The Rand Conspiracy — Opening Chapters

October 1895 — Witwatersrand gold fields, Johannesburg, South African Republic

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Willem Leroux imagined his son striding out of the rusty haze with his slouch hat angled back, knapsack over shoulder, eager to help.

‘Good night, Mr Leroux.’

‘Good night, Rory,’ Willem said, squinting west as the last of his men filed out. Rory scratched at the stubble on his chin and drew his neckerchief up. He cast a sideways glance at Mr Leroux, then set off down the track. Shadows stretched long from the heaps of gold ore on the scarred ridge. Rory reached the sun-bleached planks that passed for a gate and raised a hand to two men waiting on horseback. Willem wiped his brow, smearing dirt into his gritty hair, and turned from the sun as it simmered on the skyline.

He closed the corrugated iron door against the dust and pulled down a small crate from the top of a stack by the far wall. He picked up a crowbar, worked the flat end under the lid, prising it open. Willem tutted at the shoddy workmanship — the safety fuses crimped carelessly into the blasting caps, the caps themselves half-seated in the sticks. Flies buzzed lazily where moments before the air had shuddered to the hammering of rock. Willem cocked his head. Horses. He darted for the entrance and the scatter gun propped beside it.

The door burst open, kicked in. A lanky man stepped through, tipped his shabby top hat, and looked down at the gun, smirking.

‘Good evening, Mr Leroux. Ye expecting visitors?’

A younger henchman followed, and both levelled revolvers at Willem, stranded in the middle of the storehouse.

‘I told you I’m not interested,’ Willem said to the Irishman he knew as Mr O’Connell. He felt the shaft of the crowbar warm in his hand. O’Connell picked up the scatter gun and broke it open, turning to show Mr Leroux the empty breech. Rory. Of course. A smile, then O’Connell tossed it to the floor.

‘Heard the rock samples are good. Even so, the Baron’s made a generous offer. I suggest you take it.’

‘I’m not interested, whatever the price. I thought I had made that clear.’

‘The Baron,’ O’Connell said, as if the name alone should settle the matter, ‘is most insistent.’ O’Connell’s revolver twitched, directing the henchman to Willem’s flank.

Willem judged the distance and the heft of the crowbar — too far. He circled to his right, putting himself in front of the crates.

‘Fire and you’ll blow us all to hell.’

The henchman picked up a shovel and followed Leroux, six feet away.

A smile unfurled across O’Connell’s face, bristly creases bracketing what remained of his teeth.

‘Ye don’t look the type to go to hell, and my priest reckons they won’t let me in. Why I’m still alive, he says.’

He nodded at his accomplice, who holstered his revolver and brandished the shovel, closing in. O’Connell cocked his gun. ‘All as stubborn as one another, you Boers.’ He sounded almost admiring. ‘Not that it was ever really a choice.’

Willem raised his free hand. ‘Very well. Get the papers.’

‘Too late for that, Mr Leroux.’ O’Connell’s eyes glittered behind the muzzle sight.

Willem lunged, twisting and swinging the crowbar up at the outstretched gun. O’Connell swayed aside. Willem felt dirt dry on his cheek and a splintering crash on his skull but wasn’t sure which came first.

He was lying down, swaying back and forth. It felt colder. He was descending. He recognised the smell, traces of rotten eggs and sweetness. Were his eyes open? It was dark. Someone was holding his feet. And someone else his arms. A heavy grunt fouled the air. He felt nauseous. They stopped and dropped him, and Willem landed on two metal bars and heard his breath forced out as he sagged between them. They were the rails, he thought. Let me rest here.

‘Jaysus, this wasn’t the plan!’ The henchman finally spoke.

‘Who’s to know, Finn?’ O’Connell said. ‘He wouldn’t take the money. We’ll keep it for the cause. Pull the cart to the top.’

‘What about the papers, his mark?’

‘I can write. Get the cart up.’

Crunching footsteps and well-oiled wheels receded.

Rough hands felt through Willem’s pockets. All he could do was taste the blood at the back of his throat.

O’Connell murmured, ‘’Tis a shame. The Boers and the Irish have much in common. Ourselves alone now. Ye shouldn’t have made me ask twice.’ He drew back and shouted, ‘Let it go.’

The familiar trundle soothed Willem. He had built this place and knew every sound, but it was fast. His head sagged to the side, and he could see a disc of light in the distance, his ear resting on the rail. So that was how it sounded. A tear rolled across the bridge of his nose. His son would not be joining him in the venture now. The noise was loud and close — too close.

December 1895 — Cape Town

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Cecil Rhodes bent his large, heavy frame over the map table. He had built all this — territory larger than the British Isles, France, Spain, Prussia and Austria together — and yet something was wrong. The British South Africa Company had annexed Matabeleland and Mashonaland, and pushed north of the Zambezi, stopping only at the borders of King Leopold’s Congo. And had received the mining rights to it — rights wrested from native kings, ratified by royal charter. Yet his gut ached.

He moved his forefinger north from the Cape, tracing a line ever north, all the way to Cairo, and took a long draw on his cigarette. It was his dream — the thing that gave meaning to all the power and wealth he had amassed — and it would be his legacy, a railroad from the Cape to Cairo on unbroken British territory. His eye returned to Southern Africa and the Transvaal. His finger stopped. The Boer State calling itself the South African Republic and its insufferable President Paul Kruger stood in the way. The British Empire had lost a war with the Boers before the gold — back when the place barely mattered. But now it did matter.

