‘That’s pretty unusual, isn’t it?’
‘Well, it sometimes happens. The surveyors usually pick it up and we pipe the water away. But this time, it came as a surprise. The trouble is the shaft is already about thirty feet deep and filling fast. The pipe fitters can only get two pumps in while they try to fit a pipe to redirect the water into a safe area.’
I wasn’t sure I understood. ‘You mean, if the shaft fills, then flows over, it will flood . . . ?’
‘It will flood the cage shaft and pour down into the fourteen hundred level. We’ve already evacuated the mine, except for a pipe fitter and his gang, and we’ve recalled two diamond drillers from the eleven hundred level. The idea is to drill and blast. The blasted rock will partly fill the ventilation shaft, but the main thing is to widen it enough to allow three more pumps to work. We need you to stand by in case there’s trouble. I don’t have to tell you that what they’re doing down there is dangerous work. If the cage shaft floods, it’s a long climb to the surface; that is, if you can get to the emergency shaft ladders in time to climb out of the mine.’
‘Thanks for nothing, Mr Tilson,’ I said with a grin. ‘My medic team doesn’t come on shift for another twenty-five minutes. Shall I go on ahead?’
‘If you would, please, Jack. We’ll send them down as soon as they arrive. Shorty Bronkhorst’s medic team has to come to the surface as soon as you get down. He’s had a bad asthma attack and his team, as you know, can’t stay behind without a white medic in charge.’
‘Who are the diamond drillers and the pipe fitter?’ I asked as I went to get a freshly charged lamp pack and clipped the light to my miner’s helmet.
‘Piet Wenzel, who you know, I think,’ Mike Tilson replied. ‘Then a new guy, Klaas Potgieter, I don’t think you’d know him, he’s only been here two weeks. The pipe fitter is Hungarian, I think: Adorjan Hajdu.’
‘Okay. The cage is waiting to take me down; I’ll make myself known when I get there.’
The miners’ cage was designed to take twenty people up or down at a time but I was the only one in it as it plunged down humming on its cables to the eleven hundred level. When I got clear of the cage, I could hear the blasting hooter going and, shortly after, a muffled explosion. I estimated it was probably about a five-minute walk away.
By the time I got to the blasting site, the air blowers had cleared the smoke from the blast, and I was met by Piet Wenzel, whose opinion of me had improved since that memorable poker game.
‘Howzit, Jack?’ he said as I approached.
‘Fine, Piet; this is an unusual shift for a diamond driller, isn’t it? By this time, you guys are usually well pissed,’ I joked.
He laughed. ‘You can say that again, Jack. I dunno how you do this midnight to dawn stuff. You’re a crazy man. It’s time you became a diamond driller. We’ll train you, man. You’ve got the size and the brains.’
He then introduced me to the second diamond driller. ‘This is Klaas Potgieter; Klaas, this is Jack Reed.’ Potgieter nodded but didn’t offer his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Potgieter,’ I said. Diamond drillers were on the top of the mining heap and a certain formality, while not entirely necessary, was a sign of respect. Piet then turned towards the pipe fitter. ‘And this is . . . ah . . .’
I jumped in and extended my hand, smiling. ‘You must be Mr Adorjan Hajdu; nice to meet you, I’m Jack Reed.’ The pipe fitter seemed pleased to have both his names used and smiled broadly, shaking my hand vigorously.
They and their African gangs were soaked to the skin, and it occurred to me that could be why Klaas Potgieter hadn’t shaken hands. But now he turned to Piet Wenzel. ‘Hey, is this the guy I heard about, the kaffir lover?’ He could have said this in Afrikaans and I wouldn’t have understood, so obviously it was meant for me to hear. Nice guy.
Piet Wenzel was quick to defend me, also speaking in English. ‘Heere, Klaas, that’s old stuff now. Jack is a good guy, n’ regte man [a real man]’.
But Klaas Potgieter seemed unimpressed and turned away, calling to his black gang to return to his drilling site.
