Cast the First Stone: A Novel

By Andrew R. H. Mowatt

It is late 1879 when James Murdoch finally returns to Scotland after a year-long adventure in South Africa. His wife, Barbara, is thrilled to see her husband again - and shocked when he reveals to her on the train ride home that he has been offered a partnership in the Kimberley diamond mine. But only moments after she agrees to follow him back to South Africa, their train plunges off the famous Tay Rail Bridge. The bodies of James and Barbara Murdoch are never recovered. Their young son, Henry, is now an orphan.

Twenty years later, the South African War is just underway. In the course of his military duties, Captain Henry Murdoch interrogates Boer spies suspected of espionage a task that eventually leads him and his partner to uncover a Boer assassination plot against the British Army commander-in-chief in South Africa. Now, Murdoch must find a spy and trained assassin amongst the British ranks before he strikes.

Fast forward to todays world, in which American Gordon Mackenzie is now leading the British Commonwealth War Graves Commission office in France. His role places him unknowing into the middle of a covert espionage ring involving misdirected funds and a kinky subculture. Mackenzie has no idea that his trusted colleagues are not who they claim to be.

In this follow up to Severed Branch, a tale of espionage, greed, and shadowy syndicates emerges. Two men, in different times, are about to uncover hidden family secrets that link them and their futures together forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475917055

Andrew R. H. Mowatt

Biography Andrew Mowatt is the author of the novels Severed Branch, Cast the First Stone, and The Little Kingdoms. In his spare time, he enjoys travel and cycling. He currently lives in New York City.

Book preview

Prologue

Fife, Scotland December 28, 1879

The biting wind of the rising gale grazed her rosy, round cheeks as she huddled on the exposed train platform. It was nearly a year since Barbara Brown Murdoch last saw her dear husband, James. He was just off the steamer in Glasgow the night before; she departed Dundee’s Tay Bridge Station early to meet him as he connected at Edinburgh’s Waverly Station.

They married eleven years earlier, shortly after Barbara’s twenty-first birthday. Her heart beat steadily under layers of wool, bonnet, and petticoat as she anticipated his strong, comforting embrace. Her expectation of his musky scent and the sensual tickle of his unkempt whiskers brushing against the side of her soft neck made her southbound journey through Fife that much more restless.

Before leaving that morning, Barbara left orders with the servants in their Broughty Ferry mansion to wake ten-year-old Henry early to attend morning church and to be ready for his father’s return about eight that evening.

Although Christmas had already been officially celebrated three days prior by the rest of the Christian world, the entire Murdoch manse was frozen in pre-Noel readiness. A towering Perthshire spruce stood in the corner of the first floor, handsomely covered with golden cherubs and garland layers. Still-wrapped gifts were scattered beneath its decorated boughs. Finally the day had come for young Henry to resolve the deep mysteries that plagued his dreams for the last several nights. Most important of all, his father would be home again.

The Sunday afternoon crowds that filled the first-class lounge of Waverly Station seemed to part miraculously. She found her husband standing alongside his trunk, calmly smoking his weathered pipe.

The South African sun had bleached James’s dark hair and tanned his chiseled, handlebar-mustached face. He looked more toughened than when he left her last January.

He wore a black top hat and greatcoat against the piercing chill, but appeared content and calm as he greeted his wife.

James extended his sun-baked hands toward her.

With tears of joy in her eyes, she reached out and gently tucked her head into his firm chest. He leaned his chin gently into her forehead and planted a welcoming kiss.

Hello my dear, Barbara, he said softly in her ear as they embraced. It’s good to see you again, my love.

James, it is so wonderful to have you home again, she replied happily. You look well with your bronzed complexion. Was your journey from the Cape agreeable?

It was a long, tiring voyage, but I’m glad to be home again and to see your beautiful face.

He unexpectedly reached over and kissed her again. He raised his calloused hands and gripped her shoulders. He offered a reassuring glance into her weepy eyes.

Barbara held back her sobs of relief and returned his loving glance. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief that she produced from within her long sleeve.

He is home. He is finally home.

Across the tracks, the stationmaster announced their 4:15 p.m. northbound train for Granton crossing.

James Murdoch motioned briskly for a nearby railway porter to pile his trunk and baggage on a green trolley. The porter followed and held the door as they entered the fourth, red carriage: first-class. They found their seats easily and settled in.

The nearby stationmaster gave the signal to the engineer, and the nearly full train rolled out of Edinburgh toward Granton station on the banks of the Firth of Forth river estuary to the north.

Barbara took to studying her husband’s darkened features close-up.

James began to nod off as the lush countryside of the Lothian region of Scotland blurred past his window. The rolling hills refreshed his memory of the familiar views of his homeland. Gone was the scorched, dry wasteland of the veldt and its moon-like landscape that stretched between the sharp, towering kopjes as far as the eye could see.

He thought about the decisions he already made, and those he would need to ponder now that he’d returned safely to Scotland. No longer did the South African heat and the choking dust cloud his thoughts.

The scent of evergreen and the hint of smoke from the laboring engine just ahead stirred life again in his shrunken cocoon of frozen memories of home. The season’s coolness sharpened his wit and brought him a new sense of focus.

All around were reassuring signs of life and vitality. Outside the window lay the deep blue of the angry Firth of Forth, its surface accented by whitecaps rising against the gusting North Sea wind. The towering trees planted along the rail line swayed in rhythmic resistance to the approaching storm.

His indecision and doubts about the wasteland were gone now. A sense of comfort and relief filled him. He had done it. He had made it back again. A slight smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. The warm touch of his wife’s hand and the thought that civility returned to his existence helped push out lingering memories of his hard labor in that far-off, dusty veldt among the chaos of the miners’ world.

He grappled with a difficult decision all the way home on the ship. The crashing waves of the Atlantic had offered no solace. However, as he sat in the comfort of the rocking train carriage, he knew he had to make the right choice.

