by John Wilcox
Suddenly Wolseley turned, as though remembering Simon’s presence. ‘Eh?’ he said. ‘What?’
‘Er, yes, sir. Of course.’
‘Very well.’ Now full of decision, the General threw the towel into a corner and returned to his chair. ‘Now look here. There is a further service that your country demands of you, Fonthill. You know that we annexed - there is no other word for it - the Boer independent state of Transvaal about three years ago?’
Simon felt his heart sink. Not another call to arms! ‘I understand so, yes,’ he said.
‘We did it because the Boers are poor managers. They couldn’t organise a prayer meeting in a monastery. They won’t accept being taxed and hate interference of any kind in their personal liberties, which is all very well and good when you’re running a farm miles from anywhere but not when you’re trying to build a country. They act like children and the damned place was virtually bankrupt, so we took it over - with their agreement, of course.’
‘Oh, of course, sir.’ The irony was lost on Wolseley.
‘Well, now that we’ve got the place more or less up and running, they want their independence again, of course. We can’t let ’em have it - we have gone too far down the line to put the engine into reverse, so to speak. Things are building up a bit round Pretoria, the Transvaal’s capital. I don’t think it will go as far as a fight, but it may do. They were of precious little help to us during the Zulu War, and the sensible thing for them to have done, if they wanted us out, would have been to rebel against us when we’d got our hands full with Cetswayo and his impis. But that’s a soldier speaking, and the Boers are not soldiers.’
‘No,’ Simon intervened, ‘but I hear they are damned fine shots.’
‘That’s as maybe, but they would be no match for British soldiers of the line.’
Simon sighed, and in his mind’s eye he saw a red-coated colonel sitting in a tent under the giant rock of Isandlwana, and heard him say again, ‘I hope Johnny Zulu does attack - I’ll give him a bloody nose.’ Would the British Army never learn? But the General was continuing.
‘The point is, I don’t want to fight ’em. I doubt if there’d be support from the Government back home for doing so. What I want to do is to impress them; show ’em what British troops are capable of.’
‘Ah,’ said Simon. ‘The bePedi.’
Wolseley looked at him sharply. ‘What do you know about them?’
Simon coughed. ‘Very little, sir, but I think I get your drift.’
‘Right. They’re a tribe right up there in the north-east, near the northern Drakensbergs, led by a chief called Sekukuni who supported Cetswayo in the recent fight - although he never went as far as sending troops. They’re a canny lot. They threw out bunches of German missionaries in the sixties and have never come to terms with the Afrikaners - the Boers - who settled in their territory.’
‘Seems reasonable.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Well, they have made a nuisance of themselves for years, raiding farms and so on. The Boers managed to get themselves organised back in ’76 and a pukka Boer army attacked them in their stronghold, a sort of fortified hill called Ntswaneng, known to the Afrikaners as the Fighting Kopje.’ Wolseley looked up. ‘You know what a kopje is - a sort of conical hill, eh?’
‘Yes. I was in Zululand.’
‘Course you were. Sorry. Anyway, the Boers were beaten back. We had a go a few months ago when we sent a column under Hugh Rowlands - he got a VC at Inkerman. Too old now, that was the trouble. Anyway, he had to crawl away too.’
Despite his dislike of the army, Simon found his instincts being aroused. The infantryman in him was not quite dead. ‘They sound a hard bunch to beat, I must say.’
Wolseley reacted quickly to the interest he had kindled. ‘Quite right.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Trouble is, Fonthill, these tribesmen are not your spear-carrying Zulus. They may, in fact, lack the organisation and the sheer blind guts of Cetswayo’s chaps, but what they have, and what the Zulus lacked, are guns. For years the bePedi have lived in the shadow not only of the Boers but also of the Swazis, their neighbours, who are also a war-like lot. So, shrewdly, the young bePedi menfolk have fanned out across the whole of what you might call civilised South Africa. They’ve worked on the plantations in the south and they’ve dug for diamonds at Kimberley. And they’ve sent rifles and ammunition back home. Anyone who attacks them is up against a bit of modern firepower.’ He sat back.
