Curse of Gold

By Loredana Kaminski

It is the year 1900. The burial of gold bullion has been arranged, before the imminent battle between the Boer fighters and the British troops. When things don't go according to plan for two of the Boer commandos, it is the beginning of events that will have an impact on many people's lives, not only for those living at the time but also in the lives of those who would follow decades later.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Loredana Kaminski
• Release date: Jul 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463761298

Loredana Kaminski

My name is Loredana Kaminski and I am 60 years old. As far back as I can remember I have always wanted to write. My late father constantly urged me to take my writing to another level. Over the years I have gone on a few writing courses mainly via correspondence, but life happened, and I was not able to pursue my passion, until recently. I have been married to Carlo, a graphic designer, for 35 years. We have two sons. Marcello who is 33 years old and lives in Australia working as a chef. Giovanni is 29 years old and is our cherished son as he is a special needs child.

Book preview

CURSE

OF

GOLD

Loredana Kaminski

© Copyright Loredana Kaminski 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This book is, first and foremost, based on fiction. Most of the characters, whose fortunes or misfortunes the novel follows down the generations, are fictitious, and merely the work of the author’s imagination. In telling their stories, they have been set amongst people and events that either did not exist or might have done. The historical context, wherever it is known, is given accurately, based on reliable historical accounts. The plot line is the author’s, and if there are similarities to other stories, it is purely coincidental.

Cover: Photograph and design by Carlo Kaminski

Email address: [e-mail]

ISBN 978-1-928245-40-7

Dedication

To the two men in my life who believed, and

hoped, that I would write a novel one day.

Dad, I am sad that you are not here to witness this.

I think this book would have made you proud.

This is what you always wanted, for me to be a writer.

Carlo my husband, and best friend, who convinced me

to write a story about the Kruger Millions.

Thank you for nagging me. Your faith in my ability

shone through with your many hours of reading and editing.

This book was made possible because of you.

Acknowledgement

Thanks to Grant Rogerson for your time

and enthusiasm in checking over my manuscript.

The two main characters in this book were

inspired by this photograph, taken by my husband

Carlo in 1985, in front of an old Simmer and Jack

mine house on the outskirts of Johannesburg.

A good man leaveth an inheritance

to his children’s children:

and the wealth of the sinner

is laid up for the just.

Proverbs 13 vs 22

"Do not talk to me of gold, the element which brings more dissention, misfortune and unexpected plagues in its trial than benefits. Pray to God, as I am doing, that the curse connected with its coming may not overshadow our dear land. For I tell you today, that every ounce of gold taken from the bowels of our soil will yet be weighed up with rivers of tears, with the life-blood of thousands of our best people in the defence of that same soil, from the lust of others yearning for it, solely because it is a yellow metal in abundance."

President Paul Kruger

1

Year 1900

The night sky grew lighter as the sun edged its way towards the horizon. Thick mist enveloped the earth like a heavy blanket, transforming familiar objects into ominous shapes. Out of the haze, a horse-drawn wagon emerged, its wooden wheels coming to a crunching halt beside the Kaap River. Two men, dressed in commando outfits, hastily checked their map in order to establish that they were at the confluence of the Kaap and Crocodile Rivers.

There’s the bridge! Jan shouted, as the arched metal structure, spanning the Kaap, appeared through the parting mist, its cumbersome weight resting on two finely constructed stone retaining walls. They noted that the southern wall was submerged in the murky waters of the river, with a steep rocky embankment, while the northern wall rested on the dry part of the riverbed. Just above the river, the upper-most branches of the Mopani trees clasped skywards towards the low grey clouds, while beneath these tall giants, thick bushes intertwined with the dense undergrowth.