Barbara watched her husband’s tired expression alter as the train slowed, approaching Granton’s station on the southern edge of the Firth of Forth. She had so many questions to ask, but hesitated to break his concentration. The hint of a grin on his weary countenance let her know he was truly pleased to be with her again. She formed her words carefully and began to speak, but at that moment the train halted and the chance was lost.

They boarded a sparsely populated passenger ferry to cross the Forth to entrain again on the other side at Burntiland in Fife. No words were exchanged as the boat set off for the southern coast of the ancient Kingdom.

Despite the strong gale and the sting of icy rain, James stood stoically out on the weather deck. As though in a trance, he held tightly to the rail as the steam-powered vessel struggled against the choppy waters. The merciless chill and the force of the wind seemed almost friendly, absent as it was from the tents and filthy passageways of the infant city of Kimberley, South Africa.

Out of fear of catching a fever herself, Barbara anxiously watched her husband through a porthole from the slightly warmer, enclosed passenger lounge.

He stood alone on deck gazing out at the deep gray of the sea. His sunburnt hands clutched firmly onto the life-line. The wind flipped and parted his bleached hair, but the gale’s strength could not move him. The rawest of Scottish elements were welcoming him back.

All northbound passengers quietly boarded the train at Burntiland. Barbara and James sat on the left side of the first-class carriage.

The conductor, all bundled up against the weather, punched the couple’s tickets for Dundee and hastily closed the doors behind him against the surging gale. Forty-six mail bags intended for the Dundee Postmaster were loaded in the rear van, and the frigid porter blew his pocket whistle to alert the others to close and lock all remaining doors.

At 5:27 p.m. the five-car train lunged forward, pulled by a stubby olive-green locomotive. As the engine gained pace, strong gusts pelted the carriage’s windows with sleet. The train swayed as violent gusts hit it, but made steady progress through the evening’s elements.

Barbara could no longer hold herself back and decided to ask a series of questions that James’s last telegraph provoked. She gripped his strong hands and looked directly into his tired eyes. James, are you feeling alright? she asked softly. I am so happy to have you home again. Did you catch something on the steamer? she inquired, trying not to sound too desperate for his attention. You seem so daft and distant from me.

No, my dear, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? he replied warmly. I suppose I’m just a bit overwhelmed by all the familiar sights, he said as he gently caressed her hand. I’ve been reviewing all these decisions that I must make now that I am home again. However, it truly is good to be in your company, my dear Barbara. You’ve always had a calming effect on me. Have you and the boy kept on well in my absence?

Oh my, yes, although we have both missed you dearly. All Henry talks about nowadays is his father’s excursions out on the veldt, digging up treasures and wrestling with wild lions, barehanded. He is so looking forward to another trip to South Africa with his father and mother next year.

Yes, well, I wanted to speak with you about that. You received my last telegraph when I left Cape Town, I suppose?

The train lurched suddenly to the left as it rounded a curve.

I did, James. Though I’m not sure I understand it all. These matters of business seem so complicated. Perhaps you could explain them better now that you are with me?

As I have written in all my letters, the Central Victoria Mining Company in Kimberley has been growing very steadily over the last several years. I helped design and engineer key steam-powered mining and pumping equipment that has improved our stakes. You would not believe it but I have seen hired Zulu laborers pulling fist-sized diamonds out of the open pits of our mine on a daily basis.

He doubled up his own hands for his wife to emphasize the magnitude of the rough gemstones recovered from the dirty holes in the earth.

She listened intently.

Unlike when Watts first hired me away from Walsh and Company to pump water out of his claims, things have radically changed. Lord Watts and Central Victoria’s wealth have grown immensely. Where there were once thousands of claimholders buying thirty by thirty foot patches of veldt, the stakes of mining diamonds have increased. Watts and his management have been in the process of buying up the claims around our pegs in the Kimberley mine for the last year. This consolidation has made Central Victoria strong and its managers wealthier with every new claim acquisition. With all my hard work and engineering designs for improved production, I have earned Watts’s attention and favor. Not only have my initial shares appreciated, Lord Watts has made me a new offer.

This is the telegraph you sent me last month? she asked of him.

Yes, that’s right. Watts’s personal secretary, Mr. Byron Stanley, has offered me a chance to buy into a partnership and a seat on the Board of Directors of Central Victoria. He said that he could not allow my contract to expire and see me hired by one of his competitors. Although I originally turned down his offer, Watts met with me personally and preached about all the great values and ideas that I brought to the operation. His persuasive arguments convinced me to buy in after all.

But James, I thought you said the rough and dangerous life of South African mining has worn you down to the point where it had drained the humanity out of your being. Your letters spoke of despair, loneliness, and lawlessness. You said it was no place for a Christian, educated gentleman and his family to live. You indicated that we’d only be apart for this past year while you made enough for us to live in wealth here in Scotland. Now it has changed again? Oh James, what has that place done to you?

The howling wind lashed furiously against the side of the train. Its high-pitched gusts whistled through tiny cracks in the train’s doors. Through the windows, obscured by rivulets of rainwater, the darkened countryside rolled past.

He sensed the disappointment in her tone but had fully expected it. During his journey home he’d even rehearsed these arguments. Instead of countering her hesitations, he continued to present his plans. Watts is a powerful man in the Diamond Fields. His method of persuasion is unique. I have done his bidding and I fear I am unable to escape his influence now. Even here in Scotland his authority is palpable.

Murdoch took a deep breath and continued. I have already cabled his attorney Bald in Dundee to meet me bright and early on Monday morning at nine sharp in the Clydesdale Bank branch to sign the papers to sell all our ownership in the Camperdown Works Mill. I’ll transfer the funds to the account of Central Victoria with Standard Bank, London. It should be enough to cover the £31,000 partnership investment.

His wife blinked twice before she comprehended what he was truly saying. James, that’s my family’s entire ownership in the mill! My father bought into the jute business in the 1830’s with the Cox Brothers. It’s all we have. It’s our legacy.