Piet Wenzel turned to me. ‘Take no notice, Jack. He’s new, from down south. I knew him before, we were together in Randfontein; both of us were on the miners’ union committee.’ He jerked his head in the direction Klaas Potgieter had taken. ‘That one, he’s always had a big mouth.’ He then explained to me that they had one more drill each to do, two blasts, then they’d lash the walls of the shaft, and the pipe fitter would be able to get two more pumps working; or that was the plan. ‘Jack, how come you can remember his name, man? They all the same to me, these foreigners.’
‘Blessed with a good memory, I guess.’
‘Ja, that’s why you so good at cards, hey?’ He laughed. ‘I’ll never forget those Congo guys when you spoke to them in French. They shat themselves, I swear it, man, kaked their trousers.’
He left to do his final drill and, shortly afterwards, my team arrived, though Samson was off sick with malaria, according to Daniel. I explained the situation in Cikabanga to the remaining three. ‘I don’t think there will be any problems,’ I concluded, to reassure them, then, as an afterthought, I asked, ‘Do any of you swim?’
Jackson laughed. ‘I born by the river, Bwana Jack.’
‘Any of you know anything about artificial respiration?’
Daniel put up his hand. ‘I have one demonstration long, long time, Bwana Jack.’
‘Well, they seem to have everything under control and it’s probably not something we will need, but I’ll give you all a demonstration.’
Artificial respiration was essential knowledge for a medic working on a beach-landing craft. The method taught by the Royal Life Saving Society was known as the Holger Nielsen Method of Artificial Respiration.
Nick Reed, my stepfather, always claimed it was pretty inefficient; in fact, almost ineffectual. If you kept the throat clear, victims of drowning more or less found their own way back to breathing, or died or were probably dead anyhow. ‘Right,’ I said in Cikabanga, using Jackson as my patient. ‘Place the patient on his stomach, with his hands crossed like this, and placed under his forehead. Turn his head to the side, so his mouth and nose aren’t covered. Place your hands on his shoulder blades, with the thumbs along his spine, like this.’ I demonstrated. ‘Then lean forward – one, two – and that presses air out of the lungs, then grab his arms here – three,’ I grasped Jackson’s upper arms near the elbows, ‘and lift – four, five – and his lungs fill with air. And repeat.’ I sat back on my heels. ‘That’s about it.’
I lay down beside Jackson and asked the other two black medics to demonstrate the method on us.
The second blast occurred half an hour or so later, and when the smoke finally cleared, Piet Wenzel’s gang started to use crowbars to pry any loose rock from the walls of the shaft – or lash the shaft – to further widen it. Some rocks still clung precariously to the walls and it was important that these were loosened and sent tumbling into the water below.
By lowering a weighted line into the water, we estimated that it was now around ten feet deep. Water was still pouring from the underground spring, but Adorjan Hajdu assured me he could get two more pumps in, and that ought to stop the water rising until he could attach a pipe to the spring’s outlet.
Piet’s gang, working nearest to us, had just about completed lashing, except for one stubborn slab of rock that clung to the side of the shaft. The men, using a long crowbar, seemed to be having trouble prying it off. Piet pushed two of his gang aside. ‘Heere, man, these blerrie kaffirs, you show them how to do it, but they never focking learn,’ he said impatiently. He then grabbed a long crowbar from one of the gang and started to work on the slab. Suddenly it came away, knocking him into one of his gang and then straight down some twenty feet into the darkness of the water-filled tunnel. Almost at once, the African he’d struck overbalanced and followed him down. Both disappeared into the black hole and, an instant later, we heard the huge splash as they al
most simultaneously hit the water.
‘Jesus!’ I screamed, then, grabbing the rope we used to measure the depth, I pointed to another rope and yelled for Jackson to grab it. Daniel and Milo, working frantically, wrapped one around Jackson’s waist and the other around mine and lowered us into the shaft, feeding out the ropes and shining their headlamps into the shaft so we could see.
My ears strained to detect any sound from the water below, but I could hear nothing. I reached the water first and almost immediately saw the arm of the black guy. Clinging to the rope with one arm I pulled him towards me with the other. As soon as he was close enough, I clamped both arms around his chest and yelled to be pulled up.
