The Rift Page 15
The Belgian engineer looked at the lone man talking to himself. He looked at Francie, whom he knew was close to the big American. “Is he going to be alright? I don’t think I have ever seen a man talk to himself like that.”
Francie replied, “When he drinks too much, he sometimes retreats into his own world. But I have never seen him like this.” Now, several of the other customers had turned to watch, some laughing among themselves at the big American.
Fleming did not look up, but spoke into the glass in front of him. “The gambling debts began to mount and they got so bad I couldn’t hide them from old Mike Murtaugh, Jenny’s father. One day, he called me into his study. Old Mike had been a colonel with General Johnston, graduated from The Citadel. He had this study like the one my dad had in the mansion. Frank was with him. Frank scared the hell out of me.
“I told Mike I would get the money to pay off the debt. I told him my father was holding some money for me in Biloxi, which was a damned lie. I said I would stop gambling. I remember lookin’ him in the eye and telling him that.
“A couple of weeks later I was out mendin’ fence with a crew when Frank rode up and told me the sheriff was at the house. He was askin’ for me, he said. I remember we could see the Platte from where we were talkin’, running over its banks from the spring snow melt--a week after Mike had confronted me about the gambling debts, I had settled with the fella I owed the money to. I told Mike that. Now the sheriff had dropped by and I knew what it was about. I figured so did Frank. Frank was sitting on his horse lookin’ down at me.”
“So what happened, mate?” It was a skinny prospector with dirty khakis standing at the bar.
Fleming seemed not to notice the laughter in the room as he continued. “‘You hit that bank in Boulder last week, Jim. I talked to the sheriff. Everything fits. Right size. Right time. The sheriff doesn’t know for sure, but we both do, don’t we? They’re going to hang you, Jim. That’d be OK by me but it’s goin’ to break Jenny’s heart.”
“Hey, cowboy, sounds like you’re in a real tough spot.” It was another American, playing to the crowd. He moved his eyes around the room, basking in the laughter.
Fleming continued, oblivious to the heckling. “I knew right then Frank was about to make some sort of proposal I couldn’t refuse. Frank was too young to fight in the War, but I knew he’d be as tough as his old man, if he did. He was younger than me, and I stayed away from him every chance I got. He yelled out to one of the men workin’ on the fence to bring my horse over to him. He took the reins of a dappled mare from the man. The old mare was no prize, but fit enough.
“‘Jim, see those cows down by the river. I want you to pretend that they got caught in the current, and you went in with your horse to bring ‘em out. You can take this horse. Now, when you get in that river, I want you to head for the other side. If you make it, keep headin’ toward Denver but don’t stop there, except to change horses or get some dry clothes.’
“I remember wantin’ to be somewhere else then. He was tellin’ me to drown myself. While he was talking, the men in the crew walked up and stood beside Frank, just to let me know there weren’t any other choices. I looked at Jenny’s brother and asked, ‘What if I make it, Frank. You gonna send the sheriff after me?’ “‘Jim, when you hit that river, I’m gonna tell Jenny you drowned. It makes no difference whether you make it or not. Personally, I hope you drown but the horse makes it. But if you make it to the other side, you’re no longer alive as far as the Murtaughs and the sheriff are concerned. Mount up.’
“When we hit the water, that old mare wanted to live as much as I did, and somehow, she climbed out of the river a mile down from where we entered. As we went down the river, I could see Frank and the crew riding beside the river. When the mare and I got out of the river, I could see Frank and the crew, watchin’. I took off my hat and waved. None of those bastards waved back.”
It was quiet now. No one was laughing, just looking at the man who eyes were misty now. As if aware he had an audience, Jim waved at no one in particular and passed out, his head banging on the table.
---
He lifted his head off the table. The lights were still bright, the music still playing. His head felt terrible.
“Hey, Pierre. How long have I been sleeping?”
