The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Oh do shut up,’ said Simon, pulling him away. ‘Let’s get back to the hotel and clean up. We have work to do.’

  Chapter 5

  Alice Griffith had been expecting the summons, but now that it had come, she could not suppress a moment of trepidation. She had always known that she walked a fine line here in the Transvaal: reporting on the activities of an undoubtedly jingoistic general for a readership composed mainly of imperialistic Tories while at the same time attempting to convey her own liberal disdain at the whole damned enterprise. She had managed to balance on this tightrope throughout the Zulu campaign and while reporting on the grand and much-lauded success of General Roberts in Afghanistan - until right at the end, that is. Then, however, she had evaded the General’s strict censorship and criticised his hanging of the Afghans who had led the attack on the Residency in Kabul. Only Simon’s help had saved her from deportation back to England and allowed her to report on Roberts’s final triumphant battle at Kandahar.

  She looked at the note: Sir Garnet Wolseley would be obliged if Miss Alice Griffith could call upon him at his headquarters this afternoon at 3 p.m. Crisp and to the point. It was, of course, a summons to appear in the headmaster’s study; not quite for a caning, perhaps, but certainly for the sternest of reprimands. Would he demand her recall? She pursed her lips. Just let him try! She knew that Cornford, her editor, would support her, and the Morning Post certainly had clout in Westminster. She knew too that Willie Russell, late of the Times and now of the Telegraph, and arguably the most influential journalist in the world, would back her because he had told her so over a chaste cup of tea in his hotel here in Pretoria. Nevertheless . . . She frowned, crumpled the note and decided that she had better wear a hat.

  In fact, Alice dressed with unusual care for the appointment. She selected the better of the two dresses she had with her, slipped on a pair of high-heeled pumps and wound round her shoulders a shawl of fine silk, whose colour matched the band around her small straw hat. She observed her complexion in her little compact and decided that just a touch of face powder and rouge would not come amiss. She did not know Wolseley at all well - they had hardly exchanged a word on the long journey to Pretoria from Durban and she had seen him but twice since the column had arrived in the Transvaal’s capital - but she had an instinct about the man. Although there was no hint of impropriety attached to his name, it was known that he liked the company of elegant women, and she had noticed that his protuberant eye had dwelt on her just a touch longer than was justified by mere curiosity when they had first met in Durban. Alice had long ago realised that she was attractive to the opposite sex, and equally long ago, she had coolly taken the decision to use this attraction to get what she wanted in the very masculine world in which she moved. She was certainly not above a touch of delicate flirting, then, when the occasion demanded; in fact, she quite enjoyed it. Perhaps the occasion demanded it now. She would see.

  She had hired a pony and trap and was therefore spared the discomfort of walking through the dusty streets of the Boer capital to the fine house in which the General had established his headquarters. The sentry saluted her as she daintily lifted her skirts and stepped down from the trap, the black boy with the reins not having the training, of course, to hand her down. Once inside, she accepted a seat in an anteroom and covertly observed (and enjoyed) the frisson her presence evoked from the young subalterns who bustled about the place. There was no echo of this, however, from the General when she was finally ushered into his presence.

  ‘Now then, Miss Griffith,’ said Wolseley, as he gestured to the chair facing his desk, ‘you will be aware, of course, why I asked to see you?’

  Alice summoned her most winning smile. ‘I am sorry, Sir Garnet, but I am afraid that I don’t have the faintest idea.’ She crossed her legs and exposed a silken ankle. Wolseley’s eye followed the movement.

  ‘Oh, I find that very hard to believe, my dear young lady.’ The General’s tone was brusque, but Alice noticed that his good eye had lingered on her ankle and seemed to have difficulty in tearing itself away to engage her own gaze. ‘Humph, ah, yes. You will know well enough that the tone of your last article in the Post will not have furthered the cause of Her Majesty’s Government here in the Transvaal, and nor has it pleased my masters back home.’

  ‘Really, General. And why would that be, pray?’

  Wolseley was dressed in the uniform of a full general in the British Army - a temporary rank granted him to carry out his extensive duties in South Africa - and he now inserted a finger at his throat to ease the tight blue collar which set off the magnificent red serge of the tunic. ‘Well, you insinuated - no, plainly stated - that my intentions to attack the bePedi tribesmen in the north-east are nothing more than an expensive diversion to impress the Boers of the Transvaal with our, ahem, military might, so to speak, so that they will reconsider whatever intentions they might have of attempting to withdraw from British annexation.’

  ‘Ah, but General, I did not say that.’

  Wolseley slammed the table. ‘Dammit all, young woman, you certainly did. I have the contents of your article here.’ He waved the cable in his hand and half stood before sitting down again, an expression of contrition on his face. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, for my language. You must excuse a soldier.’

  Alice gave him one of her best smiles, revealing her even white teeth. ‘Oh please don’t apologise, Sir Garnet. I am used to soldierly talk. You forget, I am a brigadier’s daughter and I have covered two overseas campaigns already, you know. No,’ she leant forward in emphasis, ‘I meant that I did not express those opinions. I only reported them. You must know that this is what the Boer leaders here in Pretoria are saying about your motives for this punitive expedition you are planning against King Sekukuni and his people.’

