The Rift Read online

  When they turned east from the Rusizi toward Bubanza, they would be in German East Africa. Now the questions would be sharper; they were entering the domain of another European country. Why are you here, meine herren? Jim knew they had to have a good answer.

  ---

  Little Spirit did not know the reason no one knew where he came from was because he was on the west side of the Great Rift Valley which was controlled by Belgians and owned by their king, Leopold. On the east side of the Valley, the Germans were in control. On that side, there were posters with his picture, the East Africa Company officials had been alerted, as were German government officials. Bakavu was less than twenty kilometers from German East Africa. For Little Spirit, it might have been the other side of the world. Neither Belgian officials nor King Leopold’s company had any interest in finding a small German boy kidnapped by a Somali, nor had the German government made serious inquiries.

  The boy had no control over the events that brought him to Bakavu. At Mwanza, at the south end of Lake Victoria, he had been sold to a Haya chief who saw owning a white child as juju, which he craved to correct the impotence that was a source of sniggers among his many wives. Although the small boy still did not speak, he was given his own msonge into which only the king was allowed to enter.

  Little Spirit had the good fortune of never having to suffer the penalties of failing to help the aging chief, because of a raid upon his village by a Tutsi war party which had heard of Little Spirit and had taken the boy to the west, near the Rusizi River. Again, the small boy, still unable to speak, was treated with great respect. This time he was counted on to assure the continued dominance of the outnumbered Tutsi over the Hutu. That Little Spirit would end up in Bakavu by December 1901, again before his powers could be tested, was the result of a vengeful Hutu, who, when condemned to death, struck back by stealing Little Spirit from under the noses of the mighty Tutsi and escaping with him across the Rusizi.

  When Little Spirit slipped away from his drunken Hutu master and showed up at a restaurant owned by Armand Dreyfus, the Belgian community took no interest in where the boy came from. If the boy had come in contact with one of the churches in Bakavu, or the mission school, they might well have made an effort to find out. Certainly, they would have let King Leopold’s gendarmerie know that a white boy had been found. But Armand Dreyfus had other plans for the boy. He noticed that he was quick of mind and hand, and put him to work in the kitchen. Still the boy did not speak, but he often thought of Adiru, and vowed someday to return to the land where Adiru lived, and prove his worthiness as a morani. Until then, he would suffer the abuse of a white man who shouted at him in a language he had never heard but was beginning to understand, and who beat him whenever he did not move quickly enough.

  “I am not a bad man,” Dreyfus decided. He remembered his life as a boy when his father had him in their store in Liège at the boy’s age. If he did not move quickly enough, he would feel whatever was in his father’s hand at the time. Wherever the boy came from, he would have to learn to work to eat. Armand found him some western clothes to wear, clothes from one of the children who had returned to Belgium with their mother. Armand never really understood why his wife had left him. Yes, it could be lonely here in Bakavu. There was no synagogue, no rabbi for the children. But they had been more prosperous here than in Belgium, and soon they would have been able to move to a bigger town like Stanleyville or Leopoldville. One day she had told him she would not be able to help in the restaurant, and when he got home she and the children were gone.

  Well, someday he would be able to afford a fine restaurant in a big town, and he would write her and tell her she could have the things she wanted. Things were not so bad now. He had a mistress. More Europeans were arriving every week.

  ---

  They had arrived in Shinyanga the week before. Paying the porters, the two men set up camp in a small valley on the river below the town. They had agreed that it was best for the Aussie to remain outside the town until Jim was able to find out if they were still looking for him after a year had passed.

  ---

  The bar was the only one in town for Europeans. The sounds were German, the music, the language, the drinking songs. But Jim heard other languages as well; Greek, Arabic, Swahili, French, Italian, English. The first night he heard English with an accent he was pleased to hear. It was American. The man was ordering a beer. He was about the same age, shorter, skinny. He had a patch over his left eye, a long, drooping mustache and a voice which belied his size.

  “It’s good to hear a voice from home.” Jim had squeezed in beside the man, who looked up, his eyes quickly scanning the taller man. “My name’s Ralph Parsons,” Jim lied. It was a name he sometimes used. Ralph died from dysentery in the war. Just the name of a dead man whose name he happened to remember.

