“It was you, Mr. Rogan, who insisted you wouldn’t end up a Rhodes man.”
“I’m not a Rhodes man,” Rogan gritted. “I’ll remain independent.”
Derwent shook his head. “Joining forces is just that. You said you wouldn’t lose your freedom, or sear your conscience by being bought.”
In a sudden burst of anger, Rogan struck him. Derwent lost his footing, bracing his fall with one knee and a hand.
For a moment Rogan didn’t move, so stunned was he by his own impulsive action.
Derwent recovered and got to his feet. He avoided Rogan’s gaze, and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he walked away into the early dawn, head down.
“Derwent—” Rogan began and took a step in his direction, then stopped. He tightened his jaw. He looked down at his hand, tightly clenched. What had he done?
Frustrated, Rogan snatched up his leather hat, strapped on his belt, and strode off in a scowl to locate Mornay.
The sun climbed in its glory in a cloudless sky, and the camp was awake and stirring. The African workers were beginning to tear down the tents and load the wagons for the journey back to Kimberly.
Mornay, with the help of two Basuto servants, was loading his wagons.
Rogan stopped a few feet away. “So you’ve made up your mind too?”
Mornay’s angular face was grim, his silver beard in contrast to his bushy black brows.
“It seems we have both counted our coins and come up short, monsieur. The BSA will not allow you sole ownership of any gold find, though the map is legally yours. Rhodes has hired Selous as guide to the Zambezi.” He shrugged. “You are a clever young man, Rogan. You and I, we both know when the wall is too thick to butt our heads against. So we wisely seek a door.”
Rogan didn’t find the practical advice solacing, even if he agreed Mornay was right about bucking Rhodes.
“A man must make his way, and life…well, it must still go on,” Mornay continued. “You and I, we make the best of it. Derwent, he is disappointed, but his conscience is more tender than yours or mine.” He looked across the camp toward Derwent, who was rolling up his blanket and packing his things. “White is white, and black is black. But we see things sometimes gray.”
Rogan drew his brows together. Mornay wasn’t making him feel any wiser. He had no desire to see truth as a muddled gray. Did he?
“Derwent was raised a vicar’s son. For him, compromising with what one believes is right is evil. On that, I believe as he does.”
“Ah, oui…the end, it does not justify the means. Yes, that is how Derwent would say. But we know what we want, do we not? We know, and we seek it by whatever means we can. Then it will be right.”
Rogan stood looking at Mornay and felt his scowl deepening.
Mornay cocked a brow, as though wondering what troubled him. “You have reasons to cooperate with Sir Julien Bley,” Mornay said in a soothing tone. “For should you stubbornly proceed to resist the Company’s plans, I would not wager that your head would remain long in place.”
“You may be right, but I wager my head will remain in place awhile at least.” He added dryly, “I and only I still possess Henry’s map. Despite the blunder near Bulawayo to steal it.”
Mornay rubbed his chin. “The Captain Retford and I, we both think it was Sir Julien’s little granddaughter and your brother. We think you believe that too.”
Rogan did think so. He also believed it wouldn’t happen again. He turned and walked away, jerking his hat lower over his face.
Derwent was packing his satchel when Rogan approached.
“Appears that we’ll be going to Kimberly, Mr. Rogan. I’ve got our workers loading our wagons now.”
“Look, Derwent, about what happened a little while ago…I’m sorry. I didn’t use my head. I won’t let it happen again… I promise you. If it will help, you can go ahead and clobber me right now.”
Derwent stood, wiping the dust from his hands. He grinned. “I’ve known you too long to think it would help, Mr. Rogan.”
Rogan arched a brow, then laughed. He touched Derwent’s shoulder. “Listen, why don’t I arrange for you and Alice to return to England when we get to Kimberly? I’ve been thinking. You want a farm—I can have my father choose you some nice property around Grimston Way. You can help Vicar Osgood out at the rectory and be around all your decent friends again, instead of a ruddy lout like me.”
“Oh no, Mr. Rogan—”
“If you and Alice settle there, I can transfer the ownership to you once I inherit Rookswood. Someday I am going back home…that, I promise you too. Our children will be friends, just the way we were.”
