Redcoat

By David Crookes

1873... A landslide at a diamond mine in Africa leaves autocratic British army major, Spencer Shackerly, badly injured and in a deep coma. He awakens to find himself a helpless cripple and his military career over. Holding Lieutenant Jeffrey Guest responsible for his plight, he is determined to have the young officer face a court martial.
Jeffrey Guest has since returned to England, planning to marry his childhood sweetheart. On his wedding day he is blamed for the death of a soldier when the army attempts to arrest him. But aided by family and friends he manages to flee the country.
So begins a relentless worldwide manhunt. Shackerly uses his aristocratic family's wealth and influence in high places at home and abroad to mercilessly hunt down the fugitive across the United States, Canada and Australia until eventually the hunted becomes the hunter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Crookes
• Release date: Dec 20, 2010
• ISBN: 9780980825213

David Crookes

David Crookes self-published his first novel BLACKBIRD in 1996. It was quickly picked up by Hodder Headline, now HATCHETTE GROUP, and became a best seller in multiple editions, as did THE LIGHT HORSEMAN'S DAUGHTER and SOMEDAY SOON and other titles. Now most of his many novels are available as ebooks. David was born in Southampton, England. After living in Canada for twenty-three years he moved to Queensland, Australia with his wife and children. He has worked in many occupations, as a farm hand, factory worker, lumber-mill worker, costing surveyor, salesman, contractor, oilfield and construction industry executive and as a small business owner. He now writes fulltime. His travels have taken him to many parts of the world and his particular passion, apart from writing is single-handed ocean sailing.His novels include:BlackbirdThe Light Horseman's DaughterSomeday SoonChildren of the SunRedcoatBorderlineGreat Spirit ValleyThe Bookkeeper's Daughter

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

SOUTHERN AFRICA 1873

When his mount topped a rise in the high rolling grasslands of Griqualand West, Lieutenant Jeffrey Guest reined in quickly and ordered his twelve-man troop of lancers to halt. The young officer’s eyes widened as he took in the amazing sight on the broad plain ahead.

Barely half a mile away, surrounded by a vast, ramshackle collection of tents, clapboard shacks and corrugated iron sheds, lay a small hill or kopje. It looked to be only thirty or forty feet high and covered an area of no more than twenty-five acres. But in and around the shantytown surrounding it, and swarming all over the hill itself, like a great colony of black ants, was a seething mass of humanity.

A wry smile spread across the lieutenant’s strong-jawed, boyish face. So this was the famous Colesburg Kopje, recently renamed Kimberley after the British Colonial Secretary in London. This godforsaken place was the site of the fabulous diamond mine, said to contain the largest deposits of precious stones in the world.

Before the chance discovery of diamonds on a farm owned by a Boer family named De Beer, the remote region of West Grigualand had been of little interest to the British. But with an almost unbelievable fountain of wealth suddenly there for the taking, Whitehall had moved quickly to declare it a British Crown Colony, over the protestations of the neighboring Boer territories of the Orange Free State, the South African Republic in the Transvaal, and also the native Griqua people.

The small cavalry troop had ridden almost four hundred miles from British Natal, in response to a call from the Governor of Griqualand West for temporary military support to help maintain law and order in the fledgling protectorate. In keeping with the role that lay ahead, the troop’s more traditional weapons, swords and lances, had been dispensed with, in favor of revolvers and short-barreled Snider carbines.

The long hard ride from Durban, on the shores of the Indian Ocean, had been an adventure in itself for Jeffrey Guest and the dozen men who had volunteered to go with him. In Natal, they had been members of a cavalry detachment sent out from England to serve as the Governor’s personal guard. But with the colony’s capital being little more than a sleepy, coastal backwater, the young lancers had jumped at the chance to venture into the interior and see some of the real Africa.