Murdoch nodded his head listlessly.

Barbara, I have already worked out the logistics with the Cox family. The mere fact that old man Cox said yes so quickly to the buyout tells me that Camperdown’s days of ruling the Dundee jute industry are numbered. There’s just too much competition now. Dundee’s future in jute is already past its prime. Need I tell you about their plans for moving operations to India? My gut tells me things will be radically different in Kimberley now. The entire world has fallen to its knees to get at the riches of the Diamond Fields. Lord Watts and Central Victoria’s diamonds are the business of the future. Plentiful diamonds will rule the day soon. Your father was a good businessman when he was alive, and I’m sure he would see the merit of this venture and approve. I’m quite sure of it. Those dirty, dusty business methods of the Dundee mills will soon crumble and a new breed of wealth will be born out of Kimberley’s mines. I see it all so clearly.

But James, our whole lives are based in Dundee. Our friends and social circles are there. How can we uproot years of relationships and connections for a dream of far-off riches in a land with those fanatical, crude Boers nearby, and African savages wandering about lawlessly and half-naked?

In Dundee our places are already set. We’re on the top rung of the ladder, Barbara. I once worked hard on the improvements of their mills but those pursuits led me nowhere. The Cox family will never recognize me at Camperdown as Watts has done in Kimberley; as a full partner, and member of the Board of Directors! This is our chance to aspire to an even better life. The slate is clean in Kimberley.

Barbara frowned. But what of Henry? How can we raise and educate our wee lad for a fine university while living in that uncultured netherworld?

I have considered all this, Barbara. The boy will stay here in Scotland to complete his studies until he is eighteen. We shall board him at the Morrison School in Crieff. I agree with you, South Africa is no place for an innocent lad to grow up. We’ll maintain the house with the servants on staff attending to the manse’s upkeep. They can look after Henry on holidays and breaks. We’ll send for him during the Scottish summer and he can spend the holiday in Kimberley with us, the engineer explained confidently. By then, we should be settled in and capable of hosting the boy.

Barbara sat in silence. The train rumbled through the evening’s darkness into Leuchars station. Several passengers stood on the platform hunched against the force of the wind. Drenched porters held the carriage doors open for exiting travelers. The sound of multiple doors slamming echoed along the platform. The stationmaster glanced along the train to make sure all doors were secure, blew his whistle with one hand while holding his cap with the other, and ran for the shelter of his warm office.

The train rolled north just a little behind its schedule into the darkness of the stormy evening toward the next station, St. Fort.

Again Barbara went over the plans her husband mapped out, and tried to find some fault. She loved him so much and had always trusted his business decisions. Much like her deceased father, Donald Wells Brown, James Murdoch had the training and a keen eye for business. On every occasion, his great mind for mechanics proved its worth. The thought of not seeing her dear boy Henry for up to six months or more did not sit well with her, but at least she could again be at her husband’s side. Perhaps living in South Africa would be an adventure for her after all. If her husband’s employer valued his skills that much and he stood to be handsomely rewarded for it, she could find a way to accept it.

There is another matter, Murdoch whispered.

How do you mean, James?

He reached into his coat pocket and removed a small leather bag. With great care he placed it in the palms of his wife’s chilled hands.

Go ahead, he instructed, open it.

With care, his wife untied the twine that enclosed the parcel.

Onto her lap rolled ten large, uncut diamonds. Although they were unpolished, she gasped at their splendor.

Now, Barbara, I want you to listen very carefully to me.

She nodded aimlessly as the giant stones pooled in the crease of her dress.

I have come by these gemstones by my own means. Keep them in a safe place that only you know about. Tell no one you have them. If something were to happen to me, natural or otherwise, while working in the Fields, take these diamonds to London and go to the office of the Van Praagh brothers in Hatton Garden. They will give you fair market price, no questions asked. These stones should fetch at least £60,000. Say nothing more after that and then disappear with the boy. Go to America and do not return.

James, what are you saying? I don’t understand.

Working in this business is dangerous and the men who rule it are ruthless. I am committed now. There is no backing out. I have done things in the name of these budding capitalists that prevent me from choosing any other option. But greed makes men careless, and I now have insurance for my family if I should fail.

Barbara stared incredulously.

What has he done that causes him to say this?

James turned away and peered through the window into the night.

Barbara carefully collected the gems and returned them to her husband.

He pushed them away.

You only need to know I have worked hard for us and the chances are strong that we shall prosper in South Africa. Please accept my request that we start something new in the Cape. I will need your strength to return there.

Then Kimberley it shall be, she said, as much to please her husband as to convince herself it was right. To lighten the conversation she joked, My goodness, whatever shall I wear in that sun-scotched place, James?

He interlocked his fingers with hers and nodded gently. We shall hire you the best tailor in Edinburgh to stitch you the finest linens and waistcoats for your arrival in Cape Town, my love, he stated. Once I have completed the paperwork tomorrow morning, I shall cable Watts’s assistant, Mr. Worthington, that the deal has been struck. Then we shall have three weeks to tidy up matters and prepare for our journey to Cape Town.

Henry will be surely heartbroken to know his parents will be leaving him behind for such a long period of time. However, he has been so looking forward to your return. You know, all he talks about is savages chasing lions across the veldt, Barbara revealed. He idolizes you so much.

He is a good lad. To reward his behavior over the past year, I brought him a leopard skin to put on his wall. That should hold his imagination for awhile. He and I have plenty of time to catch up and mend things before we leave. He is a strong boy.

The train lurched to a halt. The porters ran from under the shelter of St. Fort station to help the last group of passengers off and see the train across the bridge into Dundee.

The howling storm reached a peak; the wind and rain blew violently sideways across the tracks. The porters held on to the stanchions that lined the platform as each gust threatened to tear the top off the station’s roof and send their caps flying into the night.

The ticket collector hurried through the train to punch the last tickets. He counted his stubs and tallied fifty-nine souls on board, not including the crew.

