Yesterday's Promise (23 page)

“Now,” Peter said, “as you say, we have had a serious problem on our hands. Some of Lobengula's indunas at Bulawayo are giving the BSA the evil eye.”

Peter bit his pipe stem. “He's listening to his indunas who are calling for war. Like their cousins the Zulus, they want to ‘wash their spears
in blood.' So far he's quieted them down and told them to go home, but he's refusing to honor the concession he signed.”

Peter hesitated, as though he couldn't fathom such unwise behavior. “He agreed we could build a road from his Matabeleland into the north, but he's reneged. Now the indunas are grumbling. Their impis are shaking their spears and stamping their feet. So you see our work is going to be difficult when we ride to Bulawayo.”

The African sun was growing hotter and burning against Rogan's shoulders and back. “I thought it was something of this nature.” Rogan shook his head. “I'm liking what I hear about the concession less and less. This is about as sticky a situation as can be. If Lobengula thinks his rights were violated, and misunderstandings abound on both sides about what those rights are, little good will come from it. Why not renegotiate?”

“Are you mad? He would refuse. We must make him see he's already committed himself.”

“That leaves a troubling situation, Peter. Justice is too easily open to disagreement and eventually leads to bloodshed.”

Peter's lips thinned, as he obviously didn't like what he'd heard.

“You don't really believe Mr. Rhodes would have brought the concession paper to London if he thought his delegation had deceived Lobengula?”

Rogan arched a brow. “I've seen them at work in Kimberly,” came Rogan's cold reply. “You must have heard what happened to John Sheehan and the coal deposit he pegged at Wankie. Do you call that justice?”

Peter's face turned a rosy brown. “Really, Rogan, you are a cynic. You simply do not like Rhodes and his partners.”

Peter puffed rapidly on his pipe as they strode on toward a small rocky hill with a flat top.

Unexpectedly, Rogan remembered the words from Scripture that Derwent had quoted last night at the campfire. “Woe to him who builds a town with bloodshed, who establishes a city by iniquity!”

“Old chap, you're not listening to a word I've been saying,” Peter complained when they'd reached the top of the hill.

They stood looking down upon the winding river and the distant crouching mountains of the north toward Zambezi.

“Sorry… You were saying?”

Peter's brows pointed together. “Naturally, I wasn't at Bulawayo when Rhodes's delegation first met with Lobengula. That was a few years ago. So I cannot attest to every bit of propaganda that comes out about how the BSA hoodwinked him. But it's all a misunderstanding about land rights. He insists none were given. But Great Scott, man! We've got to have land rights to settle the pioneers. What good is a colony without property rights?”

Obviously, the chieftain of the Ndebele tribe had not been expecting a colony when he'd agreed to let the Company dig for gold.

“This isn't my fight, Peter. I came to seek gold on the Zambezi, not to conquer a land.”

“Conquer! Rubbish. Better our flag than France's or Germany's. Or would you rather see the Portuguese or Belgians colonizing all of Africa? And don't think they won't come. If England doesn't do it, someone else will. It's only a matter of time. And what of those cantankerous Boers? That ruddy Dutchman Kruger has had plans to push from the Transvaal Republic into Mashonaland for months. War with the Boers is inevitable. And I doubt any people other than the English would be any wiser in handling the tribes. Good grief, man! Do we want the Africans to remain naked savages, steeped in diabolical witchcraft for more generations to come? We need to bring education, put an end to witchcraft.”

“The Bible and the plough”—that was missionary Robert Moffat's philosophy. It had worked for Robert Moffat at his mission compound, Kuruman. But the BSA was not patterned after Robert Moffat. Maybe Peter actually cared about bringing civilization to the African tribes and ending demon worship, but that was not the motivation of Julien or the BSA. It was gold, diamonds, and political power.

“I agree with part of your argument, Peter, but not all. And while
we may share a similar interest in gold, there is a difference. I intend to leave eventually, but you and Julien and the others want to stay and expand the British Empire. That in itself is neither bad nor good, but I can't support tricking an old savage who can't read the fine print. We may conquer them, Peter, but it won't work in the generations to come unless we win their hearts as friends.”

“Yes, yes, I realize all that. Friends come to help, to teach, to lift up—to treat with dignity, to grieve for their condition as fellow men.”

Rogan quoted the words Derwent had read last night. “If we don't come as friends, then one day the new Rhodesia will come tumbling down.”

“You sound like one of the confounded windy missionaries…or worse, like those dour-faced women in black at the London society for the protection of the so-called aboriginal peoples! And I've no reason to believe the Company deliberately lied to the Ndebele chief. If the confusion boils down to anything, it's due to the differences in language and culture. Dr. Jameson was one of the men who met with Lobengula in a second parley not long ago. The good doctor insists everything was done decently and in order. A missionary was present who read the conditions of the agreement aloud to Lobengula, making sure he understood. I believe Dr. Jameson. It's intransigence on Lobengula's part. And we cannot allow that to happen.”

It wasn't Rogan's intention to change Peter's mind, or change the BSA. He was content to be out of the fray. All he wanted was his independence. As for Dr. Jameson, Rogan had little liking for him, and it was easy to believe he had used deception in his dealings with Lobengula.

“The real truth of what happened between Rhodes's delegation and Lobengula may never be fully known.”

“Yes, yes, probably not, but what can we do about it? We can't change the world, and life goes on. It's far better that it proceed under the Union Jack.”

Rogan laughed and started back down the kopje in the direction of camp.