Barend looked anxiously across at Jan. This must be it! We must not fail Oom Paul." He flicked the reins and carefully manoeuvred the wagon towards the northern wall, coming to a standstill alongside the retaining wall of the bridge. In unison they pushed aside the buck sails and climbed into the covered rear of the wagon. The stark reality of being on their own was magnified by the weight of the two wooden trunks. They swiftly let down the back panel of the wagon, their eyes darting furtively in the direction of the intermittent gunfire. Laying two planks on the lip of the wagon, they inclined them until the edges touched the ground, then tied thick rope around each of the trunks and hauled them to the edge of the ramp. With great effort, they eased the cumbersome wooden trunks down towards the ground, struggling to avoid them slipping from their grasp. As the sun pierced the horizon, the men knew that the fiery rays would soon burn up the low-lying mist, exposing them to the advancing British army.

Barend pushed through the undergrowth, stopping near the retaining wall. Do you think this is a safe spot? he queried.

Jan was quickly losing his patience, especially as their progress was alarmingly slow in comparison to the fast-approaching enemy. This is fine, he snapped, before rushing back to the wagon to fetch the spades.

Here! Jan tossed a spade in Barend’s direction. Dig, now!

After clearing a section of bush, the earth reluctantly gave way as the sharp metal edges of the spades cut deep into its heart. Not a word was uttered, time was not on their side, becoming more evident by the sound of the increasing gunfire. Their clothes were drenched in sweat as they dragged each trunk through the undergrowth to the edge of the pit. With the ropes still attached, they slowly lowered both trunks into the hole, making a loud thud as they hit the bottom. Jan extracted a pen from his pocket and, with shaking hands, scribbled specific instructions for the President on the map. Taking out his sharp knife, he hastily etched an X into the stone wall just above where the trunks had been buried. Barend shovelled and stamped the soil back into place, brushing down the sand so as not to leave any conspicuous signs of disturbed earth. He then covered it with some dry branches. Jan slipped the folded parchment into the leather pouch and placed it inside the breast pocket of his jacket.

Suddenly a deafening sound filled the air, as smoke intermingled with the morning mist. Moving as one, they scrambled towards the wagon and, in their haste, collided with each other. A gold coin slipped from Jan’s stuffed pocket and rolled along the dry ground in front of them. Barend frowned and let out a gasp, as sweat trickled down his rugged face, leaving clear tracks through the thin layer of sand still clinging to his skin. What the hell…? he shouted. The shock of what he’d just witnessed, was evident in his voice.

Ag, come on Barend, Jan retaliated, as he stooped to retrieve the coin. It’s just a few of Oom Paul’s coins, he’s not going to miss them.

When did you…? Barend muttered, as he looked toward the concealed burial site, and then back at Jan. Confusion ran rampant through his mind as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. This was not in the plan. Scratching his goatee, he glared at Jan, who was nonchalantly shoving the fugitive gold coin back into his pocket. He hurriedly tossed the spades into the back of the wagon. Besides having to contend with an imminent attack by the British, he now had to deal with a fellow Boer – turned traitor. Anger surged through every segment of his body. He yanked the planks away from their resting place, letting them collapse heavily to the ground.

You have stolen from our President!

Jan was in the motion of hoisting himself up onto the footboard, when he heard a distinct sound behind him. He froze. Turning around slowly, he found himself looking straight down the barrel of Barend’s rifle.

What the…? Jan stammered, as he slowly lowered himself back to the ground, his eyes transfixed on the barrel pointing at his chest.

What do you think you’re doing? The British are just over the rise, he hastily reminded Barend, pointing in the direction of the thunderous sounds of an approaching army.

You’re no better than them you traitor, Barend shouted, motioning with his head towards the hill. When did you hatch this plan? Was it when we left the train, or while we were digging? You’ve let your people down!

Jan shoved his hand into his pocket and extracted a handful of gleaming gold coins. Here, tell me you’re not tempted! A combination of fear and excitement shone in his eyes, as he held them out towards Barend. Take a few, they’re blank, no one will know where they came from anyway.