Soon after leaving the coastal region’s lush sub-tropical vegetation, the riders had encountered hot grassy plains, studded here and there by clumps of thorn trees. Beyond the great thorn savannahs were more temperate woodlands, often cloaked in eerie mists, and further on, the towering peaks of the Drakensberg Mountains rose up majestically into the sky. After picking their way through a series of high mountain passes, the troop entered the Orange Free State and continued on across the high veldt to Griqualand West.

Throughout the entire journey, Jeffrey had been in awe of wildlife he had never seen before. Elephants, lions, rhinoceros, zebras, and smaller creatures like baboons, hyenas and jackals, had all stood curiously and seemingly unafraid, as they watched the troop’s passing. But now, tired and dirty, and glad the long ride was over, Jeffrey spurred his mount and the troop of redcoats cantered the last few hundred yards to the diggings.

The horses slowed to a walk as they neared the edge of the shantytown surrounding the kopje. Now the surface of the hill, which was the summit of a massive subterranean shaft of diamondiferous volcanic lava, was clearly visible. Every inch was pockmarked with excavations and in and around them, thousands of men were busily working claims.

Most of the miners were Europeans but there were also many blacks. Some of the men were stripped to the waist and their lean, muscular bodies glistened with sweat as they swung their picks and shovels. Criss-crossing the kopje, and running between the rows of digger’s claims, was a series of narrow trails. Each trail was clogged with mule-drawn carts. Some were hauling loads of excavated material down off the hill where gangs of men sifted through it, searching for diamonds. Other carts were returning back up the hill, empty.

Some distance away, above all the chaos, Jeffrey saw a symbol of order and authority. The Union Jack was flying from a tall flagpole. As he led his troop towards it, he eyed the fortune-seekers sifting through the piles of volcanic gravel brought down off the hill. Some of the laborers took a moment from their work to look up at the lancers as they rode by.

In their young and old, black and white faces, Jeffrey saw all kinds of men. Many of the Europeans had the crusty look of seasoned diggers, others seemed more like sallow-faced clerks from London, Cape Town, or Port Elizabeth. Some had the hardy outdoor look of farmers while others, especially the younger ones, looked to be nothing more than wide-eyed, adventure-seeking dreamers.

The blacks were harder to fathom. Their inscrutable faces offered no hint of their background. But it was plain to see that not only native Griquas were working the diggings. Also represented, were most of the other tribes of Southern Africa, collectively known by Europeans as the Bantu people, or more derogatorily, as Kaffirs. Like their white counterparts, many black miners had traveled far for a once in a lifetime chance to strike it rich.

When the troop neared the flagpole, Jeffrey saw a covered wagon and several rows of army tents. Outside the largest tent, the colors of the Queens 11th Hussars fluttered in the late afternoon breeze.

The Regimental Colonel of the 11th Hussars was Sir Henry Worthington, an ageing career officer looking forward to retirement. He and his regiment had been preparing to leave for England after a lengthy tour of duty in the Cape Colony, when word of lawlessness in Griqualand West reached Cape Town.

Sir Henry Barkly, the Cape Governor, had responded to the crisis by calling for military volunteers to be dispatched to the Kimberley diamond mines, and by appointing Richard Southey, a member of his own staff, as Governor of Griqualand West.

But there were few troops available. Since Britain had seized the Cape Colony from Holland over fifty years earlier and later annexed the neighboring Boer colony of Natal to ensure British control of the sea-lanes to India, Imperial forces in the region had been in decline.

They had decreased further with the opening of the Suez Canal, which provided a shorter sea route to India and lessened the need for a strong military presence in the Cape Colony. And with no perceived threat from the landlocked republics the Boers had established in the interior to the north, even the Cape Mounted Rifles, a colonial volunteer force, had been disbanded.

With no other troops available other than the 11th Hussars when the Cape Governor’s urgent call for volunteers went out, Worthington could hardly refuse. But now, as he sat with an aide in his canvas command post in Kimberley, within earshot of the greedy diamond-digging rabble outside, he wished he had.

‘Sir.’ An orderly sergeant stepped into the tent. ‘A troop of lancers has arrived from Natal.’