‘So you are going to knock them over?’
‘Absolutely. Shouldn’t take me long.’
Simon hid a smile. The tennis player opposite him saw no contradiction in his admiring description of the military prowess of this tribe who defended its fortress capital so fiercely, and his own belief in his ability to defeat them. He wondered anew at the ingrained confidence - the arrogance - of the British military ruling class. Yet part of him admired it and respected the tradition and long years of attrition that had given birth to it. Wolseley had never failed yet. Why should he consider failure now?
‘I am sure it won’t, sir. But I have left the army now. Why do you want to involve me? I am afraid I cannot help you.’ The General leaned forward again, his good eye gleaming. ‘Oh, but you can, Fonthill. You see, although I have no doubt at all that we can successfully attack the bePedi, it is absolutely vital that no stupid mistakes are made this time, such as poor Chelmsford made in Zululand, or, for that matter, Rowlands not so long ago. If we trip up in any way, those Transvaalers, sitting in the grandstand, so to speak, will laugh us all the way back to Cape Town. If you will pardon the pun, it will give them Dutch courage and even perhaps prompt ’em to have a go at us themselves.’
‘So . . . ?’
‘So, I need good scouts. The best I can get. From what I hear, you and your Welshman are probably about the best I can lay my hands on in this part of the world.’
‘But that can’t be true, sir. We don’t know the territory, and—’
‘Stuff. One kopje is very like another - and you found your way round Zululand right enough. And when it comes to mountains, there can’t be any more formidable than the Hindu Kush, where, from what I hear, you strolled around for months lookin’ like damned Arabs. If you did that for Roberts, you can do this for me.’
‘But what about the Swazi? They will know the area like the back of their hands. Or the Boers . . . ?’
‘Can’t trust the black fellers completely, although we can use one or two of them as guides, don’t you know. And as for the Boers, I want to do this show without using them in any real way, so that they can’t take any of the credit. Don’t forget, I want to impress ’em. No, I want you and your Welshman. You can stay as civilians and the pay will be as good as I can manage, given the miserable budget the Horse Guards is allowing me. Now come along, Fonthill. Your country needs you one more time.’
Simon closed his eyes in frustration. This was the very thing he feared: another appeal to his patriotism, another bugle calling him back to duty. The army was like a vast spider’s web. As soon as you felt you were out of its sticky, clinging reaches, another strand was spun to reel you back in again. Well, this time it wouldn’t work. He had Nandi to think about.
‘I am sorry, Sir Garnet. I would like to help you, but I fear I cannot.’
The silence was cold. ‘Why not? It is your duty.’
Simon sighed. Should he tell him about Nandi? No. The girl could be in great danger and he did not want the authorities crashing around heavy-handedly until he knew exactly where she was and how acute was her position. In any case, it was none of Wolseley’s business. ‘I am sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but I have a mission to complete which concerns someone else and I am not at liberty to discuss it.’
Wolseley regarded him silently for a moment longer, then he leaned forward to his desk, opened his blotter and selected a piece of paper from inside. He put on spectacles and read it silently before lowering his chin and regarding Si
mon over the top of the glasses.
‘This is a cable from the military authorities in Bombay,’ he said. ‘It seems that a man was found dead in a carpet warehouse in the heart of the city. His neck had been broken and there was blood everywhere. It was obviously a case of murder. Two men fitting almost exactly the description of yourself and . . . what’s-his-name - Jenkins - were seen leaving the warehouse shortly before the body was discovered. The next day you abruptly left your hotel. I am asked to detain you for questioning about the matter. It looks as though I must do so - although, of course, if I have already despatched you to the north as my scouts this will not be possible.’ The General regarded Simon stonily. ‘Do you know anything of this business?’
Simon returned the stare without flinching. ‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘I think, Fonthill, that before I make up my mind about the action I must take in this matter, you should tell me exactly what it is that compels you to go to Kimberley.’
