Loredana Kaminski
Š 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: dana@handsondesign.co.za 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 that I should 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
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 1
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 2
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 3
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 4
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.