A cry sounded, All aboard!

Steam hissed loudly and the locomotive’s driving wheels spun, shrieking on the wet rails before the train reluctantly moved off, chugging up the slight incline that led to the bridge. The fireman reached out from his cab and grabbed the bridge baton from a signalman who stood drenched outside the shack on the bridge’s southern approach.

Far below, gales were whipping the river to thick foam. Waves slapped violently against the iron support stanchions. With every new gust, the angry Tay rose up in mountainous swells, engulfing the foundations.

James looked through his fogged-over window toward the south coast of Angus in search of the twinkling lights of Dundee, but the wicked weather obscured the view of the battered city.

The force of the wind caught the train broadside and pushed it sideways on its heavy trucks as it steadily inched up the single line track. The engineer applied a bit more throttle as the engine cleared the span of the low girders and muscled along the lattice-work of the high girders toward the eastward curve that led to the Dundee side.

With each shriek of the howling wind, Barbara felt a sense of unease. James! Is it safe?

James, knowing the physics of forces and weights from his engineering training, gently tapped his wife’s wrist to comfort her and explained that all such lurches and groans from the bridge were expected. You’ve had a long day, my dear, he said. We’ll be home in less than thirty minutes and we can both register my boy’s pleasant reactions when he opens up the Christmas presents. This is all part of the bridge design. I hope Robert remembers to bring the carriage to—

Suddenly, a shower of sparks burst alongside his window. Three quick explosions of light lit up the inside of their carriage. The train lurched forward in a sideways jerking motion and James felt as though the car’s floor had fallen away. Their world tilted and everything began to fall.

James instantly wrapped his arms tightly around Barbara.

The screeching of metal on metal hurt their ears. Another shower of sparks lit up their window.

An empty feeling inside the pit of his gut told James that something terrible had gone wrong. They were falling eighty feet into the churning River Tay below.

As if it hit solid ground, the broken train smashed into the rain-whipped surface of the river.

The force broke James’s grip.

Barbara flew forward and struck her face brutally against the bulkhead. Blood filled her mouth. She swallowed fragments of her front teeth. She collapsed like a bent doll even as the window shattered and a torrent of freezing water rushed in.

James reached out desperately, but the surge punched him squarely in the chest, knocking the breath out of him and pinning him in place. He lost his grip on the body of his dying wife. He heard screaming—of course it could not be him screaming, could it? That was his last thought as frozen darkness enveloped him and the other passengers.

The shattered train and all its occupants plunged into the boiling madness of the surging Tay.

* * *

The sight of the fallen bridge shocked the coastal communities on either side of the Tay as longshoremen and fishermen alike fought the vicious conditions to launch boats.

As word spread that evening across Dundee and the rest of Scotland, the feeble rescue effort attempted by every available launch came to nothing. The chilling teeth of the angry Tay held them all back. No survivors were ever found. The bodies of James and Barbara Murdoch were never recovered.

Several days later, on the shore of Broughty Ferry, among a floating pile of mail bags, a drenched leopard skin was recovered. It was forever a mystery to the investigators from where such a thing came.

1

Kimberley, South Africa January 1, 1880

The burlap sack over the captive’s head reeked of horse manure; a strangling cord around his neck forced him to take shallow breaths. The coolness of the African night and his lack of proper attire added to the discomfort. His arms and legs were bound. As the hurried wagon rushed out toward somewhere on the empty veldt, he bounced and bumped in the back of it.

Jimmy McGee was certain that his Tsonga digger, Christian, who lay next to him, was in much worse shape. Whoever they were, they had beaten the African to a pulp. Christian mumbled and cried in agony as, with broken ribs, he pitched against the wagon’s splintered bed.

None of the captives spoke directly to the hostages. They rode their mounts in silence, with guarded glances at their battered cargo.

Jimmy racked his brain. His foggy mind examined the likely possibilities. Orange Free State Boers trying to abduct us, for ransom to Central Victoria? Those fookin’ diggers from Dutoitspan mine looking to even a score? He’d mixed it up with a few of the Dutoitspan diggers back in the canteen that evening. Petty, jealous bastards. Always looking for a scrap with the Colesberg Kopje gang. With a drink in ’em they talk a brave game. Too close with the bloody natives . . . or is this a personal dispute? Only the Italians would take things this far. No matter, I’ll deal with ’em once I catch me wind.

Jimmy McGee had faced worst hooligans back in Manchester than this mounted, motley lot. His head felt woozy but the knocking about back in the camp wasn’t the worst hiding he’d ever received. Old man O’Doherty had beaten him much worse a few years back for trying to steal a whiskey shipment from Belfast off the morning steamer. An Irish street urchin from Manchester can absorb a lifetime of punishment.

There seemed to be at least three others following on horseback. In front, on the wagon’s bench, two drivers mumbled something too low for him to hear. Was it English or Afrikaaner? he wondered aloud.

They had jumped him by surprise as he settled into his dusty, mildewed tent an hour or so earlier. He had barely returned from the canteen. Did the bastards follow me the entire way back?

One moment he was lying down on his prized cot to celebrate another prosperous New Year on the Diamond Fields and then suddenly, his tent collapsed over him.

It all seemed like malarkey at first. There’d been some shooting in the air mixed with fireworks as his fellow Kimberley laborers in the surrounding camps loosened up for a wild evening of drunkenness and celebrating. Everybody in the tent city was expected to be a bit rambunctious as the hours counted down to midnight.

He half expected the usual lot of diggers to pass off the joke as tomfoolery and offer him a stiff drink to ring in a hopefully profitable 1880. The vicious blows to his head and body left him stunned, and he realized too late that this was no celebratory spillover. Then his world went temporarily dark.

The bastards ambushed him so fast that he didn’t have a chance to draw his gun, never mind properly put on his soiled, corduroy trousers or sun-weathered boots.

