“Staak skiet!”
As quickly as it had come, the firing ceased. The troopers stared about themselves in a daze, unable as yet to comprehend the sudden attack and the equally sudden ending of it, looking down in shock at the bodies of their comrades lying broken beneath the hooves of their mounts, and the unbelievable sight of their captain waving the flag of surrender, unable as yet to understand the totality of the disaster that had struck. The surviving horses jerked their heads against the reins, trembling uncontrollably at the sudden silence, their flanks wet with perspiration, their mouths frothing, their eyes wild.
A figure appeared on a horse atop one of the kopjes; a hand was raised and men appeared on both kopjes, coming from behind the trees and up from the tall grass, waiting silently, looking down with dour expressionless faces at the results of their ambush, their rifles at their sides but ready. Jameson dismounted and slowly climbed the hill, the white flag trailing at his feet as his arm drooped. His mind was a blank, refusing at first to accept the fact that he had actually surrendered; then it tried to take what satisfaction it could from the fact that he had been forced to surrender, had had no choice but to surrender. But it was bitter medicine for the doctor. With each step he took he knew that the revolution had failed because of his failure. He knew that his best friend, Cecil Rhodes, would have been put in an untenable position as Premier of the Cape because of his failure. Bitter medicine indeed…
He came to stand beside the mounted man, looking up in the face of a tall, bearded man dressed in overalls, with farm boots on his feet, and who wore a wide-brimmed, leather trekker’s hat. The man looked as if he had been called from a day’s work on his farm at a moment’s notice, not at all like the neatly uniformed troopers who had left Pitsani in such high spirits. Jameson wet his lips and spoke. It seemed to him as if he were standing to one side, listening to some stranger say the words.
“We are your prisoners, sir. We have left wounded behind. My men have not eaten for over two days…”
The ill-fated Jameson raid was over.
13
January 1896
The cells were airless, filthy, and the vermin had free run of the place. There were no cots; the prisoners slept on the floor when they slept at all. A trickle of water running down a gutter in the yard was their only means of washing themselves; the heat of the South African summer was at its unbearable maximum. Three buckets, emptied only every second day, served as their privy. Most of the line troops involved in the ill-fated expedition had been freed, sent back across the border to Bechuanaland with the admonition never to enter the Transvaal again, but the leaders had been held and the members of the Reform Committee had been rounded up and also jailed, held for trial on the charges of treason and the distribution of arms. Jameson himself had been turned over to the Cape authorities to be sent to England for trial by his own government. It was a decision that Paul Kruger regretted as soon as Jameson had crossed the border into the Cape.
Barney Barnato, entering the prison after the many weeks it had taken him to get permission for the visit, wrinkled his nose at the smell. It was worse than anything he could recall, worse than the rancid, fetid odors in the slums of the East End where he had been raised, worse than the stench of offal and human waste that had greeted him when he had first come to Kimberley. Yet Solly Loeb, as well as most of the other prisoners he saw, seemed to be in a rather cheerful frame of mind. Solly was far from his usual dapper self, but the open-necked shirt and trousers dirty from the weeks in the jail did not seem to perturb him at all.
“You get used to not changing clothes every day,” he said, smiling. “You also — fortunately — even get used to the smell.”
“How about the food?” Barney asked.
Solly’s smile broadened. “Some of the wives have been, given permits to visit. My own wife brought in a box of cigars and a roasted duckling under her bustle; Grey’s wife came with a sausage wrapped around her waist. And money is a wonderful thing. A pound note here and a fiver there and we can get anything we want. The jailers are more like valets than warders. Not all of them, of course,” he added. “Du Plessis, the head warder, is a monster. He has Kaffirs beaten so we can hear them scream. It’s supposed to intimidate us, to make us frightened. He’s a fool.” He said it contemptuously.
Barney studied his nephew. Solly seemed a lot braver than Barney could ever recall. “Well, I must say you’re taking it well.”
Solly shrugged. “It’s just one of those unfortunate occurrences. The lawyers say the trial will take place in a week or so, and once that nonsense is over with and out of the way, we’ll be out of here.”
Barney stared at him in surprise. “And just what makes you think you’ll be out of here once the trial is over? You can’t possibly hope to be let go without any punishment whatsoever.”
Solly’s look was superior. It was, after all, one more example of his uncle’s innocence.
“Our lawyers told us that all old Kruger wants is an admission of guilt. The old man doesn’t want our blood; what would he do with it? If we admit we were naughty boys, he’ll slap us on the wrist, make us pay something into that ever-hungry treasury of his, and tell us to behave in the future. It’s as simple as that.”
“What!” Barney was shocked. “You’re insane! And so are your so-called lawyers! They had you plead guilty? Guilty? To a charge of treason? Whatever made them, or you, think Kruger would free you, especially after an idiot plea like that?”
Solly looked at him almost with condescension. “Look, Barney. I know you’re on speaking terms with old Kruger, but that doesn’t make you an expert on everything he says or does. Our lawyers know the old man, too, and what’s more important, they know the prosecuting attorney as well. Be reasonable! What would it gain old man Kruger to make us sit in this stinking hole for a few extra weeks or even months? We wouldn’t be making money, and that means we wouldn’t be paying his taxes, or bribing his officials, or all the hundreds of other things we do every day that keeps the economy of his precious Transvaal from falling to pieces. Half the mines on the Rand have shut down during all this brouhaha. D’you think old man Kruger hasn’t felt the effect of that when he pats his pants pockets? Of course he has! The old man isn’t totally insane, you know.”
“No, but you and your so-called lawyers are! Let me get you proper counsel—”
“No!” Solly’s face got ugly. “Barney, I suppose you mean well, but we’re quite satisfied with the counsel we have now. They were selected by Lionel Phillips, and he knows his way around the corner as well as you do. This is no time to be rocking the boat. Our lawyers have made a deal.” He dropped his voice although there was nobody near who might have overheard. “We plead guilty and we get off with a fine and a slap on the wrist. That’s the deal. Don’t interfere.”
Barney considered Solly for long seconds. He looked around the barren prison yard, seeing the men there, some playing cards, some laughing over some incident. Fools! he thought, and looked back at his nephew. “If that’s the way you want it. Is there anything I can get you?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well… In that case, I’ll be going. Is there anything you’re involved in at the office that needs handling?”
“No, my boys have everything under control.” Solly smiled. “I get regular reports, even in here.”