by Steven Price
Oh, wonderful, Charlotte said, clapping her hands.
I do believe there has never been a theft of diamonds in South Africa, the quiet gentleman to her left said. Charlotte glanced at him and he reddened and studied his wineglass.
Is that the truth, sir? she asked.
Not if you ask a South African, Foole muttered.
A South African, Reckitt laughed. What an idea.
Is there such a thing, sir? Charlotte asked.
The Frenchman smiled. It is quite an untouched country, I assure you.
The roast on Foole’s plate glistened grey in the low light and he poked at it in distaste.
You have the hands of a countess, the Frenchman was saying. Très jolies. Non. Parfaites.
Charlotte lowered her eyes. My uncle feared it would be most irregular for me to sit in the company of so many men—
Frowns, murmurs of protest.
—but I said to him, who could object to such gentlemen? Especially in such a wild place as Africa.
She lowered her voice at this last word as if uttering a particularly vile secret.
Oh is that where we are, Foole said sourly.
The Frenchman gestured to the waiter standing at the sideboard. Pour mademoiselle, he said with a flick of his fingers.
A dusky wrist disappearing into a white glove. A steady pour of burgundy in the hush, the clink of crystal on crystal.
Some would suggest this is no place for an unmarried lady, Charlotte said.
Ah but we are, how do you say, delighted by our fortune, the Frenchman said. He patted the tablecloth between them as if it were her knee.
You flatter me, sir.
Non. C’est vrai. He ran a long thumb over his waxed moustache then brought his fingers to his lips and smiled.
Foole looked down at his plate.
And you, sir, what is it you do yourself that has so seduced my uncle?
Foole looked up in surprise. Myself? he said. He could hear the annoyance in his voice. You have surely heard us speak of it, Miss Reckitt. We are establishing contacts for our import business in London. Ostrich feathers.
Ah oui, the Frenchman across from him smiled. There was much demand five years ago in Paris, monsieur. It is very profitable, non?
The English follow the French in all things, the quiet gentleman suggested politely.
Even as far as Waterloo, Reckitt murmured.
Ostriches, Charlotte said. I have heard they are terrible beasts.
Ostriches are birds, Foole said irritably, not beasts.
But very terrible. The Frenchman leaned in. Terrible claws, oui. You are not mistaken, mademoiselle.
I have yet to hear of an ostrich making a hat out of a person. Foole dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and set it crumpled next to his plate and met Charlotte’s eye. But when ladies such as yourself demand hats worthy of their beauty, and here he paused and shrugged a little shrug. Well. We all must do our part. Even the ostriches.
Monsieur! the Frenchman said, colouring.
Foole waved a hand at the old man without looking. Charlotte was still watching him. Would you like to hear about the ostriches, Miss Reckitt? One must travel for weeks into the high country to find them. They’re as tall as a dray horse, and thin, and when they run it’s like they’re trying to forget some terrible thing they’ve just heard. You can hear them from fifty yards away, they sound like wind in dry grass. It’s said they mate for life because they cannot fly. Did you know they’re the only creatures in the wild that are known to cry when they lose one of their young? The table had fallen quiet and he looked at each of the diners in their turn and he offered a dry smile. They have beautiful eyes, he added, sad eyes, and the longest of eyelashes. And when they’re happy they dance a lovely, foolish dance in the dirt, kicking up clouds of dust. You can see it for miles. They have ferocious talons on their feet and they use these, yes, these terrible claws to scrape open tree bark, looking for grubs to eat. I’ve never seen one fight even in its own defence. What else can I tell you? He shrugged a little and looked at Charlotte with his strange bright eyes. When they’re frightened they plunge their heads into the sand and stand with their backsides trembling. Oh, yes, it’s quite comical to see. And then any hunter may simply walk up to them and lop off their heads with an axe.
Good god, sir, Reckitt exclaimed. You forget yourself.
Foole looked at him.
A dreadful thing to say, sir, Charlotte said quietly.
Indeed, the Frenchman insisted.
