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.”
He’s a bloody animal, David thought. And a dangerous one. He looked up at the huge supervisor. “If there’s any more trouble here, you’re going to be replaced.” He rose to his feet. “You’ll start treating your men like human beings. The punishments are to stop immediately. I’ve inspected their living quarters. They’re pigsties. Clean them up.”
Hans Zimmerman was glaring at him, fighting to control his temper. “Anything else?” he finally managed to say.
“Yes. I’ll be back here in three months. If I don’t like what I see, you can find yourself a job with another company. Good day.” David turned and walked out.
Hans Zimmerman stood there for a long time, filled with a simmering rage. The fools, he thought. Uitlanders. Zimmerman was a Boer, and his father had been a Boer. The land belonged to them and God had put the blacks there to serve them. If God had meant them to be treated like human beings, he would not have made their skins black. Jamie McGregor did not understand that. But what could you expect from an uitlander, a native-lover? Hans Zimmerman knew he would have to be a little more careful in the future. But he would show them who was in charge at the Namib.
Kruger-Brent, Ltd., was expanding, and Jamie McGregor was away a good deal of the time. He bought a paper mill in Canada and a shipyard in Australia. When he was home, Jamie spent all his time with his son, who looked more like his father each day. Jamie felt an inordinate pride in the boy. He wanted to take the child with him on his long trips, but Margaret refused to let him.
“He’s much too young to travel. When he’s older, he can go with you. If you want to be with him, you’ll see him here.”
Before Jamie had realized it, his son had had his first birthday, and then his second, and Jamie marveled at how the time raced by. It was 1887.
To Margaret, the last two years had dragged by. Once a week Jamie would invite guests to dinner and Margaret was his gracious hostess. The other men found her witty and intelligent and enjoyed talking to her. She knew that several of the men found her very attractive indeed, but of course they never made an overt move, for she was the wife of Jamie McGregor.
When the last of the guests had gone, Margaret would ask, “Did the evening go well for you?”
Jamie would invariably answer, “Fine. Good night,” and be off to look in on little Jamie. A few minutes later, Margaret would hear the front door close as Jamie left the house.