Barend stared at the coins momentarily. But they’re not all blank, can’t you see? Some have Oom Paul’s head on them.

So what? It’s only a few coins.

Sweat leaked from every part of Barend’s body, as his finger tightened on the trigger. No, my allegiance remains with Oom Paul.

A human wall suddenly appeared on the top of the hill. The white straps worn across the enemy’s chests dazzled in the early morning sun, emphasising the multitude of soldiers closing in on them. Barend froze in terror at the sight before him, and he knew it was over.

He pulled the trigger.

Dropping the rifle, he scrambled over to the horses, still strapped to the wagon. Fumbling with the straps, he hastily loosened them, with panic seeping through every bone in his body. He desperately mounted his horse and galloped off, without giving Jan a second glance.

Jan opened his mouth to shout, but all that emanated was the gurgling sound of blood trapped in his throat. Even in his dying state, he dragged himself back to the clump of bushes, and lay there, listening to the approaching sounds of the enemy. Unclenching his bloodstained hand, he stared at the yellow metal, focusing on one of the gold coins, which stood out amongst the rest. Guilt tore at him as the President’s voice echoed in his head. ‘For I tell you today, that every ounce of gold taken from the bowels of our soil will yet be weighed up with rivers of tears, with the life-blood of thousands of our best people in the defence of that same soil, from the lust of others yearning for it, solely because it is a yellow metal in abundance.’

Jan blinked back the tears as he felt the life ebbing from him. I’m so, so sorry Oom Paul… he gasped, as he tightened his hand around the gleaming coins.

Jan did not hear the men marching by, or the gunshots being fired. He did not see Barend lurch forward, as bullets tore into his back. Later that day, the blood of many flowed across the African soil and into the river, turning the water a deep red. There was no one to witness the mayhem, apart from the mist, which swooped in silently, like a cloak of mourning spreading itself over the lifeless bodies.

2

One week earlier

With its lustrous carriages, now covered in dust by the long journey from Pretoria, the train stood motionless beside the small station building in Nelspruit. Occasionally a loud hissing sound, combined with clouds of steam, escaped from the under carriage of the locomotive. Painted on the side of the main coach and standing out pompously among the dust and the steam, was the ZAR coat of arms – a symbol of how far they had come, the wars they had fought, the lives lost and accomplished victories. Barend and Jan stared proudly at the emblem. It depicted a wagon, with an anchor in the centre of a scrolled silver shield. On the right-hand side was a man armed with a gun, dressed in the uniform of the land, and to his left was a lion. Surrounding the emblem were six national flags in saltire. In the listel underneath the shield were the words, Eendragt – Maakt – Magt, Strength through unity. Perched arrogantly on top of the coat of arms was an eagle, with its wings spread in ready flight. Within the confines of the coach, sat a powerful man. Like the eagle, he too, was in ready flight. The only significant difference between them was the beating of an aching heart.

Barend and Jan stood holding their raised brimmed hats nervously in front of them, waiting in the saloon carriage, which had now become the permanent residence of President Paul Kruger. They had been individually selected from an army of many intrepid commandos to perform a highly confidential task, a privilege for which they could not express their gratitude enough. Barend shifted his body restlessly, his deep brown eyes taking in the lavish surroundings of the carriage. Huge velvet cushions lay strewn on the black leather armchairs. Indented leather covered buttons formed triangular shapes on both the backrest and seating area. Ornate oak panels ran beneath the windows. Suspended from the middle of the coach ceiling was a brass and crystal-cut light fitting from which a dim glow emanated, throwing shadows across the partially closed blinds. In the white slanted panels just below the ceiling, were round glass fittings with brass trimmings. Sitting on top of the thick plush carpet was a long teak table, covered with a red cloth. In one of the wooden alcoves hung a Dutch oil painting, depicting men of government brandishing weapons of war. The irony of this did not escape Barend.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the wooden inter-leading door being opened. A man with a formidable stature, dressed in a black frock coat, stood in the doorway with a pipe dangling from his full lips. His hair and beard – once a dark brown – were snowy white. His brown eyes lacked any expression. Barend and Jan exchanged sideway glances. They were both in total awe of the man.

