Today's Embrace (38 page)

“Dr. Jakob says the same thing. He's worried about Harry Whipple.” The breeze blew Derwent's rusty hair beneath the brim of his Rhodesian style hat. Despite the hot sun of South Africa, his fair skin refused to brown, though the freckles turned a shade darker across his aquiline nose.

“He may have good cause to worry about him. I haven't met him yet, but everything I hear has prepared me to dislike him from the start.”

“Don't like him much myself. He takes bribes. And he's too bold with the ladies. I seen him looking at Miss Arcilla in ways he shouldn't. Alice, too. And it's no secret he has a big interest in Miss Darinda. She won't even look his way.”

“Smart woman.”

Bulawayo was a boom town of sorts, with men of growing wealth, for most of them had ridden here in Rhodes's Pioneer Column and received their grants and gold claims to settle the land. The men, including himself, Parnell, and Derwent Brown, each owned three thousand acres of farmland on the pastured veld.

Most of the men at Bulawayo, himself included, had already nailed their claim pegs into the land and into the reefs in which some gold could be seen in the Rhodesian sunshine.

“I'm thinking, Mr. Rogan, that too many of them reefs are naught but stringers, no gold, or not much in them. And after the bust we had north in the Zambezi, well, I'm not expecting too much.”

Rogan walked with Derwent down the dusty road of Bulawayo to the saloon to meet his geologist from the Zambezi mine, Clive Shepherd, who'd arrived that morning.

“We won't give up yet, Derwent. I've been studying Henry's map anew for some time now. I think we were dead wrong in settling on the Zambezi. It may be that Henry discovered an ancient working.”

“Instead of a new deposit, you mean?”

“That's what I'm thinking. It makes sense. And we've got to find and peg it before Rhodes's men do.”

“Least with Sir Julien all taken up on that diamond in Matopos, he's given us some breathing space,” Derwent said.

Rogan had learned from Derwent that there was still discussion about an expedition to the Ndebele sacred hills. “I heard Pritchard stumbled onto a find between the Hwe Hwe and the Tshibgiwe Rivers,” Derwent told him with excitement. “He's boasting he's panned some samples at six ounces to the ton.”

Yes, thought Rogan with ire, and acting on Cecil Rhodes's instruction, one of the Company men had recently surveyed that same ancient gold reef and estimated that there could be thousands of tons in reserve.

“There's red gold here, Mr. Rogan. Most everybody in town is saying so.”

“Maybe … but don't forget the BSA owns half of every ounce of gold discovered and mined here.” Rogan's irritation with Uncle Julien and Rhodes came back to haunt him again.

“Seems all the land grants are taken now,” Derwent told him. “Good farmland, Mr. Rogan, some of the best if a person knows how to work it right. Now, the Ndebele, they're cattlemen. Rovers, they are. Need lots of land to support their cattle. But farming, there's none that do it better than we colonials. And in the long run, sir, it'll be us who feeds everybody, the Ndebele included.”

“I don't doubt it, Derwent. But I'm not a farmer. I'll leave that to the pioneers.”

“True enough, Mr. Rogan. Someday I wouldn't mind, but me and Alice haven't fully decided yet if we'll stay in Rhodesia or go back to Grimston Way. They say many of the farms are already being worked plenty good.”

“And the mineral rights?”

“Heard there was ten thousand claims registered on the mineral rights. Some of them boast real good crushings.”

“That may be, but my mind's set on Henry's map. I've been working on those symbols. They must mean something, though I gave up on that notion when we thought we discovered his deposit in the Zambezi. With it going bust, I'm reconsidering.”

Derwent looked at him. “Symbols?”

“I never showed them to you?”

“Don't recall seeing them. Must have been Mr. Mornay who got a gander.”

At the mention of Mornay, silence settled over them.

After a moment Derwent said, “Clive Shepherd's arrived. Waiting to meet with you at Ranger's place about the mine at Zambezi.”

Rogan strode across the dusty street toward the tavern.

“Sure is a lot going on here now,” Derwent said.

There was, but Rogan was not deceived by the boom-town mentality. Bulawayo was alive and growing, and so was danger growing right alongside success, ready to swallow it up.

