The Angels Weep - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные версии txt) 📗
"I agree with you, Zouga," Doctor Jim nodded. "It is much more likely that these damned puerile telegraphs, of Frank Rhodes have come to old Kruger's notice." "Be that as it may, gentlemen. The Boers are making certain preparations it is even possible that they have already called out their commandos in the Rustenburg and Zeerust divisions." "If that is the case," Zouga said softly, "then we have a choice. We can either move immediately, or we can all go home to Bulawayo.". Doctor Jameson could not remain seated any longer, he jumped up from his canvas chair and began pacing up and down the tent with quick jerky little strides. They all watched in silence until he stopped in the opening of the tent and stared out across the sun-scorched plain towards the eastern horizon beneath which lay the great golden prize of the Witwatersrand. When at last he turned to face them, they could see that he had reached his decision.
"I am going, "he said.
"Thought you would," murmured Zouga
"What are you going to do?"Jameson asked as softly. "Going with you," said Zouga
"Thought you would," said Jameson, and then glanced at Willoughby who nodded.
"Good! Johnny will you call the men out? I would like to speak to them before we ride and, Zouga, will you see to it that the telegraph lines are all cut? I don't want ever to see another one of those communications from Frankie. Anything more he has to say, he can tell me face to face when we reach Johannesburg." "They've got Jameson!"
The cry echoed through the elegant hush of the Kimberley Club, like a Hun war-cry at the gates of Rome.
The consternation was immediate and overwhelming. Members boiled out of the long bar into the marbled lobby, and surrounded the news-crier. Others from the reading room lined the banisters, shouting their queries down the stair-well. In the dining-room someone bumped into the carving-wagon in his haste to reach the lobby, and sent it crashing on its side while the joint rolled across the floor with roast potatoes preceding it like a squad of footmen.
The bearer of the news was one of the prosperous Kimberley diamond-buyers, a profession no longer referred to as "kopje-walloping', and such was his agitation that he had forgotten to remove his straw boater when entering the club portals. An offence that at another time would have merited a reprimand from the committee.
Now he stood in the centre of the lobby, hat firmly on his head and reading spectacles sliding to the end of his em purpled nose, a symptom of his excitement and agitation. He was reading from a copy of The Diamond Fields Advertiser, the ink of which was so fresh that it smeared his fingers. "Jameson raises White Flag at Doomkop after sixteen killed in fierce fighting. Doctor Jameson, I have the honour -to meet you. General Cronje accepts surrender." Ralph Ballantyne had not left his seat at the head of the corner table, although his guests had deserted him to join the rush into the lobby. He signalled the distracted wine waiter to refill his glass, and then helped himself to another spoonful of the sole bonne femme, while he waited for his guests to return. They came trooping back, led by Aaron Fagan, like a funeral party returning from the cemetery.
"The Boers must have been waiting for them-" "Doctor Jim walked straight into it-" "What on earth did the man think he was doing?"
Chairs rasped and every one of them reached for his glass the moment he was seated.
"He had six hundred and sixty men and guns. By God, it was a carefully planned thing then." "There will be a few tales to tell."
"And heads to roll, no doubt." "Doctor Jim's luck has run out at last."
"Ralph, your father is amongst the prisoners!" Aaron was reading the newsprint.
For the first time Ralph showed emotion. "That's not possible."
He snatched the paper from Aaron's hand, and stared at it in agony.
"What happened?" he muttered. "Oh God, what has happened?" But somebody else was yelling in the lobby. "Kruger has arrested all the members of the Reform Committee he has promised to have them tried for their lives." "The gold mines!" another said clearly in the ensuing silence, and instinctively every head lifted to the clock on the wall above the dining-room entrance. It was twenty minutes to two.
The stock exchange re-opened on the hour. There was another rush, this time out of the club doors. On the sidewalk, hatldss members shouted impatiently for their carriages, while others set out at a determined trot towards the stock exchange buildings.
The club was almost deserted, not more than ten diners were left at the tables. Aaron and Ralph were alone at the corner table. Ralph still held the list of prisoners in his hand.
"I cannot believe it,"he whispered.
"It's a catastrophe. What can possibly have possessed Jameson?"
Aaron agreed.
It seemed that the worst had happened, nothing could match the dreadful tidings that they had received so far, but then the club secretary came out of his office ashen-faced, and stood in the doorway of the dining-room.
"Gentlemen, he croaked. "I have some more terrible news. It has just come through on the wire. Mr. Rhodes has offered his resignation as prime minister of Cape Colony. He has also offered to resign from the chairmanship of the Charter Company, of De Beers and of Consolidated Goldfields." "Rhodes," Aaron whispered. "Mr. Rhodes was in it. It's a conspiracy the Lord only knows what will be the final consequences of this thing, and who Mr. Rhodes will bring down with him." "I think we should order a decanter of port," said Ralph, as he pushed his plate away from him. "I'm not hungry any more." He thought about his father in a Boer prison, and suddenly an image come into his mind of Zouga Ballantyne in a white shirt, his hands bound behind his back, his gold- and silver-laced beard sparkling in the sunlight, the whitewashed wall at his back, regarding the rank of riflemen in front of him with those calm green eyes of his. Ralph felt nauseated and the rare old port tasted like quinine on his tongue. He set the glass down.
