by John Wilcox
Chapter 2
The bar and the surf caused difficulties in landing and they all had to go ashore in a longboat, riding the surf and getting wet in the process. Alice sat in the stern of the boat, in riding breeches and boots, her hair tied back in a scarf and her eyes shining with the excitement of shooting the surf. Simon thought that he had never seen anyone look so beautiful, and he bit his lip and cursed the salt spray that drenched him. He vowed to get out of Durban as soon as he could buy provisions and transport. He wished to leave Alice, with her troubled grey eyes, as far behind him and as quickly as possible.
The trio split up as soon as they had booked into a modest timber hotel, sited near the shore so as to allow the sea breeze to reduce the humidity somewhat. Durban, indeed, bore some resemblance to Bombay in that the atmosphere was moist and, surrounded as it was by sugar and coffee plantations, the streets were full of Indian coolies who worked in the fields. But it possessed none of the vitality and obvious prosperity of the Indian city. It oozed sleepiness, and even the presence of Wolseley’s troops gave it no sense of purpose or vitality. If there was going to be a war, it would be far away and of no great import to Natal, relieved and relaxed as it was after the threat of Cetswayo’s Zulus had been removed.
Alice immediately went to Wolseley’s headquarters to present her credentials, resigned to meeting once again the initial incredulity caused by a woman - and a young and attractive one at that - representing, as a war correspondent, a newspaper as traditional and important as the Morning Post. On this occasion, however, she knew that her reputation would have preceded her and that her editor would have cabled the General’s staff and, to some extent, prepared the way for her.
Simon and Jenkins meanwhile set about equipping themselves for their long overland journey. A quick study of a locally bought map showed Kimberley as a small dot in the centre of southern Africa, at the far north of the Cape Colony, sitting by the Vaal River in a territory previously unknown to Simon called Griqualand West. To its north stretched the Transvaal, and to reach Kimberley they would have to traverse the Drakensberg Mountains and cross Basutoland and the independent Boer Republic of Orange Free State which fringed it to the east.
‘Funny name, that,’ said Jenkins. ‘Lots of oranges there, is there? And do they give them away?’
‘Not quite. It’s pretty barren, flat country, I think. Many of the Boers trekked there from the south, to get away from English rule. They established a new homeland there, and because they were originally of Dutch origin, they named it after the royal family of Holland. Something like that, anyway. It’s going to be a journey of five hundred miles or more, and there’s no railway and precious few roads by the look of it.’
It would mean travelling on horseback or by cart and oxen. The latter would be less uncomfortable, but Simon disliked the thought of outspanning. Their pace would be slow enough as it was, without the need for uncoupling and coupling harnesses night and morning and putting the team of oxen out for grazing. They therefore purchased three riding horses, one to act as relief, and a pack mule. Simon knew that the high veldt country (it was marked on their map as 4,000 feet above sea level) could be cold, so they exchanged their light cotton clothing for flannel shirts and hard-wearing corduroys, and bought wide-brimmed Boer hats. At a gunsmith they were advised that they might cross lion country and should take heavy-calibre elephant guns, but Simon found, at the back of the store, two old ex-army Martini-Henry rifles. The gunsmith was reluctant to sell - they were probably illegal weapons - but Jenkins was adamant and Simon needed little persuading to pay the heavy premium demanded. Both men had fought with these single-shot breech-loading guns against the Zulus and the Pathans, and valued them highly. It was true that at ten pounds they were heavy, and with eighty-three grains of black powder behind each slug they kicked like a mule when fired, bruising the shoulder when in constant use, but they were proven man-stoppers. They could be accurate at a thousand yards and deadly at six hundred, firing .45 Boxer cartridges with a heavy lead slug so soft that on impact it spread to cause the most fearful wound. They would see off both lions and hostile natives, but as an afterthought Simon also bought a brace of Navy Colt pistols.
‘We goin’ to war again then, bach sir?’ enquired Jenkins with a sniff.