Worthington’s tired, somber face seemed to brighten a little. ‘Very well, Sergeant. Send in their commander, then see to it that his men are assigned quarters.’

The sergeant withdrew and as the colonel and his aide rose to their feet, a tall, slim lieutenant entered the tent and saluted smartly.

‘Colonel Worthington, sir,’ he said, removing his white helmet and tucking it under his arm. ‘Lieutenant Jeffrey Guest, Ninth Lancers, reporting for duty.’

Worthington’s bushy gray eyebrows rose slightly. To his surprise, the young fair-haired, blue-eyed subaltern had spoken in a broad West-Country brogue. It was unusual for a commissioned cavalry officer to come from the English yeoman class.

‘Welcome to Kimberley, Lieutenant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The colonel gestured toward his aide. ‘This is Major Spencer Shackerly, my second in command.’

Shackerly, a gaunt-faced, dark-haired, aloof-looking man in his late-twenties, nodded his head and pursed his thin lips into a tight smile. ‘How many men have you brought with you, Lieutenant?’ he asked in a superior aristocratic tone.

‘Just twelve, sir.’

Shackerly glanced despairingly at Worthington.

Worthington shrugged. ‘Well I suppose twelve is better than nothing, Spencer.’ He drew a timepiece from a pocket in his tunic and checked the time. ‘Well I have to be off, I have an appointment with the Governor.’ He smiled briefly at Jeffrey. ‘I’ll leave Major Shackerly to fill you in on the situation here, Lieutenant.’

‘How old are you, Lieutenant?’ Shackerly asked when the colonel had left the tent.

‘Twenty-one, sir. ’

‘How long have you been in the army?’

‘Just over two years, sir.’

‘And in Natal?’

‘Eleven months, sir. It was my first Foreign Service posting.’

‘And you’re from the West Country, I take it?’

The question was asked in a condescending tone. It came as no surprise to Jeffrey. When he had presented himself, he noticed his accent had drawn a reaction from both superior officers. While the colonel’s had been little more than mild surprise, the look on the major’s face had been one of open disdain. There were still many aristocratic officers in the army who saw the purchase of a commission by someone from the lower classes, as a blatant attempt to rise above their proper station in life.

‘Yes, sir,’ Jeffrey said firmly. ‘My family are tenant farmers near Penzance in Cornwall.’

‘A Cornishman.’ Just for a moment Shackerly’s mouth widened into a barely discernible smirk. ‘And a farmer at that. What made you aspire to the army?’

‘As a boy I always wanted to see as many lands of the Empire as I could, sir.’

Shackerly’s smirk returned. ‘I would have thought coming from a maritime county, the Royal Navy would have been your first choice.’

‘Sailors see little of the lands they visit, sir. Most only see the filthy, rough areas around the docks in ports of call.’

‘And you’ll see nothing better here, Lieutenant.’ Shackerly strode quickly to the entrance of the tent and threw back the flap. ‘Out there on that great dung heap is the scum of the earth.’ His voice rose angrily as he spoke. ‘Out there are thousands of louts, ruffians, and scoundrels, all desperate to dig their way to a fortune, and those whose claims do not yield diamonds, are just as desperate to lie, cheat, or steal their way to riches. It’s a cesspool out there. Sickness and disease claims many lives every day but still hundreds more riffraff pour into Kimberley every week from all over Southern Africa. And for every digger, there’s a shameless parasite, a thief, a swindler, a profiteer, or a prostitute. To make matters worse there are no sanitary services here, no proper hospital, nor any buildings fit for human habitation.’ Shackerly pointed to the covered wagon under the flagpole. ‘For the moment, even Governor Southey is forced to live in that primitive conveyance.’

‘It must be very difficult for Colonel Worthington to maintain law and order in such a place, Major,’ Jeffrey volunteered.

Shackerly turned quickly and looked Jeffrey directly in the eye.