He recovered consciousness as the horses picked up their pace. The far-off sounds of Kimberley’s revelry faded in the distance as his attackers went north, out into the dusty veldt.

Are those bloody Italian miners at Dutoitspan and Bultfontein lookin’ to stir up trouble again? No, couldn’t be. Did I square me debts with Dodd’s canteen?

He had paid them, and anyway, their style of handling matters was usually gentlemen-like. Bloody Boer raiders.

The wagon stopped with a jerk. The driver eased up on the reins and the horses exhaled heavily.

It was only a matter of seconds before the beatings began again.

He felt feet slam into his ribs from above and it kicked him off the back of the wagon.

The African, Christian, fell to the ground on top of McGee and let go with a native shout that had to be some form of curse in bush speak.

Gloved hands dug deep under the Irishman’s armpits and he felt his face smash into the side of the wagon wheel.

The strength of the blow knocked the wind clear out of him.

McGee gasped helplessly in the filthy sack.

While still in a daze, his hands were unbound and his bare arms were tied forward around the wooden spokes of the wagon’s rear wheel.

He collapsed onto the jutting axle.

His bare knees had been filled with splinters from the wagon’s bed, and now, tiny stones dug smartly into his oozing leg wounds.

He heard Christian being thrown against the front wagon wheel. The African let out a grunt as his head struck something. McGee suspected that things could only get worse.

The unexpected crack of a whip cut the air. Christian screamed.

Soon thereafter, the whip found McGee’s back, and if the sounds Christian was making hadn’t been enough to tell him, now he knew the searing pain of multiple lashes.

Jesus Christ, what the fook do you be wantin’ with me! Goddamit! Ya tangled with the wrong bloke, ya filthy farmers! I said face me like men!

From behind, one of his captors rushed forward and drilled his boot squarely into McGee’s shoulder blade. A hand yanked the bag from his head.

McGee’s eyes adjusted to the half light on the veldt. He gritted his teeth against the pain. He gasped a lungful of the cool night air and turned his head uncomfortably over his left shoulder to catch a view of his attackers.

McGee fought against his restraints to bring his fists around to defend himself. The jute ropes held fast, but he managed to swing around his cocked elbows in self-defense.

His attempt to strike one of his assailants missed wildly.

Why are ya fookin’ doin’ this? If you want the kaffir, go and take him now! Ya bloody Boers never have enough slaves for the farms, do ya?

McGee sent his left elbow flying again, hoping to catch one of his nearby attackers off guard.

The five assailants easily dodged his feeble attempt.

Enough of these games. Take hold of ’im now and drag ’im over to the ditch with the boy, came a familiar voice from the gloom.

Two men jerked McGee off the ground. Another pulled a knife, cut the rope, and shoved him roughly away from the roadside.

McGee recognized his employer’s voice. What’s this now? Watts? It’s you? What’s goin’ on? What’s this fookin’ business all about?! the man demanded. You sellin’ me off to the damn Boers?

Watts paused to collect his thoughts.

No, I’m afraid it’s much more complicated than that.

Watts shook his head in the darkness.

We were like family, Jimmy, the Scotsman lectured.

The two oversized handlers threw the Irishman into a ditch, painfully and squarely on his raw, torn knees. However, those wounds had become the least of his physical concerns by then.

Watts, what’s this fookin’ about? McGee pleaded through a swollen, bleeding lip. You must have me confused with some of the kaffir’s business. There must be a serious misunderstandin’ here.

No Jimmy, I’m afraid it’s all quite right. Your little side deals have caught up with you now. Of all people, I should have known better than to put you in a situation of trust. Once a criminal, always a criminal. There’s just no changing the nature of things. But did you really think I wouldn’t eventually hear of your double-crossing and stealing from the claims that we all worked so hard for?

Watts pulled out his revolver and drove it against the side of the digger’s head.

What the fook ya talkin’ about, Watts?

You deeply disappointed me this time, Jimmy. I gave my word to your brother back in Liverpool that we were all square. The lengths I went to bring you out here. I had you shipped here so you could have a clean start. Earn a square living for the family and start anew. I pulled strings and paid off the judge, you selfish bastard! I welcomed you into our business like family! Your Fenian friends sold you out at the drop of a hat to get the reward for killin’ that Manchester policeman. Where was the brotherhood then, you fool? You were facin’ a life sentence of doing hard labor in the Cumberland mines. You know how many blokes don’t come out alive from that wretched system? I should have thrown you down the shaft of my own family coal mine in Fife but your damn stupid brother convinced me you’d serve loyally here in New Rush. He gave me his bloody word you’d be devoted to me until the end! Watt shouted. Now look at ya, ya thieving, dirty bastard!

He hit the slumped man again with the butt of his pistol.

McGee tumbled forward face first into the powdery dust and coughed up a mixture of bile and spit.

Watts yanked him back by his greasy hair and stared intensely into the man’s blood-shot eyes.

I was paying you seven pounds a week, for Christsake! You had enough, as is! You could have been my main overseer in this coming year. And then I find out that you and your native here have been stealin’ from me all these years!

Watts let another blow fly.

McGee toppled forward into the ditch and coughed out a broken tooth.

The two others grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him upright again.

McGee took a deep breath and sighed.

Watts, what do you be meanin’? The only ones stealin’ from ya tis be these damn, filthy natives you keep me baby sittin’ on the claims. They steal the diamonds straight out of the ground and trade ’em for Cape Smoke brandy in those fookin’ eating-houses. No matter whichever of ’em sold me out, I swear, I never scammed ya, boss.

Jimmy, it’s too late, I know the whole scheme. You paid that boy Christian there one pound for every diamond he stuck in his ass and smuggled out of the claims or the depositing floors. We found the last load hidden in the barrel of your shotgun in the tent, just where the note said it would be. God knows how many hundred pounds you fookin’ robbed, you ungrateful bastard! Turning the damn Africans against me! But now, you’re going to pay. Both of you are going to pay!

Watts cocked the hammer of his revolver.