Derwent ducked his head and fumbled with his gun belt. He shook his head and arranged his hat, looking embarrassed. “I wouldn’t want to go back yet. Not without you. Neither would Alice. She’ll come along on the expedition too, now that Miss Arcilla and Miss Darinda are going. If you’re going with the BSA—then I’m coming with you. I wouldn’t want to see you going on without me. Someone’s got to be there when—” He stopped.
Rogan offered a faint smile. “When things fall apart? Perhaps they will. Another reason it may be best if you go back. What’s ahead may not be pretty. In fact, I’m sure we will be facing even greater danger as we proceed.”
Derwent shook his head. “If things fall apart, then that’s where I need to be.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to go on, if you don’t mind.”
Rogan was touched by his loyalty, but he didn’t want to get too sentimental. He’d already said more than he was prone to say.
“If that’s what you really want, it’s fine with me. Did you feed my horse?”
“He’s full and raring to ride.”
“Good. As you said, we’ve a lot to do before the pioneer trek begins in June.”
Rogan walked away, feeling the sun warming his back and shoulders, aware of the map strapped safely under his canvas shirt. He could almost imagine it weighing him down a little more than when he had left England with it. His dreams were not so shiny as they once were. They had been tarnished now by Julien’s. Setting his face with grim determination, Rogan would go forward with his plans. He believed he was now in too deeply to change course. If he went back to Grimston Way now, he would go back with near empty pockets and nothing to show for all his years of planning. He wouldn’t end up following Henry’s footsteps to defeat.
Yes, this was another reason for staying and fighting. He wanted to make his own way without any help, especially from his uncle Julien. It was one thing to acquire the estate and lands, but quite another to forge a name for himself with his own sagacity and hard work.
Pride, he thought sourly, could be costly indeed.
Nor was there reason to return home to England. His path must never cross Evy van Buren’s in the summer garden at Rookswood, where he had held her and kissed her before sailing for Africa. Little had he known that it would become their final good-bye. He could lose himself in this expedition, and while there could be nothing between him and Evy, he wanted her to know the truth about her lineage—and her mother. He could also give her that much, at least. He could also give her a godly relative, Jakob van Buren.
Though this was the trekking season, Arcilla thought the morning of the twenty-fourth of June was hot and dusty near the Motloutsi River. The expedition was about to begin. Arcilla sat alone on the buckboard of the wagon she would share with Peter. It would be their home for months to come. She fanned her face, dreading the long ordeal that lay ahead. She already felt her muscles tense and her stomach become queasy, and the wagons had yet to start moving. Perhaps they wouldn’t even make it to Fort Salisbury. Perhaps they would die on the way, horribly massacred by savages with spears just as it had happened years ago at Rorke’s Drift. The thought sent shivers down her spine. She looked over at Alice Tisdale Brown in their covered wagon. Alice looked tense too, but also excited. But not over visions of sugarplum fairies. She’s dreaming of pockets full of gold, Arcilla thought.
Alice hadn’t changed much since the Grimston Way years, except that her disapproving mouth looked more puckered, and her strawberry-blond hair was more limp, though still wrapped around her head in a Boer fashion braid. Her skin was still sallow, Arcilla noticed, but there were freckles now. Arcilla was pleased her own skin was still flawless ivory, thanks to her wisdom in always remembering her hats, parasols, gloves, and potions. Poor Alice. She must have given up any concern for her appearance.
Ah, well…Derwent had freckles, too. But then, Derwent Brown had always had freckles. In fact, freckles looked cute on him. She smiled, rather liking Derwent. As a girl, she had thought him country. Now she thought him very polite and kind. He had deserved better than Alice.