‘Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Lieutenant,’ he snapped, ‘I maintain law and order here. Colonel Worthington is required to work closely with Governor Southey in an advisory role in this colony. Consequently, he has placed the responsibility of day-to-day law enforcement with me. It is a task I do not enjoy. In this wretched place, the role of the British soldier has been reduced to nothing more than that of a common policeman. But since those are my orders, I perform my duties to the best of my ability. To do that, I require you and all the men under my command to obey my orders to the letter. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. The orderly sergeant will see you to your quarters. Get a good night’s sleep. Reveille is at 5.30 am. Report to me at 6.30. That will be all.’

CHAPTER TWO

It was barely light when a bugle pierced the still morning air. Jeffrey rose immediately from his canvas bed in the tent he shared with two other junior officers and scores of mosquitoes. An hour later, when he reported to Major Shackerly, the sun was climbing rapidly into a clear blue sky and Kimberley and the diggings had come alive.

Shackerly was alone in the command post tent when Jeffrey entered.

‘Ah, Guest.’ Shackerly got down to business immediately without any pleasantries. ‘I have decided that your troop will initially be integrated into existing mounted patrols. Once your men have learned the ropes here and know what is expected of them, they will form three new four-man patrols which will be responsible to you. And of course, you will report directly to me. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir. And what will I do in the meantime?’

‘This morning, you and I will accompany one of the patrols. You will be able to observe first hand, how diamond mining operations are conducted here in Kimberley and I will explain to you the rules and regulations Governor Southey has put in place for the miners.’ Shackerly shook his head. ‘I have to tell you now, Guest, as one soldier to another, some of them are far too lax for my liking and as you’ll see, they make the job of law enforcement unnecessarily difficult.’

Shackerly and Jeffrey led the patrol, riding side by side. Behind them, the four-man patrol under the command of a corporal, followed in single file. They rode up onto the kopje using the narrow mule cart tracks running between the miner’s claims. When they reached the highest point in the diggings, Shackerly reined in and halted the column. The eagle’s nest position provided an unobstructed view of most of the claims on the hill and the hordes of men working them.

‘Soon there won’t even be a hill left here at all,’ Shackerly said. ‘All that will be left here after the rush is over will be the deepest man-made hole in the world. What you see all around you, Lieutenant, is the epitome of lust and greed. There are claim owners here making over a hundred pounds a week and many making a great deal more. A hundred pounds a week, Guest. That’s more than a lieutenant is paid in a year, and only after he’s paid the army four hundred and fifty pounds for a Queen’s Commission.’

Jeffrey was stunned. ‘Is everyone making that much, sir? Is everyone finding diamonds?’

‘No, not everyone. While one claim might yield a fortune in precious stones, the one beside it might yield nothing.’ Shackerly’s jaw hardened. ‘That’s why this place is such an incubator for evil and treacherous minds. Those who find nothing, start hatching plans to steal, cheat and swindle from those who do.’

Jeffrey turned in the saddle and slowly looked over the diggings. The entire hill was so crowded, in some places the workers barely had room to swing a pick or a shovel. He estimated there must be close to ten thousand workers in all on the kopje.

‘But there must be four or five thousand white men working here on the hill, sir. Surely they can’t all own a claim.’

‘They don’t. There were only six hundred claims allotted originally. Each one has an area of only one thousand square feet for which the owner pays a license fee of just ten shillings a week. The rest of the men you see, either work as laborers for claim holders or they’re partners who’ve bought a half interest, a quarter interest, or perhaps even just a tenth interest in a claim.’

‘But why would a licensee sell off shares if he is lucky enough to own a claim outright, sir?’

‘Use your head, Lieutenant,’ Shackerly snapped. ‘A man can’t work a claim alone. You either employ laborers who will probably rob you blind by pocketing half the diamonds they find, or you take on partners who are much less likely to steal from themselves. I’m afraid theft is rampant here in the diggings.’

‘What is the penalty for stealing, sir?’

‘The penalty laid down by Governor Southey is fifty lashes and one year’s hard labor. Too damn soft of course. I prefer the penalty laid down by some of the claim owners who prefer to mete out their own justice.’