‘We may just have to. I don’t like the sound of the “Big Man” Nandi wrote about. And we’re going to be crossing pretty wild territory. Come on. We’re wasting time.’
A couple of low tents, groundsheets, blankets and basic provisions - including biltong, the dried beef which was the Afrikaner’s staple when on trek - completed their preparations, and they decided to set off shortly after sun-up the next day. In both men’s minds was the thought of the time that had elapsed since Nandi had posted her plea for help. Anything could have happened to her. Time was at a premium.
They were delayed, however. Alice was waiting for them when they arrived back at the hotel. She too was concerned about the Zulu girl and had tried to make enquiries about her at army headquarters. Although John Dunn, Nandi’s father, had lived in Zululand as one of Cetswayo’s chiefs, he had been pressed into service by General Chelmsford to be head of intelligence for the British force that had reinvaded Zululand from the south after the disaster of Isandlwana. He was, therefore, known to the British staff. But he had disappeared after the dissolution of the Zulu kingdom and no one knew where he had gone.
‘I understand,’ Alice told Simon, ‘that Catherine, his number one wife, still lives on what remains of their farm in the south of Zululand. But no one has seen Dunn for some months now, and wherever Nandi is, she is not back on the farm.’
‘Thank you,’ said Simon, ‘but I’m afraid that doesn’t take us any further. We shall just have to set off and hope that she is still in Kimberley. We leave tomorrow.’
‘Oh no. You can’t do that.’ For a moment Simon’s heart leapt. Did she, could she care? Certainly Alice’s eyes were wide. Then her lids dropped. ‘What I mean is,’ she continued, ‘the General wishes to see you in the morning.’
‘What? Whatever for? Well, I don’t wish to see him. I’ve had enough of British generals. We leave at dawn.’
Alice leaned forward. ‘No, Simon. You forget that this man now virtually controls South Africa. He is High Commissioner for South-East Africa, as well as army commander. If you went off without seeing him, he would send an army patrol after you and have you back within the hour. He is no Chelmsford, you know. He is a great reformer with a high reputation. He is very determined and absolutely ruthless. You must know about him.’
Simon nodded his head slowly. He did know about Sir Garnet Wolseley. So did every officer in the army. He was the nation’s most high-profile general, with a reputation for valour, efficiency and reforming zeal which infuriated the Duke of Cambridge, the Queen’s cousin, who commanded the British Army from a hidebound Horse Guards in London. Without patronage or a friend in high places, Wolseley had made his own way. He had lost an eye in the trenches before Sebastopol in the Crimean War, and in 1859, at the age of twenty-six had become the youngest lieutenant colonel in the British Army. He had made his name by leading the Red River Expedition in Canada in 1869, taking a small force 1,200 miles through forest and across lakes and prairie to crush a rebellion of French-Canadian Indians. What was more, he had done so without firing a single bullet in anger or exceeding his budget. The British Government loved him for that, whatever the feelings of the Duke. Following that he had won a difficult jungle war in Africa against the Ashanti, despite facing overwhelming odds. He was England’s hero, and at this very moment, Simon had heard, he was being affectionately satirised on the London stage by Gilbert and Sullivan as ‘the Very Model of a Modern Major General’. Now here he was, cleaning up after the Zulu War and, unofficially, softening up the Boers for confederation of the whole of South Africa under the British flag.
Oh, Simon knew about Wolseley all right. But he regarded him with ambivalence. Simon hated the conservatism still a
t the heart of the British Army - the power of the aristocracy and the unprofessionalism of many of the senior officers, displayed alarmingly when spear-carrying Zulus had wiped out a well-armed but badly led column of British soldiers at Isandlwana. To the extent that Wolseley was a moderniser and a radical, a man who argued that the army had fought too long ‘in the cold shade of aristocracy’ and that an officer should understand ways of providing shelter, good health and even clothing for his men - these views Simon, as a young subaltern, had applauded. They were rare among senior officers, most of whom valued the pleasures of the hunt and the levee before the study of military tactics. But he also knew that the General had his favourites, and that if you were outside his circle of approval it was difficult to rise to the top in his command. In the Ashanti War he had surrounded himself with officers who ever afterwards received his patronage. They were called ‘the Ashanti Ring’. Colonel Covington had fought against the Ashanti. He was one of the Ring.