The Witwatersrand, the ridge of white waters on that hot and dusty plateau, held, they said, as much gold as the rest of the world combined. Whoever controlled the Rand’s goldfields would dominate southern Africa. His plan to surround it with British territory had been frustrated. The Portuguese refused to sell Delagoa Bay, and Kruger had built a railroad to the sea there, escaping the British noose. Kruger would never treat with the British nor submit to becoming a protectorate now.

Kruger’s emissaries were in Germany now, purchasing armaments, while he played for time.

No matter. He had another plan. John Hays Hammond, his right-hand man in Johannesburg, reported that the Uitlanders, who had flocked from every corner of the world to the gold mines, were ready to revolt. They outnumbered the Boers and resented the unjust rule of President Kruger. Hammond said the Americans would have risen some time ago, but the English miners were more willing to bear the yoke. It was ever thus. So he had tasked Hammond with fomenting an uprising and proclaiming a new republic.

And when the uprising began, his company’s military force would dash over the border to protect the good citizens of Johannesburg from President Kruger’s reprisals. He would declare them to be under the protection of the British Empire. He could rely on the commander, Dr Jim, who had always delivered. And Lord Salisbury was back in power in London. He would not concede ground to the Boers as Gladstone had done — the Lords had seen to Irish Home Rule, and Salisbury would see to the Boers. The Colonial Office had given an unofficial blessing to his plan and even started to press the urgency of the matter. A brewing dispute in Latin America was straining relations with the United States. If Britain were seen to crush a sister republic, it might push America towards war.

Yet something nagged at him. Other empires manoeuvred over the ridge of gold, and the news from Johannesburg was not what he expected. It was too late to stop now, but he should follow it up. He had known the man reported killed in an accident. Willem Leroux, a respected mining engineer. Not the sort to make careless mistakes. And Willem’s son worked for Argus newspaper here in Cape Town. Rhodes stubbed out his cigarette. Cecil Rhodes did not leave things undone.

December 1895 — Pretoria

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The President puffed on his long-stemmed pipe, but it didn’t bring the satisfaction it usually did. He pushed back in his rocking chair. He liked to welcome people here on the veranda — an ordinary residence on an ordinary street of bungalows — but lately the petitioners brought nothing but trouble.

A gnarled Boer with a shaggy beard halted his wagon in the shade of a jacaranda tree. The oxen were particularly scrawny. He shuffled up the steps onto the veranda where Kruger held his daily court.

The Boer took off his battered felt hat and held it between his hands. He had trekked with the President as a young man, crossed the Vaal, and helped found their nation.

‘Oom Paul, I am sorry to ask. Things are not good at home. Have you thought about my request?’

‘I am sorry, Dirk, but all the Ministers’ positions are taken.’

‘Oom Paul, perhaps there is some deputy position that could be available?’

‘I am afraid they are all taken too.’

‘Aach, anything will do. There must be some clerk’s position I can have?’

‘Dirk, my old friend. We both know you are too stupid to be a clerk. Now, sit and have coffee with me. Tell me what the people are saying and what goes on in Johannesburg. Things are looking up, nee? The rains have come at last, and I hear the Uitlanders are paying good prices for food and water.’ Kruger stroked his beard.

‘Ja, ja, the rains came. It was good that we had the National Day of Prayer. The Uitlanders didn’t pray. They made great bombs in the sky. They said they would shake the rain from the clouds, but it was the work of the Devil, and it only made a little bit of rain. It was our prayers that brought the real rain.’

Kruger nodded and took a long draw on his pipe. ‘The Uitlanders shake their fist at God in all manner of ways, not just with devilry in the sky. And they keep coming — so many there are now two for every good Burgher like you and me.’

Dirk lowered his eyes. ‘Why did God put a mountain of gold on the Witwatersrand? We did not pray for it.’

‘It must be a test. But with the taxes we collect from the miners, the government is no longer poor. And the truth is, even us good Burghers do not like to pay taxes, so it is good that the Uitlanders do. We have built the railway with the money — we are no longer beholden to the British and their ports.’

Kruger took the pipe from his mouth and expectorated into a copper spittoon. His lower lip had grown pendulous with the constant pipe use, and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Dirk was still thinking.

‘Oom Paul, the railways are bad. Now food comes quickly and lowers the prices for our harvests. And we don’t make money any more hauling goods in our wagons from the border.’

‘We cannot stop it now. Maybe ten years ago, when there was nothing on the Witwatersrand, just old Oosthuizen’s farm. Now, there are more than one hundred thousand souls in that Devil’s city. They say that half of all the gold in the world is up there on the Rand. More come every day. We must find a way to use it to our advantage.’

Dirk gazed over at the plain church on the other side of the road. ‘They are godless people. Gambling, drinking, and the women! They do not sleep in their clothes! … They say.’

‘I know, and they complain about everything. Too many taxes, not enough police, too much corruption! And after I made my own son-in-law the Mining Commissioner!’ Kruger hawked again. ‘The Uitlanders are getting ever more restless with their demands. If we give them the vote, we will lose our country. Never!’