‘And what is that, sir?’

‘Death. For a Kaffir, it’s often a bullet between the eyes. A white man is more likely to be buried alive in an excavation cave-in or have his skull accidentally split open by a pick or shovel. Of course, it’s more difficult for black claim holders to get away with dispensing their own justice to those who steal from them.’

Jeffrey was surprised. ‘You mean some of the claims are owned by blacks, sir?’

‘Oh yes, there are a few Kaffirs who own claims here,’ Shakerly said bitterly. ‘I told you earlier, some of the governor’s ordinances are hard to swallow. One of them allows equal rights to all Kaffirs in Griqualand West. That gives niggers the right to own mining claims and property and even bear arms just like any white man.’

The major sighed and shook his head. ‘You could only expect such stupidity from civil servants. They all think like that, you know, Lieutenant. Governor Southey used to be the Colonial Secretary of the Cape Colony before his appointment here. I think a combination of the African sun and constant sipping of gin and tonic at Government House in Cape Town, must have addled his brain.’

Jeffrey couldn’t help but grin. ‘And as the Governor’s advisor, what does Major Worthington think of equal rights for Kaffirs, sir?’ he asked.

‘He knows the notion is ridiculous. As a soldier, he is well aware that the British Empire was built by military and racial supremacy. We conquer and colonize with the sword, the lance and the gun, Lieutenant, not with mindless bureaucratic dreams of idealism of equality for all. But unfortunately, Major Worthington is near the end of his career and has no wish to rock the boat here by arguing with fools sent out from Whitehall.’ Shackerly glanced at Jeffrey. ‘Just as well the army doesn’t share the views of men like Governor Southey, or there would be no Empire for the sons of Cornish farmers to go out and see, would there?’

Shackerly spurred his horse and the troop began its descent off the kopje. From time to time on the narrow track, the horses had to pick their way around carts hauling excavated gravel down off the hill. In places, the edges of the track had collapsed into the ever-deepening trenches dug on each side of it.

‘How is it these roadways between the claims are so narrow, Major?’ Jeffrey asked, as the patrol was about to pass yet another loaded cart near the foot of the kopje.

‘Each claim owner is obliged to give up eight feet on each side of his claim to allow half of a sixteen foot roadway,’ Shackerly explained. ‘With every square inch of land potentially yielding diamonds, everyone resents giving up any land at all. Consequently, the miners encroach more and more into the road allowances. Eventually, as the mines get deeper and deeper, it’s inevitable that the roadways will collapse and disappear altogether.’

‘And what will happen then, sir?’

‘I expect big companies will have bought out all the small claim holders by then and they will devise more practical ways of getting the excavations down off the hill. I expect....’

A shot rang out nearby. The loud report stopped the mule cart the patrol was passing and startled the horses. Shackerly’s mount, a big highly-strung gray, reared steeply, almost throwing the major to the ground. Up ahead, in front of the cart, Jeffrey saw a man standing in the middle of the roadway waving a pistol.

‘Get down off the cart, Kaffir,’ the gunman yelled in a thick Boer accent. When the cart driver, a terrified old Griqua, didn’t respond immediately, the Boer fired another round into the air just above the driver’s head. Still the old man didn’t budge.

Shackerly brought his horse under control and moved quickly to end the impasse. Drawing his revolver, he urged his mount forward and placing himself between the cart and the gunman, he pointed the weapon directly at the Boer’s head.

‘Drop your gun now,’ he said calmly, ‘or you will be dead in three seconds.’

The Boer dropped his pistol instantly.

‘What’s your name?’ Shackerly snapped.

‘Willem Van Louen.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes... Major Shackerly.’

‘And you still dared discharge your weapon in the vicinity of this troop?’

When Van Louen didn’t answer, Shackerly called out to his NCO. ‘Corporal, detain this man.’

The corporal and another soldier dismounted quickly and advanced towards the Boer.