‘Yes, I know about Wolseley,’ Simon said. ‘But why on earth should he want to see me here? Did you tell him anything about me?’
Alice shook her head. ‘No - well . . .’ She lowered her gaze again, then lifted her head and looked at him with that air of candour that had so intrigued him from the moment they’d been introduced by their parents, all those years ago in Wales. ‘I did say that I knew you to be a most brave man and that the charges brought against you in Zululand were unfounded. Mind you,’ she smiled, ‘Wolseley hates journalists, and he told me that if it suited his purposes he would feed them false information on a campaign, so I doubt if my opinion would influence him either way.’
Simon felt his aloofness melt as he looked into those familiar grey eyes. ‘Well, thank you, Alice. But I can’t understand why he should ask about me or want to see me. Do you know why?’
‘No. But he knew that you and dear 352 - yes, he’d heard about him, too - were on the ship. He’s very shrewd, Simon. He seems to know everything that happens down here. Don’t underestimate him. Oh! One other thing. I think he dislikes General Roberts. I think he is jealous of him after Kandahar.’
They both laughed. ‘Good,’ said Simon. ‘That’s one thing in his favour, anyway. What about you? Has he accepted you?’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t like it. He clearly doesn’t favour women anywhere near the front line, and in fact he has told me that I will never see the actual fighting - well, we’ll see about that.’ Alice stuck out her jaw. ‘But, as I have said, he doesn’t like journalists reporting on him anyway, although it is as a result of people like me writing about him that his reputation is so high. And the Horse Guards have accredited me, so he has to take me on his advance. The other thing is that I am sure he has heard that I upset Roberts in Afghanistan. There was a definite twinkle in his eye when he asked after the General.’
‘When is he going to the north?’
‘Soon, I think, for his camp is in a turmoil. But Simon, he definitely wants to see you first thing in the morning. He suggested eight a.m.’
‘Damn. Very well. I shall see him, of course.’
The next morning Simon made no concessions to formality, and arrived at Wolseley’s HQ - a charming old house set in flowered gardens on the outskirts of Durban - dressed in his travelling gear. He was made to wait, for the General, it seemed, was still playing tennis. Simon perched on the edge of his chair in an anteroom, contemplating the fact that his vital journey was being delayed while some pompous English staff officer was hitting a ball across a net.
But Wolseley was not pompous, nor did he look like a general. He came bustling through a door, dressed in white flannels and cool shirt, rubbing a towel through his hair.
‘Sorry to be late, Fonthill,’ he said - and then, suddenly, ‘No I’m not.’ He looked at the wall clock. ‘Three minutes to. You’re early.’
Simon stood. ‘Yes, sir. I have to travel to the north-west and don’t have much time.’
‘Right you are, then, we won’t waste time.’ Wolseley advanced, one hand outstretched, the towel in the other. They shook hands. ‘Come on through. Forgive me if I don’t change.’
Simon observed the man with interest. England’s hero was just below middle height - perhaps five feet seven inches - and was sturdy and well proportioned and bounced rather than walked. His features were clean cut with a fresh complexion, ruddy now from the tennis. He had a broad and lofty forehead topped by wavy chestnut-coloured hair. His one good eye was bright, penetrating and rather bulbous - the other was obviously made of glass - and he would have been very handsome except that his chin and jaw looked weak, surprisingly so considering his reputation for fortitude and resoluteness.
Wolseley sat in a large chair behind a desk and gestured to Simon to take the one opposite. ‘North-west. North-west? Where exactly are you going and what are you going to be doing there, eh?’
Simon shifted uncomfortably. ‘None of your business’ was the first retort that ran through his mind. Then he remembered Alice’s warning. ‘I have to journey to a place called Kimberley to do some personal business there,’ he explained.