Charlotte’s fist gripped its napkin tightly. I shall, she said, from this day onward, sir, never wear another ostrich feather. Tell me, why would you pursue such a cruel profession?
Foole watched her, impressed despite himself. She performed with such an easy grace for an audience that did not realize it was a part of the performance.
Ah, monsieur, the Frenchman was saying. Such manner of speech.
My young colleague exaggerates, Reckitt said to the table.
Foole stared at his lap and then he said, woodenly, Forgive me, Miss Reckitt. Gentlemen. I have been too long in the interior and I forget myself. He sighed and looked at her shocked countenance and understood that she was enjoying herself immensely. These long journeys into the country, he went on, they take such a toll. One forgets the delicacies of polite company.
Oh, Mr. Bentley, I have forgotten it already, she said prettily. Her long pale forehead seemed to catch in the low light and shine with a luminescence all its own.
Foole bowed gravely in acknowledgement.
It has been so delightful to have met you all, gentlemen, she said. How intrepid you all are. How resourceful. You have no idea what admiration I have for a man willing to pursue profit in such a dangerous, uncivilized place. She smiled at each in turn and each flushed with pleasure and then she folded her napkin, laid it carefully before her as if preparing to depart.
The table fell still.
I’m in buttons, the quiet gentleman to her left said suddenly.
The days passed. Foole saw her in the crowds of the shopping arcade, bent low over a display case of diamond necklaces. He saw her descending the hotel stairs, her face turned away, her throat exposed like the curve of a lily in a vase. He crossed the sweltering street near his office in the port and glancing to his left glimpsed a young woman in the haze flouncing from a cab and he looked again and saw it was not her. When he instructed Martin where to rendezvous with the horses on the third night he did not ask after the young Miss Reckitt. But on the rooftop gardens before dinner that evening he saw her seated alone with a glass of wine untouched before her and he went out to her without understanding why.
Mr. Bentley, she said, shading her eyes and peering up at him. What a pleasant surprise. Please sit, do. My uncle thinks you’ve been quite avoiding me.
I’ve been busy.
Busy avoiding me.
He shook his head. I assure you.
You did not care for my performance the other evening. She held up a gloved hand. No, please, don’t deny it. It’s all right. Martin tells me I must be more judicious.
Foole sat. Squinted across at her in the evening sunlight. Are you really his niece?
You doubt it.
He shrugged.
She reached forward and took up her glass and held it by the stem between two fingers and a thumb and she seemed to consider something and then she said, with a smile, Not by blood, if I understand your meaning. But yes, he is an uncle to me.
You mean he’s like an uncle to you.
If that was what I meant, Mr. Bentley, that is what I would have said.
He looked at her a long moment. You’re quite right. Of course. It is none of my business.
You think you are cross with me.
I’m not cross with you.
I know you aren’t.
He frowned in irritation.
She wet her lips, her soft mouth parting just slightly. She set her glass back down on the tablecloth. Martin saved me from the str
eets when I was eleven years old, she said after a moment. She held Foole’s eye. I was in the workhouse, she said. He came to the door, he was dressed very well, and he pointed at me and told the warden that I was his charge and he had come to take me away. I’d never seen him before in my life.
I don’t understand.
I didn’t either. I still don’t. He doesn’t speak of it and I don’t ask. I thought for a time he must have known my mother but I don’t know that I believe that now. She died when I was six from the cholera. When Charlotte looked at him her face was very clear, very pure, and Foole felt for the first time something like attraction give way in him. Martin took me in, she was saying, he taught me what I know. I owe him everything.
Foole raised an eyebrow.
You don’t think he’s that sort of man.
Foole shrugged.
There is nothing I would not do for him, Mr. Bentley. Nothing.
Foole nodded.
You’re trying to decide how much of this to believe, she said.
He smiled despite himself. I wouldn’t insult you by admitting as much. You are a mysterious woman, Miss Reckitt.
She smiled at him shy and sidelong. Are you admiring me, Mr. Bentley?
You’ll know when I’m admiring you, he said.