The President, affectionately known as Oom Paul, stared at the two men standing before him. He knew their names and how old they were, for he had already been briefed. What the background check on these two men had failed to report, was how the ravages of a failed war had robbed them of their youth. Oom Paul extended his right hand towards Barend, and immediately observed how the young man had taken great care with his appearance. His neatly combed ginger hair had streaks of grey and his small moustache and goatee had been carefully trimmed. He wore a dark grey suit with a matching waistcoat, which almost covered a crisp white shirt. His trouser legs were a bit too long and sat crumpled up on top of shiny brown leather boots. Even though he had spent many days in the harsh Transvaal sun, his long thin face was very pale. No sooner had the President finished shaking Barend’s hand, when he noticed Jan’s eagerly extended hand. Appreciating the enthusiasm, Oom Paul clasped the young man’s hand with both of his. Barend and Jan immediately observed the missing thumb on the President’s left hand. It was legendary amongst the Boers as to how their leader had been forced to cut off his thumb after it had been severely damaged during a hunting trip, when his rifle had exploded in his hand. He was undoubtedly a man of great courage.

Unlike Barend, Jan had not bothered much with his appearance. His unshaven face, with finely chiselled nose, and uncombed pitch-black hair, accentuated his green eyes. His lips had parted into an eager smile, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Another time, and in different circumstances, he would have been considered a fine catch for any young lady seeking his company. A torn scarf covered his neck and disappeared into a thick brown buttoned-up antelope leather jacket. His stained, thick pants were held up by a worn leather belt, and his veldskoene shoes had seen better days. The President chose to ignore such impudence, for he had far more serious matters to contend with.

Oom Paul walked over to the large table. His shoulders sagged, as though he carried the entire world upon them. He was in his seventies, in bad health, and no longer able to endure the British onslaught. Sitting down in one of the large leather high chairs, he sucked on his pipe. Gazing over at the young Boer commandos, he sensed their anxiety and immediately began to brief them.

Things are not looking good out there, he said, motioning his head towards the window. Silence filled the coach as Oom Paul stared at the men on the station platform who were busy off-loading baggage, wagons, carts and horses. Jan and Barend stood dead still, fearing that any movement would disturb the President, who appeared to have temporarily forgotten them.

That is why I need the mission done, and as quickly as possible, Oom Paul continued, as though he had not ceased talking.

They both nodded their heads, even though they had no clue as to what the President was talking about. Sighing, Oom Paul slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a handmade leather pouch. With trembling hands, he opened it and extracted a folded parchment. He flattened it out on the table revealing a map, which had been drawn. In a voice filled with both frustration and sadness he proceeded to give them specific instructions.

He briefed the commandos to transport two wooden trunks, filled with a mixture of Kruger coins and gold bars, which were already loaded on a horse-drawn wagon waiting outside. He instructed them to go to the De Kaap Rivier railway bridge, as marked on the map, choose a spot, and bury the trunks. They were then to meet up with the train in Hectorspruit, where they would hand over the updated map. Only a few other commandos were selected to carry out similar tasks in other locations. They all shook hands.

•

Throughout the night the train carrying President Kruger had rattled over the tracks, winding between rocky outcrops, and across flowing rivers – a single beam of light, from the lamp on the front of the smoke box, slicing through the solid wall of black. As the first rays of the sun streaked across the pale blue sky, it pulled slowly into the Lourenço Marques station.

In the main carriage, there was an ominous atmosphere. Paul Kruger knew he had come to the end of the line, in more ways than one. His hasty retreat from Pretoria had been a bitter blow. But now, doubly bitter, was his imminent departure from a land to which he had devoted his entire life. Not only was he forced to bid farewell to his lion-hearted Boer fighters, but harder still, to his ailing wife, his children and loyal friends. There had been no other choice. He either had to commit to his decision, or surrender to the British, and allow himself to be taken prisoner.