‘You goin’ to be a digger?’
‘A what? Oh, I see. No. I am not going to try and find diamonds. I, ah, want to try and find someone to whom I owe a debt. Then I shall return immediately to England.’
The one good eye regarded him intently. ‘Why did you hit Covington?’ The question came out of the blue, without warning. This man obviously did not beat about the bush.
Simon shifted awkwardly in his chair. ‘He had placed me under arrest, out in the field, just after Isandlwana. He would not believe me when I told him that our column had been completely wiped out and that he should alert General Chelmsford up in the hills. I was on my way to warn the mission station at Rorke’s Drift that a Zulu impi was on its way to attack it and, probably, invade Natal. He was stopping me from doing so by ordering my arrest and I felt that, because of his obduracy, many lives would be lost. I’m afraid I saw red and hit him and then rode away to get to the Drift.’
A half-smile came over Wolseley’s face. ‘I know Covington well. He served under me in the Ashanti. He’s a brave chap - big one, too. Must have been quite a blow, eh?’
Simon did not return the smile. ‘I know him well too, sir. I’m afraid that I would do it again, given the same circumstances.’
‘Hmm.’ Wolseley kept his eye fixed on the young man opposite him and neither spoke for some seconds. ‘It doesn’t do, Fonthill,’ the General said at last, ‘to hit senior officers, but then you were court-martialled for it and will know that. Nevertheless,’ and his voice took on a musing tone now, ‘I don’t know of anyone else who served at both Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift. Then I gather that you and your man Jenkins did well acting as scouts for the Eshowe column in the south before the Battle of Ulundi.’
Simon remained silent. This man was after something and he felt it best to keep quiet until it emerged.
‘Yes,’ continued the General. ‘Did well. And then you both, ah, metamorphosed, so to speak, as spies behind the Pathan lines in Afghanistan, serving Roberts with distinction from what I hear.’
Simon shrugged. ‘We did our duty, sir. That was all. But now we are out of the army and wish to do other things. And forgive me, General, but we are rather in a hurry just now.’
Wolseley had been languidly leaning back in his chair but now he sent it crashing forward. ‘Yes, well, dammit, so am I. You spoke of duty. Well I have a duty to do as well, young man.’ He stood up and paced around the room, circling Simon like a stalking tiger, his dishevelled hair and white tennis garb sitting incongruously with the passionate way he now spoke.
‘Look here, Fonthill. Everyone assumes that I am the radical that I am painted. Well, I detest radicals. Men of Gladstone’s stamp are abhorrent to my instincts. They are vestrymen rather than Englishmen. I am a Jingo in the best acceptance of that soubriquet and yet I am represented as precisely the reverse.’ He swung the towel around his wrist as though about
to hurl a stone from a sling. ‘I am so tired and wearied of Mr Gladstone and his cabinet of vestrymen, with their plans, their littleness and their indifference to the honour and greatness of England. I am no great lover of life but I would like to do something for England before I die.’
He paused by the window and continued, looking out, speaking softly as though to himself. ‘How much pleasanter is death from clean bullet wounds than from loathsome disease. To be killed in the open air with the conviction that you are dying for your country - how different from rotting to death in some hospital or dying like a consumptive girl in an artificially heated room.’ He stopped and remained staring out at the garden, full of its English roses.
The silence hung in the air, almost like an accusation, and Simon shifted in his chair. Was it an accusation? Had he been interrogated, put in the witness box, so to speak, now to receive some great crushing condemnation because he had not served his country well enough? Simon was familiar with jingoism - patriotism being worn as a badge of courage by men who despised other races and, as likely as not, would run at the first whiff of gunsmoke. But Wolseley had more than won his spurs on the field. His bravery and dedication were renowned throughout the Empire, and it was as unnecessary for him to protest his patriotism as for the Queen to suggest that, perhaps, she was royal. And yet that strange, almost disloyal, attack on the Prime Minister . . .