‘But, Major, I have just come from my recovery crew sifting through excavation from my claim,’ Van Louen pleaded. He pointed an accusing finger at the cart driver. ‘They told me they believe this man is stealing my diamonds.’

‘And do you have any proof?’

‘No, but my laborers told me they have seen this Kaffir stopping his cart on the way down from the claim. Why else would a driver do that, if not to spend a few minutes sifting through his load looking for diamonds?’

When the troopers had Van Louen held firmly by the arms, Shackerly turned his attention to the old black.

‘Is it true, what this man says?’

‘No, Mister Major, sir.’ The old man’s eyes were bulging and he was shaking with fear. ‘I have stolen nothing.’

‘If you have stolen nothing, then you have nothing to fear, Now...’

‘But he’s lying Major,’ Van Louen interrupted loudly. ‘Can’t you see this nigger is lying?’

The Boer’s outburst drew Shackerly’s ire. He glanced quickly at the corporal. The NCO knew immediately what was expected of him and slammed his fist into Van Louen’s face in a series of short sharp blows.

‘You will speak only when you are spoken to,’ the corporal shouted when the Boer sank to his knees, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. ‘Do you understand?’

Van Louen nodded his head meekly and Shackerly turned back to the cart driver. The incident was beginning to attract a crowd of onlookers and as they pressed in around the wagon and the soldiers, Jeffrey could see Shackerly was enjoying the opportunity to exert his authority.

‘As I was saying, old man,’ he continued, ‘if you have stolen nothing, you have nothing to fear. Now get down off the wagon and strip off your clothes.’

The driver was trembling as he climbed down off the cart. He was barefoot and wore only a ragged shirt and trousers. When he began fumbling nervously with the buttons on his shirt, the corporal stepped forward and ripped the clothes off the Griqua’s back and quickly searched them.

‘Nothing here, Major,’ he said, flinging the rags back at the naked old man.

‘The mouth, Corporal,’ Shackerly snapped. ‘Check his mouth.’

Scared out of his wits, the Griqua clutched his clothes to his chest and began to back away. One of the mounted soldiers quickly urged his horse forward to block his retreat and the corporal stepped forward quickly and landed a heavy blow to the old man’s head.

‘Open your mouth, Kaffir.’

The Griqua was reluctant to obey the order. He only complied when the corporal raised his fist to strike again. But he only opened his mouth just a little way.

‘Open it wider,’ the corporal shouted as he stepped closer to take a look inside.

The terrified Griqua obliged, but before he did, he quickly pressed his lips tightly together and swallowed hard. The desperate, hasty act fooled no one. And the old man’s fear only accentuated the convulsion in his throat as he forced whatever was in his mouth down inside him.

There were snickers from most of the onlookers who found some morbid amusement in the old man’s serious predicament and the crowd surged forward in anticipation of the certain retribution that was to come.

‘Tie the thief to the side of the cart, Corporal,’ Shackerly ordered, ‘and prepare to administer the prescribed punishment.’ He looked around at the ever-growing crowd. ‘These people can witness the penalty for diamond theft in Kimberley, whether it is to see justice done or to know their fate if they too are tempted to steal.’

Jeffrey was appalled at the presumption of the driver’s guilt. He moved his mount closer to Shackerly. ‘But, sir,’ he said earnestly, ‘isn’t it possible that this man could have swallowed something other than a diamond?’

‘No, Lieutenant, it is not,’ Shackerly snapped. ‘And don’t you ever dare question my judgment again.’

After his reprimand, Jeffrey looked on helplessly as the soldiers began lashing the naked old man to the cart. They tied his wrists and ankles to the side of the wagon, leaving his body spread-eagled against the planking, with his bare back and buttocks ready to receive the corporal’s lash.

The corporal drew an army-issue cat o’ nine tails from his saddlebag and when Shackerly gave the order, he began the flogging with the major himself counting the strokes.