Peter followed. “So we must have another meeting at Bulawayo to convince Lobengula. Dr. Jameson is coming with us. He's learned Lobengula is suffering again with gout. Maybe a bit of kindness from the doctor will show the poor devil our good intentions. If not, we will go anyway with an armed guard.”

Rogan squinted toward the clear sky, watching a vulture gliding high over the river on wide, dark wings.

As Peter went on coaxing him, Rogan listened, but so far all the talk of political power and the subjugation of Africa left him unmoved.

Peter must have understood this, for he sobered. He stopped near the camp and faced him.

“There's another reason for wanting you along. I'm not speaking for the Company now, but for myself…for Arcilla. I'm second in command under Dr. Jameson at the new colony. I need someone I can have confidence in—who will tell me before it's too late if I'm headed in the wrong direction.”

“Ah yes, the way I did earlier?”

Peter shrugged at his brother-in-law's wry voice. “We may not always see eye to eye, Rogan, but I'll still want your valuable insight. And I have confidence that you're not after my job. I don't always trust Julien when it comes to his wishes for himself and Arcilla. At any rate, having my brother-in-law at hand is important to me. Arcilla feels the same way.”

She was wise to be afraid. Peter, too, was afraid behind his blustering determination. Perhaps they all were, himself included. That Peter admitted his need with surprising humility did more to persuade Rogan to stand with him than anything else he'd argued in the last hour.

Rogan liked Peter and wanted him and Arcilla to succeed in their marriage and Peter's pursuits in Africa. And yet…he had his own life to chart. His own heart to understand, and to make right, his own conscience to listen to when the voices, true and false, fell upon his ears like the beating of war drums.

And there was also Derwent Brown to think about. Honest-hearted
Derwent, the most loyal of friends. Derwent had his own dreams too. Derwent would want to go on the expedition even under the flag of the British South Africa Company. How could he disappoint him after all these years? From their teen years he had filled Derwent's mind with his own big dreams. Perhaps dreams not so different from Rhodes's dream of a far-flung new colony bearing his name delivered with pride to Queen Victoria.

Rogan stood looking off toward the base camp. The white canvas on the wagons billowed. He felt the wind ruffle his hair and cool his skin.

Besides redeeming Henry's lost expedition, what did he, Rogan, really want in life? Restlessness stirred his heart like the distant call of the wild beneath the bright African sun.

He heard Peter asking, “What do you say, Rogan? For you it's locating the gold deposit from Henry Chantry's map. For me it's claiming this land for the British Empire. Together we can do both. When we plant the Union Jack for Her Majesty below Mount Hampden, I want you standing with us shoulder to shoulder.”

Rogan found that he could give no clear and certain answer, not yet.

“I'll go with you as far as Bulawayo,” he said slowly. “After that…I don't know. I'll give you and Julien my answer then.”

Peter smiled. “Fair enough.”

The next morning at dawn Arcilla managed to rise and face Peter before he rode out to Bulawayo. The night had been a miserable one. Stinging insects had pestered her until Peter finally struggled from his blankets inside the wagon and dug something from his satchel.

“Try this, my dear. Rub it on your skin, and it will keep the insects away.”

She opened the bottle and gagged. “Oh, Peter, it's positively ghastly. Smells like something from the barnyard.”

“Arcilla,” he stated with dignity, “your language surprises me.”

“Oh, Peter, you're silly. It smells horrid. What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“Now it is you who is being silly. It's oil from herbs and plants used by the ngangas.”

She gasped, tossing the jar aside with a thud. “A witch doctor? Now you're trying to cast a spell on me.”

Peter scrambled to retrieve the jar before the ointment began flowing onto the floor.

“Now it is you, my dear, who is being foolish. Put this on your face and arms, or I shall do it for you.”

She snatched the jar from him and, holding her breath, smeared on the greasy ointment, holding back her tears. “And I brought French p-perfume… You hate me… I know you do, I know you do, Peter.”

“Oh, Arcilla, darling, my dear, I care for you very much…”

She jerked away from his arms and, still whimpering, pulled the bedding over her head. As it became too hot and stuffy, she threw the cover aside and listened to his snoring. After what seemed countless miserable hours, she finally fell asleep. She awoke to his gently shaking her shoulder and handing her a tin cup full of something dark, hot, and bitterly strong and offensive.

“Coffee,” he said. “We're leaving for Bulawayo, Arcilla. I won't be back for a week or so. You'll stay here with Darinda and your uncle Julien. We've left an armed guard, and you'll be safe enough.”

She made a face as she took a gulp of the disgusting coffee.

“Are you going to get dressed and come out to see us off?”

She recognized the hopefulness in his voice. She supposed it would look good for Peter Bartley's wife to be on hand as he rode out with Dr. Jameson and the others to represent the Company. In London she had tried to present herself as the dutiful wife, but she was still emotionally wrecked from the long trip from Kimberly, and she'd had little sleep. Life had taken on a dark, hopeless cast, and she was in no mood to be dutiful about anything.

“No,” she said and hoped Uncle Julien would not take it upon himself to lecture her after Peter rode out. “I have a dreadful headache.” She scratched at the insect bites on her arm and noticed how unattractive they made her once lovely white skin.

Peter squared his shoulders, and his face became hard. “As you wish. Then I will see you on my return.”

“Good-bye,” she said with a lift of her chin, looking straight ahead.

He hesitated, then turned on his heel and walked away into the dawn.

Guilt now added to her misery. She should have kissed him goodbye. In frustration with herself as well as her surroundings, she opened the back canvas of their wagon and tossed out the nasty coffee. As she did, she had a full view of the entourage prepared to ride out to Lobengula's kraal. There were a half-dozen men on horseback, a handful of armed Bantu, and packhorses.