‘Raft?’
‘Yes.’ Jamie’s excitement was growing. ‘Think about it. No one ever made it to the shore because the bottoms of their boats were torn out by the reefs. But a raft will glide right over those reefs and onto the shore. And it can get out the same way.’
Banda looked at him for a long time. When he spoke, there was a different note in his voice. ‘You know, Mr McGregor, you might just have an idea there …’
It started as a game, a possible solution to an unsolvable puzzle. But the more Jamie and Banda discussed it, the more excited they became. What had started as idle conversation began to take concrete shape as a plan of action. Because the diamonds were lying on top of the sand, no equipment would be required. They could build their raft, with a sail, on the free beach forty miles south of the Sperrgebiet and sail it in at night, unobserved. There were no land mines along the unguarded shore, and the guards and patrols only operated inland. The two men could roam the beach freely, gathering up all the diamonds they could carry.
‘We can be on our way out before dawn,’ Jamie said, ‘with our pockets full of Van der Merwe’s diamonds.’
‘How do we get out?’
‘The same way we got in. We’ll paddle the raft over the reefs to the open sea, put up the sail and we’re home free.’
Under Jamie’s persuasive arguments, Banda’s doubts began to melt. He tried to poke holes in the plan and every time he came up with an objection, Jamie answered it. The plan could work. The beautiful part of it was its simplicity, and the fact that it would require no money. Only a great deal of nerve.
‘All we need is a big bag to put the diamonds in,’ Jamie said. His enthusiasm was infectious.
Banda grinned. ‘Let’s make that two big bags.’
The following week they quit their jobs and boarded a bullock wagon to Port Nolloth, the coastal village forty miles south of the forbidden area where they were headed.
At Port Nolloth, they disembarked and looked around. The village was small and primitive, with shanties and tin huts and a few stores, and a pristine white beach that seemed to stretch on forever. There were no reefs here, and the waves lapped gently at the shore. It was a perfect place to launch their raft.
There was no hotel, but the little market rented a room in back to Jamie. Banda found himself a bed in the black quarter of the village.
‘We have to find a place to build our raft in secret,’ Jamie told Banda. ‘We don’t want anyone reporting us to the authorities.’
That afternoon they came across an old, abandoned warehouse.
‘This will be perfect,’ Jamie decided. ‘Let’s get to work on the raft.’
‘Not yet,’ Banda told him. ‘We’ll wait. Buy a bottle of whiskey.’
‘What for?’
‘You’ll see.’
The following morning, Jamie was visited by the district constable, a florid heavy-set man with a large nose covered with the telltale broken veins of a tippler.
‘Mornin’,’ he greeted Jamie. ‘I heard we had a visitor. Thought I’d stop by and say hello. I’m Constable Mundy.’
‘Ian Travis,’ Jamie replied.
‘Headin’ north, Mr Travis?’
‘South. My servant and I are on our way to Cape Town.’
‘Ah. I was in Cape Town once. Too bloody big, too bloody noisy.’
‘I agree. Can I offer you a drink, Constable?’
‘I never drink on duty.’ Constable Mundy paused, making a decision. ‘However, just this once, I might make an exception, I suppose.’
‘Fine.’ Jamie brought out the bottle of whiskey, wondering how Banda could have known. He poured out two fingers into a dirty tooth glass and handed it to the constable.
‘Thank you, Mr Travis. Where’s yours?’
‘I can’t drink,’ Jamie said ruefully. ‘Malaria. That’s why I’m going to Cape Town. To get medical attention. I’m stopping off here a few days to rest. Travelling’s very hard on me.’
Constable Munda was studying him. ‘You look pretty healthy.’
‘You should see me when the chills start.’
The constable’s glass was empty. Jamie filled it.
‘Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.’ He finished the second drink in one swallow and stood up. ‘I’d best be gettin’ along. You said you and your man will be movin’ on in a day or two?’
‘As soon as I’m feeling stronger.’
‘I’ll come back and check on you Friday,’ Constable Mundy said.
That night, Jamie and Banda went to work on the raft in the deserted warehouse.
‘Banda, have you ever built a raft?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, Mr McGregor, no.’
‘Neither have I.’ The two men stared at each other. ‘How difficult can it be?’
They stole four empty, fifty-gallon wooden oil barrels from behind the market and carried them to the warehouse. When they had them assembled, they spaced them out in a square. Next they gathered four empty crates and placed one over each oil barrel.
Banda looked dubious. ‘It doesn’t look like a raft to me.’
‘We’re not finished yet,’ Jamie assured him.
There was no planking available so they covered the top layer with whatever was at hand: branches from the stinkwood tree, limbs from the Cape beech, large leaves from the marula. They lashed everything down with thick hemp rope, tying each knot with careful precision.
When they were finished, Banda looked it over. ‘It still doesn’t look like a raft.’
‘It will look better when we get the sail up,’ Jamie promised.
They made a mast from a fallen yellowwood tree, and picked up two flat branches for paddles.
‘Now all we need is a sail. We need it fast. I’d like to get out of here tonight. Constable Mundy’s coming back tomorrow.’
It was Banda who found the sail. He came back late that evening with an enormous piece of blue cloth. ‘How’s this, Mr McGregor?’
‘Perfect. Where did you get it?’
Banda grinned. ‘Don’t ask. We’re in enough
