The River of Diamonds Read online

  The River of Diamonds

  Geoffrey Jenkins

  Geoffrey Jenkins

  The River of Diamonds

  1

  The Collector of Deserts

  'East of the sea and west of the dunes.'

  Whether it was the Miltonics inherent in the phrase which came so spontaneously from the lips of the tall man in the witness-box, or the chance ending of the tape-recording spool which underlined and gave weight to what he said, I am not sure; but I know that in my own mind I date the fate of the Mazy Zed from that instant.

  I have read the court transcript since in order to be able to delineate, not chronologically but in its proper perspective, the figure which emerged as our enterprise progressed; I prevailed upon the authorities to give me the actual recording of his words, and it is now revolving slowly on my desk as I write. I still find in his educated, resonant English voice an indication of the well-springs of that drive which made him for so long an outlaw — in his own mind at least — from his friends, from the fellow prospectors who admired his work and hoped to avoid his fate, and most, God knows, from his family. It is easy, therefore, for me to set down exactly what he said, and although the picture of him that I give is taken from my mind's eye, that impress is no less strong upon me than upon anyone else with whom he came in contact. The sea and the dunes — those two were so much part of the man that my narrative starts naturally from the point at which he spoke of them to the court.

  Fred Shelborne stood before the microphone at the end of the courtroom farther from the Judge and two assessors. Mr Justice de Villiers presided at the head of a horseshoe-shaped table; Younger and du Plessis, both barristers and diamond experts, flanked him. Their table was on a dais and below, at floor level, there was a double row of other tables, covered in green plastic, for counsel. The witness-box was between the two rows, so that Shelborne faced the whole room. Outside the door at his back was a lawn and bushes, as incongruously green as was the diamond town itself among the desert dunes. A green pattern of lawns and bright cottages, with a swimming-pool and red-steepled church, lay branded, man-made, on the ochre surface of this, the richest diamond field in the world.

  Shelborne was not on trial: the Government had set up a special court at Oranjemund, the only town of the Sperrgebiet, the forbidden diamond coast of South-west Africa, to hear the most radical prospecting application in the history of mining.

  We wanted to mine diamonds from the sea.

  We asked for the right to prospect for 250 miles along the Sperrgebiet from a point roughly 450 miles north of Cape Town. Along this savage, treacherous and mainly unexplored littoral lie a dozen small islands, close off shore, which are covered with the droppings of millions of seabirds — the 'white gold' of guano.

  We had come to Oranjemund from Cape Town, 370 miles to the south, well prepared for our case. Presenting our application were three leading barristers, with supporting juniors. We had expected opposition — in the diamond game there are always the old-timers to stake a preposterous claim. Shelborne looked like one of them: an old sports jacket, shirt washed to the colour of bleached driftwood, blue trousers pale with wear, the ghost of some once-fashionable club in his tie's Windsor knot.

  He repeated, as the new recording spool started to spin: 'East of the sea and west of the dunes.'

  He coughed, not apologetically, but asthmatically.

  Shardelow, the Queen's Counsel leading our legal team, misjudged him as much as I had at first glance.

  'Mr Shelborne,' he said with studied patience, 'please answer my question. I asked, were you aware of the existence of a so-called treasure trove of diamonds on the Sperrgebiet coast in a place known euphemistically as "the Hottentots' Paradise". You replied, yes. I asked where it was. Your reply is, "east of the sea and west of the dunes".'

  Shelborne's air of preoccupation was intense. 'That is correct.'

  Shardelow fiddled with some papers and flicked a glance at the Judge. He was fine-drawn, sallow, with a high forehead and slicked-back hair. It was a face from an old Flemish master.

  'Mr Shelborne, I see here you hold a master mariner's certificate?'

  'In sail.'

  'That presupposes a knowledge of navigation?'

  'Naturally.'

  'Assume you are on the deck of your windjammer — making your way along the coast of South-west Africa…'

  'Yes.'

  'You are about to enter an unknown harbour…'

  'There are no unknown harbours. There is only one port between Oranjemund and Walvis Bay — Luderitz.'

  'We are theorizing, Mr Shelborne. For the sake of my analogy, grant me an unknown harbour on the Sperrgebiet.'

  Shelborne nodded. There was not a single hair on his head. Its domed smoothness contrasted with the deep gullies round his nose and eyes.

  'Your first mate says the harbour entrance lies "east of the sea and west of the dunes". You would consider that definite enough to pinpoint the entrance — specific, exact navigational indications?'