The tavern was the rallying point for the men of the town. There was a billiard table inside that had been hauled from Kimberly piece by piece. The men came to play and drink Sundowner beer. It had become a tradition in Rhodesia for the men to have a drink at sundown.

“Dr. Jakob preaches against the practice,” Derwent was telling Rogan. “He also says that any town built on blood has a foundation of guilt. Someday, unless aggrieved evils are dealt with and God's forgiveness sought, a time of judgment comes to call. No one much listens, though. The gold and diamonds just keep coming, and the folks think they always will.”

Inside, the tavern was crowded with men, tobacco smoke, and the smell of stale sweat and alcohol. A small crowd was lined up at the rough wooden counter watching two men playing billiards while the others wagered on the outcome, sipping their beer and smoking cheroots; all the while an old fellow in a dusty black jacket and derby hat played an out-of-tune accordion.

One of the two men at the billiard table was Rogan's brother, Parnell. Parnell had been drinking and was weaving now and then on his feet. Seeing Parnell this way stabbed at Rogan's heart. The sight also angered him. He was throwing his life away. Parnell probably felt self-pity because of failing to win Darinda's heart. In Rogan's mind she was a losing battle. His brother didn't need pity; he needed someone to shake him out of his foolishness.

The second man playing billiards was Harry Whipple, head of Julien's native Company police. Rogan had seen several of the native
police sitting outside in the dust waiting, evidently, for their sergeant. Captain Ryan Retford claimed Harry was crooked.

None of this surprised Rogan. Most of Julien's men were bought, except, perhaps, for Peter. Peter had managed to teeter back and forth without completely losing his balance under Julien. Rogan had yet to have the long conversation alone with Peter that he wanted. He would have it tonight, as Arcilla had invited him and Evy to Government House to take dinner with them in their private rooms.

Rogan continued to watch Parnell. He had turned from being the expensively dressed young man about London into a haggard man with a frightened, cynical countenance. Arcilla was right. Parnell was drinking too much.

Harry Whipple was big, but soft and fleshy, with what looked to be a perpetual sunburn. His eyes were a watery blue; his golden hair was sparse. He wore his barber-shop mustache proudly. It was wide and stiff, the tips oiled so that they pointed upward. Suspenders held up his canvas trousers, and the familiar boots that all the men wore were dusty.

Whipple was skilled at billiards. He took careful aim with his stick on the black ball, which knocked two others into pockets. He grinned, then turned to Parnell, chuckling. He slugged him playfully on the shoulder.

“You lose again, Par. C'mon. Let's have another beer.”

“He's had enough,” Rogan heard himself saying from just inside the door.

Harry Whipple turned his head and looked over at Rogan and Derwent. He recognized Derwent, of course, and gave a brief nod. His eyes came back to Rogan, and he measured him with careful glance, taking in his rugged clothing and the belted gun.

“Yeah? I suppose you want his beer, eh? And who are you?”

Derwent cleared his throat and stepped forward. “Say, Mr. Whipple, you've not met Parnell's brother yet? Rogan here, he's been in Bulawayo a whole week now, staying at Dr. Jakob's.”

“Brother?” Whipple looked surprised. “So you're Rogan Chantry,
huh? Well, I'm your uncle's head policeman. Harry Whipple. Just call me Harry.” He walked over and shoved a big hand toward Rogan.

Rogan took his hand and nodded.

“Parnell,” Rogan said, “take a seat over here at the table, and we'll have some coffee.”

Parnell walked over a bit unsteadily. Derwent pulled out a barrel seat for him, and Parnell sank onto it. Derwent went to the rough wood counter for mugs of coffee.

Harry Whipple hung around for a minute, sipping his beer and eying Rogan, then drifted outdoors to collect his native police.

The native Company police were a band of Ndebele whom Derwent said were not of Zanzi blood, but despised as dogs by the induna and the impis.

“The police are mostly Ndebele, but there's some Shona, too. Mostly considered low folks by the indunas.” Derwent cleared his throat. “The worst of them have been taking their women, even married women. The indunas have complained to Harry Whipple, but he says the indunas are lying.”

Rogan thought he could understand what was happening. The ruling class of the Ndebele wouldn't fully cooperate with Julien and his magistrate, Harry Whipple. So Harry had hired the lowest of the low as police. For vengeance he was sending them to patrol those of Zanzi blood. A typical peasant-over-the-lord strategy.

