Master of the Game

Chapter 9

They were married three days later in a brief, private ceremony. The only witness was David Blackwell.

During the wedding ceremony, Jamie McGregor was filled with mixed emotions. He was a man who had grown used to controlling and manipulating others, and this time it was he who had been manipulated. He glanced at Margaret. Standing next to him, she looked almost beautiful. He remembered her passion and abandon, but it was only a memory, nothing more, without heat or emotion. He had used Margaret as an instrument of vengeance, and she had produced his heir.

The minister was saying, "I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Jamie leaned forward and briefly touched his lips to Margaret's cheek.

"Let's go home," Jamie said. His son was waiting for him.

When they returned to the house, Jamie showed Margaret to a bedroom in one of the wings.

"This is your bedroom," Jamie informed her.

"I see."

"I'll hire another housekeeper and put Mrs. Talley in charge of Jamie. If there's anything you require, tell David Blackwell."

Margaret felt as though he had struck her. He was treating her like a servant. But that was not important. My son has a name. That is enough for me.

Jamie did not return home for dinner. Margaret waited for him, then finally dined alone. That night she lay awake in her bed, aware of every sound in the house. At four o'clock in the morning, she finally fell asleep. Her last thought was to wonder which of the women at Madam Agnes's he had chosen.

If Margaret's relationship with Jamie was unchanged since their marriage, her relationship with the townspeople of Klipdrift underwent a miraculous transformation. Overnight, Margaret went from being an outcast to becoming Klipdrift's social arbiter. Most of the people in town depended for their living in one way or another on Jamie McGregor and Kruger-Brent, Ltd. They decided that if Margaret van der Merwe was good enough for Jamie McGregor, she was good enough for them. Now when Margaret took little Jamie for an outing, she was met with smiles and cheery greetings. Invitations poured in. She was invited to teas, charity luncheons and dinners and urged to head civic committees. When she dressed her hair in a different way, dozens of women in town instantly followed suit. She bought a new yellow dress, and yellow dresses were suddenly popular. Margaret handled their fawning in the same manner she had handled their hostility - with quiet dignity.

Jamie came home only to spend time with his son. His attitude toward Margaret remained distant and polite. Each morning at breakfast she played the role of happy wife for the servants' benefit, despite the cool indifference of the man sitting across the table from her. But when Jamie had gone and she could escape to her room, she would be drenched in perspiration. She hated herself. Where was her pride? Because Margaret knew she still loved Jamie. I'll always love him, she thought. God help me.

Jamie was in Cape Town on a three-day business trip. As he came out of the Royal Hotel, a liveried black driver said, "Carriage, sir?"

"No," Jamie said. "I'll walk."

"Banda thought you might like to ride."

Jamie stopped and looked sharply at the man. "Banda?"

"Yes, Mr. McGregor."

Jamie got into the carriage. The driver flicked his whip and they started off. Jamie sat back in his seat, thinking of Banda, his courage, his friendship. He had tried many times to find him in the last two years, with no success. Now he was on his way to meet his friend.

The driver turned the carriage toward the waterfront, and Jamie knew instantly where they were going. Fifteen minutes later the carriage stopped in front of the deserted warehouse where Jamie and Banda had once planned their adventure into the Namib. What reckless young fools we were, Jamie thought. He stepped out of the carriage and approached the warehouse. Banda was waiting for him. He looked exactly the same, except that now he was neatly dressed in a suit and shirt and tie.

They stood there, silently grinning at each other, then they embraced.

"You look prosperous," Jamie smiled.

Banda nodded. "I've not done badly. I bought that farm we talked about. I have a wife and two sons, and I raise wheat and ostriches."

"Ostriches?"

"Their feathers bring in lots of money."

"Ah. I want to meet your family, Banda."

Jamie thought of his own family in Scotland, and of how much he missed them. He had been away from home for four years.

"I've been trying to find you."

"I've been busy, Jamie." Banda moved closer. "I had to see you to give you a warning. There's going to be trouble for you."

Jamie studied him. "What kind of trouble?"

"The man in charge of the Namib field - Hans Zimmerman - he's bad. The workers hate him. They're talking about walking out. If they do, your guards will try to stop them and there will be a riot."

Jamie never took his eyes from Banda's face.

"Do you remember I once mentioned a man to you - John Tengo Javabu?"

"Yes. He's a political leader. I've been reading about him. He's been stirring up a donderstorm."

"I'm one of his followers."

Jamie nodded. "I see. I'll do what has to be done," Jamie promised.

"Good. You've become a powerful man, Jamie. I'm glad."

"Thank you, Banda."

"And you have a fine-looking son."

Jamie could not conceal his surprise. "How do you know that?"

"I like to keep track of my friends." Banda rose to his feet. "I have a meeting to go to, Jamie. I'll tell them things will be straightened out at the Namib."

"Yes. I'll attend to it." He followed the large black man to the door. "When will I see you again?"

Banda smiled. "I'll be around. You can't get rid of me that easily."

And Banda was gone.

When Jamie returned to Klipdrift, he sent for young David Blackwell. "Has there been any trouble at the Namib field, David?"

"No, Mr. McGregor." He hesitated. "But I have heard rumors that there might be."

"The supervisor there is Hans Zimmerman. Find out if he's mistreating the workers. If he is, put a stop to it. I want you to go up there yourself."

"I'll leave in the morning."

When David arrived at the diamond field at the Namib, he spent two hours quietly talking to the guards and the workers. What he heard filled him with a cold fury. When he had learned what he wanted to know, he went to see Hans Zimmerman.

Hans Zimmerman was a goliath of a man. He weighed three hundred pounds and was six feet, six inches tall. He had a sweaty, porcine face and red-veined eyes, and was one of the most unattractive men David Blackwell had ever seen. He was also one of the most efficient supervisors employed by Kruger-Brent, Ltd. He was seated at a desk in his small office, dwarfing the room, when David walked in.

Zimmerman rose and shook David's hand. "Pleasure to see you, Mr. Blackwell. You should have told me you was comin'."

David was sure that word of his arrival had already reached Zimmerman.

"Whiskey?"

"No, thank you."

Zimmerman leaned back in his chair and grinned. "What can I do for you? Ain't we diggin' up enough diamonds to suit the boss?"

Both men knew that the diamond production at the Namib was excellent. "I get more work out of my kaffirs than anyone else in the company," was Zimmerman's boast.

"We've been getting some complaints about conditions here," David said.

The smile faded from Zimmerman's face. "What kind of complaints?"

"That the men here are being treated badly and - "

Zimmerman leaped to his feet, moving with surprising agility. His face was flushed with anger. "These ain't men. These are kaffirs. You people sit on your asses at headquarters and - "

"Listen to me," David said. "There's no - "

"You listen to me! I produce more fuckin' diamonds than anybody else in the company, and you know why? Because I put the fear of God into these bastards."

"At our other mines," David said, "we're paying fifty-nine shillings a month and keep. You're paying your workers only fifty shillings a month."

"You complainin' 'cause I made a better deal for you? The only thing that counts is profit."

"Jamie McGregor doesn't agree," David replied. "Raise their wages."

Zimmerman said sullenly, "Right. It's the boss's money."

"I hear there's a lot of whipping going on."

Zimmerman snorted. "Christ, you can't hurt a native, mister. Their hides are so thick they don't even feel the goddamned whip. It just scares them."

"Then you've scared three workers to death, Mr. Zimmerman."

Zimmerman shrugged. "There's plenty more where they came from."