Through Mines of Deception

by P J Thorndyke

with sweat and dust, marked in several places by the unmistakable red welts of the lash. Armed Boers stood over them, covering them with their guns. Further in he could make out what looked like a flogging post and above that a poor wretch hung on a frame in the sun; a common punishment for runaways in some parts of the world.

  “By God, they’re using slave labor!” Lazarus hissed, unable to believe his eyes.

  “Yes, well the Boers have never shared our views on abolitionism,” Rider replied. “It’s always been a major point of friction between them and us. Come on, let’s get a move on.”

  “But slavery!” Lazarus went on. “It was abolished in the colonies back in the ‘thirties!”

  “In the British colonies,” corrected Rider. “And this isn’t one of those yet. But we’ll see what we can do to change that back in Pretoria.”

  “And just leave these poor wretches to suffer and die under the lash in the meantime?” Lazarus asked. “Who knows how long you fellows will take to get things moving?”

  “Look, I admire your disgust of this practice but what are you suggesting? We storm the camp and free the slaves with our elephant gun and Winchesters?”

  Lazarus was thinking fast. “These slaves must have come from that tribe we passed close to yesterday. Maybe if we tell them what is going on here they will muster their warriors and…”

  “We don’t know the details,” Rider interrupted. “For all we know that tribe sold their own into bondage.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Anything is possible in Africa. Besides, if we go running to the local chieftain he may not care or even believe us.”

  “Then we must make him believe and care. What if we were to sneak a couple of these slaves away with us? They could tell the chief in their own words what is happening here. That might move his heart a little.”

  “How do you propose we do that? I doubt the Boers will be open to selling us any of their workforce.”

  “Then we must use deceit. We can pose as Boers ourselves delivering supplies. We have a wagon and we both look the part.”

  It was true, neither of them had shaved in over a week and their clothes were rough, country garments; tattered and dusty after so many days of travel.

  “I think this is absurdly dangerous,” said Rider, “but damn me, I’m with you! If only for a good story to tell back home!”

  Lazarus had to admit he too was surprised at his own willingness to attempt such an audacious scheme. He was an archaeologist and his days of danger – so he had thought – were behind him. But the sight of slavery in this day and age so sickened him that he felt that to abandon these poor souls to their fate while paperwork was shuffled about back in the Transvaal would be an utterly inhumane act.

  No challenge or greeting was called down to them from the walls as they approached atop their cart. Mazooku walked alongside, playing his part of a meek slave well. That was encouraging. Evidently the mining camp was no stranger to Boers and their carts and regularly admitted them without any suspicion.

  Once the doors had creaked shut behind them Lazarus found it a hard task to appear nonchalant at the sight of slavery up close but fortunately Rider took command and spoke with the overseer in far better Afrikaans than he could have mustered.

  The overseer directed them to a series of storage huts to the left of the first of several great pits that had been dug into the earth untold centuries ago. Rubble was hauled out on wooden derricks for the slaves on the surface to carry away in their baskets. Lazarus shuddered to think how many poor souls were down in the mines, clearing out the debris loosened by the steam drill.

  They passed close to the edge of one of the pits and Lazarus peered down but could see no bottom as all was obscured by darkness and rising steam. If there was a vision of hell anywhere on earth then this was it, he decided. Between that pit and another, a series of dwellings in the native style had been constructed. Women ground flour and made bread in the shade of their grass roofs. Beyond that was a cattle corral with at least two-hundred horned heads nodding in the sun.

  “We’re to unload our imaginary delivery in this hut here,” Rider said in a low voice once they were behind the storage area. “What now, Longman?”

  “Those must be the slave quarters,” Lazarus said, indicating the native huts. “We need to get one of those fellows over here and talk to him without any of the guards noticing.”

  “I don’t see how. Delivery men have no business talking with slaves.”

  “Perhaps Mazooku could get the job done?”

  “It’s bloody dangerous for him,” Rider said. “I have a heavy conscience dragging him along on this mad caper as it is. You know what fate awaits him if we are captured.”

