Luckner sneered. “Grateful? For what? To who? That lying, cheating little kike? If it hadn’t been for him cheating me out of my rightful share of the Paris Hotel, and then throwing me out when he knew it was throw me out or pay me what I rightfully had coming — and he certainly had no intention of ever paying me — if it wasn’t for Barney Barnato, I’d never been in your bloody army in Rhodesia, or up in Pitsani with Jameson, in the first place!”
Rhodes was staring at him. The paranoid maniac actually believes what he’s saying! Rhodes thought with wonder. Luckner was going on.
“Why would I have been there? I had nothing to do with politics. Never. I don’t give a bucket of piss who runs the damned Transvaal, or the Free State or the bloody Cape, either. I’m off to England.”
He suddenly seemed to remember the purpose of his visit. His voice dropped in volume, became more respectful.
“That’s what I wanted to see you about, Mr. Rhodes. The Scott sails on the tide this evening. I don’t have the money for passage. I—” He suddenly held up his hand. “Wait! I’m not asking for money, Mr. Rhodes. I never begged in my life. There aren’t any cabins left, anyway. I tried to sign on as crew, but they said they were full. I’m a good sailor, Mr. Rhodes. And I’m sure that a note from you to the captain and he’d manage to find room for me on the crew somehow.”
Rhodes considered the man for several moments. Then, with a sigh, he nodded. At least it would remove a very disagreeable person from South Africa, be it the Transvaal, the Orange Free State, the Cape Colony, or anywhere else. And probably save some innocent person in South Africa from being booted to death sometime in the future. A note to his old friend the captain of the Scott was a small price to pay for such a rich dividend. He only hoped his friendship with the captain would not be impaired by some act of idiocy or violence on the part of Luckner during the voyage, but that was a chance he was willing to take. It did seem a shame, though, to inflict a man like Luckner on his beloved England; but one thing was sure: no Barney Barnato would be able to save him from the penalty of his next capital offense. In England he’d probably be swinging from a gibbet in a matter of months. He raised his hand. Pickering, who had been watching from a window as Rhodes had been sure he had, was at his side in seconds.
“Sir?”
“Paper, and a pen and ink.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pickering was back in moments. He pulled up a table for Rhodes to write upon, placed down the articles he had brought, and disappeared into the house. Rhodes scribbled for several seconds, blotted the ink, reread what he had written, and handed it over. Luckner read the note, smiled, folded the paper, and tucked it into his pocket. He came to his feet and started down the steps, and then paused, turning.
“I imagine you wrote this just to get me out of Africa, eh?”
Rhodes looked at him without expression. “Yes,” he said.
Luckner chuckled and went on down to his trap. As he climbed in and started to turn his horse, the chuckle died in his throat. A grim look came to his face. What old Rhodes didn’t know was that Barney Barnato and his family were also sailing on the Scott. If he had, and knowing how Luckner felt about the man, would he still have written that note? Probably, Luckner thought, dwelling on the heady feeling of revenge he would extract from Barnato for having ruined his life with his cheating, and remembering how Rhodes had once hired him in an attempt to put the little Jew on the Cape Breakwater as an illegal diamond trader. Had he known Barnato was sailing on the Scott, would Rhodes still have written that note? Not probably, Luckner thought, giving another the worst of intentions, as always; undoubtedly.
His chuckle returned as he whipped his horse back toward Cape Town.
Fay was belowdecks in their cabin, directing their stewardess and steward in the unpacking of their luggage for the long trip. Leah Primrose, now a grown-up four years of age, had taken her maid by the hand and was dragging her all about the ship, getting in everyone’s way but not worrying about it particularly, exploring the wonderful vessel with its odd corners and narrow, steep steps, its strange odors and queer passageways. Solly Loeb, unpacking his bags himself — for he never trusted servants with his finery — had come upon a bottle of whiskey in one of his suitcases and had paused in his unpacking to sample it. Barney Barnato, on deck, was leaning on the rail of the ship still anchored in Table Bay, remembering the first time he had seen the sight now spread out before him.
There had been changes in Cape Town, undoubtedly, but far from as many changes as there had been in himself, he knew. He tried to picture himself as he had been twenty-five years before, a callow boy of eighteen, dragging his two heavy cardboard suitcases from that doss house down by the docks to the Parade and then to Riebeeck Square, his clothes an outrage, his speech a disaster, his knowledge of anything the little he had picked up in his short years, the street wisdom of survival, and little else. He had been most fortunate in having run into Andries Pirow in Riebeeck Square, and fortunate that Andries not only had been going to Kimberley but had taken him along. And taught him so much. At least Barney had the satisfaction of knowing he had at least partially repaid that debt, for Andries was now a successful and respected member of the Volksraad, held a seat on kruger’s cabinet, and was a successful rancher. But he had been more than fortunate in having met and eventually married Fay. He tried to imagine what life might have been without her, but found it completely impossible.
He stared up at Table Mountain, there as always, and he suddenly knew that regardless of how landscapes changed, or cities changed, or people changed, a part of them remained the same from the beginning, never changing, and these were the things that counted. There must have been something within him, something inherited from his parents as they had inherited it from their parents, that he carried and which he had passed on to Leah Primrose as he would to the future Jason or Michelle; his small contribution to the endless flow of life that was as vital to the formation of a person as the genes that colored one’s eyes or determined the shape of one’s nose, as important to that person as the beating of his heart or the flow of blood along his arteries.
He felt a hand about his waist and turned his head to face Fay. There must have been an introspective look on his face, for Fay frowned slightly, and said, “What are you thinking?”
He smiled. “How lucky I’ve been all my life.”
“We’ve both been lucky.”
“But I’ve been luckier. I’ve got you, and all you have is me.” He squirmed as she dug her fingers into his ribs, laughing. “All right, we’ve both been lucky. We have Leah Primrose and we’ll soon have Jason or Michelle.”
“Or both at the same time,” she added, smiling.
“Or both at the same time,” Barney agreed cheerfully. “We have money, we have our health. That’s luck.” He pointed out across the water of the bay, toward the land. “We have Table Mountain, we have Cape Town, we have Kimberley, we have Johannesburg. We have friends. That’s luck.” We also have enemies, he thought bitterly, considering Solly Loeb in his cabin below, and then forced the disagreeable thought away. Time enough for that unpleasantness when they reached London. The trip was to enjoy.
Fay removed her hand from his waist and leaned on the railing, looking at the tiny white buildings that edged the city, considering them pensively. “It’s a pity we can’t have all those things forever.”
Barney shrugged. “Forever is only so long as you have something. Forever is simply all the time there is, if it’s a day or a thousand years. If a man dies at — say — forty-two, he’s lived forever; the same as if he died at ninety-nine. Or if he died at ten.”