Barberton, 1884: The journal of a gold digger

My name is James "Jim" Redding. I am thirty-seven years old, though my face has aged faster than the calendar says. I came from Kimberley with a rusted spade, a donkey, and a sack of pipe tobacco, and I suppose, a head full of dreams.

Barberton, 1884: The journal of a gold digger

Tᴀᴋᴇ Nᴏᴛᴇ: Tʜɪs ɪs ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ.

They say the De Kaap Valley is paved with gold. That its rivers whisper promises and its hills are lined with fortune. That’s what I heard when I left Kimberley behind, the day the whisper turned into a roar. Only this time, like thousands of others, I followed it. Now I find myself here, on the edge of this new town Barberton, elbow-deep in red dust and river silt, hoping that the next pan I swirl will change my fate.

We live fast and hard out here. My name is James "Jim" Redding. I am thirty-seven years old, though my face has aged faster than the calendar says. I came from Kimberley with a rusted spade, a donkey, and a sack of pipe tobacco, and I suppose, a head full of dreams. Some men call us fools, others call us fortune-hunters. We call ourselves diggers.

Life here is not for the faint-hearted. The sun bears down like the Queen’s own furnace, and the rains, when they come, turn our diggings into rivers of mud. There’s no comfort here, save for a bottle of Cape brandy at the Cockney Liz Hotel, or a bit of stew from the fire when someone’s lucky enough to trap a dassie or shoot a buck.

I share a tent with two other fellows, a Scot named Campbell who used to mine coal back in Glasgow, and a wiry Boer lad who barely says a word but can pan a stream like he was born to it. We wake before dawn, drink black coffee boiled in a tin, and head to the creek. Every rock we lift, every spadeful of gravel, we do with hope. And when we see a glint in the pan, even if it's just a speck, we cheer like men who’ve struck heaven.

Some of the boys get lucky. Real lucky. Just a week ago, old Tommy Claasen pulled a nugget the size of a pigeon egg from the side of a hill near Moodie's Reef. He’s already gone to town to spend some of his wealth at the wagon maker and to find himself a wife, in that order.

For most of us, luck comes slow, if it comes at all. We trade flakes for food, gold dust for boots, and hope to stay healthy enough to try again tomorrow. Fever, snakebite, and hunger are constant companions. I’ve seen men bury friends and carry on digging the next hour, because out here, the gold won't wait.

The town itself, Barberton, is a beast of its own. Dusty streets by day, gaslight dreams by night. Tents, wagons, wooden shacks and more than a few gambling dens. There’s laughter, fights, music, and women with painted faces. Everyone’s chasing something whether it is gold, love, or escape. Some are even chased by the law.

There’s a kind of fever in the air, and not just from the sun. A fever of possibility. We know this won't last forever, gold rushes never do, but while it lasts, it’s the only world we know.

Me? I’m holding on. My hands are cracked, my back aches, and my boots are more hole than leather, but last night, I found three bright specks in my pan. Real gold. I wrapped them in a twist of paper and tucked them in my pocket like they were diamonds. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find more. Maybe I won’t.

But I’ll be there at first light, shovel in hand, digging into the red bones of this wild country. Because I still believe, like all of us here, that just one more day might be the one that changes everything.

And if not?
Well, then we’ll raise our tin mugs by firelight, toast the dream, and try again.
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