“No, no! I don’t mean we should wait to pick up any pieces I don’t think are going to fall from any nonexistent table. What I’m trying to say is that I agree with Barnato that this is not the time to act. We’re simply not ready for it. Jameson is up at Pitsani with fewer than five hundred men, not the fifteen hundred he so blithely promised he could raise, and even that number, in my opinion, would be none too many. Plus a few Bechuanaland Police who are supposed to join him when he leaves — eighty of them, to be exact, rather than the three hundred he was sure would go along — and none of them, by the way, very enthusiastic. And Jameson sending those idiot telegraph messages every five minutes in a code that must be making Kruger laugh himself sick, and you know his sense of humor!”
Rhodes smiled, but he was listening closely. “I’m familiar with Jameson’s telegraph messages; I’ve had a few. But I don’t believe Kruger is aware of what’s going on. If he were he would have done something about it before now. I keep a pretty close eye and ear on Pretoria, and I’m sure I would have heard if Kruger was onto the Reform Committee’s plans.”
“I just hope you’re right.” Frank Rhodes sounded far from convinced. “But let me go on. We have exactly thirty-one rounds of ammunition per rifle in Johannesburg at the moment, and this is supposed to be issued to totally inexperienced men for the most part. And the committee, when they are in full session, fight more with each other than I promise you they ever will against the Boer, unless they get a lot more organized than they are at present! The Americans don’t particularly want the Vierkleur replaced with the Union Jack, and believe it or not, neither do a lot of the British. The lot of them feel they’d simply be replacing Kruger’s taxes with Queen Vic’s taxes and they don’t feel this is worth getting shot for. And the fact is that despite the noise the Reform Committee is making, I believe that nine out of ten of the people we’re asking for support in this so-called spontaneous uprising in Jo’burg don’t give a tinker’s dam for the vote! They want to bring in dynamite free, and cyanide free, and everything else they use they want to bring in free. They don’t care if Kruger is President, or you, or me, or Barney Barnato! They want to make more money, that’s all. And I agree with them, but most of them feel that when these concessions are taken from the Boer, they’ll simply be given to some other one who will gouge their pockets as much as the Boer did!”
Cecil Rhodes’ eyebrows rose. When he spoke his voice was cold.
“Frank, are you changing your mind about our objectives?”
“No, dammit! But if you ever want to reach your objectives, listen to what I’m trying to tell you! You asked me to handle the Jo’burg end of this affair, and how do you argue with people who feel that way? How do you convince them to pick up a gun and fight? I’m trying to tell you the truth of the matter, but you don’t seem to want to listen! How do you convince a man to fight when you give him a bloody thirty-one rounds of ammunition and tell him that’s the lot, go out and wipe out the Boers with it, take over their country?” He shook his head decisively. “It would be a massacre, a needless massacre, and I’m not talking about the Boers, either. And what would that gain? Certainly not the overthrow of Kruger, if that’s what you’re aiming for.”
Cecil Rhodes considered his brother for several moments. When he spoke his voice was more sympathetic than anything else.
“Frank, I know that organizing Johannesburg for this uprising has not been an easy job, and I’m sure you’ve done your best. But there’s still time to bring in more arms and ammunition. Possibly if you had paid a bit more attention to it, put a bit more time into it, a bit more effort—”
Frank Rhodes held up a hand quickly, almost commandingly.
“Now, you listen to me, Cecil Rhodes! I know your opinion of me — I like women and you don’t. I drink a lot of whiskey and lately you’ve been drinking almost none. I like a lot of things and do a lot of things you don’t approve of! But don’t blind yourself to one simple fact: I’m the only one in your whole bloody Reform Committee who knows his arse from a cricket bat when it comes to military experience, and that includes your precious Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, who thinks he’s a soldier because he happened to beat a bunch of natives with spears, when his men had guns! And my military experience isn’t slight, either, as you damned well know! I’m no honorary colonel, Cecil; I’m a colonel promoted in grade in the field, dammit! I’ve had thirty years in the army! When we talk gold or diamonds, I’ll listen to you, but when we talk a military operation you’d better listen to me, or you can take your chances with the diggers and shoe clerks you’re planning to use to scare Kruger into handing you the Transvaal on a platter!”
Rhodes had been listening, his face impassive, but his mind was racing. He had never seen his brother Frank in this mood before. One thing was certain: failure was unthinkable. Failure would damage, if not put an end to, his career, and with it his dream of extending South Africa under British rule even farther north — to Cairo, eventually, hopefully. He looked at his brother.
“Are you suggesting we abandon the project?”
“No, dammit, I’m not! I’m merely suggesting we’re not ready for it, not now. It’s your decision, Cecil, but I’m telling you this: Call off this losing operation before it’s too late. Jameson is a fanatic and the ultimate egotist, and this man Luckner he’s picked as second in command is totally unhinged. He’s a bloodthirsty maniac. He kicked a Kaffir to death for spilling some coffee on him, hot coffee. Jameson has fewer than five hundred men under him and while he calls them Rhodesian Police, I’ll wager nine tenths of them are blacksmiths or sailors or ex-breakwater convicts, certainly not trained troops. They’ve each got a horse and a gun; that makes them soldiers! And he was supposed to pick up three hundred Bechuanaland Police, who are trained, but as I said, their number is down to about eighty, and they’d be more enthusiastic if they were being sent out to hunt quail. If you want the truth, they asked if they’d be fighting for the Queen or for Cecil Rhodes’ South African Chartered Company. Now, I’m your brother and I’m trying to help you—”
“Jameson is planning on leaving Pitsani for Johannesburg on the twenty-first of December. That’s just over three weeks away,” Rhodes said, and now his tone was plainly worried. “It may be too late to call it off—”
“Dammit, it’s too late to begin it!” Frank Rhodes retorted. “It has to be postponed, Cecil, for God’s sake! Let Jameson get away from Pitsani before somebody gets the idea of what he’s up there for! Let him get back to Fort Salisbury; let him bring his men up to strength and train them. And let him stop those ridiculous telegraphs before Kruger does know what’s going on, if he doesn’t already know. Let us get proper guns and sufficient ammunition into Johannesburg, and that is going to take time with the border guards as alert as they are these days. With time we can do it, but we can’t do it in any three weeks. And let us have time to convince the people of Johannesburg that it’s to their advantage to be with us one hundred per cent in this thing.” He stared at his brother almost fiercely. “Then, by God, we’d have a chance. We’d have a bloody good chance!”
“How much time are you talking about?”
The colonel shrugged.
“I don’t know. Maybe six months, maybe more. What difference does it make? You want the Transvaal under British rule; it’s been Boer ever since they kicked the shit out of us fifteen years ago, and it was Boer before that. And, I might mention, they did it against the British Army, not against a ragtag bunch of pseudo adventurers playing soldier. So what’s a few more months to ensure success?”