The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Go on, slam ’im one.’ The cry from the back was taken up until the whole crowd was now shouting and stamping. Simon put his hand to his mouth in apprehension as the big Afrikaner turned back to Jenkins. Even then he was reluctant to hit his defenceless opponent, and it was only as the referee took a step forward, as though to intervene, that he unleashed a fierce right hook. It took Jenkins on the side of the jaw and sent him crashing to the ground. Simon immediately made to throw the towel into the ring, as a sign of submission, but it slipped backwards from his hand, over his shoulder.

  The referee sprang to the side of the fallen man and immediately began to count to ten - to Simon’s ears, desperately slowly. On six, Jenkins crawled on to his hands and knees and shook his head. On eight he was erect, and at nine, as the referee waved the fight on, he blinked and immediately fell into a crouch, his head weaving. The shower of blows that was rained on him he now took on his gloves, his shoulders and his back as he bobbed and swayed. The crowd was shouting for the kill, frustrated at the strangeness of the contest and wishing for its fulfilment. They had come for a knockout, not an exhibition of defence.

  Somehow Jenkins lasted the round and walked back to his corner where he stood - there was no stool - as Simon gently applied a cold sponge to his head and jaw.

  ‘My dear old 352,’ said Simon, ‘are you all right?’

  ‘Right as rain, thanks,’ replied Jenkins, though his jaw was swelling where the blow had landed. ‘ ’E muffed it up, yer know. ’E didn’t ’it me cleanly. ’E ’ad the chance of breakin’ me jaw. Look, bach sir. I got this bloke wrong. But I can’t walk out now, so I think I’d better finish ’im quickly before he does land a proper one on me. It’s my time now, anyway, ’cos ’e’s gettin’ puffed, I can tell.’

  ‘Puffed! But you haven’t landed a punch on him! Call it off now, before you get hurt further.’

  Jenkins’s eyes widened in indignation. ‘What? And let this lot think this chap’s better’n me? No bloody fear, beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Anyway, there’s that twenty guineas to think about. We could do with that, couldn’t we? This place is a bit expensive, like.’

  At the bell, de Witt moved forward aggressively, but to everyone’s amazement, so did Jenkins. The little man suddenly began to swarm around the Boer, using his feet and moving his head, as before, to avoid the ponderous blows rained down on him, but this time he retaliated. Moving inside a wild right swing, Jenkins ducked his left shoulder and hooked his right hand into the big man’s midriff. In a flash, he swung his left in, just under the ribs, and danced away, only to feint to the body with his left hand and then deliver a crisp right hook to de Witt’s cheek. The big man was strong, so he did not go down, but he stood swaying for a moment. As he did so, Jenkins came in again, attacking that suspicious bulge just above the red sash, hammering fierce blows to the body. The exertions of the first two rounds had already tired the Boer, but he bravely attempted to fight back. Now his height was a disadvantage, for Jenkins’s lower centre of gravity enabled him to work to the body from under de Witt’s guard. As the Afrikaner dropped his hands to protect his winded stomach, Jenkins stood back and swung a perfect left hook to the man’s unguarded jaw. De Witt went down and lay crumpled as the count tolled over his head.

  At the end of the count, Jenkins immediately bent down to cradle his opponent’s head in his arm. ‘Get ’im some water,’ he called. ‘I think ’e’s all right, but you never can tell.’

  Simon ran to de Witt’s aid - the Boer seemed to have no second of his own - and sponged his face as Jenkins poured a little water between the big man’s lips. In a second he opened his eyes, and smiled at Jenkins. ‘Man, what a punch!’ he murmured. The crowd was still baying and the referee was attempting to take Jenkins’s hand to declare him the new Kimberley champion, but the little man stayed by the side of his erstwhile opponent, administering sips of water. Eventually he and Simon helped the Afrikaner to his feet, where he stood fingering his jaw. ‘Ach, what a punch,’ he said once again. ‘You hit hard for a little man. God, you must be champion of all Africa.’

  Jenkins looked almost bashful. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Only the 24th Regiment of Foot - an’ that was some time ago, before they put me in the Glass’ouse. Let’s find somewhere to sit you down, then I’m goin’ to buy you a drink from my winnin’s, ’cos I think I owe you that.’