She laughed. You make it sound like a threat, sir.
An elderly lady in lace drifted near, looking for a seat.
The difficulty, of course, lies in shaving off the overhead expenses, Foole said suddenly. Warehousing costs, shipping bills, import duties: one must understand the minutiae.
It is a problem of profits, yes.
The lady paused, smiled a faltering smile, drifted on her way.
And that is why I have come myself, you see, Foole added loudly, watching the lady pause at the next table. The French diamond agent was seated there and Foole watched him stand gallantly and pull out a chair that the lady might join him. He met Foole’s eye and nodded and Foole nodded back.
Do you think he is really a diamond agent? Charlotte asked in a low voice.
I don’t even think he’s French, Foole smiled.
As the days passed Foole felt an excitement take shape in him. The plan was simple. They would ride out to a deserted stretch of road and string a rope across the way to throw the horses. The stagecoach would overturn, they would overpower the driver, disarm the Boer guard. All this he explained to Reckitt one afternoon in a saloon near the port. Trust me, he said, it’s been done like this in the Midwest since the war. It won’t fail.
We’re not bandits, Reckitt said. That is not what we do.
Foole grinned. He instructed the older thief to meet him at a cliff just off the road outside of town on the night of the new moon and to dress for a hard ride. He insisted on revolvers and rifles but did not believe they would be needed. We’re not in the business of killing, he said. It’s just to keep their heads down. But when he rode up that night he found two men on horseback waiting for him in the blackness and he pulled up and unholstered his revolver and called across the rocky stillness and after a moment he heard Reckitt’s hoarse voice.
Charlotte, Reckitt said. It appears Mr. Bentley has arrived.
Foole swore.
They rode out single file under stars that shone with the silver clarity of coal dust and Foole watched their spiralling axle and felt cold. They were three miners to any who might have seen them picking their slow way along the vacant road, their skeletal horses crunching through stones and dust, the air chilled on their knuckles where they nudged the reins. Bedrolls tight on the flanks, saddlebags full. The dull chink of pans and spades strapped behind the saddle. A blanket thrown over the shoulders of the second rider. At that hour the veld burned strange and blue like a stonescape ancient and glacial and unconsoling. Foole thought of the local Xhosa, their implacable eyes as they regarded him riding past at the high crossroads, he thought of the stories he had heard of their uprising and of the long smooth blades of their spears and he shivered. Go in fear of them, sir, a trader had warned him in the city. They’s worse than beasts when they’s hunting.
He pulled up at a low rise and set a hand on the hot neck of his horse and studied the country, its scrub and grassland stretching out below. At the far side of the valley a ridge of dolomite rose up and was lost against the sky. He could see the small orange flare of a cook fire burning at the side of the road some miles below.
Charlotte came up alongside him. They’re so bright, she said.
He adjusted his hat, followed her gaze upward. Nodded. We’ll have to be careful.
That’s not what I meant.
He looked at her.
First diamonds of the night, she murmured.
Let us hope they are not the last, Reckitt said as he rode up. He had his left wrist folded up into his right armpit and he was grimacing.
Your wrist still troubling you?
No.
They sat there all three in the saddle, their horses snorting softly.
So where is this rift? Charlotte asked.
Foole gave Reckitt a look. Exactly which rift are we talking about? he asked.
The older man did not laugh.
They were riding for a narrow gully carved out of the limestone by some ancient glacial retreat and known locally as Chinaman’s Gulch. The pass was bottlenecked at its exit and steep-walled for the duration and so named for the narrow mouth that could not fit a grain of rice turned sideways. Foole picked his slow way down a low escarpment then trailed out over the plain, cutting across the country and leaving the road behind. There would be a switchback some seven miles farther on and then a river and then the gulch itself and Foole did not want to come across any other travellers if it could be avoided.