  'No.'

  'Yet you feel you can state — under oath too — to this court that the locality of the Hottentots' Paradise, this nirvana where there are all the diamonds and all the girls to be had for the taking, is known to you; and that it lies east of the sea and west of the dunes?'

  'Yes.'

  'Perhaps you would explain?'

  'A harbour entrance could be half a mile wide, it could be a couple of hundred yards. I am talking about a desert 100 miles wide. On the west is the sea and on the east the dunes. Somewhere between the two lies the Hottentots' Paradise.'

  'You are sure it exists?'

  'When I was first in the Sperrgebiet nearly fifty years ago, several expeditions set out to find it. None came back.'

  'What, in your opinion, prevented their returning, Mr Shelborne — the diamonds or the dancing girls?'

  A snigger ran round the court. A barrister at the table opposite me leaned forward and scribbled on his pad. His movement revealed a young woman sitting behind him. Unlike the others, she was not smiling: she stared at Shelborne.

  Shelborne rode the wisecrack. 'Neither. The desert did.'

  The deep resonant voice is there in the recording still, but the tape does not capture the curious air of preoccupied dedication which put paid to Shardelow's humour. From that moment he knew he was crossing swords with a man of calibre.

  Shelborne went on: 'They adventured into a terrible wilderness of dunes which, to this day, has never been explored. The Namib is the most savage desert in the world.'

  'Come, come, Mr Shelborne — the most savage in the world? There are other deserts, you know.'

  'I know. The Namib is small — about one-thirtieth the size of the Sahara. It is older than any other — the Gobi, the Rub' al-Khali in Arabia, the Mohave in North America, the Takla Makan in Turkestan. When the earth's crust solidified, it did so first along the coast of South-west Africa. The Namib was born. The only other desert which in some way resembles it is the Atacama coastal desert of South America. But the Atacama is a mild, comfortable place compared to the Namib…'

  Shardelow hitched his gown round his shoulders. 'You have some extraordinary attributes for a simple prospector, Mr Shelborne. Your range seems to include even the second day of the Creation.'

  Shelborne smiled. 'The third day, I think. Dry land emerged out of chaos on the third day.'

  The Judge smiled too. It was the sort of thrust which appealed to his cool mind.

  Shardelow glowered. 'Now, Mr Shelborne: you have just named the… ah…' he consulted a scrap of paper handed to him by his junior counsel '… the Atacama desert in South America and the… ah… Takla Makan in Turkestan.' He turned to the bench. 'I am sure, my lord,
that if I had had the prior opportunity of consulting the Encyclopaedia Britannica, I, too, could have adduced these names…'

  The Judge turned sharply to Shelborne. 'What, do you know of these two deserts?'

  'I have crossed them both on foot, my lord.'

  The ball was squarely in Shardelow's court. His face already pink from good living flushed still more, but he was professional enough not to let it pass. I glanced at Felix Rhennin next to me. He was frowning and biting his nails. After all, he was investing over a million dollars in- our project. Shardelow's professional instinct told him, discredit the man; discredit him. He studied his papers with forced deliberation. 'Your affidavit to the court, Mr Shelborne, describes you as a prospector. In view of what you have just said, I think it would be fairer to describe you as an adventurer?'

  The gaunt man paused. Then he said quietly, 'No. I am a collector of deserts.'

  'A collector of deserts?'

  'That is correct.'

  'And how does one collect deserts, Mr Shelborne? Like butterflies, like birds' eggs — how exactly?'

  The quiet conviction of the reply startled us all. It seemed to mesmerize the young woman I had noticed earlier. He spoke to the Judge, as if giving the question full weight. 'It is a sort of enterprise of the spirit, my lord. Part is tangible — the heat, the sand, the hunger, the thirst, the diamonds. Part, again, is less tangible: endurance, a quest, a new horizon beyond a smoking crest — one becomes an entrepreneur in things which are difficult to expound in the learned atmosphere of a court because they belong to a less definable world. Someone once said, "Something lies hid behind the ranges, go and look behind the ranges".'

  There was a pause. The only sound was the whirring of the tape-recorder and a sighing of the desert wind through the triple-masted electric pylons in the street outside which complemented it. Shelborne's eyes wandered round the room, momentarily fixing mine. They passed on, deeply preoccupied. I'd seen the affidavit Shardelow had quoted, but I attached so little importance to it that I could not remember why he was opposing us. I say us, but it was really Rhennin's outfit. I was to survey the Sperrgebiet sea-bed on a freelance basis ahead of the mining unit.