I could feel the rock on the sides of the shaft cutting into my back through my heavy woollen miner’s vest as they hauled us up, a process that seemed to take an eternity. Hands seemed to come from everywhere to grab at us and then pull us into a clear space. I was gasping and panting, but somehow, with the help of Daniel and Milo, I managed to place the unconscious black miner face down so that I could begin artificial respiration in the manner I’d just demonstrated to my team.
A minute or so later, Jackson emerged with Piet Wenzel, also unconscious. Jackson looked exhausted, so I yelled for Daniel to take over from Jackson and work on Piet, who, I noted, had a serious-looking gash on his forehead. ‘Milo, you fix the cut on the bwana’s head,’ I gasped. The black guy under my hands showed no signs of life, but I kept working on him. If he had any chance of recovering, I daren’t stop. Bloody Samson, where was he when I needed him? Then, after another minute or so, I felt the black miner’s chest heave and he began to cough, expelling a flood of water from his mouth and nose. Still coughing and spluttering, he started to expel more water from his lungs, then painfully drew air into them. It had worked! He was alive. Elated, I yelled over to Jackson, ‘Take care of this guy; he’s going to be okay, just hold his head clear, watch out he doesn’t choke.’
I then leapt to my feet and went over to Daniel, who was working frantically on Piet Wenzel. He looked up at me and his eyes said everything I needed to know. He shook his head silently. I took over and worked on him for a further five minutes, but there was not a sign of life in the white diamond driller. Milo had dressed the cut on Piet’s head, taping the dressing down. I ripped it off and examined the wound. It went deep into his crushed skull, and I could see his bloodied brains. Clearly, Piet Wenzel had been dead before he’d even hit the water. ‘He’s dead, the bwana is dead,’ I announced to his gang.
‘You focking killed him, you bastard!’ I looked up to see Klaas Potgieter pointing at Piet Wenzel’s body with a shaking finger. ‘You saved the kaffir!’ he screamed. ‘You saved a focking kaffir and let a white man die! I saw it! I saw it with my own focking eyes! You’re not going to get away with this, you hear?’
The coroner’s inquest held in Ndola reached the conclusion that Piet Wenzel had died from a fractured skull caused by a falling rock, and that he had not drowned. Although the finding was a relief, it didn’t alter the fact that a good man had died. Everyone seemed to know that it was the second time I had saved an African’s life, but this time before attending to the white man. I’d given artificial respiration to an anonymous kaffir first, and not to an Afrikaner diamond driller who was supposed to be my friend.
Jannie Coetzee had suspended me, not, I hasten to say, out of malice, but as a precaution. ‘Jack, this time they’re going to get you. Better you stay away, don’t go underground. Shorty Bronkhorst has volunteered to do a double shift. Sorry, man, but I’m going to have to suspend you; the diamond drillers are calling for some blood to be spilled, if you know what I mean.’
The diamond drillers and the miners’ union were said to be almost mutinous because I’d been ‘allowed to get away with’ the African amputation incident, as Jacob’s rescue had become officially known. It didn’t help that Adorjan Hajdu, the Hungarian pipe fitter, steadfastly maintained that I’d done all I could, that the African was the first to be hauled up, by me, and that Milo had attended to the wound on Piet Wenzel’s forehead under my instructions. I was, after all, a ‘focking foreigner’, so what could you expect?
‘Why didn’t he leave the kaffir and look for Piet Wenzel?’ seemed to be the question everyone was asking.
Despite the coroner’s finding, I took Jannie Coetzee’s advice and remained locked in my rondavel with Diamond Jim. Jannie’d originally posted two black constables outside to protect me if there was any trouble, but after the coroner brought down his verdict, they left. Noel White and the others who’d taken part in the poker game had all come to visit in the lead-up to the coroner’s inquest and assure me that they had not joined in the general baying for my blood.
Then, at six on the morning of the day following the coroner’s verdict, I woke to the sound of Noel’s voice and saw his face at the barred window of my rondavel. ‘Quick, Jack, open the door. Lemme in!’ he hissed. I jumped up and hastened to open the door, wearing only a pair of pyjama shorts.
‘What is it?’ I asked, his face telling me enough for me to know that this wasn’t a social call.
‘Jack, get dressed fast, grab what you can; I’ve got the van outside, engine running. They’re coming for you.’
‘Who?’