The sky paled. In the hour before dawn they climbed down and rested their horses at a low stream in the veld. A man in a loincloth and carrying a spear materialized out of the shadows herding a cluster of sheep and in the early grey light he gave them a wide pass and kept his eyes averted. The thin ropy sinews of his chest, gleaming. His burnished fists. Foole crouched in the straw-like grass with Reckitt’s rifle across one knee listening to the click of hooves in the rocky soil, the clunk of a beaten tin bell looped on a strap of leather around the shepherd’s own neck. Then the man had passed on into the stony grassland and his disciples with him like a warning and all were lost to view.
At Chinaman’s Gulch they dismounted and unhooked a coil of rope from the pommel of Foole’s saddle and double-knotted it across the mouth of the gully at the rough height of a horse’s throat. It hung taut and brutal as a cut of wire and near invisible in the crepuscular light. All this was performed in silence but for the crunch of their boots in the stony earth, their low breathing as they worked. Charlotte he sent fifty yards back into the scrub with the three horses and when Reckitt scowled in protest he only held up an angry hand and refused to discuss it. He would be damned if he would let the girl stay. On either side of the rocky opening were clusters of boulders from landslides of winters past and on the eastern slope a lone tree windswept and buckled into a weirdly human shape and there Foole dug himself in with his two pistols laid out before him on a flat white rock. Reckitt made his way some dozen paces farther on and crouched in the angle between two boulders where he would be able to see the stagecoach approach.
They waited. Foole could feel the cold sand under his knees. He sat with his hands pressed to the earth and his eyes closed. He could feel something else, a thrum in the earth, like a locomotive passing deep underneath. He wiped his hands on his trousers then cocked the pistols. His heart brutal in his chest. He was holding his breath and he exhaled now, slowly, carefully. Then he could hear it, the clatter of iron-shod wheels, the soft thunk of hooves in the sandy roadbed. He got to his feet, stood beside the tree.
And all at once it came into sight, the stagecoach, at a gallop, plunging through the gulch towards them, and it seemed to Foole a long inhuman silence descended and held over him and Reckitt and that pass and th
en there was nothing, no stagecoach, no horses, only the faint calm dusky light in that long hour before dawn.
Then a screech, like hot iron doused in water.
A sudden thrashing in the grey air.
A screaming of horses.
He heard the rope crackle and zing free of its knot like a bullet by his ear and then the coach was smashing over onto its side in an explosion of dust and there were cries of agony in the confusion. All this Foole watched and heard with his kerchief drawn up over his mouth and nose and a pistol in each hand held at the ready and he stepped forward as if to wade out into that roiling frenzy like a man into deep surf and he raised one pistol and fired a high shot into the sky.
He could see three of the horses kicking in the dust, tangled in their traces. There was a man sprawled face down among them in the dirt where he had been thrown and he did not stir but Foole could not tell if this was the driver or the Boer guard. A second shot rang out and he thought for a moment Reckitt too was firing. But a third and a fourth shot punched through the branches of the tree in a splinter of bark and twigs and Foole turned his face and saw two men kneeling amid the wreckage with repeating Winchesters swivelling in the dawn light and then they began shooting in every direction with a wildness and ferocity that forced Foole to take shelter.
He was shooting with his head down and his eyes half shut when he heard, at last, Reckitt’s rifle return fire. He crept to one side and peered across. He could see the older thief crouching in the dirt with his head held between his hands and his hat upturned beside him but the rifle was still firing and Foole did not understand.
Then he saw her. Standing coolly to one side of the boulders. The silhouette of Charlotte, firing and reloading and firing, as if it were a thing she been raised on and had always done.
They fled. Hats spinning off into the dust, clutching at their horses in terror. They slowed at last after some miles and rode on in wrathful silence under a red sky with Reckitt clutching a rag to his temple where a bullet had grazed him and sent him nose-first into the dirt. Two miles out they changed their attire and split up and rode in separately to Port Elizabeth. They would be several hours ahead of the stagecoach but feared being recognized in the aftermath. Foole dismounted at the hotel stables and folded a handkerchief across his neck and throat and then he stripped the horse and went on up to his room. A lamp was burning, the wooden shutters open in the heat. Charlotte was slumped at the writing desk, dust from the road streaking her chin.