“Several hours, mon ami. I wanted to have you tossed into the street but Francie would not allow it.” The little bartender was laughing, sharing his humor with the other customers.
“Was I talkin’ to myself, Pierre?”
“Oui, the new customers who do not know you could not stop looking at you have this conversation with yourself. The others, they just...” Pierre shrugged his shoulders, playing to the barroom.
The big American walked over to the little bartender, who had come out from behind the bar, and was tidying up the empty tables. He put his hand on his shoulder. Pierre saw the sadness in his eyes.
“Pierre, I’m startin’ for home tomorrow. Would you wish me luck?”
The two of them had come up the Congo in the same month three years ago. When Jim was in Stanleyville, he was usually in the brothel some part of the day. Pierre and he had not been close, the little man remaining aloof from most of his customers. But for reasons even Pierre did not fully understand, he found he had missed the big American when he had been gone for six months with the Australian, and the last few weeks they had become close.
Pierre had watched Jim leave before, but never had he said he was going home. For those in the Congo going home meant many things. It could mean, I have won. It could mean, I have lost. It could just mean it was time.
The little Belgian stepped forward and embraced the embarrassed American, and standing on his tiptoes, he kissed both of his cheeks. “Perhaps it is time for me, too. Bon voyage, toujours mon ami. Have you said your goodbyes to Francie?” The little man suddenly looked like the stern father of the older man. It was not a question, but a command.
Jim thought of Francie, and her father. Goodbyes do not lessen the pain. Goodbyes with promises to return, those are easy. Goodbyes which say we shall never see each other again... That is the kind of goodbye I have for Francie. That is the goodbye her father wrote on a piece of paper.
As he walked back to his room, the images of Jenny and Francie kept appearing and fading. He could not forget Pierre’s admonition, are you going to say goodbye to Francie? He would think about it in the morning. With his key, he opened the door as quietly as the rusty hinges would allow. The little boy was asleep.
Chapter Three
The meeting between Jim Fleming and Harold Boatwright had been a quirk of fate. Jim was in the brothel bar celebrating his poker winnings. He was sitting with Francie, treating her to South African champagne, when he noticed the Australian sitting by himself, looking like his world had fallen apart.
“Isn’t that the fellow who was in here about a year ago, said he had heard there were diamonds in a place he called Shinyanga? He was in high spirits then.” Jim was talking to Francie, as they both looked at the wiry little man sitting two tables from them. “I remember he had a hard time parting company with you, Francie.”
Francie’s eyes brightened. “Yes, now I remember. He told me he was hiring some porters and was going across the mountains to the east. Someone had drawn him a map, which he said that person had gotten from one of Stanley’s people. Whatever happened must have been awful. He was such a man of spirit. Look at him now.”
Jim looked at Francie. “Harold, right. His name was Harold. Said he was a miner in Australia but heard about the diamonds in Africa. Said most people were looking farther south, but he said German East Africa was where he was going to look. Looks like things didn’t work out. Look Francie, I’m gonna have a talk with Harold. He looks like he could use a friend. You available?” He winked at her. She looked at the American, offering him her coquettish smile.
“My friendship comes at a price, monsieur.”
“Well, by the looks of Harold, he needs
a friend. I guess he’s looking in the wrong place for friendship, though.”
The little man hadn’t shaved, the knees of his trousers and elbows of his coat were worn through, and the heels of his boots worn off. It was a sight seen often in Stanleyville. Jim Fleming had seen such men get up from the bar or table, walk out the door and disappear, like they walked off the end of the earth. A few coming to Africa to get rich did so. Most didn’t. There had been times where things were desperate for Jim, when it seemed like every door was closed, and it was his turn to take that walk, but something had always happened, something had always come along.
Big Jim had gone to sit with Harold out of compassion. He had been there and wanted to help, if only to say he understood. But his kindness and free drinks were more than rewarded once Harold recounted his story. For while Harold saw the trek to Shinyanga and Moshi as disasters, James Alfred Fleming II saw them as the chance he had been seeking for fifteen years. That evening, the American and the Australian entered into a partnership, and an agreement to return to Shinyanga, to the source of Harold’s vanished wealth.