  Shardelow resumed ungraciously: 'The intangibles of which the witness speaks — and indeed his deserts — are of no interest to this court or to my client. Neither are they germane to an application for sea-bed diamond rights.'

  'That is what I felt in the first place.' remarked the Judge with a touch of astringency.

  Shardelow winced. 'Mr Shelborne, you have knowledge of Mr Rhennin's project?'

  'Not beyond the fact that there is some big scheme to mine diamonds from the sea.'

  'Perhaps it may clarify — even condition — your attitude if I put you in the picture.'

  Shelborne inclined his head.

  'Briefly, my client, Mr Felix Rhennin, who is a karakul farmer from South-west Africa, proposes to sink a million dollars in a project known as the Mazy Zed which is to extract diamonds from the sea. Sea-bed mining has never been attempted anywhere before. A revolutionary process will be employed. Diamonds will, in fact, be sucked up from the ocean floor as if by a giant vacuum cleaner.'

  I could sense the tenseness in the old prospector. 'What is the Mazy Zed, if I may ask?'

  Shardelow laughed. I knew he would score off Shelborne if the chance offered. The Mazy Zed is the name of a special type of barge which we have planned, a floating diamond mine…'

  The Judge cut in: 'Mr Shardelow, you will of course be calling expert technical evidence to explain all this to the court?'

  'Of course, my lord. We also intend bringing similar expert evidence as to the nature of diamond-bearing marine terraces like those at Oranjemund.'

  The Judge leaned forward towards Shelborne. 'On what grounds are you opposing the Mazy Zed application?'

  Shelborne began to fumble inside his worn jacket.

  Shardelow said quickly, 'Have you prepared a scheme like the Mazy Zed!'

  Shelborne paused, his hand at his inside pocket. I thought he was about to reply to the taunt. For a moment there was a flicker in his strange green eyes. Then he took out an envelope, extracted a thick sheet of paper, and smoothed it out. He read: 'German Imperial Decree, 13 November 1913…'

  The Judge stopped him. 'What is this document?'

  Shelborne held it out. 'It is a decree of the German Imperial Government, issued in Berlin before the First World War, vesting the mining and prospecting rights within the territorial waters of South-west Africa in Frederick William Caldwell.'

  'Caldwell!'

  The name seemed to send an electric thrill through those sitting in the court. Shardelow snapped his fingers at his junior counsel for the affidavit.

  The Judge seemed taken aback. There is scarcely any need to ask who Frederick William Caldwell was, Mr Shelborne, but for the sake of the record I shall ask the pro forma question.'

  Shelborne became withdrawn. 'Caldwell was a prospector. Thirty, forty years ago he was a legend in the Sperrgebiet. He was linked with all the great discoveries — Oranjemund, Kleinzee, The Cliffs. He was popularly credited with having discovered these very fields at Oranjemund four years before anyone else…' He seemed to hesitate, as if unwilling to commit himself.

  'Yes, Mr Shelborne?'

  'He has been dead for many years. He set out to find the Hottentots' Paradise. That was more than thirty years ago. He died in the desert.'

  'How do you know this?'

  'I went with him — part of the way.'

  'You knew him, then?'

  'Yes, well. We prospected together. We were here at Oranjemund when it was nothing but dunes, trackless, 'unexplored. It hadn't even a name.'

  Shardelow could scarcely wait for him to finish. 'I must take the strongest exception to this document being presented in this manner. It is common practice to lay documents before the court beforehand, and not in the manner of a deus ex machina. I have not had the opportunity of studying this alleged concession by the German Government. I have been given no chance to call evidence or witnesses in connection with it…'

  'Proceed, Mr Shelborne,' said the Judge curtly. 'Are you handing that paper in?'

  'I am, my lord.'

  Shardelow bristled. 'May I ask what a concession — which was made out half a century ago in the name of Caldwell — has to do with the claims — the alleged claims — of Mr Shelborne, collector of deserts?'

  The Judge smiled without humour. 'Mr Shardelow, I must ask you to restrain your sarcasm. The court will assess its validity. Mr Shelborne, how does this bear on your opposing the Mazy Zed application?'

  'The sea-bed prospecting rights were ceded to me by Fred Caldwell.'

  Shardelow bent down and spoke rapidly to Rhennin.

  'Ask for an adjournment then, for God's sake!' said Rhennin under his breath. He turned and whispered to me, on his other side. 'This could be dangerous, John. I may have to buy the old bastard out if what he says is true.'

