The River of Diamonds

I gave a short laugh. 'That puts me nowhere. I don't know where I was born, or who my parents were, even.'

She put her hand on my arm. For the first time I was aware of her warmth. 'John Tregard…'

I'd lived with it too long to be unduly concerned. Tregard was a missionary — in these parts, actually, south of the big bend in the Orange River in the Richtersveld — and you know what that means. He thought there were a lot of souls in need of salvation among the Hottentot gangs. He adopted me after finding me running wild.'

'And your parents?'

'It was pretty rough up here then. I haven't a clue who they were. The Tregards were kind — while they lasted. Then the usual pattern: orphanage, Sunday visits out to kind old ladies, fight for education — you know, it's been repeated a thousand times.'

'But only once for John Tregard, and that's what counts.'

That's a strange thing to say.'

'Now you're a surveyor, a skilled professional.'

I smiled at her defence of me. All the penniless years, the frantic fight for schooling, the dreary digs, the endless study — somehow it all seemed worth while then.

'I got there in the end.'

'I'd guess sooner, not later.'

'I was the youngest graduate of my year at Cape Town University.'

She said impetuously, 'I hope the Mazy Zed wins — for your sake.'

'I'm a freelance…' I started to say, but she broke in.

'You're a loner, aren't you, both in your job — and in yourself.'

I shrugged, but it made me feel good to tell her, none the less. 'You heard the John Tregard story.'

She said slowly, 'I thought you seemed pretty intense in court, especially today. I'd say this was more than a job to you.'

I was back in the Gquma's cabin. I was seeing that name engraved deeply on the ornate butt of the Borchardt. It was her father. I could not bring myself to tell her.

I said lightly, 'I'm the sort of John the Baptist of the outfit — the one who goes before.'

She wasn't deceived. 'What you mean is that at the first opportunity you'll strike out for Mercury…'

'And Strandloper's Water.'

She turned seawards and wrinkled her eyes against the sun, as if seeking an answer out across the white-green water.

'Why? Why should I?' she demanded, coming close to me. 'Why should I accept Shelborne's account of my father's death…? Yet I do.'

I told her about Shelborne's flat rejection of our offer aboard the cutter, not the rest.

'I would have sold. I… I like him — I like you both.'

'I don't believe his story of your father's death,' I said flatly.

'Yes, but why, even if you don't, should you involve yourself in something which can't possibly do any good, whichever way you look at it?'

I could not have answered her very explicitly at that stage myself. If Atacama and Takla Makan rang for me, then Mercury and Strandloper's Water were like those old-time wreckers' bells placed on the rocks to draw the victim's ship, although he himself might be fairly sure of his position. I had to go.

She said, 'You didn't approach me with an offer.'

'You heard what Shardelow said: for the purposes of the Mazy Zed application we are treating you as one.'

She didn't reply, but went on staring at me with a curious, searching look. I took refuge in words. 'You didn't make much of your case, did you? You let him get away with all the handwriting doubts and didn't press him about Strandloper's Water.'

'Strandloper's Water again,' she echoed.

I wanted to be out of that quiet, deep scrutiny. I bent down and picked up a handful of sand, letting it trickle through my fingers. She squatted down next to me. 'The sand — it holds so many secrets: my father, Shelborne, the woman they killed over there, the baby. You don't think Shelborne told the truth about my father?'

She had to know what I felt: 'I believe he extracted the cession and then murdered him.'

'No! no! He wouldn't have, not him…'

'Maybe simply left him to die in the dunes.'

'He is not that sort of man…'

'Listen,' I said harshly, thinking of the Borchardt, 'Shelborne is tough, mighty tough. But I admit there's a lot more to him than mere toughness. There's that spark, that "beyond the ranges" spark, which I cannot put my finger on. I admit that I cannot reconcile that side of him with what I've just said. There's a kindliness, too — but the fascination is that — that…'

'Adventurer of the spirit.'

'Yes, yes, that's it. There's a sort of mortification of the body about him, he endures in order to humble the body — deliberately — in some greater cause.'

'Lawrence of Arabia's camel ride.'

'Shelborne's Atacama. Shelborne's Takla Makan.'

'Shelborne's Namib.'

She, too, let the sand run through her fingers, the only break in our long silence. Then she ended it abruptly with a curious gesture to the north, which in my hypersensitive frame of mind I took to include Mercury and its dangers, the evil of which Shelborne had spoken, and — wonderfully — a care within herself for me.

Her words did not cover the compass of her gesture. 'I like Shelborne and I like you — it's as if I were falling back on… on… a bond already forged. But put diamonds on the table, and we're fighting like a pack of dogs.'

I replied drily, 'It happens. Look at your father and Shelborne.'

The two men were returning. She stood up, looking down at me. I can still see her. 'For God's sake be careful when you go near Mercury, John.'

I looked up at her. I said nothing.

'For my sake too, John.'

Shelborne and MacDonald came within earshot. I don't think either she or I heard much of MacDonald's expositions of diamond mining, from prospecting trenches to sweeping out potholes with brooms for the precious stones, — we were as silent as the great machines which, electric-powered, tear away soundlessly at the desert. The power is fed in in the face of immense technical difficulties: salt, corrosion, salt fogs, distance, sand, but they have all been beaten by the backroom boys of Oranjemund.

We returned to our security-hedged fortress as dark was falling.

Next day the tension in the courtroom was heightened by a late start. Shelborne sat drawn and haggard, his faded clothes carefully pressed. Mary, elegant in black suit and small hat, said a brief word to me and hurried past. Rhennin was glum after a long session the previous night with Shardelow.

'Silence in court!'

Mr Justice de Villiers gave full weight to the drama, walking slowly to the bench, inclining his head gravely to Shardelow, Mennin and the rest of us.

He sat down and said briefly: 'Mr Shelborne, I shall not require to re-examine you, as I had thought earlier.

There is nothing more to be gained by questioning Miss Caldwell further either.'

He paused meaningfully and consulted some notes.

Shardelow whispered, The bastard! Every time he plays that trick I get a new ulcer!'

The Judge said in formal tones: 'The court has before it the application of Frederick Shelborne, prospector, for the maintenance of rights granted and ceded to him by Frederick William Caldwell, prospector, in 1930 in pursuance of a German Imperial Decree vesting those rights in Mr Caldwell in 1913. The court finds there is no reason to doubt the authenticity of the document submitted by Mr Shelborne.'

'Christ!' muttered Rhennin to me. 'Listen to his tone. Here we go for a ride!'

Shardelow muttered urgently: 'You'll appeal, of course?'

Rhennin nodded. It looked as if the gamble had paid off for Shelborne. We'd fight, of course, and perhaps come to terms; one of those neat out-of-court settlements when counsel, bland and suave with extra fees, announce that the parties have mutually agreed…

'The court, however, cannot accept the deed of cession. There are serious discrepancies…'

Rhennin said under his breath, 'Will the girl sell, John?'