For the second time in his short life, Simon realised that he was being blackmailed by a high-ranking officer in the British Army. Did they all take a course in dirty tricks before reaching staff rank, for God’s sake? He sighed again. ‘Very well, sir.’
Slowly he began to relate how Nandi had contrived the escape from Ulundi and had intervened decisively at his court martial. Although Simon had been admonished for his attack on his superior officer, his plea of mitigating circumstances had been accepted and the main charges had been accordingly withdrawn. Then he spoke of Nandi’s letter and her cry for assistance - an appeal that must now be weeks old - and of how the need to go to her assistance was not only urgent but needed to be handled with care.
Wolseley heard him out without interruption. Then he stood and once again looked out at his roses. ‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘I knew much of the detail of the court martial - it was a strange case, and when I arrived here regimental messes all over Natal were still buzzing with it. But I was not exactly aware of this young lady’s part in it, and, indeed, nor did I care. I had other things to do.’
He turned and sat again, leaning across the desk and fixing the young man opposite with a glare which, now, was not unkind. ‘I am desperate for your help with this campaign, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘But I like to believe that I am a gentleman. And a gentleman must always help a lady. Of course you must go to Kimberley.’ As he spoke, he slowly tore the cable up into small pieces and deposited them into an ashtray. ‘This man was a Thug anyway. Good riddance to him. Now, show me your route, because this could be a difficult journey.’
Beckoning Simon to follow him, he strode to the end of the room where a large map of South Africa dominated the wall. ‘Let’s see,’ he mused. ‘Kimberley. Hmm, it’s not really north-west, is it? More west-north-west, which means that you don’t have to tackle the Drakensbergs at their worst. There’s a pass here,’ he jabbed at the map with his finger, ‘which is comparatively easy to cross. However, I doubt if you’ll find any real trails, not to mention roads, until you reach the Orange Free State, here. Then it’s open veldt country where you should be able to get accommodation from isolated Boer farms.’ He snorted. ‘They’ll charge you through the nose for putting you up and feeding you, but they’ll be hospitable enough once you get talking. No, the problem will be here, in Basutoland, which you’ll have to ride through.’
‘I was not anticipating trouble with natives anywhere,’ said Simon.
‘Well, you should. The Sothos are as well armed as the bePedis. Their tribesmen have been working in the mines too, and have also fed rifles back to their homeland. The people in the Cape have been trying to disarm them and there has been a lot of trouble there recently, after an attack led by Cape Mounted Riflemen killed their chief Moorosi last year. The Cape Government - nothing to do with me, this, I am glad to say - has been trying to negotiate a formal peace treaty, but nothing has been signed and it is dangerous country. You may also find lion there. You really ought to have an escort to get across the country because the Sothos are pretty cocky just now. What’s worse is that they also have no central leadership, which means that you could meet groups of tribesmen who will lack discipline.’
The General frowned, hitched up his flannels and shot Simon a rather embarrassed look. ‘Trouble is, I can’t really spare you any men - at least not right away. Now if you can wait a bit—’
Simon interrupted quickly. ‘I’d rather not have them anyway, thank you, sir. We really can’t wait any longer, and in any case, two of us can ride more quickly and more discreetly than a group. Jenkins and I can keep out of trouble.’
‘What sort of weapons have you got?’
‘We have a couple of rather ancient Martini-Henrys.’
‘Not good enough. Here.’ Wolseley bounced back to his desk and began scribbling on a pad. ‘Take this to the Quartermaster - the sentry outside will tell you where he is - and get yourselves a couple of modern rifles. They could make all the difference. Now, off you go.’ He strode to the door and held it open. ‘I hope you find this young lady. And when you are free, I shall count it a favour if you will come across country and join me. It will probably be a month at least before I can mount an attack. I am going to Pretoria first, of course, and then you will find me to the east, in or about Lydenburg.’
He held out his hand. ‘Good luck, my boy.’
‘I am really most grateful, sir.’
‘God be with you.’
