Barney stared, astonished. What a reason for a man to grant a presidential audience! “Yes, Mr. President, it’s true. But that was many years ago.”
“I know when it was. I saw the Angolan when he fought here in Pretoria before he went to Bloemfontein and then to Kimberley. When he was here he beat one of our strongest and biggest men. I would have hesitated to fight him myself, even had I been twenty years younger at the time. How is it possible that a small man like you…”
Barney sighed, thinking back to the day of the fight, remembering every moment, including waking in the Scotch cart with his head in Fay’s lap. “I had to beat him,” he said simply. “I had bet everything in the world I had that I would—”
“You gambled?”
Barney grinned ruefully. “I didn’t think it was a gamble, not until the first time he hit me. And I needed the money from the bets to get ahead in the world. There was this girl—” He stopped. After all the years he could still scarcely believe or understand his incredible luck in winning Fay. But the President wouldn’t be interested in that. “Anyway,” he went on quietly, “I knew I was faster than he was, and I’d had a lot of experience in boxing, and I was fairly sure he hadn’t. I felt a man that big had to be awkward. But I had no idea he was as strong as he was. I was very lucky. His attention was distracted a moment and that’s when I hit him. Otherwise he probably would have killed me. As it was I broke my hand with that punch and it took a month to heal. Not to mention the fact that I had a headache for a week.”
“Andries tells me you later hired the man.”
“Yes, sir. Armando is now in charge of the production in the Kimberley Mines; they’re the largest of the four De Beers properties in Kimberley. Armando is a very fine person, and a lot more intelligent than people think. We’re very good friends. He’s become quite an expert on deep shafts and has been most valuable to us.”
“And the girl?” So the President had been interested in that. “Was she the Boer?”
“Yes, sir. We were married the day after the fight.”
“Broken hand and all?”
Barney grinned. “You don’t know my Fay, Mr. President. I would have married her with both arms and legs broken.” Barney’s grin disappeared as he remembered something. “If you’ll pardon me, sir, they tell me you once swam the Vaal at high flood when even the ferryman refused to cross, just to reach the girl you later married.”
Kruger nodded as if pleased to have the incident known and remembered by an Uitlander. “Yes, I was young and strong in those days. More important, like you, I was motivated.” He shook his head in sad memory. “Poor Maria! Her name was Maria du Plessis. She died a little over a year after we were married, in childbirth. The child died, too. It was a tragedy. She was so young! But God was good to me and I found another good woman quickly.” He rocked a few moments, staring at the floor of the stoep in silence, and then sighed and brought his head up. “I wanted to meet the man who had beaten the Angolan Giant. I have heard of you through Andries, of course, Mr. Barnato, as well as through your financial interests, and I have seen your picture often in the newspapers. I would have imagined you much larger to have won that fight. I doubt if I could have done so.”
“I know I couldn’t have swum the Vaal at high flood, Mr. President, or at any other time. Not even for my Fay.” Barney grinned. “I can’t swim.”
“Ah, but you see, I can fight.” Kruger stopped his rocking, leaning forward, looking at Barney steadily. “All right, Mr. Barnato. You now know why I wanted to see you. Why did you want to see me?”
Barney took a deep breath before he answered. It was a question he knew he would face and one he intended to answer honestly, but he still wanted to choose his words carefully.
“Mr. President,” he said slowly, “there are differences between the outsiders and the Boers, and those differences are leading toward trouble in which both sides will stand to lose a great deal. I had hoped to talk to you about some means by which this trouble could be abated, reduced, if not eliminated altogether.”
“Do you have any suggestions?” Kruger raised a hand; his tone became gently sardonic. “Other than those I have already heard — that we allow the Uitlander to vote me out of power, and with me the Volksraad, and then take over control of the Transvaal?”
“I am not so much interested in the franchise, Mr. President, as I am in a few of the objectives the people of Johannesburg have in mind when they ask for them. I agree with you that if the Uitlanders were the majority in the Transvaal at present, it would be foolish from your point of view to allow them the vote. It would mean the end of the Boer state. But, in the first place, I do not believe they are the majority—”
Kruger interrupted, his eyes shining, brightly and deceptively mild, as if he were enjoying the intellectual give-and-take of the discussion.
“Would you take that chance, Mr. Barnato, if you were in my shoes?”
“No, Mr. President. But you know as well as I do the length of time an outsider remains in the Transvaal under the conditions that would allow him to eventually become a citizen. Two years is a long time; three years is an eternity. Either he becomes settled and makes money, which a few do; or he fails to make money and he leaves — which is true of the vast majority — and he is replaced by Kaffir labor. Were you to agree, for instance, to reduce the fourteen years necessary for citizenship in the Republic to, say, seven years, you would have put a big hole in the arguments of the Reform Committee, without in any way threatening your control of the state. At least that is my honest belief.”
“And if you were wrong in your honest belief, Mr. Barnato? Who would lose the Transvaal in seven years? You or me?”
“You, of course, Mr. President. But I do not believe I am wrong, nor do I believe you believe I am wrong.”
“I see. Anything else, Mr. Barnato?”
“Yes, Mr. President. There’s the matter of taxes—”
“Ah!” Kruger leaned farther forward in his rocking chair, planting his slippered feet firmly on the floor to keep the chair from moving while he fixed Barney with eyes alight with understanding. He laid one thick finger against the side of his bulbous nose. “Now we come to it! You are a rich man, Mr. Barnato. Naturally you oppose taxes.”
“I oppose unreasonable taxes, Mr. President,” Barney said calmly, not at all intimidated by either Kruger’s mien or tone. “But I have never opposed any reasonable taxes that I know of, nor have I ever failed to pay them, whether I like them or not.” Barney smiled. “Nobody likes taxes, Mr. President, but that was not what I was going to say. I was about to say, Mr. President, that for the taxes that are paid — which I must argue are not slight — the citizens of Johannesburg receive very little to show for their considerable contribution. Take street lighting, for example. Kimberley has had lit streets for many years, yet we in Johannesburg lack this vital necessity. Take the matter of a proper sewage system, or the fact that while many of the Uitlanders are English, and most of the others are Americans, the schools — the few we have — are all taught in Afrikaans—”
Kruger held up a hand. “This is a Boer republic, Mr. Barnato.”
“But certainly if the English and the Americans wish their children to be taught in their own language—”
Kruger moved his upheld hand; Barney obediently stopped.