He boarded the Gelderland with a feeling of utter hopelessness. Adding to this, was his frustration that his plans for his country had been disrupted by the enemy, who were advancing from every side. He was saddened that not all his commandos had made it to the prearranged rendezvous. As trust was not a consideration, it could only have meant one thing – they had been killed. He would never know if those who did not return had managed to complete their mission. The few maps that had been returned were safely tucked in the inside pocket of his long black frock coat.

3

Year 1905

Rain had not fallen for many months, and the earth was crying out for some respite. The escarpment was desolate, the silence oppressive. The birds had long since moved on to other areas where mother nature had been kinder, as they were unable to nest in the trees which were devoid of their foliage.

Muzila sighed heavily as he looked up at the deep blue, cloudless sky. He wore a leather-beaded loincloth – typical of a Shangaan warrior – covering his powerful thighs. Sweat clung to his well-toned chest. He shifted his gaze towards the giant arched railway bridge, longing for the days when the dry riverbed would once again swell with flowing water. He flicked one of the loose pebbles with his decorated staff, an heirloom handed down to him by his grandfather. Perched on the top of it was a carving of a man’s head wearing a crown. In his other hand he carried a short-shafted stabbing assegai with a broad steel blade. Even though he was still a young man, the drought had taken its toll on him and his people.

Suddenly, his reverie was shattered by a strange rustling sound coming from the thick undergrowth on the opposite side of the almost dry riverbed. Carefully placing his bare feet on the loose stones, he manoeuvred his way down the steep embankment. The gravel shimmered in the heat, while the sun burnt mercilessly, as he cautiously made his way across to the other side, before taking cover in the shade of the railway bridge. The rustling sound became distinctly louder, and he noted that it was coming from the bushes, growing near the retaining wall. In one fluid movement he switched the staff for the assegai. Whatever it was, rummaging in the undergrowth, he hoped it would become a meal for him and his family. Slowly raising the short-shafted assegai above his head, he stealthily stepped closer and spotted the baby Warthog, which was oblivious to his presence. It was no challenge for the powerful and thrift Muzila who, in an instant, thrust the broad steel blade deep into its heart. Withdrawing the assegai, he watched as both the blood and life drained out of the animal. Slightly breathless, he wiped the blade by scraping it across the dry grass. Just then, all thoughts of his family eating a hearty meal dissipated, as he caught sight of the dreaded shape of a sun-bleached skull.

Kneeling, he tentatively brushed away the brittle branches, and partially uncovered the remains of a skeleton. Insects, once fattened by human flesh, had long since gone. Remnants of clothing clung to the brittle bones. The only thing still intact was a bandolier, the leather belt worn over the chest by boer commandos. He recalled a time, not long ago, when white people fought against each other, with weapons that were fired from afar. A time when the blood of the dying and injured turned the river into a deep red. He thought of the cemetery, on the slope of the hill nearby, and pondered as to why this person had not been buried in a manner befitting a soldier?

Muzila respectfully began covering the bones with loose foliage. Just then, the midday sun caught something bright, clasped in the skeleton’s hand, blinding him momentarily. Frowning deeply, he gently prodded the bones with his staff. Again, it glistened. An uneasy feeling crept through him. Maybe the spirit of the departed one was sending him a sign. Muzila did not notice the flies frantically buzzing around the lifeless warthog, as curiosity had now overcome his fear of disturbing the dead. He tugged at the bony arm, and lifted it from its shallow grave. Gold coins dropped at his knees, as the fingers that had once grasped them so tightly, now lay open before him.