Dirk grumbled his assent, clawing at his greasy beard. ‘The farmers out by the border say there are a lot of Engelse soldiers there.’

‘Trouble is coming, Dirk. And when it does, I will have need of good Boer Commandos. Such memories, nee? How the British ran!’

‘You want me to get the Commando together and ride to the city? I will teach them a lesson for disrespecting the Lord!’

‘Not yet. Time is on our side. We grow richer with the gold, and our German friends are sending new weapons. We must be patient. Remember! To kill a tortoise, you must first wait for it to stick out its neck.’

Dirk’s face broke into a yellow-toothed smile.

‘Oom Paul, I will be ready when you call.’

Friday, 20th December 1895 — Cape Town

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‘And what is great white chief wanting with young man like you?’ the Zulu coachman said, immaculate in city livery, a tall hat accentuating his rangy physique.

‘Angazi,’ Peter Leroux said.

‘You don’t know? He does not like fools. Cabanga!’

‘I am thinking…’

The Zulu laughed. ‘You are from the veld where the white man’s wars come. Don’t worry. Nobody can beat great white chief. When you see the big house, you will feel better. Jabula!’

Yes, cheer up, Leroux thought. Speaking Zulu again reminded him of Tom. They had grown up together on the farm — Tom the son of his mother’s closest friend, a year older and a head taller by the time they were ten. Tom had taught him the Umsanzi war dance in the long grass behind the kraal, both of them barefoot and howling, until Tom’s mother came out and shouted at them in Zulu and then in English to make sure Leroux understood too. Tom had laughed so hard he fell down. That felt like a long time ago. Tom had taken work in the mines, Simmer & Jack, to save enough to buy cattle and settle on the veld. They did see each other once more, but Leroux preferred not to remember.

The bustle of Cape Town receded behind them as they climbed rough tracks over a shoulder of Table Mountain. The sprung suspension of the imported Studebaker Landau was much smoother than the two-wheeler Cape cart boneshakers he was used to and drew admiring glances from fellow travellers they passed along the way. He fished out the letter from his mother and re-read it. The solicitor had finished settling Father’s estate. The mine had gone, sold to repay outstanding loans, and there was little money left over. He was not to worry. She would remain on the farm and run it with the help of Tom’s family, and she was proud of him for forging his own path. Leroux folded the letter. He hadn’t known there were money troubles. Was that why Father had been working alone in the mine? He wished he had joined him in the business. Maybe then all this would never have happened. He pocketed the letter and pulled out the card that had precipitated this journey.

The Prime Minister requests your presence at Groote Schuur
eleven a.m., 20th December

Cecil Rhodes was the most powerful man in Southern Africa and had a controlling interest in his employer, The Cape Argus. He had plenty on his plate. What could he want with a junior journalist? Leroux reflected on the morning papers. The leading men in Johannesburg had given speeches demanding voting rights for the Uitlanders and accusing President Kruger of putting their patience to the test. Cables reported that the Kruger Government had placed an order for two of the new Maxim machine guns. Stock in the mining companies had crashed on the Exchange. Plenty of trouble about and that was just Johannesburg. The French were on the verge of completing their conquest of Madagascar, and President Cleveland of America was sabre-rattling with the British over her interference in Venezuela.

Rhodes had even sent a coach to fetch him, and now it topped the ridge where a fresh breeze blew in from the Southern Ocean and the bay that sparkled below them. Before long they pulled into the long avenue to Groote Schuur — the Big Barn. Leroux stirred from his thoughts inhaling the perfumed air trapped by the Scotch firs that lined the road, almost touching at their tops to give the appearance of a cathedral’s nave. As the carriage crested a small rise and swept around a bend, Groote Schuur came into view, nestled in front of Devil’s Peak.

Large many-paned windows looked out beneath thatched gables in the Dutch style. Leroux brushed himself down and straightened his tie as they drew up to the pale columns that flanked the wide front steps.

His tweeds had seen better days, and he had to admit that his beloved slouch hat was tatty. The coachman turned to him, and Leroux looked at the dark door set well back in shadow. He felt Johannesburg calling.

‘Ulindeni?’ the coachman said.

Leroux wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He remembered Tom’s words — a Zulu proverb he often said, usually before doing something stupid.

‘Almost doesn’t fill a bowl.’

The Zulu grinned and nodded. ‘Yebo!’

Leroux looked at the door again, pulled back his shoulders, and marched up the steps. A footman held the door open, and Leroux presented his card to another waiting inside. This one looked at him doubtfully but ushered him through to the anteroom anyway.

He was early and paced around the wood-panelled room, keeping a safe distance from the old colonial furniture and exquisite African ornaments. A faint buzzing came from the far end of the room beyond double doors, and an official hurried out to relay some business of Empire, glancing blankly at Leroux on the way. The footman tending the doors beckoned him and announced his presence. Leroux shot his cuffs and went through into a book-lined room, where Rhodes brooded over a desk.

He was a tall man who had thickened in middle age, his auburn hair turning grey at the edges. A map spread out over the desk, one corner held down by a gold object, glinting in a shaft of sunlight. Leroux approached, pulling himself into a confident posture, and was surprised to see Rhodes in a grey tweed suit, not much smarter than his own.