  Half an hour later, the three men sat down at the pub round the corner, each clutching a quart of Bass - Simon because they had nothing smaller, the others because they both vowed they needed them. Jenkins asked if de Witt worked in the mines. He replied that he used to do so but now - and here his open face clouded for a moment (was he dissembling? wondered Simon) - he made his way by prize fighting. Without mentioning Nandi or the reason for their interest, Simon explained to Faan de Witt how Jenkins had confused him with the big man from Currey Street.

  ‘Ach, so you don’t like him, then?’

  ‘Oh . . . we want to know more about him.’

  ‘Well, he is not the nicest man in Kimberley, I can tell you that.’ The Boer flicked a bead of perspiration from his brow. ‘His name is Joachim Mendoza and he is quarter Dutch and three quarters Portuguese. He comes from the Portuguese territory to the east, at Lorenzo Marques, in Mozambique. He went into partnership on a yellow mine at Kimberley with a man from Natal but Mendoza is working the mine on his own now, with some Kaffirs.’

  ‘What happened to the man from Natal?’

  ‘I don’t know. He hasn’t been seen for some time. If you want to know, ask Rhodes, he knows everything that goes on here. He has probably tried to buy the mine - he’s trying to buy everything.’

  ‘He’s away, but I shall see him in two days’ time. Why does Mendoza have a bad reputation?’

  ‘We think he used to sell guns to the blacks. Now he seems to be in the diamond business but I have hardly seen him here. He is a big bully of a man who is not afraid to use violence when it serves his purpose. Most of us stay away from him. Why are you interested in him, and why,’ he smiled at Jenkins, ‘is the mighty atom here wanting to give him a beating?’

  Simon and Jenkins exchanged glances and each gave a small nod. Simon then explained the reason for their mission to Kimberley. The Boer listened carefully and sighed. ‘This Mendoza once tried to rape my sister where she was farming up near the northern Drakensbergs. He has a place near there. We could prove nothing because he had an alibi, and anyway, there is no law up there. He is always surrounded by a gang of Portuguese and blacks so I could never get to him.’

  The word rape brought consternation to the faces of his listeners. The Boer held up his hand. ‘If he is holding your Zulu friend it will be for a reason. Normally, he would not respect a half-caste girl. He would have had his way with her and thrown her out.’ He frowned. ‘There must be something that she has over him which makes him keep her - and I doubt if he would harm her. Can you see that?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Simon. ‘But we must find out soon.’

  De Witt nodded. ‘Of course.’ The Boer looked deeply into his beer for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Look. I have a grudge against this man, my friends. You will need someone like me, because you are new to this town and this territory. I know most of the land between here and the Lulu Mountains to the east, where he has a farm. Let me help you find this lady. Why not? Isn’t it time the British and the Boers started working together in this land?’ He grinned, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

  An answering beam immediately lit up Jenkins’s bruised features. ‘Good idea, matey.’ He turned to Simon. ‘We could do with a good fighter like old Fanny ’ere, bach sir, isn’t it? An’ ’elpin’ us find our way about an’ that, eh?’

  Simon smiled as his brain raced. Was this offer just a little too immediate? He quickly ran his eye over the big man’s clothing. He was dressed just like a Boer farmer; there were no signs of opulence or high earnings. How could he just agree to throw in his lot with two strangers? Didn’t he hav
e a living to earn? But Jenkins was right. They would need someone to act as guide in this strange, wild territory. And it seemed that they had common cause. He let his smile grow wider. ‘Good idea,’ he said.

  The Afrikaner nodded and they all exchanged handshakes, then Jenkins fumbled in his leather purse, the prize he had won.

  ‘Right. Let’s ’ave just another one to celebrate the partnership.’ He held up his jug to the barman and then suddenly stiffened as he looked over the shoulders of the other two. Simon turned and saw a handful of men - he quickly counted up to six - push their way through the swing doors and slowly, menacingly, make their way towards the table where he and his two companions were sitting. He recognised a couple from the front rank of the crowd at the boxing match: big men, roughly dressed and unshaven. The other four, although less tall, were broad and equally unkempt, and three of them were wearing diggers’ overalls, clay on their boots. As they reached the table they spread out to surround it, pushing aside empty chairs from surrounding tables. A hush fell over the bar room and chairs were scraped back as men got up to leave.