No Watts, listen to me, please, McGee pleaded. Ya got the wrong mastermind of the whole operation. I was only bein’ the messenger. Tis true, I had some gamblin’ debts to pay off in camp and I be recruited by force. Your engineer, Murdoch, he threatened to turn me into the constable and expose the gambling club. It was me and a few of the boys over at DeBeers mine. I couldn’t risk another trip to the gaol. Murdoch was the real buyer all the time.

You lying son of a bitch! You stole from me!

Ya, I pocketed a few of ’em but just for safekeepin’ to get out of hock. Your Murdoch bought all the best ones. Once he turned the first deal, he got the fever. He worked all the natives in the claims and started a side trade. Be it when he was fixin’ the haulin’ machines every Sunday afternoon or when he inspected the steam engine runnin’ at the deposit floors, he pawned all them stones off the half-drunk kaffirs. He be the one with the account with those kopje-walloper Jews at the hotel, not me. He don’t even need me no more. He worked straight with the kaffirs, and cut me out of the operation! I swear it on me mother’s grave, Watts.

Nonsense. You no good lying bastard. I warned you, I warned you all, every single one of you when we hired ya on! You can’t swindle me, you stupid idiot!

Watts took another swing at the beaten thief.

Do you even know who I am? Do you have any idea what I went through to establish this enterprise, Jimmy? Do you know what I carried on my back for two weeks across the veldt to get to this hole all the way from Port Elizabeth? I was up on the Vaal River digging claims with my own bare hands back in ’72 when you were still jerkin’ off with your pals in Manchester. Everything you saw back at the mine started with these two bare hands. And like the good Lord says, Watts giveth, and then he taketh away!

Watts balled his fist in front of McGee’s swollen face and punched him squarely in the forehead.

The beaten man grunted.

I know everything that goes on out here. You think I’m as stupid as you are? How dare you even try to save your worthless hide by accusing Mr. Murdoch of some involvement!

Tis true, Watts!

He would never sully his reputation by even being seen with the likes of you. When your brother shipped you here back in ’74, you were already livin’ on borrowed time. I always suspected that you’d let me down someday. But I warned every last one of you, steal and you pay for it. With your worthless life! I brought you here to work and prosper, not to rob me fuckin’ blind! You broke the contract, and now you’re gonna pay, Jimmy!

Watts turned toward Christian and coldly discharged a bullet into the back of his head.

The body fell forward into the ditch.

Jimmy, I’m afraid this is where we’ll be parting ways.

Watts, please, the man begged, we can work out a new deal. I’ll do anything you ask. Please, hear me now. I’ll work for kaffir rates. I’ll give you my only claim. I’ll pay you back with what I have. Be reasonable, Watts. We can come to something. Don’t kill me like a dog out here. I’ve come too far. I deserve a second chance to prove me self to ya! I never be wantin’ to let ya down.

Jimmy, my word is my bond. I’ve already taken all your worldly possessions. They don’t even come close to the bill you owe me. When I say I’ll kill anyone who steals from me, I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t follow through.

Watts, please, I have a wife and wee ones back in Liverpool.

Ya, I know all that. When the authorities find your body with the self-inflicted gunshot wound, they will conclude that you were just another dead, drunken Irishman lost out here on the Diamond Fields, fuckin’ native boys up the ass for illegal diamonds.

The Irishman began to sob.

Take it like a man, Jimmy. Show some courage. However, I am a decent man. I shall mail your widow this week’s wages. Your backstabbing Irish nationalist friends wouldn’t even give you that courtesy.

Watts, be reasonable, the man cried. Please, I can help you. We can get back at these fookin’ Jews around here that have us at each other’s throats. We’re like brothers! Don’t do it Watts, I can change just like I promised you. Give me one last chance. I’ll do anything for you, he implored.

Mr. Quinn, you know what to do, Watts coldly instructed his other overseer, handing him his loaded weapon.

The accused took a deep breath. Enda, don’t be doin’ this now, McGee pleaded. Enda, after all these years we’ve been workin’ together, ya can’t be doin’ this to me, not like this.

Take it like a man, Jimmy. Ya stole food out of me babe’s mouth, Quinn replied.

Enough, Watts insisted, be done with it, Enda.

McGee screamed as his former compatriot seized a handful of the beaten man’s hair and jerked back his head.

Somehow McGee found enough strength to push off his executioner.

The assistant digger, Tom Parker, cracked McGee across the forehead with his fist, stunning him.

Quinn quickly shoved the barrel of the revolver down the thief’s throat and squeezed the trigger. The explosion was muffled, but a gout of gore flew from McGee’s upper back as the bullet exited.

The body toppled sideways next to the remains of the dead African.

Quinn twisted the revolver forward on his finger and handed it obediently back to Watts.

Watts patted the man on the shoulder and told the other miner to bring him two hand-painted placards from the wagon. Quinn arranged them around the necks of the executed.

Each sign read IBD. To everyone on the Diamond Fields who would hear of their fate, these murdered men represented the greatest form of disgrace a digger could face in Kimberley: Illicit Diamond Buyers.

* * *

The late night drinking crowd was in rare form even for the Diamond Fields. All of Kimberley’s rogues, characters, crooks, and entrepreneurs crammed into the corrugated-iron halls and canteens to test their fates on that cool New Year’s Eve.

Prosperity and vice shook hands in these shabby establishments. Fortunes were won or lost around stained card tables. The billiards tables were run by sharks from the civilized world trying to out-hustle the new arrivals, fresh off the boat from the Old Country.

Gambling was made officially illegal in Kimberley back in March 1873 by a proclamation of the Lieutenant-Governor of Griqualand West himself, but all the canteen owners quickly found the loophole in the law and offered formal invitations to close associates to play friendly games of cards within these newly established private clubs of distinct membership. If you had the Queen’s pound sterling, you could join.

Watts entered one such crowded place. He gave each of his men, Parker and Quinn, money to have a drink at the bar along the far wall in honor of the New Year, 1880.