‘What did you think of the Studebaker?’ Rhodes said.

‘Smooth ride sir. It handled the tracks better than I expected.’

‘It’s much stronger than it looks. My chief engineer, an American, suggested it. Wonderful machine. What do you make of that?’ Rhodes pointed at the gold piece on his desk.

It was a sundial, crafted in the style of the ancient Shona workings.

‘May I?’ Leroux had only held something so heavy for its size on visits to his father in the mining camps. The worn-down markings were spare but beautiful.

‘Must be pure gold. Looks old. Shona?’

‘Very old. Missionaries and traders from the interior have often reported hearing stories of objects and carvings like this. Where that came from, in Mashonaland, there are remains of ancient mine workings. They say that it is the lost Kingdom of Ophir, the location of King Solomon’s mines. Pomegranates and lemons grow there as in the legends, but as far as I can tell the mines are all worked out.’

Rhodes sighed. ‘But I’ve no time to chase fairy tales. The real gold is here.’ He jabbed a finger down on the map, looking up at Leroux and fixing him with his grey-blue eyes.

‘The Transvaal — I understand you know it?’

‘Yes, sir. I was raised there until I came here to the College.’ Another of Rhodes’s initiatives — he had founded the South African College.

‘Sit.’ Rhodes gestured at one of the chairs in front of the desk, his gaze unwavering. ‘So, are you a Boer?’

Leroux thought of the old-timers with their Old Testament ways and suspicion of foreigners and of his mother who taught at the small school and who counted Tom and his parents as part of their family. ‘No, or at least not as they see it. My father was half-Dutch, half-French, brought up here on the Cape. He went north for work as an engineer when I was young. My mother is English, and we lived on a small farm in the Transvaal near the border, while father worked in the mining camps. She still lives there. But even now we’re considered Uitlanders.’

That was an exaggeration, thought Leroux. They were entitled to vote, and he had even fought in a Boer commando. Why had he said it? Was he so drawn in by Rhodes’s power that he bent his words to find favour?

Rhodes stroked his moustache. ‘You look like a Boer, despite the smooth face. The hat doesn’t help. I hear you fought for the Republic?’

‘I went back and volunteered when they called everyone up during Chief Malaboch’s rebellion. They even had to conscript Uitlanders to raise enough men.’

‘Volunteered? Why?’

The answer had not been wholly clear to him at the time. The farmers were forever wary of tribal unrest. Their families had instructions to gather at a secret location for a last stand if raiding parties came to the isolated farms. But the endless cycle of oppression, uprising and retribution sat uneasily with him. He had hoped perhaps to become a war correspondent and shed some light on the struggles to gain support for a more enlightened way of sharing this vast continent. The bitter experience of the slaughter had clarified his thoughts. War was not the answer, but that was not an answer Rhodes would welcome, and Leroux still didn’t know why he was here.

‘Partly a sense of duty, to protect the farms. Partly curiosity.’

‘What did you make of the Boer Commando?’

Where were Rhodes’s questions leading? He must know all this.

‘An effective unit on the veld. They mobilise quickly, travel light, just their own rifles, ammunition, and rations on their ponies. They can move great distances. Expert marksmen, adept at hunting and using cover. But not used to military discipline and don’t like to be away from their farms for too long. Including Uitlanders in the force did not work out well. Most lacked the skills and motivation required.’

Rhodes nodded. ‘Did you know Commandant-General Piet Joubert?’

Leroux heard his mother’s words gently admonishing him for painting the lily when he came back boastful with Tom from escapades on the veld. ‘He was my commanding officer. I spoke with him a few times, but I don’t know whether he would remember me. We called him Slim Piet — Clever Pete — for his cunning. Popular and respected.’

Rhodes massaged the little finger of his right hand, which curled in. He studied the map again, rubbing the finger up and down his chest. When Rhodes looked up, his eyes were warmer.

‘It’s a shame Joubert keeps losing elections to Kruger. He would be more willing to come to an accommodation with the miners in Johannesburg, not to mention us.’ Rhodes gave a wry smile.

‘Joubert accepts the inevitability of progress,’ Leroux said. ‘But Kruger has a biblical faith in the Boer’s destiny and keeps an iron grip.’

‘Well, perhaps something can be done about that,’ Rhodes said.

‘Joubert should have won the last election,’ Leroux offered. ‘They say that Kruger’s allies interfered with the vote count.’

Rhodes nodded and rubbed his little finger again. ‘Edmund Powell speaks highly of you and tells me you wish to become a war correspondent.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Leroux had expressed the desire to his editor when he returned from the Malaboch rising, but an opportunity had not yet arisen.

‘We may be able to help each other.’

‘Sir?’

Rhodes rocked back in his chair and lit a cigarette and passed a hand through his hair, leaving it confused, and then pushed himself forward and leaned towards Leroux.

‘I met your father once. In fact, I tried to hire him for Consolidated Gold Fields a few years back, but he was determined to row his own boat. I was sorry to hear the news. Please accept my condolences.’

‘Thank you, sir. I didn’t know about the offer of employment. Father kept that to himself. Maybe he knew Mother would have wanted him to take the position rather than prospecting on his own.’

‘Her intuition was right, but he did well, and his claim had potential. Maddox Deep, if I remember the name correctly?’