  The silence was palpable and Simon felt the hairs on his neck prickle as he regarded the circle of enmity that surrounded them. The eyes of the newcomers were cold, and every seamed, unshaven face reflected survival from a hundred fights and brawls in bars and gutters around the world. It was clear that these men, living in a culture of violence, unrestricted by conventional rules of law, were aggrieved and were bent on revenge.

  The stillness was broken by Jenkins, his beer mug still raised, as he gave them his beaming smile. ‘Good day, boyos,’ he said, turning his head to include them all in his greeting. ‘Come to buy the fighters a drink, is it?’

  ‘You cocky little bastard,’ said one of the two tall men. He spoke with what Simon recognised as an Australian accent and he put his hands on his hips as he looked down at Jenkins and then at the other two. ‘You won’t be able to drink by the time we’ve finished with you lot. There’s a name for people who fix fights and cause punters like us to lose their shirts. In fact there’s two names - fuckin’ cheats. Look.’ He nodded at the leather purse on the table containing Jenkins’s winnings. ‘We’ve caught ’em at it, sharin’ the proceeds. I think we’ll just take that little lot.’

  ‘Ah no.’ Simon stood up. ‘I can understand why you think that, but it is not like that at all, I can assure you—’

  He got no further, for the Australian caught him with a right swing that sent him reeling. Luckily, he had seen the punch coming and partly ducked so that the blow hit him on top of the head. But it was hard enough to send him staggering into the table behind him, which collapsed under his weight and sent him crashing on to the floor. As he lay amidst the debris, the big Australian made to come after him, but Jenkins, moving fast and low, delivered a left hook into the man’s genitals and then, as he jack-knifed with a howl, swung his glass tankard upwards into his jaw. From somewhere, Simon heard a high-pitched voice - the barman’s? - crying, ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!’ but nothing now could stop the scene at the little table from degenerating into a raw, slugging brawl.

  Simon’s head was still spinning as he lay on the floor, so he watched the fight for a second or two as though observing a play performed in stylised slow motion. He saw de Witt pick up the round table as though it were a toy and, using it as a battering ram, thrust it against two of the men who had, fatally, hesitated for a moment before joining the fray. He forced them backwards through a mixture of chairs and tables until he had pinned them against the wall, only to be sent reeling himself as a chair was broken over his head and broad shoulders from behind by a third man. Jenkins, looking incongruous enough already with his swollen jaw, had shattered the glass of his tankard and was now presenting it, as a jagged, frightful weapon, to the two remaining assailants, who, knives in hand now and showing no fear, were stalking him through the debris.

  Around the perimeter of the bar room, those drinkers who had not slipped away at the first sign of trouble were now standing flattened against the walls, some of them carefully nursing the drinks in their hands but all of them grinning and watching the entertainment with wide eyes, as though they had seen it all before. Not one of them, of course, made any attempt to part the fighters. This was all too good to miss, even though - particularly now that knives had been produced - death might result.

  The sight of the knives cleared Simon’s head and, rising to his feet, he launched himself in a flying rugby tackle at the nearest of Jenkins’s attackers. He caught the man at the bend of the knees and together they sprawled across the wooden floor, coming up against a thin screen of legs at the edge of the room, where spectators nimbly leapt over them, cheering wildly. Simon, attacking from behind, had the advantage, and he grabbed his opponent by the hair and crashed his head into the wainscoting until he felt him go limp. Gasping for breath on his hands and knees, he turned and saw the giant de Witt, blood now running down his face, whirling around him in an arc by its remaining two legs what was left of their table, keeping at bay the two men whom he had pushed against the the wall. A third, presumably he who had brought the chair crashing on to his back, was lying face down, seemingly unconscious.