There wasn’t a whimper from the cart driver until the count of six, when the cluster of short, knotted leather strings began to strip off his skin. But he began moaning after the seventh stroke when the lash started tearing and lacerating the flesh beneath. After the fifteenth stroke, the moan became a blood-curdling scream each time the lash sank deeper into his mangled flesh and some of the whip’s nine tails found their way right through to the bone.

Jeffrey looked away and stared down at the ground beside his horse as the flogging and the screaming went on and on. With each cruel stroke he wondered if the old man could possibly survive the terrible beating. Jeffrey wasn’t the only one without the stomach to watch the brutality. Long before the corporal had delivered the mandatory fifty strokes, many of the diggers looking on had turned away and gone back to their work.

‘Fifty.’

Jeffrey looked up when Shackerly called out the number. The corporal was exhausted and stood perspiring heavily with the cat o’ nine tails hanging limply at his side. His hands and face were splattered with the Griqua’s blood.

‘Did I tell you to stop, Corporal?’ Shackerly barked

‘No, sir.’

‘Then continue until I do.’

When the corporal raised the lash again, Jeffrey was unable to restrain himself. ‘But, sir,’ he protested, ‘you told me yourself that the penalty for stealing was fifty lashes.’

From the look on Shackerly’s face, Jeffrey knew he had overstepped the mark.

‘Are you questioning my orders again, Lieutenant Guest?’ Shackerly snapped. ‘Need I remind you of the severe penalties for insubordination?’

‘No, sir.’

Shackerly cocked his head toward the Griqua. ‘Carry on, Corporal.’

The corporal resumed the flogging and the count had reached sixty-eight before the old man’s screaming finally stopped, when mercifully, he lost consciousness.

Shackerly turned to Van Louen. ‘What is your driver’s name?’

‘Moshemoshe, Major.’

‘Very well. Now, you are aware that with limited prison facilities here at Kimberley, the military has the discretionary power to order a diamond thief’s year of hard labor be served here in the diggings at the direction of the claim owner from whom he stole.’

‘Yes, Major.’

‘Then I release this man into your charge to serve out his sentence.’ Shackerly gestured toward Jeffrey. ‘Give my lieutenant the thief’s name in writing and he will bring you the official papers over the next few days. He will also see to it that Moshemoshe is tattooed as required by law for identification purposes.’

Jeffrey was horrified. He wondered if Shackerly even had the authority to sentence a civilian without trial. And conscious of what the major had said earlier about how some claim owners took their own retribution on diamond thieves, he doubted if the old black would serve out the sentence, even if he survived the flogging.

He desperately wanted to speak up again in the old man’s defense. But he didn’t dare.

CHAPTER THREE

Salem Slade was a twenty-five year old prospector from California. A big, broad-shouldered man, he stood six foot six inches tall in his bare feet, well over that in his size twelve boots. The American’s intense blue eyes peered out at the world through unruly strands of thick sandy-colored hair and the upper reaches of a bushy beard which totally obscured his face.

Salem had been one of the first to leave the crowd of diggers witnessing Moshemoshe’s brutal flogging. He had only stopped briefly to see what all the commotion was about as he walked back up the road allowance to his claim, after overseeing laborers sifting through excavation near the foot of the hill.

Unlike many of the crowd of onlookers, he had no morbid fascination with the punishment the sadistic English major was meting out to the hapless old Griqua. A surprisingly mild-mannered man, Salem had seen his fill of violence in the diggings from the goldfields of California and British Columbia to the diamond mines of South America and Kimberley. But uncharacteristically, as he hurried on up the kopje, he had no time to dwell on the plight of Willem Van Louen’s muleskinner. He had problems enough of his own.

A seasoned prospector, Salem had arrived in Cape Town six months earlier, from Salvador, after more than a year spent prospecting for diamonds in Brazil. His search for high quality precious stones in South America had been disappointing. But he had found a modest quantity of bort, a material composed of aggregated small diamonds used for industrial purposes.

It had been the bort that had provided him with a grubstake to embark on his African adventure when word of the fabulous Kimberley mine reached Salvador. He arrived in Griqualand West with high hopes and enough money to buy a half interest in a claim owned by Evan Jones, a cocky, but very persuasive little Welshman.