Rhodes was a leading Randlord, as they called the largest mine-owners. Yet his knowledge of a small claim, one that hadn’t even started producing, surprised Leroux.

‘Yes, after my mother’s maiden name.’

Rhodes stood and circled behind Leroux, putting one hand on his back. His fingers found the ridge of scar tissue that ran across the shoulder blade before moving to the lean cord of muscle at his neck.

‘Joubert gave you a commendation.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Leroux said, and pushed the memory away.

‘There is something I would like you to consider — a proposition, shall we say. I only require that you keep confidential what we discuss.’ Rhodes’s grip squeezed a fraction.

Leroux stared straight ahead. ‘Of course. You have my word.’

The hand brushed across Leroux’s back as Rhodes returned to the desk. ‘Good, good. You are no doubt aware of the situation in Johannesburg?’

‘I read Mr Phillips’s speech in the morning paper, although it seems unlikely that President Kruger will make any concessions. Purchasing Maxims is hardly a conciliatory gesture.’

‘Quite so. Do you know what Kruger said in reply?’ Rhodes quickly answered his own question, his voice rising to an odd falsetto. ‘“If they want their rights, let them fight for them!” The way Kruger is carrying on, he will get his wish.’

Leroux had heard the rumours of Dr Jim, the hero of Mashonaland. He was lionised by the public, feted by the press, and honoured by Queen Victoria for his buccaneering role in securing new territories for the Empire. Doctor Leander Starr Jameson was Rhodes’s former physician and most trusted lieutenant. And now they said he was prowling along the Transvaal border in command of a British South Africa Company force.

‘Even I hear the rumours of rifles smuggled into Johannesburg. It appears both sides are preparing for the worst, sir.’

‘Not much secret about that. Have you heard of John Hays Hammond?’

‘The best-paid engineer in the world. Works for you.’

‘And well worth it. He truly understands the nature of the gold deposits on the Rand — vast, practically unlimited. The outcrop mines will soon be exhausted, but the deeps will go on far beyond my lifetime. And without proper governance and economic management, the opportunity will be squandered. I think it was him that mentioned Maddox Deep has potential. He is a man of action and extremely well connected in Johannesburg. The city is on the verge of open rebellion. Plans are in place.’

Rhodes had thrown down the statement and now paused, watching for Leroux’s reaction. Leroux willed himself not to look away and stared at the end of Rhodes’s nose. It was not a surprise, but it was a big step for the miners to cross over into treason.

‘Kruger will surely respond swiftly … and harshly.’

‘He would certainly try. Hammond will brief you when you arrive. Mr Leroux, do you have any reason to believe that your father’s death was anything other than an accident?’

Leroux looked straight ahead, as though his sight had been disconnected from his mind by the jarring suggestion. The memory of his mother explaining his father’s death flooded back to him. He closed his eyes.

‘No, it was an accident in the mine. Father had been working there on his own. What are you saying?’

‘By all accounts, your father was not a man to take short cuts. People I know, who had spoken to him, told of his confidence and determination, his happiness that he had taken the chance and the hope of what it would provide for his family. There was no inkling of financial distress, but when your father died the mine passed into the hands of a German company in settlement of outstanding debts. That company is called Veltheim & Co, owned by Baron Ludwig von Veltheim. One of my staff came across the transaction when he was looking into German activities in Johannesburg. However, we haven’t been able to find anything more about the company or the owner, or how it came to have a lien on your father’s mine.’

‘Are you saying there is a connection between this company and my father’s death?’

‘I don’t know. But the coincidence of the unexpected financial arrangement and the out-of-character nature of your father’s death is troubling, not to mention the link with Germany, especially at this time.’

‘Have your people in Johannesburg spoken to the authorities?’

‘The authorities may be part of the problem. The person who was looking into it for me has disappeared.’

Leroux fought down the rising gorge accompanying the suspicions surrounding his father’s death.

Rhodes let the realization sink in for a moment, then continued. ‘German influence in the Transvaal is increasing every day. The Kaiser pressured Portugal not to sell Delagoa Bay to us. Kruger’s State Secretary, Dr Leyds, is in Berlin as we speak purchasing armaments. German banks and companies are extending their tentacles in Johannesburg at every turn. Something is going on — I can feel it.’

Anger flared in Leroux’s eyes as Rhodes watched.

‘I can arrange for you to go to Johannesburg as the war correspondent for The Argus — everyone’s expecting trouble. And you could ask questions about your father in the Republic without arousing any suspicion. Anything that you can find out about the German connection could be vital as well.’

Rhodes was renowned for knowing the price of everyone that he dealt with, and he had not misjudged Leroux. Dust motes spiralled up from the sundial. Their eyes met, and Johannesburg called. He thought of his father, his trips to the mining camps when he was younger, and of Tom. Nothing good happened there.

‘I accept,’ Leroux said.

Rhodes pinched the cigarette as if he feared letting it slip through his fingers. His eyes were piercing, even as he narrowed them. Not against the smoke, but as though he were peering at some shimmering vision.

‘Good. You know, the gold deposits on the Rand are greater than anything ever seen before. Whoever controls them will control southern Africa.’ Rhodes looked back down at the gold sundial and coughed, a nasty hacking cough. He took another draw on the cigarette before extinguishing it. Again, his gaze fell on the sundial.