  “Josiah Bekins.” The small man did not offer his hand. As the bartender put the beer on the long table that served as a bar, Jim put down a Belgian franc note. He nodded to the bartender.

  “Bier, bitte.” Jim had no choice but to explain the franc note. He knew the American would not buy the story about traveling across Africa. His hands would tell him he was not a prospector. He looked at Bekins’ hands. He was not a working man, either. Two drifters looking for a way to steal honest men’s money.

  “Much gamblin’ in here, Josiah?”

  “Not enough for two, Ralph.” Still, there was no smile on the face of the small man.

  Bekins was inviting him out of Shinyanga, but he wasn’t about to do that, nor take offense. The American might be the best source of information he had.

  “I’ll stay away from the table, Josiah. How long you been here?”

  “Been here about three months. People are friendly, but I been testin’‘em. One of the men from the mines told me he didn’t want to see me after next week. He gave me that long out of courtesy, he said. Polite sonofabitch. Next week, I’ll be gone, though.”

  Jim decided he could talk to Josiah, or whatever his name was. He also knew that he had another partner.

  ---

  They were almost five hundred meters from the tents where the bags from the washing beds were carried. On the banks of the river, hundreds of native men carried woven baskets of riverbed deposits to the washing beds where the Germans picked through the debris.

  “The diamonds are heavier than the dirt and stones around them so it’s easy to separate them out. The diamonds have worked their way out the ground. They was part of diamond pipes that came from volcanoes.”

  Jim and Josiah looked at each other. To them, diamonds meant money, but to Harold, they could tell it was more than that.

  “I was in Brazil,” he continued, “but there ain’t nothin’ there that the big mining companies don’t own. I seen a lot of people die. The big mines catch you in their territory, they’d shoot you. No warnings. Lost a couple of friends. Didn’t take me long to decide I made a big mistake. Around the Orange River down south, it’s the same. They don’t want people takin’ those things and sellin’ ‘em. There’s too many diamonds in the ground. If they let people dig ‘em up and sell ‘em, they wouldn’t be worth much.”

  “How do you know all this, Harold?” Josiah was watching Boatwright. “You find out a lot, you been around diamonds long as I have.”

  “You been around ‘em, but not near ‘em, right.”

  Bekins seemed to sneer when he spoke. Jim watched Josiah. There was something about the man. Like he wanted an excuse to attack you. He wanted to provoke Harold. He should have stayed away from him. But it was too late. He watched Harold. The eyes on the little man seemed to flash at the last remark. He grew silent.

  It was Bekins who knew how the mining operation worked. Fleming was surprised when Josiah talked about himself that night. Seemed out of character somehow.

  “I only been in Shinyanga for three months. Spent two years in German East Africa after jumping ship in Dar es Salaam. Pretty soon I made some money at cards. Having mo
ney in my pocket, I started fencin’ goods, buy and resell goods smuggled past the customs sheds. When I got word that my name had been mentioned by the police as a suspect in a robbery on the docks, I headed west and ended up here. I got to sprechen Deutsch pretty good in two years. Since I been here, Ralph, I talked to a lot of the men who work at the mine.”

  The three men had taken a walk, ending up above the town, where they could see the sheds and offices of the mining company, and the river beyond. Fleming and Boatwright listened to Bekins

  “The third week of each month, a heavily guarded caravan arrives in Shinyanga from Moshi. The caravan brings in supplies and currency and leaves with the diamonds. Sometimes it brings in new men and takes others out. This is tsetse fly and malaria country, and men get too sick to work. The caravan is due next week.”

  “Sounds like you been thinkin’ about this for some time, Josiah.” “A good long time, Ralph.”

  ---

  Except for the single visit to Shinyanga, Jim and Harold stayed away from the miners. Josiah continued to circulate, knowing that this was the week he had to be moving on. Each night, he would visit the camp of the two others, bringing them up to date. No special preparations for protecting the diamonds were likely. Word had reached town that the caravan was a day away.

