Master of the Game

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.”

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.

Night after night, Margaret McGregor lay in her bed thinking about her life. She knew how much she was envied by the women in town, and it made her ache, knowing how little there was to envy. She was living out a charade with a husband who treated her worse than a stranger. If only he would notice her! She wondered what he would do if one morning at breakfast she took up the bowl that contained his oatmeal especially imported from Scotland and poured it over his stupid head. She could visualize the expression on his face, and the fantasy tickled her so much that she began to giggle, and the laughter turned into deep, wrenching sobs. I don’t want to love him any more. I won’t. I’ll stop, somehow, before I’m destroyed…

By 1890, Klipdrift had more than lived up to Jamie’s expectations. In the seven years he had been there, it had become a full-fledged boomtown, with prospectors pouring in from every part of the world. It was the same old story. They came by coach and in wagons and on foot. They came with nothing but the rags they wore. They needed food and equipment and shelter and grubstake money, and Jamie McGregor was there to supply it all. He had shares in dozens of producing diamond and gold mines, and his name and reputation grew. One morning Jamie received a visit from an attorney for De Beers, the giant conglomerate that controlled the huge diamond mines at Kimberley.

“What can I do for you?” Jamie asked.

“I’ve been sent to make you an offer, Mr. McGregor. De Beers would like to buy you out. Name your price.”

It was a heady moment. Jamie grinned and said, “Name yours.”

David Blackwell was becoming more and more important to Jamie. In the young American Jamie McGregor saw himself as he once had been. The boy was honest, intelligent and loyal. Jamie made David his secretary, then his personal assistant and, finally, when the boy was twenty-one, his general manager.

To David Blackwell, Jamie McGregor was a surrogate father. When David’s own father suffered a heart attack, it was Jamie who arranged for a hospital and paid for the doctors, and when David’s father died, Jamie McGregor took care of the funeral arrangements. In the five years David had worked for Kruger-Brent, Ltd., he had come to admire Jamie more than any man he had ever known. He was aware of the problem between Jamie and Margaret, and deeply regretted it, because he liked them both. But it’s none of my business, David told himself. My job is to help Jamie in any way I can.

Jamie spent more and more time with his son. The boy was five now, and the first time Jamie took him down in the mines, young Jamie talked of nothing else for a week. They went on camping trips, and they slept in a tent under the stars. Jamie was used to the skies of Scotland, where the stars knew their rightful places in the firmament. Here in South Africa, the constellations were confusing. In January Canopus shone brilliantly overhead, while in May it was the Southern Cross that was near the zenith. In June, which was South Africa’s winter, Scorpio was the glory of the heavens. It was puzzling. Still, it was a very special feeling for Jamie to lie on the warm earth and look up at the timeless sky with his son at his side and know they were part of the same eternity.

They rose at dawn and shot game for the pot: partridge, guinea fowl, reedbuck and oribi. Little Jamie had his own pony, and father and son rode along the veld carefully avoiding the six-foot holes dug by the ant bear, deep enough to engulf a horse and rider, and the smaller holes dug by the mere-cat.

There was danger on the veld. On one trip Jamie and his son were camped at a riverbed where they were almost killed by a band of migrating springbok. The first sign of trouble was a faint cloud of dust on the horizon. Hares and jackals and mere-cats raced past and large snakes came out of the brush looking for rocks under which to hide. Jamie looked at the horizon again. The dust cloud was coming closer.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Our tent—”

“Leave it!”

The two of them quickly mounted and headed for the top of a high hill. They heard the drumming of hooves and then they could see the front rank of the springbok, racing in a line at least three miles long. There were more than half a million of them, sweeping away everything in their path. Trees were torn down and shrubs were pulverized, and in the wake of the relentless tide were the bodies of hundreds of small animals. Hares, snakes, jackals and guinea fowl were crushed beneath the deadly hooves. The air was filled with dust and thunder, and when it was finally over, Jamie estimated that it had lasted more than three hours.

On Jamie’s sixth birthday, his father said, “I’m going to take you to Cape Town next week and show you what a real city looks like.”

“Can Mother go with us?” Jamie asked. “She doesn’t like shooting, but she likes cities.”

His father ruffled the boy’s hair and said, “She’s busy here, Son. Just the two of us men, eh?”

The child was disturbed by the fact that his mother and father seemed so distant with each other, but then he did not understand it.

They made the journey in Jamie’s private railway car. By the year 1891, railways were becoming the preeminent means of travel in South Africa, for trains were inexpensive, convenient and fast. The private railway car Jamie ordered built for himself was seventy-one feet long and had four paneled staterooms that could accommodate twelve persons, a salon that could be used as an office, a dining compartment, a barroom and a fully equipped kitchen. The staterooms had brass beds, Pintsch gas lamps and wide picture windows.

“Where are all the passengers?” the young boy asked.

Jamie laughed. “We’re all the passengers. It’s your train, Son.”

Young Jamie spent most of the trip staring out the window, marveling at the endless expanse of land speeding past.

“This is God’s land,” his father told him. “He filled it with precious minerals for us. They’re all in the ground, waiting to be discovered. What’s been found so far is only the beginning, Jamie.”

When they arrived at Cape Town, young Jamie was awed by the crowds and the huge buildings. Jamie took his son down to the McGregor Shipping Line, and pointed out half a dozen ships loading and unloading in the harbor. “You see those? They belong to us.”

When they returned to Klipdrift, young Jamie was bursting with the news of all he had seen. “Papa owns the whole city!” the boy exclaimed. “You’d love it, Mama. You’ll see it next time.”

Margaret hugged her son to her. “Yes, darling.”

Jamie spent many nights away from home, and Margaret knew he was at Madam Agnes’s. She had heard he had bought a house for one of the women so that he could visit her privately. She had no way of knowing whether it was true. Margaret only knew that whoever she was, she wanted to kill her.