‘Take this evening’s train. There are people in Johannesburg who will help you. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.’

Rhodes took a sheet of notepaper and read aloud as he jotted down, “Mr Leroux is authorised to make any purchases and has full authority,” and signed it with a flourish. He rose and handed over the note.

‘Here. This will be accepted anywhere should you find yourself in a hole. See my private secretary on the way out and make any other arrangements necessary.’

Rhodes pressed a buzzer, and an aide came to usher Leroux out.

‘Good luck, Mr Leroux.’

Leroux leaned back against a wall, near to the platform entrance but away from the glare of the electric lighting and flicked open his pocket watch. It was nearly nine o’clock. Still time. The engine was taking on water. A few porters stood idly by as the lucky ones helped their passengers to board the train. One approached him.

‘Any bags, sir?’

‘Just the Gladstone and knapsack there. But wait a while.’

Rhodes’s private secretary had been efficiently informative. Two German gentlemen were expected on the evening train, and the secretary had booked a compartment for Leroux in the same carriage. One was Captain Karl Brandt, the military attaché from the German Consulate in Johannesburg. He was in town to meet a passenger on the Southampton steamer that had docked in the morning. Germans bound for Johannesburg usually took the Hamburg line to Delagoa Bay, unless speed was of the essence. No one heard of the new arrival. The ship’s manifest had him down as Herr Heinrich Muller, listed as an executive with the Nobel company. It was unusual for a military attaché to greet businessmen here and according to the ship’s captain, he had kept to himself during the voyage.

‘Quiet tonight,’ Leroux said. No one had fitted the descriptions.

‘Has been the last week, sir. For departures. Arrivals are good though. Folk up in Johannesburg sending their kin away.’

Two porters pounced on the pair of last-minute passengers in a flurry of activity. The man on the right could be Captain Brandt. He was tall and strode straight-backed in high boots and cream breeches but with an ease about him that spoke of time spent in the colonies. His companion was shorter, dressed in a dark wool lounge suit — but so nondescript he stood out. He kept up with the taller man with small quick steps and his eyes darted about underneath a black homburg hat. Their porters stopped by a compartment door, midway up the rear carriage. It was the right one. Leroux signalled to his porter and headed towards the neighbouring compartment. The duelling scar low down on the taller man’s left cheek removed any doubt. Leroux glanced down at their baggage. The satchel probably belonged to the captain, but the portmanteau or briefcase were most likely Muller’s. Neither had any initials or markings on them.

Leroux stepped up into his compartment, where the steward had arranged one side as seating. He tested the other banquette, made up as a bed, stowed his bags and pulled down the window. The guard at the end of the platform waved a green flag, and the locomotive driver released two long whistle-blasts. As the engine issued its first chuff, a burly man ran through the gate, his hold-all swinging beside him in one hand, his hat held on by the other. The train gathered way, but he was not built for speed. Guards shouted warnings as Leroux grinned and opened his door. The man leapt up, grabbing the offered arm and flung in his bag. His squat bulk filled the door frame, and then he slumped down on the banquette and gave a breathless smile.

‘Much obliged, sir.’

Leroux recognised the accent of a cousin Jack — the Cornish hard-rock men sought after for their skill at deep excavations.

‘Jory.’ The Cornishman thrust out a gnarled ham of a hand.

‘Well met Jory. Peter Leroux. You must be the only person in a rush to get back to the Rand.’

‘No rush, sir. Just out of money.’

He had the ruddy clean complexion of a long sea voyage home, and his face was round with contentment and mirth.

‘You’re welcome to share my compartment. It’ll be good to have some company. Were you on this morning’s ship?’

‘Aye, the Dunottar Castle. Made good time too. Seventeen days. Just as well, I be down to my last farthing. Reckon there was some shim-shamming going on with the cards, but I’ll make it back in the mines soon enough.’

Leroux warmed to Jory’s happy-go-lucky manner and wondered whether it was cynical or coincidental that the miner might make a useful ally.

‘I can stand you the ticket. Repay me in Johannesburg.’

‘Thank you, sir. What’s your business there then? Don’t look like a digger to me.’

‘Call me Peter. I’m a journalist. The paper’s expecting trouble and I’m to write about it. My father was a miner, though. He had a small claim. Maddox Deep it was called, did you ever hear of it?’

‘I knows of the place, near to the Simmer & Jack mine where I be. What happened there? Heard the crew left, did it change hands?’

‘It did. My father died in an accident two months ago.’

‘Sorry to hear that. Accidents all too common now. Was it the dynamite? Bloody scandal that be. It ain’t reliable. You got to handle it like eggs.’

‘No. He was on his own and got crushed by some equipment.’

‘Shouldn’t be on your own with machinery,’ Jory said, shaking his head. ‘Sorry. I don’t mean to blame. Some have to work on their own. But it’s dangerous, mind.’

‘It wasn’t like him, taking unnecessary risks. I intend to find out why.’

‘Well, you look me up anytime. Everyone at Simmer & Jack knows me. Anything you want to know about the mines, I be your man.’

‘Tell me about the deeps. That’s your area, isn’t it? I’d like to understand what my father had in mind.’