  Chapter Four

  It was Saturday night. Only two guards had been posted, and both had submitted without protest, allowing themselves to be bound and gagged while the three men removed the metal box from the tent. In ten minutes, the three had removed the efforts of several hundred men working a full month. Reaching camp, Harold packed the keyhole of the lock with gunpowder as Jim began putting their supplies together. Lighting the ten meter fuse, they watched the lock fly apart. Inside the box, twenty small bags, weighing no more than two hundred fifty grams each. The little Aussie took one of the bags and opened it. Carefully, he poured their contents into his hand. Jim could see his eyes shine as he broke into a huge grin. Also inside the box were packets of German bills. Jim took the bills and divided them equally among all three men.

  Breaking camp, they worked their way back into the riverbed and headed west. By dawn, they had covered over twenty kilometers. Picking an area where rocks jutted into the river, they left the river and headed north. Carrying only their rifles, sidearms, ammunition, and water, they were able to move quickly. Only Bekins, who had spent the last two years sitting at tables playing cards, seemed to have difficulty walking. At noon, finding a high hill overlooking the land behind them, they stopped. Using their field glasses, Harold and Jim looked at the countryside, looking for the pursuit which surely would come.

  It was Bekins who spoke first. “I think we should separate here.”

  Jim and Harold looked at each other. They would both be happy to be rid of Bekins. Neither liked him nor trusted him. They were pleased that he suggested the separation. Unspoken was the understanding that neither would ask the other where they were headed.

  “We agree.”

  Jim thought about how the diamonds should be divided. Certainly he and Harold were partners. Bekins was another story. Still, they had agreed to split the diamonds three ways. Harold had walked over to stand in front of Bekins. Harold was not as tall as Bekins, but more muscular. The two were contrasts.

  Bekins had fine features, almost delicate. His face was that of a gambler, the eyes seldom changed expression. Harold had the rough features of a man who had worked hard all his life, and it was easy to read what he was thinking.

  “I don’t like a man who makes me feel like a fool. When I was tellin’ you about diamonds, you was havin’ fun with me, weren’t you, slicker.”

  Jim watched Bekins’ eyes. There was no fear in them. They seemed to grow harder; he stood his ground. Fleming’s long years of traveling brought him in touch with such men. They were cruel, and enjoyed ridiculing men they thought stupid, like Harold. Some only talked, but others used their tongues to goad men so that they could hurt them. Jim wondered whether Bekins had not known that Harold would react this way. That he wanted to kill him.

  “You remember Kurt Mohr, Harold.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Harold took a step back.

  “Young man, about twenty. Tall, had yellow hair. Somebody slit his throat one night. Well, I knew the boy and I knew his father. Kurt had made a real strike somewhere west of Shinyanga. Police questioned the natives, found out there was another man in the area, who wasn’t prospectin’ with Kurt but was seen taggin’ along with him just before they found him.”

  Harold started to back toward me. I knew he was my partner, but I had to hear this.

  “It was me that put up the money for the workers and his equipment. I heard from some people up in Moshi that a prospector was cleaned out by that fellow who got his brains blown out. Scheuer. Wolfgang Scheuer. I figured you’d be back. Old Ralph here, or whatever his name is, tells me you were a beat man but he talked you into comin’ back. Well, Harold, I’m glad you did. You helped me get more diamonds than young Kurt was able to collect.”

  Bekins turned so that he could face both of us. “Now, Ralph might be able to fire a gun, but I don’t think he has a real stomach for it. Specially when he knows what scum he is travelin’ with.”

  While Bekins talked, Harold worked his way toward his rifle. Bekins didn’t look like he noticed, but I knew he did. He was just leadin’ Harold. He could have just shot the little Aussie, whose hands were shaking like he had the fever, but I think he wanted me to know, just in case.

  “Havin’ you’re throat cut is a helluva way to die. When they found Kurt the hyenas had pretty much cleaned him. They didn’t leave much. Almost killed his father when he heard about it. I wrote the letter and one of his friends wrote back to me.”