  The Judge said, 'You have proof of this, Mr Shelborne?'

  'Yes. You will see from the document that Caldwell ceded the rights to me when we parted at Strandloper's Water

  'Where?'

  'Strandloper's Water, my lord. It was the jumping-off place for the Hottentots' Paradise, so we thought. The name is there — Caldwell wrote it in before signing.'

  Shardelow said angrily, 'I wish to ask for an adjournment so that we may have the opportunity of scrutinizing this alleged document…'

  'Alleged, Mr Shardelow?'

  'We do not know under what circumstances this cession took place. It may have been under duress. I might want to call the notary who signed it…'

  It was Shelborne's turn to smile. 'There are no notaries at Strandloper's Water. The nearest human being was several hundred miles away at the time. The place is simply a dip in the sand between two semi-permanent dunes. There may have been water there once. There are a lot of bones.'

  'That reinforces my argument for an adjourn
ment, my lord.'

  'You will be prepared to amplify your claim under oath, Mr Shelborne? Much may hinge on the legality of this deed of cession.'

  I could sense the keyed-up restraint of Shelborne's replies. He seemed to have neither personal capital or backing. Why had he hung on to the concession for so long? To me there seemed something hidden behind his cautious replies about Caldwell. There was his hesitation, his studied choice of words, his lack of deference, almost, in speaking of the famous dead prospector. I tried to picture the parting of the two tough prospectors at Strandloper's Water, one returning to the coast and the other going forward to try to penetrate the pitiless wastes. Shelborne hadn't been bluffing when he spoke of the famous deserts he had conquered. I didn't see him staying behind while Caldwell went on to break open the Namib. Something did not add up about Shelborne. Men try desperate things for diamonds and I found myself wondering whether Caldwell's disappearance — itself a legend within the legend — could be laid at Shelborne's door.

  The court adjourned and the Judge had scarcely gone when Shardelow beckoned impatiently for the deed of cession. 'Christ! I thought I was dealing with some broken-down old prospector trying to bum a ride on the Mazy Zed; instead I'm faced with… with… that!' He gestured after the tall figure, disappearing behind the Judge.

  Rhennin himself was silent. He always was when the going was tough. During the war he had been personal Intelligence assistant to the Obeibefehlshaber der Marine, the German Naval High Command, and he was an immensely cool and capable man. Forty-eight years of age, he was seven years older than I, and though he hadn't a grey hair, his heavy-lidded eyes were heavier now that he was worried. Shorter than myself, he was in splendid physical trim; my own out-of-doors job kept me in pretty good shape, but I knew that I would have to be in top form for the task of surveying the Sperrgebiet. I had been on the fringe of the Namib myself and I knew Shelborne had not exaggerated when he called it a terrible wilderness.

  I strolled out into the early winter sunshine. A glorious, incongruous burst of roses flanked the pavement, which had specially high kerbs to keep back the sand. The sea fog was rolling back to the sea, whence it commuted every day, and the air was fresh. I dodged a Lambretta which came buzzing along the street — private cars are prohibited among the 2500 whites and 5000 non-whites in Oranjemund for reasons of security. Only Land-Rovers and the trucks used by the mining company for transporting workers are allowed. The town is as much of a freak as the diamond fields which surround it: when the great diamond strikes were made in the late 1920s and 1930s, the diamond company, Consolidated Diamond Mines, established a small settlement of prefabs in the desert, all supplies except water had to be brought from a railhead 175 miles to the north by mule wagon. There is a small harbour, Port Nolloth, sixty miles south, but the Orange River floods cut it off from Oranjemund for months. The river, the biggest in Africa south of the Tropic of Capricorn, forms a vast muddy estuary, the mouth stopped up by innumerable sandbars. Since World War II, however, Oranjemund has been transformed by the bridging of the river: as our plane from Cape Town circled low over it the previous afternoon, Oranjemund was branded green on the dun flank of the desert. There was a still greener patch to the north of the town — a hydroponics farm, where all the town's vegetables are grown with an economy and cunning which rivals the compactness of a space rocket's commissariat. In fact, as I strolled about the town, the place reminded me of a cafe capsuled in space; only here, instead of space, there was desert. The red-roofed cottages seemed unreal in their snug suburban-looking security among lawns and shrubs on a spot where once men died in their frantic search for diamonds. Today, a fifth of a ton of gems is brought up yearly from beneath forty feet of desert sand, and it is sold for eighteen million pounds.