‘They be the future. There’s a great seam of ore under the Rand, bigger than anyone has ever seen. A bit of it at the surface, but most underground, sloping down. The outcrops are easy. A lot of the rock is already worn, so it don’t take much processing to get the gold out. They won’t last long. The rock deeper down be more expensive to get at, but there’s plenty of it. Before people realised the seam sloped down that way, you could buy claims over that land for a song. Must be what your pa did.’

‘But it would cost more to extract the gold?’

‘He’d have needed more dynamite to blast the rock. And more quick-silver or cyanide to leech the gold out. And, of course, more men.’

‘And it might cost too much to make a profit?’

‘Hard to say. All about the purity of the ore. With the taxes, needs to be good. Take some to the assayer, he’ll tell you. But if the mine anything like Simmer & Jack, it’ll pay.’

Leroux pulled out some biltong of his knapsack and offered a share to Jory, who took a strip of the dried meat. His hands looked as though they could crush ore on their own. They probably couldn’t, but he looked entirely at ease in his own skin.

‘What? You become a bloody Boer already — we ain’t even got there!’ Jory bent the strip into his mouth.

‘I grew up on the veld. Reminds me of childhood.’ Leroux smiled and put his feet up. ‘Have you come across John Hammond?’

‘Aye, who hasn’t? He be chief engineer for the Consolidated Gold Fields Company. Big fish and knows it. They’re the main owner of Simmer & Jack. He does things proper — safety wise — I’ll give him that. But he be no friend to the worker. Going on about the franchise, getting the vote. All he really cares about is cutting costs.’

‘Do the workers support his campaign?’

‘Some do. Most of them are for gold and gambling, for whisky and women. Not for the Empire, not anyones. Drifters from everywhere. Americans, Australians, Poles, Germans, Russians, even French. They worship mammon, not Mary or Victoria. A godless crew. Reckon you could stir ‘em up with promises though.’

‘And you?’

‘I stay out of it. I’m here to earn. Go home now and then to visit my kin. But mark my word. After he be rid of the taxes, he’ll go after the workers, even those that helped him. I know men who worked for him back in America, the silver mines of Idaho. It got so bad with the unions he had to leave. And what they do with the natives here, it’s a bad business.’

‘Cape smoke?’

Jory nodded glumly. ‘They get hooked on it. You ever tried?’

‘Once, five years ago.’ Leroux grimaced at the thought of it. ‘I thought there was a shortage of native workers. Getting them drunk can’t help.’

‘They just want to make enough money to buy a dozen cattle and settle down on a kraal with some wives, and then the Randlords have to find more men and train them. So they keep ‘em housed on the compound for their whole contract and get ‘em hooked on Smoke to get their wages back.’

Leroux looked out the window.

‘An accident waiting to happen,’ Jory said, ‘but they make so much on the liquor they just hire more to make up for those too groggy or laid up.’

That was the truth. Tom had paid the price. Leroux knew the government wouldn’t do anything. The liquor concessions were probably as profitable as the dynamite. The lights of Cape Town fell away behind them, and there was nothing outside but darkness as they talked into the night. The train climbed up the first of the mountain ranges, and they turned in with the carriage rocking and straining against the curves of the tracks.

Saturday, 21st December 1895 — Matjiesfontein

---

The train shuddered and hissed to a halt in the early morning light. A painted sign named the place Matjiesfontein. Scrubby desert stretched into the distance — the Great Karoo. Passengers stumbled down from the carriages, stretching their limbs and making their way to the small canteen.

The German in the dark suit was uncomfortable even in the warmth of the low sun, and his shirt already sported damp patches.

‘Did you see that fellow on the ship?’ Leroux said.

Jory considered the man. ‘Reckon I did. Only once or twice, looking down from the poop-deck. Must have been in cabin class. I remember thinking he looked pretty pale. Thought it be the sea-sickness, but he still looks that way.’

‘Was he with anyone else?’

‘Not that I saw.’

‘He works for the Nobel Company. I’m going to start a conversation with him. I’m curious to know what he can tell me about the dynamite situation. There might be a story in it. Would you listen? Tell me if you think he’s straight.’

‘Story?’ Jory’s flinty stare was a caution.

Leroux shrugged and went to sit at the long table next to Muller. Jory sat next to the captain, who ignored him. The serving boys hopped between them taking orders, and Leroux turned to Muller and extended his hand.

‘Am I right in thinking it’s your first trip up to Johannesburg? What an interesting time to come. Peter Leroux, by the way.’

The German eyed him coldly and gave a short formal shake of the hand. ‘Muller. Ja, it is my first time.’

‘Welcome to Africa. What are you selling?’

‘Selling? What makes you think that I am selling anything?’

‘People come to the Rand to dig or to sell to diggers. You don’t seem like the digging sort.’ Leroux could sense Brandt’s eyes on him.

‘Exactly. You are right. Excuse me, but my English is not good. I am with the Nobel company. We supply dynamite to the Transvaal government’s dynamite concession.’

Brandt offered his hand across the table. ‘Mr Leroux, may I ask what brings you to Johannesburg? Captain Karl Brandt, from the German Consulate.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Captain. I’m to stay for a while, covering events for The Argus.’

‘A newspaperman! Well, you should be able to find stories in Johannesburg. Plenty of mischief going on if the rumours are correct.’