It was only later that Salem realized that he had invested in one of the few claims that produced practically nothing, while those all around it continually yielded an amazing flow of diamonds. Some of the very best claims were just a stone’s throw away from his.

Several were owned by an Englishman named Cecil Rhodes, whose consistent good fortune enabled him to buy up more and more claims. Two others were owned by Willem Van Louen. But, unlike the Englishman and the Boer, after months of hard work and heartbreak, Salem had nothing to show for his trouble and his money.

Apart from his most treasured possession, a Winchester repeating rifle with his initials engraved in a brass plate embedded in the stock, all Salem had left were the clothes he stood up in, a pile of unpaid bills, laborers threatening to quit because of overdue wages, and a soured relationship with his partner. Long ago he and Jones had been forced to put up their claim as security to Kimberley loan sharks.

But Salem was a prospector and having a small fortune one-day and sailing too close to the wind the next, was a natural way of life. It had been that way as long as he could remember. It was a trait he had inherited from his father. Henry Slade had been a Virginia coal miner before he and his wife had pulled up stakes and joined the tens of thousands of forty-niners who crossed the Great Plains and the Rocky Mountains on the torturous Oregon Trail to join the great California gold rush.

After crossing the Great Divide, they headed southward though the Oregon Territory towards the goldfields in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California. Along the way the wagon train had stopped at a Methodist settlement called Salem, on the banks of the Willemette River. It was there, with the help of missionaries, Mary Slade had given birth to a strong healthy boy but lost her own life in the process. In appreciation of help the little Methodist community gave him, Henry Slade named his son Salem.

When the big American reached the claim, Evan Jones was working with a group of laborers about twenty feet below the roadway. Seeing Salem, the Welshman promptly dropped his shovel and scrambled up a ladder out of the mine.

‘Anyone find anything in the last load we sent down, Salem?’

Salem shook his head and gave Jones the same answer he had given a thousand times before. ‘No, nothing, Evan, maybe the next load.’

The little Welshman sighed despondently, then eyed Salem nervously.

‘What was all the fuss about down there at the foot of the hill? I heard shots.’

‘Van Louen caught one of his drivers stealing diamonds.’

‘God Almighty, who was it?’

‘Moshemoshe.’

Jones’ jaw sagged. ‘Is he dead? Did Van Louen kill him?’

‘No, but that swine of an English major probably has by now. He happened on the scene with a patrol just as Van Louen started shooting. The bastard tried and sentenced Moshemoshe on the spot. The old man was taking such a flogging when I left, I doubt he’ll survive it.’

‘Tried and sentenced....’ Evan Jones suddenly looked very fearful. ‘Then they must have found diamonds on him.’

Salem shrugged his shoulders. ‘I heard someone say he had one in his mouth and swallowed it.’

‘And you say the soldiers are still flogging him?’

‘They were when I left.’

Salem eased himself onto the ladder. As he climbed down into the mine, he expected Evan Jones to follow him, but the little Welshman hurried off down the hill on the double. He hadn’t returned to the claim when Salem and his workers downed tools at the end of the day.

*

Work in the diggings always started at dawn and only ceased when bad light made it impossible to continue. Fearful of thieves, most diggers guarded their claims with their lives during the long hours of darkness, sleeping with one eye open and one hand on a firearm, ready to shoot any trespassers.

Many claims displayed notices warning would-be thieves of the consequences of trespassing. Willem Van Louen had a sign on his, bearing the ominous words:

ANYONE FOUND ON THIS CLAIM AT NIGHT

WILL BE FOUND ON IT IN THE MORNING.

Only the few unlucky diggers who felt they had nothing to lose, left their claims unattended after dark. Among those who did were Salem Slade and Evan Jones.

As Salem made his way down off the hill to the quarters he shared with Jones, he was wondering why his partner had hurried away earlier and why he hadn’t returned all day. He was still wondering when he reached