To retain her sanity, Margaret forced herself to take an interest in the town. She raised funds to build a new church and started a mission to help the families of prospectors who were in dire need. She demanded that Jamie use one of his railroad cars to transport prospectors free of charge back to Cape Town when they had run out of money and hope.

“You’re asking me to throw away good money, woman,” he growled. “Let ‘em walk back the same way they came.”

“They’re in no condition to walk,” Margaret argued. “And if they stay, the town will have to bear the cost of clothing and feeding them.”

“All right,” Jamie finally grumbled. “But it’s a damn fool idea.”

“Thank you, Jamie.”

He watched Margaret march out of his office, and, in spite of himself, he could not help feeling a certain pride in her. She’d make a fine wife for someone, Jamie thought.

The name of the woman Jamie set up in a private house was Maggie, the pretty prostitute who had sat next to Margaret at the baby shower. It was ironic, Jamie thought, that she should bear his wife’s name. They were nothing alike. This Maggie was a twenty-one-year-old blonde with a pert face and a lush body—a tigress in bed. Jamie had paid Madam Agnes well for letting him take the girl, and he gave Maggie a generous allowance. Jamie was very discreet when he visited the small house. It was almost always at night, and he was certain he was unobserved. In fact, he was observed by many people, but not one of them cared to comment about it. It was Jamie McGregor’s town, and he had the right to do anything he pleased.

On this particular evening, Jamie was finding no joy. He had gone to the house anticipating pleasure, but Maggie was in a foul mood. She lay sprawled across the large bed, her rose-colored dressing gown not quite concealing her ripe breasts or the silky, golden triangle between her thighs. “I’m sick of stayin’ locked up in this damned house,” she said. “It’s like I’m a slave or somethin’! At least at Madam Agnes’s there was somethin’ goin’ on all the time. Why don’t you ever take me with you when you travel?”

“I’ve explained that, Maggie. I can’t—”

She leaped out of bed and stood defiantly before him, her dressing gown wide open. “Horseshit! You take your son everywhere. Ain’t I as good as your son?”

“No,” Jamie said. His voice was dangerously quiet. “You’re not.” He walked over to the bar and poured himself a brandy. It was his fourth—much more than he usually drank.

“I don’t mean a damned thing to you,” Maggie screamed. “I’m just a piece of arse.” She threw her head back and laughed derisively. “Big, moral Scotchman!”

“Scot—not Scotchman.”

“For Christ’s sake, will you stop criticizin’ me? Everythin’ I do ain’t good enough. Who the hell do you think you are, my bloody father?”

Jamie had had enough. “You can go back to Madam Agnes’s tomorrow. I’ll tell her you’re coming.” He picked up his hat and headed for the door.

“You can’t get rid of me like this, you bastard!” She followed him, wild with anger.

Jamie stopped at the door. “I just did.” And he disappeared into the night.

To his surprise, he found he was walking unsteadily. His mind seemed fuzzy. Perhaps he had had more than four brandies. He was not sure. He thought about Maggie’s naked body in bed that evening, and how she had flaunted it, teasing him, then withdrawing. She had played with him, stroking him and running her soft tongue over his body until he was hard and eager for her. And then she had begun the fight, leaving him inflamed and unsatisfied.

When Jamie reached home, he entered the front hall, and as he started toward his room, he passed the closed door of Margaret’s bedroom. There was a light from under the door. She was still awake. Jamie suddenly began to picture Margaret in bed, wearing a thin nightgown. Or perhaps nothing. He remembered how her rich, full body had writhed beneath him under the trees by the Orange River. With the liquor guiding him, he opened Margaret’s bedroom door and entered.

She was in bed reading by the light of a kerosene lamp. She looked up in surprise. “Jamie…is something wrong?”

“’Cause I decide to pay my wife a l’il visit?” His words were slurred.

She was wearing a sheer nightgown, and Jamie could see her ripe breasts straining against the fabric. God, she has a lovely body! He began to take off his clothes.

Margaret leaped out of bed, her eyes very wide. “What are you doing?”

Jamie kicked the door shut behind him and walked over to her. In a moment, he had thrown her onto the bed and he was next to her, naked. “God, I want you, Maggie.”

In his drunken confusion, he was not sure which Maggie he wanted. How she fought him! Yes, this was his little wildcat. He laughed as he finally managed to subdue her flailing arms and legs, and she was suddenly open to him and pulling him close and saying, “Oh, my darling, my darling Jamie. I need you so much,” and he thought, I shouldn’t have been so mean to you. In the morning I’m gonna tell you you don’t have to go back to Madam Agnes’s…

When Margaret awoke the next morning, she was alone in bed. She could still feel Jamie’s strong male body inside hers and she heard him saying, God, I want you, Maggie, and she was filled with a wild, complete joy. She had been right all along. He did love her. It had been worth the wait, worth the years of pain and loneliness and humiliation.

Margaret spent the rest of the day in a state of rapture. She bathed and washed her hair and changed her mind a dozen times about which dress would please Jamie most. She sent the cook away so that she herself could prepare Jamie’s favorite dishes. She set the dining-room table again and again before she was satisfied with the candles and flowers. She wanted this to be a perfect evening.

Jamie did not come home for dinner. Nor did he come home all night. Margaret sat in the library waiting for him until three o’clock in the morning, and then she went to her bed, alone.

When Jamie returned home the following evening, he nodded politely to Margaret and walked on to his son’s room. Margaret stood staring after him in stunned bewilderment, and then slowly turned to look at herself in the mirror. The mirror told her that she had never looked as beautiful, but when she looked closer she could not recognize the eyes. They were the eyes of a stranger.