The next afternoon, Francie was astonished to see Harold, along with his new partner Jim, pop into the brothel with the same vim and vigor he showed her a year ago. The transformation was astonishing. New trousers and jacket, new hat, new boots, a pocket full of francs.
As they passed Francie, Jim said sotto voce, “See what a little kindness can do.” The plan was a simple one to draw up. They would hire some porters and head southeast up the Lualabo River until they reached a point due west of Bakavu on the shores of Lake Kivu. Then down the Rusizi River for five days to a fishing village near the town of Bubanza. From there they would travel east through Bubanza and then Muyinga, then Shinyanga. Approximately eight hundred kilometers as the raven flies, perhaps one thousand with the detours that could be expected. Harold made the trip in sixty days, they should be able to do at least that well this time.
The danger of the trip was hostile tribes. They would take their chances, aided by the sundries they brought with them, not only to trade for food and labor, but to persuade local tyrants to let them pass. Unlike the great expeditions financed by European governments and wealthy institutions like churches, newspapers, or private companies, Harold and Jim had to be creative. Breaking into the warehouse of a Belgian import company, they loaded their porters with knives, pots and pans, spoons, and mirrors. They took boxes of men’s and women’s hats.
Jim found a large supply of axes in the shipping company’s warehouse that were supposed to have gone to Abidjan. Their greatest find were two boxes of pocket knives made in Switzerland with blades, corkscrews and can openers.
Part of their takings, they sold to help pay for the twenty porters they would take with them. Through his many contacts in Stanleyville, Jim was able to locate two Arabs who could fire a rifle who agreed to come in return for leading them to Shinyanga, where they could then get back to the East African coast where they lived. By the fifth day after Jim had seen the devastated Aussie in the brothel, the two partners were ready.
The caravan assembled in the dark to allow them to be on the trail before daybreak. Word had gotten to Jim that the gendarmerie would be around in the morning to question him about the robbery of the warehouse. Investigations of the many robberies and muggings often found Jim a prime suspect but good fortune allowed him to remain free. If gendarmes searched the caravan, his string of good luck would end.
With Francie, still dressed in her evening attire, the lone person to see them off, they began their trek on the trail which followed the Lualabo River in high spirits. Forgotten were all the miserable journeys through mountains, swamps, tropical forests, freezing nights, tsetse flies, leaches and mosquitoes in search of other bonanzas. This time, Jim thought; this time it will be different. Harold’s trip had convinced Jim that the Aussie had made only one mistake. He had tried to deal with the Germans. If, after collecting his diamonds, he had turned northwest, Harold would have been a wealthy man. His downfall had been to go east. Stanleyville, named after the man who found Dr. Livingstone and explored the Congo for King Leopold II, sat just north of the equator. At sea level, the temperature would have been unbearable, but at fifteen hundred meters above sea level, the weather for the trip to Shinyanga would be comfortable. As the partners left Stanleyville and proceeded to the southeast, they would quickly cross into the southern hemisphere, staying in front of the high mountain ranges to the east. By good fortune, it was winter in the southern hemisphere in April through September. In the eastern area of King Leopold II’s Empire, the weather was dry in these months. The element of nature that they had to contend with as they worked their way up the Lualabo was man.
Twenty-five kilometers from Stanleyville, they made their first camp. Within minutes of stopping, natives from a nearby village began to appear. Some carried fish, others vegetables and fruit. Some of the men flexed their muscles, picking up the baggage of the porters, signaling the partners they wanted to work. Since Harold had agreed to cook, it was left to him to bargain for the evening meal.