‘The rumours are my raw material,’ Leroux laughed. ‘I hope we will have a chance to discuss them. I also have some personal business with the purchaser of my family’s mining interests, but, unfortunately, we have lost contact with him. Perhaps they are a customer of yours?’ Leroux addressed the question to Muller.

‘It is possible, Mr Leroux. But I do not deal with the customers, only the distributor.’

‘Maybe the Captain has heard of him? He is a German national, Baron Ludwig von Veltheim.’

‘I haven’t heard of him, Mr Leroux.’ Brandt toyed with his fork. ‘A little bit strange, I must admit. If he is one of the German mine-owners, I would expect to have heard of the name, even if I had not met him. There are not so many, you see.’

‘When I meet him, I will certainly suggest that he introduces himself. He may be new to the Rand. And Herr Muller, you are lucky not to deal with the customers. I hear there are complaints about the dynamite. Perhaps you could give your opinion for the paper?’

Muller looked blankly at Leroux. ‘Complaints? About the dynamite. There is —’

A boy ran into the canteen and waved a slip of paper. ‘Telegram for Mr Muller!’

Muller pinched his brow and closed his eyes for a moment. He turned to Brandt and nodded towards the boy. Brandt stood, dropped a coin in the lad’s hand, and passed the message to Muller.

‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen.’ Muller walked in the direction of the lavatory.

The serving boys came back with coffee, a rack of toast, preserves, and plates loaded with bacon, sausages, and eggs. Brandt helped himself and then turned to Leroux and said, ‘Which rumours were you thinking of?’

‘That the Uitlanders are arming themselves and Kruger is seeking help from friendly nations.’

‘Arming themselves?’

Muller returned before Leroux could answer and said, ‘Mr Leroux, you were asking about dynamite. What do you know about it?’

‘The miners are unhappy. They are obliged to pay high prices to the Government concession for an unreliable product. Miners die in accidents as a result.’

Muller cut his food into neat portions. ‘It can be a dangerous business. But it is an efficient way for the government to collect taxes.’

‘Efficient? It’s hurting the development of the gold mines.’

‘Perhaps that is what the Government wants — for now.’

‘And if it leads to unrest?’

Muller dabbed his brow with a napkin. ‘As I said. It is a dangerous business.’

Muller’s eyes were cold behind the round spectacles. He set his knife and fork down and folded his napkin. His precise movements could not prevent perspiration. ‘How do you find Cape Town, Mr Leroux? I had no time to enjoy it.’

‘A shame. It is far more pleasant than Johannesburg, although not nearly as enterprising.’

‘And the home of Rhodes, the Colossus of Africa. Have you met him?’

‘Once.’

‘Recently?’

‘Quite recently.’

Muller forked a sausage, sawed a piece off and held it up.

‘It always amazes me how such amateurs rule one-quarter of the world’s population. How can it last?’ He chewed slowly and made it feel personal. Leroux sensed Jory bridling and Brandt watched closely. Brandt’s hand slipped under the table towards his hip.

Leroux stood and clapped Jory on the back. Jory was nobody’s fool, but he couldn’t know how dangerous these men might be.

‘Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time?’

Leroux and Jory walked back to their carriage, and the whistle blasted, rousing the other passengers from their tables.

‘I didn’t think you would be so protective of Queen and country,’ Leroux said.

‘It be not what he said. It be the way he said it.’

‘He’s a cold fish — steer clear of him.’

‘That won’t be a problem. He be no dynamite salesman. And I’ll wager my ticket he knows that fella you asked after. I be watching him, like you asked, and when you said that name, he knew it.’

Jory heaved himself up into the compartment while Leroux enjoyed the last few moments of space. Brandt and Muller walked up the platform. Muller ignored him and disappeared into the train, but Brandt approached. He was a few years older and about a hand taller than Leroux with a similar build.

‘Captain, I hope I didn’t offend your companion. I didn’t mean to suggest he supplied inferior goods. If you do come across Baron von Veltheim, I would be grateful if you could let him know that I am trying to contact him.’

Brandt shook his head and felt into his jacket pocket to fetch out his card. ‘You have picked a strange time to make personal enquiries in Johannesburg. But if we can be of assistance, it would be my pleasure. Where are you staying by the way?’

‘I have a reservation at Height’s.’

The captain looked him up and down. ‘You will like it.’ He had clearly decided that Leroux had not been there before. Brandt looked where Jory had clambered into the carriage, and raised an eyebrow. ‘Another newspaperman?’

‘A friend.’

‘Good friend to have if you’re expecting trouble.’

‘He’s advising me on the mining business, nothing else.’

‘Have a safe journey, Mr Leroux.’ Brandt turned on his heels and returned to his compartment.

Leroux found Jory yawning, slumped down in his seat, hat placed over his eyes. The train gathered pace and Leroux pulled the window down and leaned out. They drew away from the small settlement and through the vastness of the Great Karoo. Land of thirst was its name, all stony and arid. Windblown scrub and thorn stretched far away until ridged hills rose in the distance to break the monotony. Puffs of steam billowed overhead as he scanned the expanse, instinctively looking for game. Before long, the iron rhinoceros flushed out a pair of ostriches that high-stepped away, heads held aloft. Leroux turned his face to the dry wind. Two days over the horizon was the high veld and home. But it didn’t feel like coming home.