Watts traversed the single room to the farthest corner and approached the greasy-haired, bespectacled bar owner, who went by the name of Cohen and was now sitting with ‘friends’ at one of the card tables.

The off-duty miners sitting around the table looked up briefly from their hands.

Cohen noticed his opponents’ glances and cautiously pressed his cards to his chest. He swiveled sideways to look over his shoulder at Watts, who decided to edge in on the private party.

Cohen pretended surprise and politely greeted his much unwelcomed guest. Oh my, if it isn’t, what’s your title again? Baronet Watts of the Central Victoria?

Watts curtly smirked in acknowledgement but offered no correction or rebuttal to the sarcastic remark.

Cohen twisted the edge of his handlebar mustache and motioned to the new entry.

Why don’t you pull up a chair and deal yourself in, Watts? I’d wager that a man of your influence could make the pot interesting tonight. Help us bring in an even more prosperous New Year.

Watts waved his hand in disapproval.

Mr. Cohen, may I speak with you privately for a minute? Watts replied coldly over the proprietor’s shoulder.

Why so formal, Watts? There is nothing to be said in private that the boys here don’t already know about or will hear about eventually. Secrets don’t last long in Kimberley, and rumors always beat them to the punch.

The dealer passed Cohen another card and he raised the bet.

Watts cupped his revolver through his coat jacket pocket and gently touched the hidden barrel into the back of Cohen’s right shoulder blade.

Cohen twitched at its steely poke.

I’ll only need a few moments of your time, if you please, Mr. Cohen.

Cohen exhaled in frustration and rolled his dark eyes. He folded his rigged cards prematurely and threw his hands up in the air.

Watts cocked his head toward the bar.

Cohen slapped has palms forcefully into his lap and pushed angrily away from the table.

He flashed the dealer to his right a nod of concern and stood up.

Watts noticed the old house distress signal. It wasn’t the first time he’d provoked trouble in a Kimberley canteen.

Oh very well then, buy a man a drink for giving up such a prosperous hand so early, won’t you, Watts?

Watts took his hand off the trigger and cautiously followed the proprietor across the busy room to the equally packed bar.

Cohen made some form of hand gesture to the barkeeper. Watts eyed his assistants to gather closer.

The bartender handed his boss a drink. Cohen skillfully threw back the shot of whiskey, toasting the Queen and the New Year. He wiped his lips with his yellow-tinged sleeve and looked squarely back at Watts, raising his eyebrows when he saw Watts’s drink still untouched.

Watts pushed the full shot toward Cohen’s slightly trembling hand.

What’s this? A Scotsman who doesn’t drink? Cohen picked up the untouched shot and downed it. He checked the bar mirror in front of him, and saw in its reflection his bouncer standing a few feet behind them. He felt his nerve returning. "So then, Watts, what brings you out with the little people tonight? Have they run out of whiskey back at your hut or did you come here with some business in mind?"

Listen Cohen, I’ll say this only once. Your days of stealing from me and my claims are finished as of tonight.

Cohen registered a look of faux shock. Now whatever do you mean by that, Watts? This is not a licensed, diamond merchant’s establishment. He waved his arm, taking in the surroundings. Perhaps you might try the business next door, but I think he’s closed for the evening. We are here to entertain those who work so hard to make you rich. He laughed, exposing a mouth full of rotting teeth.

Watts saw through the brazen routine. It wasn’t the first time Cohen had played this little game with a suspicious claimholder.

The owner observed his gang of men slowly closing in. Their ability to arrive before business matters became difficult was nearly routine.

Maybe if you go ’round the back, Watts, you might find a lady friend willing to ease that tension of yours. If you won’t have a drink, perhaps something else? I’ve just had a few tarts arrive from the States this week. You do enjoy the company of women, don’t you, Watts?

Watts shook his head. I’ll say this only once. Tomorrow, Cohen, you will discover that your thieving hands in my claims have been chopped off.

Cohen flashed a look of shock.

Watts, hold on now. You’ll forbid your diggers from frequenting my fine watering establishment? That will be a tall order. Your workers’ wages are already filling my coffers.

Watts scanned the boisterous crowd and failed to spot any of his miners.

Don’t play games with me, Cohen, Watts said through gritted teeth. Your business with McGee has been terminated. The backroom illicit diamond dealing that goes on here will no longer include the production from my claims. Do you understand?

Cohen looked around for the eyes that always watched him. His gaze found the bartender and another signal was sent to discharge this most unwelcome troublemaker.

Watts detected the subtle nod and knew his time was up. If I catch word that you’re working IDB property from my men again, I’ll kill you, do you understand? Watts whispered, making sure no one in the room caught the threat except its target.

Cohen grinned smugly and shook his head.

Watts, be very careful with who you accuse of illegal activity. You could easily be brought up on charges of slander. If a miner comes to me with a supposedly empty claim and is facing insolvency, I’ll always consider buying the spot. It’s just smart business. But IDB, I’m afraid you have accused the wrong man of that.

Two rough-looking types came up and stood on each side of Watts. One of them rudely jerked his head for the undesirable guest and crew to leave the canteen at once.

Your final warning, Cohen. You will never steal from me again. It wasn’t long ago that the Diggers Committees ruled Kimberley and the mines. Remember all those canteen owners who swindled us diggers? Do you recall how their shacks burned down in the riots? Be wise, Mr. Cohen. It’s just a matter of time before our type of justice catches up with the likes of you.

Cohen brushed the miner’s warning off as one of many he’d heard that day.

The bouncers moved in and not-so-gingerly shoved Watts and his men out of the bar and onto the dusty street.

As Watts mingled with the horses and half-drunken celebrants, a thought crossed Cohen’s mind. He came out of the front door while Watts still stood there.