Arcilla swished her fan and slapped at a persistent insect that buzzed around her face. She reached for the jar of repellent. Peter was right. It did work. Maybe she could pour some of her French perfume in the foul-smelling goop. Why, she could market the ointment and make millions! But no—that would mean working with the nganga. She shuddered. Witch doctors and bones…
Arcilla looked over at Cousin Darinda. She was the one who still looked cool and poised despite the dust and heat, and Arcilla hated her for it. Darinda’s courage and handling of pistol and rifle goaded Arcilla the most. Darinda refused to squeal when a large spider or snake appeared. Arcilla was certain this was deliberate, just to make her look more courageous before Peter and the other men on the expedition.
“Just once I’d like to see her scream and faint!” she said to herself. Naturally, she wouldn’t. Not the self-possessed Darinda Bley. Come to think of it, she was very much like her grandfather, Sir Julien Bley. A female Julien! Oh, save us! Arcilla threw her head back and laughed. She looked at Darinda again and saw her cousin watching her. Arcilla sat up straighter and smiled prettily at Peter as he rode past on a horse. Peter smiled and tipped his hat, then went on.
Arcilla looked back at Darinda, feeling smug. Darinda was looking straight ahead. She had no man now coquettishly strung on her leash. Not since she and Parnell had had a falling out. Parnell was deliberately keeping his distance from her, much to Arcilla’s shock. Had he decided at last that Darinda was his cup of hemlock?
Rogan sat astride his horse, riding alongside Peter and Captain Ryan Retford to join the other officers of the Pioneer Column prepared to splash across the river on the northward push to Mashonaland.
The two hundred pioneer recruits, who had been personally selected by Frank Thompson to form the core of the new colony, were lined up along the river. The men had traveled by train from Kimberly, then ridden here to the dusty camp on the edge of Bechuanaland, a British protectorate. Like soldiers, the men waited to be addressed by the British officer Rhodes had arranged to send up from the Cape. They waited to hear the final flourish of trumpets to initiate the long-awaited expedition into the land of the Zambezi.
Peter had told him that Mr. Rhodes was not with the Company leaders who would command the pioneer trek. A political crisis unfolding at Capetown had required Rhodes to take over the reins of Cape government as Prime Minister. He remained in Kimberly, his financial and political power base, located two hundred miles south of the Motloutsi River.
Rogan maneuvered his horse along the column, feeling relieved that the men looked capable. Garbed in tough brown corduroy trousers and digger hats, they sported new rifles. He noticed among the Englishmen that there were some Cape Afrikaners, Dutch, among them, all eager to begin the colony near Mount Hampden. The pioneers included doctors, engineers, ministers, military men, bakers, butchers, as well as the gold miners and farmers, all anxious to stake out their land claims provided by the Royal Charter.
“Can’t say Frank Thompson hasn’t chosen the lot well. We even have some cricketers,” Peter said cheerfully. “Nothing like a jolly game of cricket, you know. We’ve a Jesuit priest as well.”
Rogan was thinking not of cricket but of the godly old missionary Dr. Jakob van Buren and asked Peter about him.
“Jakob van Buren? Yes, he’s a relative of Heyden,” Peter said when Rogan mentioned the man. “He’s from Holland, I think. Julien seems to think so, and mentioned it. He treats lepers, I believe. A brave man, from all I hear, and well respected in the area. His station was actually started by some English missionary back in the sixties. He’d been inspired by David Livingstone’s expedition up the Zambezi to establish missions along the river. Unfortunately, that fellow was killed by the Africans. Jakob took over and has done quite a work there.”
“Do you know Heyden van Buren? He’s related to Julien’s first mining partner at Kimberly, Carl van Buren.”
“I met him briefly in London when I came to marry Arcilla. Heyden was with the Kruger delegation back then, but I’ve seen Heyden recently as well.”
Rogan peered at him from beneath his hat, keenly alert now. “You saw him recently? Where? Kimberly?”
“No, actually it was Capetown. Strange you should mention Heyden. He spoke of a recent visit to Jakob van Buren. It was quite a trek for him. Some Boer guide brought him in. Sounds rather like your uncle Henry.”
Heyden had gone to the Zambezi…
“What was Heyden doing in Capetown?”
“He was on his way to London to see his cousin.” Peter looked at him thoughtfully. “The girl who played the piano, wasn’t it? Very lovely young woman, as I recall.”