  “Think nothing of it, Indanda,” the Zulu said. “These Boers don’t know one black from another. I can be in and out with a fellow before anybody notices what’s up.”

  “Capital fellow,” said Rider.

  They watched with unbearable tension as Mazooku wandered across the compound towards the huts, his shoulders stooped in the manner of one who has had every ounce of what made him human snatched away from him.

  “What does Indanda mean?” Lazarus asked Rider.

  “Just a term of affection the Zulus have for me,” he replied. “It means something like ‘good natured’.”

  They watched Mazooku squat down next to one of the women and converse with her.

  “He’s got some pluck,” Lazarus commented.

  “He’s a fine fellow. I wouldn’t survive in Africa without him. Well, what do you think, Longman? Is this the place the Bible speaks of?”

  “I doubt it,” Lazarus replied. “It’s certainly a site of great wealth built in ancient times, but Ophir has many such candidates. Some say it’s in India. Others say Arabia. All civilizations have their treasures.”

  “But surely these walls weren’t reared by black hands!”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “Look at the size of them! The people who live in these parts build grass huts and walls of tree branches. No, I’d say the Phoenicians came here in Biblical times and built this place along with your Great Zimbabwe too.”

  “That’s a rather outlandish theory that ignores what we already know about the evolution of civilizations. Take your average Egyptian, for example. He has no idea how the pyramids were constructed and yet it was his own ancestors who reared them block by block. Civilizations rise and fall and sometimes the knowledge of how they achieved the very things that made them great is forgotten in time.”

  But Rider wasn’t listening. A group of Boers had appeared around the corner of the storage area and had leveled their rifles at them. One, who had the air of authority about him, stood with his hand resting on the butt of a revolver.

  “You boys have got some balls on you, I’ll give you that,” he said in Afrikaans. “But you couldn’t have known that I monitor each and every delivery of food and wares this camp receives even if my guards do not. And you fellows are one delivery too many this week. So that makes me wonder, who are you and what are you doing in my mining claim? Oh, don’t answer just yet. We have procedures for getting answers here. Follow me if you please.”

  Lazarus and Rider exchanged a look of despair as they found themselves being accompanied towards the largest building on the site which looked like a primitive parody of a government house in the colonies. Timber beams washed white supported a sagging portico in an attempt to ape European architecture. A four wheeled cart with a broken axel stood outside and they halted in front of it.

  “Strip them and bind them,” said the Boer.

  IV

  Lazarus had seen men tortured before, or rather he had heard them. The British army had not been averse to using inhumane methods for extracting information from captured Ashanti warriors and whenever the screams began to echo around the camp the ordinary soldier did his best to block them out and carry on with his duty. But the sudden prospect of torture being used on hi
m lent the word a new terror in Lazarus’s mind.

  He and Rider had been tied to the wheels of the cart by their hands and feet, spread out like crucified martyrs. Their shirts had been stripped from them and their bare chests blazed white in the sun. The Boer leader – who had introduced himself as Piet Schoeman – faced them while his men leaned on their rifles and watched with amusement. In Schoeman’s hand was the dreaded shambok – a short but heavy whip made from hippopotamus hide. He swished it through the air experimentally.

  “So, you are both British,” said Schoeman in English, “we have established that at least. What I want to know now is why you have invaded my mining claim.”

  Rider was silent and Lazarus followed his lead. Being tortured certainly wasn’t something he had bargained for when he had signed on for this job but, damn it, if Rider could stand up to this Boer thug then so could he. He was also concerned about Mazooku. No questions had been put to them as to the whereabouts of their Zulu servant so perhaps he had gone unnoticed by Piet Schoeman and his men. So much the better. But he swore that if the question was asked then he would die before letting that loyal fellow be captured.

  Schoeman suddenly lashed out at Rider with the shambok, cutting him across the belly. Rider screamed in agony as the hide whip split the skin. Then it was Lazarus’s turn to feel its sting. He threw his head back involuntarily in his agony as the rod connected with his flesh and it struck a spoke