Men of Men by Wilbur Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

Ballantyne – that is you, is it not?’ And, peering up at the causeway, Zouga recognized Neville Pickering, his drinking companion from the first day in the London
Hotel.
    ‘It is indeed, Mr Pickering.’
    ‘That’s all right, fellows. I’ll vouch for Major Ballantyne. He is the famous elephant hunter, don’t you know?’
    Almost immediately they lost interest and turned away to become absorbed once more in their own race to get the buckets of gravelly yellow stuff to the surface.
    ‘Thank you,’ Zouga called up to the man on the causeway above him.
    ‘My pleasure, sir.’ Pickering flashed a brilliant smile, touched the brim of his hat and sauntered away, a slim and elegant figure in the press of bearded dust-caked diggers.
    Zouga was left alone, as alone in spirit as he had ever been in any of his wanderings across the vast African continent. He had spent almost the last penny he owned on these few square feet of
yellow earth at the bottom of this hot and dusty pit. He had no men to help him work it, no experience, no capital – and he doubted that he would recognize an uncut diamond if he held one in
the palm of his hand.
    As suddenly as it had descended upon him, the gambler’s elation, the premonition of good fortune that awaited him here evaporated. He was instantly overwhelmed by his own presumption and
by the enormity of the gamble he was taking.
    He had risked it all on claims that so far had not yielded a single good stone, the price of diamonds was plummeting, the ‘pool goods’, small splints of half a carat or less which
formed the vast bulk of stones recovered, were fetching only five shillings each.
    It was a wild chance, and his stomach slid sickeningly as he faced the consequences of failure.
    The sun was almost directly overhead, burning down into the bottom of the workings; the air around him wavered with the heat and it came up through the leather of his boots to scorch the soles
of his feet. He felt as though he were suffocating, as though he could not bear it another moment, as though he must scramble up out of this loathsome pit to where the air was cooler and
sweeter.
    He knew then he was afraid. It was an emotion to which he was not accustomed. He had stood down the charge of a wounded bull elephant, and taken his chance – man to man, steel to steel
– on the frontiers of India and in the wild border wars of the Cape.
    He was not accustomed to feeling fear, but the waves of panic rose up out of some dark place in his soul and he fought to control them. The sense of impending disaster crushed down upon him.
Under his feet he could almost feel the sterility of the baking earth, the barren earth which would cripple him at last, and destroy the dream which had been the fuel on which his life had run for
all these years.
    Was it all to end here in this hot and hellish pit?
    He took a deep breath, and held it for a moment, fighting off the waves of blind panic, and slowly they receded, leaving him feeling weak and shaken as though from a heavy dose of malarial
fever.
    He went down on one knee and took a handful of the yellow stuff, sifting it through his fingers, and then examined the residue of dull and worthless pebbles. He let them drop and dusted his hand
against his thigh.
    He had beaten back the engulfing panic, but he was left with a terrible sense of despondency, and a weariness that ached in his bones so that he hardly had strength enough to climb the swaying
rope ladder and his feet dragged and scuffed the ochre-red earth of the track, while around him the encampment swam and wavered in the heat and dust as he started back towards the outspan.
    Above the hubbub of the camp a clear childish voice rang, and Zouga lifted the golden beard from his chest, his mood lightening as he recognized his son’s sweet piping tones.
    ‘Papa! Oh Papa!’
    Jordan was racing towards him, wild abandon in every frantic pace, his arms pumping and his feet flying over the rutted track,