  All the time he was talking, Bekins’ voice never changed pitch. He never moved although he was now twenty meters from Boatwright, making a pistol shot chancy. Suddenly, Harold grabbed the barrel of his rifle with his left hand and with his right pulled the stock up to level it, his hand sliding for the trigger. As he did so, he looked toward his target. What he saw froze him. Josiah Bekins stood erect, his pistol hand extended, the revolver aimed at Harold.

  “No, don’t...” Harold dropped his rifle and spread his hands.

  The American fired twice, both bullets smashing into Harold’s face, dropping him on his back.

  I had no reason to go after Bekins, and I was pissin’ my pants, anyways. But quicker than my eye could see, his revolver was sighted on me. Then, the damned crazy Kansan smiled.

  “I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Ralph. What’s your real name, anyway? Or have you changed it so much you’ve forgotten what it is.”

  “Jim,” I said. “Jim Fleming.” Well, I could say I misjudged the man. I’m glad we didn’t play poker. Right then, I saw my fortune walking away with Josiah Bekins. And I would have been happy to see it and him go.

  “Jim, when we first decided how to divide the shares, I agreed to one-third. Well, I’m stickin’ with my bargain. But I’m takin’ that Aussie bastard’s share because I figure I have it comin’ and Kurt’s family is entitled, too. You can walk away with your third. I don’t know about you Jim, but I’ve been away too long. I have some grandkids I want to see, maybe some great-grand kids, I don’t know. They may think I’m a worthless bastard, but maybe they’ll like the stories I have to tell.”

  And so Josiah Bekins gathered his treasure, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and headed northeast.

  I yelled to him. “That’s the way Harold went the last time, you know.”

  He smiled. “I have some friends up in the Kenyan highlands. I plan to get out of German East Africa quick as possible.”

  “One thing, Josiah. I been wonderin’ why it was so easy to rob the mine--only two guards, them lettin’ us tie them up without so much as a peep.” “Sometimes gambling debts can weigh on a man, Jim.” He smiled at me, telling me he appreciated a man with questions. “So long, Jim.
”

  I watched him wave. I turned to look south. I thought I saw something moving between the hills. I thought about Harold. Didn’t he deserve a Christian burial? Probably not. I didn’t have a shovel and the hyenas would dig him up anyway. I turned west, happy with my treasure and for my life.

  ---

  Bakuva sat near Lake Kivu, one of the Lakes that were part of the depression called the Great Rift running through Ethiopia to southern Africa. At the edge of King Leopold’s empire, it was part of the Congo Free State. It was here that Armand Dreyfus had his restaurant, where Little Spirit worked, and here that Jim Fleming stopped, relieved to be out of German East Africa.

  The last stop that Jim made in German East Africa was in Bubanza, not far from the Rusizi River. Here, he was able to purchase ivory, skins, and rhino horns with his German currency and to arrange to have it smuggled into Stanleyville. It was in Bubanza that Jim saw the picture in the lobby of the new German hotel. It was a little boy. Wilhelm von Mecklenburg. Missing since August 1899. Over a year ago. Last seen heading to the coast. Beside him, a sketch of a sinister looking Somali named Ibrahim Al-Harthi, who kidnapped the boy in Moshi. The reward for the boy was five thousand German marks payable in gold. Jim whistled at that.

  Le Café Liège was a tiny piece of home for the Belgians who traveled to Bakavu. The black waiters were dressed in starched white uniforms. Their manner, their timing in removing dishes and replacing them, of being available but not obtrusive, all came with Armand’s careful training. It was Armand himself who welcomed each dinner guest, who remembered the names of visitors who might have visited Bakavu months before.

  Armand made one concession to the location of Le Café, dress. You were not turned away, if, as Jim Fleming was, a little dusty, in need of a shave and a bath. The little man had even taken such conditions into account, providing a spacious room in which the customers could clean themselves up, going so far as to provide a bath tub for those who had the time for such a luxury. For such extra attention, a small charge was added to the price of the meal. Yes, the thought had occurred to Armand Dreyfus to add some rooms for those who might want to stay in Bakavu, but he had already decided that he would be moving to Stanleyville as soon as he could find a suitable location for a hotel and restaurant there.