“Why does Julien have a man like Whipple?” he asked Parnell.

Parnell took a drink of his black coffee. He ran his tanned fingers through his chestnut hair and avoided Rogan's eyes. “What do you think? You know Uncle as well as I do. Harry does what he's told and doesn't ask too many embarrassing questions. Why else would he want him? Harry isn't known for his great intellect.”

“No, not if he thinks he can deliberately mock the indunas without creating more feelings of hatred. If Julien and the others were smart, they'd listen to Dr. Jakob. Build more medical bungalows, cooperate with the Ndebele culture as far as they can, and use their structure of
laws and indunas as steppingstones for working with the Africans. The missionaries can teach the BSA a great deal.”

Parnell angrily pushed his coffee away, slopping some over the rim. “Look, Rogan, if you want to lecture, go lecture Dr. Jameson and Uncle Julien, will you? Nobody listens to me.”

“Why should they? Look at you,” he said brutally. “Arcilla says you're drunk half the time.”

“Dashed malarkey. Never mind about me. If anyone's cooperating with Julien, it's Peter. Ask the ol' girl about Peter.”

Rogan wondered. “I intend to ask him. Anthony called me to London before he sailed for the Cape. He wanted me to see your letter.”

Parnell's gaze shot up. For a moment he looked alarmed, then he scowled and shrugged. “So? It was all true. But don't tell Julien about it.”

“I've no intention of telling him.”

“I didn't send the letter to you, Rogan, because I didn't want you here stirring up more trouble, for your sake as well as mine. You'll get yourself killed one of these days. Well, you're here now. Look, no matter what Julien says about that attack on Lobengula, what I wrote to Anthony was true. I know. I was there.

“I was there,” he repeated. “He lied the other night at supper, telling Darinda and Retford he was a hero when he ransacked Lobengula's hut and wagon. Telling them I was the one that alerted him to fire his pistol at Dumaka. Actually, Julien was down on his knees with diamonds dripping through his fingers when Dumaka showed up. Harry fired at Dumaka, not Julien. Harry knows it, but he's not going to contradict him. I know. I was there.”

What was Harry Whipple getting for his cooperation? Money, to be sure. Maybe some promise of a higher position later on. Julien liked to pass out positions. Made even a fool feel important.

“Now, Julien says Harry followed after Dumaka until Harry got him cornered, and a croc finished him off.”

“Dumaka?” Rogan was startled. He had always felt there was something
between him and Dumaka that would end in a controversy. “Was he shot?”

“Not badly. Harry's a poor aim for being head of the native Company police. He said he cornered Dumaka after he fled. I doubt that, too.” Parnell leaned across the table. “There's not a man around who can track a Zulu or outdistance one when he's moving with a purpose. We both know it. But Harry's told Julien he tracked Dumaka to the Shangani, where Dumaka jumped in to swim away, and the crocs got him.” He straightened, looking wily. “I say the story's a fake.”

Rogan wondered about Dumaka. If he was dead, then Julien had one less enemy to face over the Black Diamond. That left only Heyden van Buren.

A glass of warm beer sat on the table, and Parnell reached for it. Rogan pushed it away. Parnell glared at him, but Rogan did not relent.

“This drinking has got to stop. You're making yourself sick and acting the fool. And I've told you before, you need to forget that woman, Darinda.”

“You don't know a thing about her or me.”

“I don't need to know everything. It's obvious she doesn't care a whit about you. She's always been for herself. She's Julien's granddaughter and more like him than any male offspring. She's seen you losing your head over her without batting an eye. She wants power. That, and taking over after Julien. And now that Anthony's dead, it looks like she may get her wish after all.”

Parnell stood and took a clumsy swing at him, but Rogan pushed him back down. “Sober up, Parnell. You'll get no pity from me, and certainly none from her. The more you carry on like this, the more she thinks you're a fool and a failure. And that's exactly what you are and will stay like unless you stop pitying yourself and act the man.”

“I don't want your lectures. I tol' you,” he slurred.

“Now that I'm here, that's what you're going to get.”

“Say—what d'ye mean?”

“Just this. I'm taking over. It's time you began listening to Dr. Jakob's preaching. In fact, I'm going to have Derwent pack you up and take you out to the mission to stay.”