Rogan frowned and toyed restlessly with the reins he held. “Did he say why he was going to visit her?”
“No. Is it important?”
Rogan had no ready answer. How could he admit how important it was to him, while also realizing he had no right to pursue Evy? But knowing that Heyden, whom he personally distrusted, would have access to Evy added to his frustration.
“I intend to visit Jakob van Buren when we get to the Zambezi region,” Rogan told Peter. It was troubling to know that Heyden had recently visited the mission station. Had Heyden learned from Jakob that Dumaka had stolen the Black Diamond from Henry Chantry? Rogan began to think Heyden may have been told the same things that Julien had relayed to him back in April.
Peter changed the topic to the two hundred pioneers who had joined the venture. “They’re risking their lives, just as we are. One can only think they are willing to do so for love of Mr. Rhodes and England.”
Rogan winced. “Come, come, Peter. Don’t wax too eloquent on his part, or theirs. I’ll wager they’re drawn by the three-thousand-acre spreads to be given away free.”
“They’ll be working hard for those acres, I can assure you. They’ll be cutting the road all the way to Mount Hampden.”
Rogan also saw hundreds of Africans hired for menial tasks. There were 350 Ngwato laborers, who would be hacking and clearing a road for the 2,000 oxen pulling 117 ox wagons.
They would work, all right. They all would. They would earn their farmland and their gold.
Along with the pioneers were five hundred men of the newly formed British South Africa Company police, who were being paid high wages to set up a security force in the new colony.
Earlier that morning, Rogan had inspected a naval searchlight powered by a steam engine that was to be pulled in one of the wagons by sturdy oxen.
“The nights will be long, sir,” the man had said gravely. “Long, dark, and risky. This light will enable us to protect our camp from surprise attacks.”
Right. Lobengula might decide the Company Pioneer Column was invading his territory after all, despite his earlier grudging consent. The old chieftain just might plan a surprise night attack by his impis.
Cecil Rhodes had already decided to bypass the much sought-after “road from Bulawayo,” so as to try to avoid trouble with Lobengula. Instead, they would be cutting a path for the oxcarts along an old hunting track known by Frederick Selous and Mornay. It was believed the track would lead them right into Mashonaland.
“The British Government has agreed with this less obtrusive route. They’ve thrown their diplomatic support beh
ind us,” Peter said.
Rogan felt impatient with the whole thing. “I’ve always thought the old hunting track Mornay had in mind would serve us better than wrangling with Lobengula. It may have been the route Henry took with Mornay’s father. Too much time’s been wasted trying to negotiate. As it stands now, we may have already stirred up unnecessary trouble.”
“Well, the Company’s come around to see it that way now,” Peter said. “Selous is a strong individual and was rather uncommunicative about the route he intended to take.”
Rogan pulled his hat lower. “We should make use of every moment of peace we have with the Ndebele to get moving. The farther away from Lobengula we get, the better for the expedition. I don’t trust him or his impis.”
Rogan rode with Peter to the head of the column, where the lead men were gathered waiting for the arrival of a British official from Kimberly to send them on their way with the government’s fanfare.
Rogan saw Dr. Jameson ahead. The doctor impressed him as a man who might act impulsively and at times, perhaps, unwisely. A forward push into hostile, unexplored country demanded cool-headed leadership. Mr. Rhodes, however, trusted Jameson and had sent him along as his special emissary from Kimberly. Jameson held perhaps the highest credential in the Pioneer Column. He alone carried Rhodes’s power of attorney as managing director of De Beers. Peter answered to “Dr. Jim,” and then to Sir Julien.
Julien was waiting for them at the head of the column, along with Parnell and Captain Retford.
“This is Rogan, my younger nephew,” Julien told the group of men.
Rogan leaned across his horse and briefly shook hands with Lieutenant Colonel Pennyfather, young Frank Johnson, the contractor who’d been hired to arrange the journey, and the pathfinder Frederick Selous.
“Ah yes. The young man who’d been planning a private expedition to the Zambezi,” Pennyfather said. He was an older man of dignified face and bearing and sat tall in the saddle.
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