humorless smile. “I might say, with far more justice, that because of Jameson and you I’m not allowed at Groote Schuur anymore. At least you’re welcome in the Cape Colony, and I’m barely welcome here. Or, of course, you’re perfectly free to go back to Bechuanaland, or Rhodesia.” He drew his shawl a bit tighter about his shoulders. “With my poor state of health, I probably wouldn’t make it there if I wanted to go.”
“I’ve about had all of bloody Bechuanaland or Rhodesia that I want,” Luckner said harshly. “All that I ever had there, or anywhere else as far as that goes, is hard cheese. Bad luck.”
“I’d say you had rather good luck in Pretoria,” Rhodes said, wondering where the conversation was leading. “Thanks to Barney Barnato. I hate to give the man credit for anything, but he did save a few necks from stretching. Including my brother’s. And yours.”
Luckner cursed. “That miserable bastard Jew! He wanted to save that worthless nephew, so he had no choice but to save the rest of us, your brother included, as far as that goes! If that little sheeny nephew of his, Solly Loeb, hadn’t been involved, your precious Barney Barnato would have left the rest of us hang, and even been happy to drop the trap himself, don’t worry!” He grinned cruelly. “Which is a joke in its own way. Solly Loeb has been robbing him blind for years, is what I hear, and the damned fool just got wise a while ago—”
Rhodes considered the man curiously. “You don’t appear to have a very grateful attitude for a man whose life has been saved, it seems to me—”