The clearing they had selected lay close to the river. The two men sat facing the sunset, sharing scotch whiskey from the same bottle, feeling the breeze against their faces. Whatever the circumstances, Jim thought, there are always these moments where your soul seems at peace, where the fears and anger drift out of your body, and you catch a glimpse of what heaven must be like. The feeling didn’t last long.
“You know, mate, we may travel six hundred miles and get nothin’ for it.
There’s somethin’ I didn’t tell you.”
The American fixed his gaze on the little Aussie and waited. “I didn’t trade for those diamonds. I stole them.”
Harold looked at Jim. He waited for the expression on the big man’s face to change. It didn’t. Just silence as he studied Harold. The American grabbed the bottle and took a long swig. As he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes became hard.
“Anything else you want to tell me, Harold?” “Like what?”
“You kill anybody?” Jim’s mouth had set; his eyes had become slits. “You kill a white man for the diamonds?”
“No, I took the diamonds from their camp while they were out prospectin’.” “They know it was you?”
“They didn’t then because I never went into the camp before I took the diamonds. I watched them and waited until they left.” Harold waited for the next question, and then decided he hadn’t satisfied his partner. “Not then, they didn’t, but there were not that many white men around that the German soldiers couldn’t figure out that I left for a good reason.” Boatwright watched Fleming. He decided to take the risk. “Look, Jim we can do the same thing, again; there’s diamonds out there. I think I know you. You don’t mind stealin’ to get rich. Ain’t I right about that?”
He wasn’t really surprised that was what happened. He was perhaps more surprised that Harold had told him everything so soon. They were only twenty-five kilometers from Stanleyville. He could decide to turn around and the escapade would be over.
“That’s about right, Harold.”
“I figured you oughta know, Jim. Somethin’ happen to me and people around Shinyanga find out I was with you, you’d be blindsided. They’d hang you or shoot you. We’re close enough to where we started we can turn around. I thought about it on the trail today, and figured I’d better tell you everything now.”
“We’ll keep goin’.” Keeping his sentences short, Jim found, made people want to talk more, most of the time. The Aussie seemed to be the kind it worked with. “I want you to know, Jim, that I appreciate what you done for me, givin’ me another chance. And I ain’t no angel, but I ain’t never did a turnabout on a partner. Never have. Never will.”
Big Jim stood, looking down on Harold, a smile on his face. “We made good time today. Keep this up, and we’ll be at that fishin’ village in four days instead of five.” He walked into his tent, wondering about his partner.
; ---
David Housman would not miss Africa. He had been sent here by the Anaconda Copper Company to the Congo Free State to explore possible joint ventures with the King’s business partners. As a geologist, he was asked to assess the potential of the copper ore in the region, and to look at other possible minerals that could be extracted for a profit. After three years of travel overland and on the great rivers of the Congo Free State, after endless conversations with Belgian and French engineers and managers, he had come to the conclusion that any arrangement with the King would be so one-sided that Anaconda Copper should continue to focus on its mines in North and South America and leave Africa to the Europeans.
Now, after sending his recommendation to the company, and directing them to send their reply to Stanleyville, he began making plans to leave his comfortable bungalow in Kamalei, to say goodbye to the many Belgian friends he had made. From where he stood, he could see the blue waters of Lake Tanganyika. He looked at the sky, white wisps of clouds, at the great expanse of land. His gardener was trimming the hibiscus; he could smell the gentle fragrance of the jacaranda. He spoke softly to himself, “You are beautiful, Africa.” He thought of home.
---
The partners had reached Bakavu at the edge of Lake Kivu. After working their way over and through the mountains, they had come to the west branch of the Great Rift Valley. On the other side, German East Africa. In the Congo Free State they had encountered Europeans, who seemed to accept the story of the partners that Jim was an American bent on making it across Africa from the Atlantic to the Indian Ocean, planning to write a book about it when he returned to America. No one seemed to notice or care about the hardened faces of the two white men, the ease with which they dealt with their African porters and guards, or their air that clearly stamped them as people the natives called White Africans.