  Simon had time to note that Jenkins had discarded his broken tankard, had somehow disarmed his last opponent and was punching him vigorously to the body, when a boot caught him in the stomach as he crouched and made him fold up in pain. As he lay on the floor in the foetus position, sucking in his breath, with his nose in a mixture of beer and sawdust, the boot came crashing in again to his ribs and Simon caught a glimpse of the big Australian looming above him, his leg bent back to kick again. This time forewarned, however, he was able to grasp the boot as it came thudding in and twist it with all his breathless strength. The pressure unbalanced the Australian, whose other foot slipped on the sawdust mess and sent him crashing to the floor, face down. Simon launched himself on to the man’s back and, dimly remembering what he had been taught at school about all-in wrestling, slipped his hands under the momentarily stunned man’s armpits and then threaded his fingers together at the back of his neck into a ‘half-nelson’ lock. The big man attempted to roll, but Simon spread his knees on either side of his opponent’s body and tightened the lock, hanging on as the Australian began bucking and kicking in frustration. It was as though he was mounted on a frenzied horse, and he was jerked violently as the man arched his back in a desperate attempt to throw him off. But Simon gritted his teeth and, despite the pain in his ribs, clung on, recalling his gymnasium instructor’s maxim: ‘a half-nelson, once locked, can never be broken’, and desperately hoping that the old saw had reached Australia. Every time the big man arched his back, Simon sent the Australian’s forehead crashing on to the wooden floor.

  After what seemed like minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, the big man suddenly became inert and began moaning softly as a trickle of blood came from his mouth and stained the sawdust on the floor. Had the terrible blow that Jenkins had delivered with the tankard broken his jaw? Simon dared not loosen his grip, however, and maintained his hold while he twisted his head to check the progress of the mêlée.

  Amazingly, it seemed almost over. As Simon watched, Jenkins delivered one last crushing left hook to his assailant’s stomach and the man slowly sank to the floor. The two men facing de Witt’s flailing tabletop now exchanged a quick glance, ducked, and ran towards and out of the door, accompanied by derisory cheers from the spectators fringing the walls. Jenkins caught Simon’s eye, winked, and gave as near to a grin as his bruised jaw allowed. Three men of the original attackers now lay on the floor, and the battle had lasted no longer than three minutes.

  De Witt, a grin breaking through the bloody mask that was his face, lowered his now splintered table and walked towards Simon. Jenkins did the same, and they looked down at the strange pair lying before them, Simon still astride the Australian, who remained locked into the half-nelson.

  ‘Well, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, amia
bly spitting blood, ‘are you enjoyin’ yourself down there or would you like to be gettin’ up?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody smug,’ gasped Simon. ‘He’s twice my size and it’s the only way I can hold him. If I let go, he could start trouble again.’

  ‘No, English,’ grunted de Witt. ‘He’s out. Look. You did well.’

  Gradually Simon relaxed his grip and tottered to his feet. The Australian lay where he had fallen, softly moaning, his forehead resting in the bloodied sawdust.

  ‘Are you both all right?’ asked Simon, looking in consternation at the still bleeding de Witt and the face of Jenkins, whose jaw had now swollen considerably. But there was no time for him to hear the replies, for his legs were suddenly swept from under him as the Australian sprang to his feet, amazingly agile for one who had already sustained such punishment in the fight. The big man caught Jenkins a blow to the stomach, but it was his last act of defiance. De Witt brought the tabletop crashing down on to his head and the Australian slowly subsided, like a brick tower folding from a dynamite charge, until, once again, he measured his length on the floor.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ gasped Jenkins, holding his stomach. ‘Don’t these lads ever give up?’

  ‘I think they have now,’ grunted de Witt, prodding the Australian with his boot. He looked up and then around at the faces staring at the victors. ‘I think,’ he added quietly, ‘we had better get out of here before we are asked to pay for this damage.’

  In a strange silence, the three men picked their way through the debris to the swing doors. No one attempted to bar their exit or intervene in any way.

  Jenkins turned back at the doorway and addressed the room. ‘Right, gentlemen,’ he said, bestowing his grin on the silent, watching faces, ‘thank you for your ready assistance, now, when we was so unfairly attacked. We bid you good mornin’ and suggest you clear up this bleedin’ mess.’