Once in the anteroom, Simon blew out his cheeks. From virtually being accused of murder he had progressed within minutes to becoming what seemed like the bosom friend of the most influential man in South Africa. Had he committed himself to Wolseley? He thought not. But he had learned something about the men of power in the army of the Empire. They were not all without heart or the ability to see beyond what could benefit their careers. A Very Model of a Modern Major General indeed! He spoke to the sentry and hurried to find the Quartermaster.
Later that day, Simon and Jenkins rode out, leading their spare horse and pack mule, along the road which led them north-west and out of Durban. Simon had contemplated waiting to say goodbye to Alice, but thought better of it and instead left her a note explaining how helpful Wolseley had been. He urged her to handle the General with care and implored her to keep out of the line once the fighting began. Then the two men set off to begin their search for Nandi.
Chapter 3
For the remainder of that day and throughout the next, they rode through the verdant countryside of Natal, passing the small town of Pietermaritzburg and then, turning west, heading towards the Basutoland border, unmarked but somewhere up there in the blue smudge on the horizon which was the Drakensberg range. At first they rode between sugar and cotton plantations. Then the roads gave way to dusty tracks that wound their way through farmland on which sheep and cattle grazed. It was warm but became less humid the higher they climbed into the foothills. They could have been in the border country of Wales, and even Simon, a poor and uncomfortable horseman, found himself enjoying the journey.
On the second day, however, they faced the barrier of the mountains. As the General had predicted, the Drakensbergs here were not as fearsome as further north, where the early Boer voortrekkers had taken their oxen and waggons down a steep pass in 1837, to meet a cruel death at the hands of the Zulu king Dingane. Nevertheless, the pass that Wolseley had called ‘easy’ looked like a broken staircase to Simon, as they picked their way upwards between fallen rocks and tumbling streams. This was hardly a track, more a declivity between slabs of stone that seemed to climb perpendicularly to the heavens. It was hard toil, and Simon, following Jenkins, looked with admiration at the broad back of the Welshman as he sat, perfectly at ease on his horse, gentle hands letting the animal find its own way across the shale and between the boulders.
Jenkins was a fine horseman, unlike Simon, who, despite his training as a subaltern, had never come to terms with the business of sitting astride a living, moving animal. Early work on farms had bequeat
hed this skill to the Welshman but, reflected Simon, Jenkins possessed a happy ability to come to terms with many challenges in a life which, in theory, should not have equipped him to handle them. He could talk confidently about wine (a by-product of his days as officers’ mess corporal) and military law (a result of studying for his Army Certificate while in the Glasshouse) and his natural egalitarianism enabled him to chat equably with British generals and Indian Untouchables alike without causing offence to either. Jenkins had an innocence that left him content to be Simon’s servant in tranquil times, polishing boots and laying out shirts, but to become his brother-in-arms when danger threatened. Musing on the future as the only just recognisable tune of ‘Men of Harlech’ drifted back from ahead, Simon wondered what his mother and father would make of this unconventional friendship when they reached home. He smiled at the thought.
‘I don’t know where the ’ell I’m goin’, look you.’ The Welshman interrupted his reverie. ‘I think you’d better lead in case we end up back in Isandhwannee or whatever.’
‘Don’t worry. Just keep climbing.’
They did so, and eventually they came to the summit of the pass. The air was noticeably cooler, and although there was no definable frontier, Simon had the feeling that they had crossed from Natal into the independent native kingdom of Basutoland. They had reached a rocky plateau that bore no sign of human or animal life, apart from several tawny eagles that rode the thermals high above them. Occasionally, far on a peak, they glimpsed a mountain goat, but it was a forbidding, lonely spot which, except for the absence of snow, reminded Simon of parts of the Hindu Kush. The mountains seemed to encircle them and it was not until they had ridden for another two hours that the plateau began to give way to a gentle, sloping terrain and the hoofs of their horses trod on welcoming, khaki-coloured moss. Below them a valley stretched away before rising again to a lower range of hills in the distance. Simon realised that Basutoland was a rocky fortress that bore no resemblance to the rolling grasslands of Zululand. No wonder it remained more or less unconquered.