He stared at the coins incredulously. Picking them up, he brushed off the caked soil and immediately noticed that most were blank, while a few had the impression of a man with a beard. With a sense of anticipation, he searched through the rest of the remains, pushing aside the shredded cloth, and was duly rewarded. Inside the rib cage, he could see a weathered leather pouch. With a sense of guilt, he scanned his surroundings, for he knew it was wrong to take from the dead. Muzila blinked away the sweat dangling from his long eyelashes and licked his dry lips, before he eased his trembling fingers into the gap of the rib cage. He dislodged the pouch from its resting place. ‘What harm would it do just to take a look?’ he reasoned to himself, as he sat back on his haunches. The feeling of guilt was not strong enough to convince him to put the pouch back. He struggled to loosen the tightly drawn strings, his apprehension increasing at the thought of what might be inside. Finally, the string gave way, and Muzila exhaled loudly, unaware he had been holding his breath. He pried the pouch open and peered inside. Tucked between the hardened leather, was a folded piece of parchment, which had been protected from the elements over the years. With fumbling fingers, he extracted the yellowed parchment and gently unfolded it. Muzila was truly puzzled as he gazed at the sketch of, what appeared to be, roads and railway lines. Some of the areas were hard to decipher due to the strange markings. The words were written in a language he did not understand. It was a map of the area. That much he was convinced of.

Turning his attention back to the human remains, he noticed a depression in the sand, and it instantly crossed his mind that maybe something, or someone, was buried there. Deep in thought, he picked up one of the blank coins and stared at it intently. It looked like gold. It was because of this that the white man was now spreading throughout his land. A decision would have to be made. He flicked the blank coin up into the air.

4

Year 1961

The tall metal structure reached up towards a sky, filled with thunderous clouds. Giant wheels, perched on top of the steel latticework, were in motion – a sign that men were labouring in the depths below. The small Simmer and Jack village, with its dusty sand roads milling their way amongst the white-washed bricked houses with red corrugated roofs, was not far from the industrious gold mine. The regimented chimneys, distinctly prominent against the skyline, were dormant, as it was still late summer. During the winter months, when cold air would flow through every gap in the modest homes, they were brought to life, with billowing columns of white smoke blanketing the village in a thick haze of polluted air. Each house had its own little front garden. Some were well kept, while others were neglected – a reflection of the people living there.

At the bottom end of the village stood a convenience store where one could buy the bare essentials at slightly inflated prices. The owner was a middle-aged man, named José, who spoke with a heavy Portuguese accent. He was short, with a substantial paunch, and had a permanent blue beard on his well-rounded face. Hygiene was not one of his priorities, as he continuously emitted a stale body odour, and a foul stench emanated from his mouth whenever he spoke. But his affable disposition, with both his white and black customers, more than made up for his personal deficiencies. Apart from all the common necessities, the store also provided some basic entertainment, such as a few pinball machines, with their flashing lights and wonky tunes, as well as a pool table, which stood at the bottom end of the store, its green felt surface worn with time.

It was here where Anton Van As and Matimba Samba would meet on most days after school, even though they knew it was forbidden to do so. Matimba was dark-skinned; typical of his Shangaan ancestry. He had intense brown eyes, short tightly curled hair, and his gleaming white teeth were often exposed, as he was always smiling. Anton was the younger and more serious of the two. He had a mop of blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. His usually pale skin was now tinted brown by the hot summer days, spent swimming at the dam. As children, they were oblivious to the Apartheid system which had just become law in South Africa. Their parents had warned them about the repercussions of playing together, but this did not inhibit them, for they had become inseparable friends, and, for them, there was no such thing as race. They were nicknamed ‘ebony and ivory’ by most of the locals in

Reviews for Curse of Gold

[Jasmine Campbell · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The plot twists keep you guessing in anticipation, waiting to know what's going to happen next! The author does a fantastic job of tying the story line together and the character development leaves you incredibly tied to their fate. Emotional, unexpected and a thoroughly interesting historical fiction piece. Bravo ? ? ?