"Smith, Wilbur - Ballantyne 02 - Men of Men" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Wilbur)

It was dreary, back-breaking work and after the first rush of hopeful
diggers only the hardiest had remained.

These doughty souls had known for years that it was possible to pick up
an occasional small diamond of inferior quality on the dry ground thirty
miles south of the river, in fact the surly old Boer named De Beer who
owned the ground in that area was selling licences to diamond claims on
his property, although he favoured diggers of his own people and was
notoriously prejudiced against granting "briefies" to Englishmen.

For these reasons, and also for the more pleasant living conditions
along the river, the diggers had not taken too much interest in the "dry
diggings" to the south.

Then one day a Hottentot servant of one of the river diggers rendered
himself blind falling-down drunk with Cape Smoke, the fierce Cape
brandy, and while in that state accidentally set fire to his master's
tent and burned it to the ground.

When he was once again sober, his master beat him with a sjambok whip of
cured rhinoceros-hide until he was once more unable to stand. When he
recovered from his treatment, his master ordered him, still in disgrace,
to go into the dry country "and dig until you find a diamond".

Chastened and still wobbly on his feet, the Hottentot had shouldered his
shovel and pack and limped away.

His master promptly forgot him, until he returned unannounced two weeks
later and placed in his master's hand half a dozen fine white stones,
the largest the size of the first joint of a lady's little finger.

"Where?" demanded Fleetwood Rawstome, the single word all that he could
choke through a throat suddenly parched and closed with excitement.

Minutes later, Fleetwood galloped furiously out of camp, a cartload of
scrapings from the river bed left untreated and his diamond "cradle"
abandoned halfway through the process of concentrating the heavier
diamondiferous gravel. Daniel, the Hottentot servant, hung from his
stirrup leather, his bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust as they
skimmed the dry earth, and the red woollen cap that was the insignia of
Fleetwood's party blowing back from his bald head to flap like a flag
beckoning others to follow.

Such behaviour instantly precipitated a wild panic amongst the fiercely
competitive little community of diggers along the river. Within an hour
a tall column of red dust rose above the flat dry land; a headlong
column of horsemen flogged their mounts while behind them the Scotch
carts rumbled and the less fortunate stumbled and slipped in the sandy
footing as they ran the miles back southwards to old man De Beer's