‘Jesus, mate, who fucking knows? A mob of miners, the Krauts, others, what’s it matter. We haven’t any fucking time. Where’s your bag? Ferchrissake, can you stop that fucking bird screeching!’
Five minutes later, with whatever I could grab and with Diamond Jim on my shoulder, we were into the Volkswagen and on the road out of town. Noel had been given just enough warning, it seemed from Jannie Coetzee, and we were away without being seen or followed. I’d locked the door of the rondavel and closed the wooden shutters that covered the barred windows in the rainy season, so nobody would have known I wasn’t hiding inside.
On the way to Ndola, Noel said, ‘You’re not a real fast learner, Jack Reed.’ He guffawed, but when I didn’t join in, he went on, ‘There’s a train at eight o’clock that goes south-east, all the way to Beira on the Portuguese East African coast, with the usual coupla hundred stops on the way, of course. You okay for money, mate? I brought some extra cash just in case.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks, Noel. And how will I ever pay you back?’
‘You already have, Jack. You’re a good mate, and I’ll never forget that poker game, and . . . that was a good thing you did, saving those two black guys. I’d like to think I’d do the same, but I doubt it.’
We arrived at the Ndola station with only a few minutes to spare before the train pulled out, but Noel knew the stationmaster, who delayed departure just long enough for him to buy me a first-class ticket and find me a compartment of my own. When I reached for my wallet, he tut-tutted at me. ‘Instructions from Jannie Coetzee, mate.’ Then he saw me onto the train and into my compartment with Diamond Jim.
Standing on the platform, looking up at DJ and me through the window, he handed me an envelope. ‘Jannie says it’s what the mine owes you: your copper bonus until the end of the year.’
The guard blew his whistle and the locomotive let out its loud whistle as the train started to move.
‘Good luck, buddy!’ Noel called. It was the first time I’d heard him say ‘buddy’. What a good mate.
We reached the outskirts of the town and five minutes later were travelling through the countryside. I reached into my pocket for my harmonica and began to play ‘Love Me or Leave Me’ as Diamond Jim kept time on my shoulder with his feet and head. Then, just as I was about to lower the harmonica and sing the lyrics, he began to whistle. He whistled the entire verse without a mistake.
Love me or leave me and let me be lonely
You won’t believe me but I love you only
I’d rather be lonely than happy with somebody else . . .
Then, cocking his head on one side, he said in a croaky voice, ‘I love you, Bridgett.’
EPILOGUE
Dear R
eader,
‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,
‘To talk of many things:
Of shoes – and ships – and sealing-wax –
Of cabbages – and kings –
And why the sea is boiling hot –
And whether pigs have wings.’
I imagine somewhere in the twenty or so novels I’ve written, most of the subjects in Lewis Carroll’s lovely poem will have been touched upon. But now, alas, my ‘use-by’ date is almost upon me and there won’t be sufficient time to write the sequel to Jack of Diamonds.
However, I thought you might like to know what happened to Jack and his offsider, the incorrigible, attention-seeking Diamond Jim.
I’d kept in touch with the Ethiopian diplomat Berihun Kidane and his lovely wife, Fenet, whom I’d met on my way to Africa. Once I’d reached Beira on the East Coast I cabled him in Nigeria. Unusually, Fenet replied, insisting in the strongest terms that I travel to Ethiopia, where their family would be able to help me. I cabled Peter Adams, first officer of the Roybank, which had brought me to Angola, asking about ships sailing north. He informed me a Bank Line vessel would soon dock in Beira and, while it didn’t normally take passengers, he’d make the arrangements. I could then sail further up the coast into the Gulf of Aden and disembark at the port in Djibouti, a small country that was part of French Somaliland and adjoined Ethiopia. From there I could cross the border and travel to Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, by train.
In Addis I was met by Abrihet, Fenet’s younger sister, and at the first sight of her my heart began to pound. Younger than Fenet, and ten years my junior, she’d been a toddler when her family followed the Emperor Haile Selassie into exile, and settled in Bath in England, but, like her sister, she’d received an exclusive public-school education before returning to Ethiopia as a sophisticated Anglophile. Her name means ‘she shines’, and, I must say, it suited her perfectly. I found myself instantly bewitched.
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