Oh Watts, by the way, when will that countryman of yours, that dashing engineer, be returning? Mr. Murdoch, yes, that’s the fellow. Bet you didn’t know it, but he is one of my best customers. Cohen laughed and went back inside. Watts gritted his teeth as he went out into the cool African night and angrily headed back toward the mine with his men in tow.

2

Kimberley, South Africa January 2, 1880

The heat of the midday sun beat down on the dirty street opposite the Kimberley Mine Dumps. Thirty-foot-high piles of rock and debris encroached on the roof of the Central Victoria Mining Company’s two-room, corrugated iron office. A hot, dry wind swirled over the lip of the mine and coated Victoria’s approaching directors with yellow dust.

Lord Kenneth Watts had already arrived and opened both of the building’s two windows to dispel the stagnant air within.

Across the street lay the mine, buzzing with activity. Most of the men and their native laborers were at work deep in the claims removing the blue ground that contained the precious stones to the surface for drying, washing, and sorting.

Around the edge of the cavernous hole stood the mine’s headgear from which a plethora of ropes hung into the claims below. The only relief from the sun lay under the shade of a verandah that surrounded the shack.

Watts escorted the directors into the tranquil darkness. Each took a place on wooden benches that had been built with precious wood from the nearby Orange Free State. These days, an ox cart full of timber fetched up to fifty pounds per load.

The men poured themselves drinks from the array of half-opened liquor bottles that lined the table.

Thirty-five year old Watts was the last to settle in. He closed the door and assumed his seat behind a small desk.

Soft light shining through the shades outlined Watts in a radiant glow.

Watts had a look of concern on his face. Gentlemen, let me be the first to wish you all a happy, profitable New Year in 1880! he said as he raised a glass of scotch.

Here, here! they replied.

Very well then, let us get to the business of the day. I hereby call to order the first meeting of 1880 for the Central Victoria Mining Company Board of Directors; Lord Kenneth Watts, presiding. All are present here except for the soon-to-be new director, James Murdoch, chief engineer, who is on holiday back in Scotland. Let the official notes reflect that my assistant, Morrison, has run over to the postman to retrieve some parcels from the Cape. He should be along shortly.

Bryon Stanley sat across from Watts, noting the minutes of the meeting in a journal.

Worthington! Watts nearly shouted, What is the news from the Colonial Office in the Cape?

Ah, yes sir, the news is, in fact, quite grim. There are strong rumors that Kimberley, Beaconsfield, the mines, and the whole of Griqualand West will be annexed by the Cape Colony this year. It will be announced in the Cape Parliament in a few months, so they say.

It was to be expected, Watts replied. The Colonial Governor agreed to it three years ago under the Annexation Act. No matter how much the Kimberley Municipal Board protests, nothing will be changed.

Each of the men registered concern.

Now that the Colonial Office has settled its disputes with the Zulu and the war is won with the gaining of Zululand by Natal, the Governor can focus again on settling our annex here, Worthington added.

We must be extremely cautious. We can’t afford liberal Cape laws seeping into our community. If the Governor has his way, he’ll push more rights to the kaffirs. The Africans will be allowed to own more claims and eventually be given the franchise. All the while they run off from our labor contracts and go north to pay their tribes’ debts.

I’m sure you’ll use your Mine Board connections to voice our reasonable concerns, Worthington added.

That bastard J.B. Robinson is certain to be the first voice of protest once the annex is announced, Watts predicted.

A most disagreeable chap, Stanley seconded.

And what of Brother Boer? Watts questioned.

That’s a more difficult matter, sir, Worthington replied. The Orange Free State Boers still claim sovereignty over the Diamond Fields. If the Cape takes Kimberley instead, they’ll have a full-on dispute with the Boers in Bloemfontein. We might not fare so well if we lose our ties to them. And trouble’s brewing in the Transvaal. It may come to another conflict soon.

We must be cautious in our dealings with the Boers. I’d much prefer their backwater ways than the methods of the Cape, Watts explained. All their lunatic religious beliefs aside, we must not distance ourselves from the Boers. They have proven good allies when we started up on the Vaal River at Klipdrift.

All the men nodded in agreement.

Worthington, get over to the Orange Free State. Tell Brother Boer that most of the diggers are against the Cape’s meddling. Say to them… Watts stroked his chin, . . . we want to work with them, no matter what.

The others laughed at Watts’s joke.

Worthington nodded. I’ll visit Brand’s deputies next week. J.B. Robinson’s men will be there, and probably that German, Gustave Daring.

Yes. Stay clear of those leeches.

Worthington flipped his thumb.

Now then, young Higgins, please review the finances.

Higgins opened the leather-bound book on his lap. Lord Watts, with our strategic consolidations in 1879 and the increased output, our assets are £108,301 as of this morning; our liabilities are £75,811, Higgins explained assuredly. A 30% increase in profit margin!"

They burst into self-appreciating applause at the official news.

Well done, gentlemen, well done! Watts smiled broadly.

We have four, six-horsepower steam engines at work thanks to Mr. Murdoch, and last year’s capital spend, Higgins remarked. The laborers are digging a hundred loads a day and the steam-powered washing machines are filtering almost sixty loads of earth per diem. We extract a value of £200 of rough diamonds. This includes the undesirable bort, but we still find buyers for that too. So, we enjoy £4,600 a month of diamond profits. According to our merchant receipts, we have sold 9,348 carats to the market in ’79. Believe it or not, gentlemen, we took £55,200 last year. Extremely profitable, I do say! The price of diamonds is on the increase into 1880!

Watts watched their faces carefully. He could almost see cogwheels going around inside their heads as each calculated their percentage of the annual sales.

For labor, we employ four white overseers in the mine and at the sorting tables. We currently have sixty-one natives under contract in the claims, but this is only an estimate since as you know they are always wandering off or they vanish altogether as soon as they earn enough to buy a gun.

Worthington raised his hand. "Watts, I propose we hold the overseer rates at seven pounds a week and the natives at 40 shillings. We’ll squeeze out a few more percent profit and hold back a few pounds for our joint