  Wolseley’s frown returned. ‘They have certainly not expressed those opinions to me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose they would, would they? But they are saying that to everyone else here in Pretoria.’

  ‘Even so, there is no need - no need at all - to report it. It is just tittle-tattle.’

  Alice made a small gesture with her hands, lifting them from her lap as though in supplication. ‘With respect, sir, I don’t believe it is tittle-tattle. The Boer leaders are expressing this view in all sincerity to the German press who are represented here. It is my job - it is my duty - to report it also.’ She smiled again, with just a touch of helplessness in her expression, as though she would dearly have liked to have acted otherwise but, alas, was unable so to do.

  Wolseley was silent for a moment. This interview was not going at all as he had planned. The scenario of rebuke, some half-baked sort of explanation, followed by reasoned rebuttal from him and then an apology from this fascinating young woman was not being followed. Superb as he was in fighting his corner at the Horse Guards - particularly with his political enemies in the Duke of Cambridge’s camp - he was unused to arguing with subordinates, particularly those who wore sky-blue cotton under the sweetest hat he had seen since his arrival in the Cape. He cleared his throat.

  ‘My dear Miss Griffith, I must tell you that you must not continue to report matters which might harm my purpose here. I understand that you have duties to your newspaper - to your employer - but my duty, I must insist, is of a higher level, and that is to my country. You must allow me to be the judge of what could be harmful in your dispatches.’

  Alice opened her eyes wide. ‘Oh, but surely, General you don’t propose to impose censorship on the correspondents here, do you? After all, you are not campaigning yet and no one is in danger. Such censorship would amount to muzzling the press’s reporting on purely political issues. Goodness, I hate to think what Mr Russell would write about that.’

  Wolseley blinked. Strange as it seemed, Russell and he had much in common. The journalist had won world fame for his coverage of the Crimean War, and his writings and the campaigning of the nurse Florence Nightingale had led to widespread reforms in the
British Army. Sir Garnet had a hard-won reputation as a reformer himself. The thought of being portrayed as a reactionary, a restrictor of the press’s rights to report freely, was abhorrent to him.

  He attempted to regroup. ‘I must point out to you, dear lady,’ he said, ‘that you have earned a reputation within the army, and, indeed, at Whitehall, as something of a rebel. Why,’ he leaned forward again and smiled at her in gentle rebuke, ‘I understand that General Roberts ordered your removal from Afghanistan at one time. I am sure that you would not wish to do anything here to reinforce that, ahem, no doubt unfounded reputation which has grown up around you.’

  Alice smiled in return. ‘Oh, but Sir Garnet. That was, indeed, terribly unfounded. You will know, of course, that Sir Frederick Roberts was a comparatively inexperienced leader when he took over the Kurran Field Force for the invasion of Afghanistan. He was India’s Quartermaster General and had never commanded a force in the field before that expedition.’

  She lowered her lashes for a moment and then looked up at Wolseley through them. ‘He was, in fact, as unlike you as any senior officer could be. General Roberts was, let us say, unsure of how to handle correspondents in the field. No fault of his, of course. He simply had not had the experience. Therefore I am afraid that he was, by common consent, a little heavy-handed with us all. Now you, of course, have fought so many campaigns all over the world, and with such great success. I do not think for a moment that you will fall into that trap.’ Her grey eyes widened and gave an air of complete innocence to her face.

  Wolseley’s jaw dropped for just one moment. Then he regained his composure. His good eye twinkled and he said, ‘Miss Griffith, that is the most blatant attempt at flattery that I have ever experienced. And I have to tell you that it has completely succeeded.’

  They both laughed - Alice with some relief, for she knew that she had gambled and won. This ploy, this attempt to tease a man who had complete power here and could have sent her home, had succeeded. It would never have worked with someone like General Roberts, the dour little engineer who had spent most of his life with leather-faced memsahibs in India. Wolseley, however, was a man of the world; a soldier who was as much at home exchanging badinage in the sophisticated soirées of London and Paris as he was roughing it in the field. Her last card had not been trumped.

  ‘However,’ continued the General, ‘I must tell you that as soon as my operations commence I will be forced to insist that all of the dispatches which you people send home will have to be vetted by me, or by my appointed censor, before they are allowed to go on to the telegraph wire.’

  Alice’s mind raced. Could she push him further? ‘But why, Sir Garnet? Please tell me why.’

  Wolseley’s eyebrows shot up and he sat back in his chair. ‘Well, I would have thought that the reasons were obvious. I cannot have my movements bruited around the world for the enemy to read and to make his dispositions accordingly. You must see that.’

  ‘But my dear General, you are surely not telling me that King Sekukuni, in his mud hut somewhere on the slopes of the Lulu Mountains, will have his spies in the clubs of London, reading the Morning Post and relaying whatever snippets of information I have been able to gather back to him in time for him to react to your disadvantage. You will not exactly be fighting the Prussians, now, will you?’

  Wolseley frowned. Once again this conversation was not going according to plan. ‘That is not the point, young lady. We have people in Pretoria, as well you know, who are not kindly disposed to us and who are quite capable of transmitting sensitive information to the enemy.’

  ‘I am sure that is true, sir. But the anti-British elements here are observing your every move anyway and will easily assess the strength of your force and the date on which you move against the King, without being told these sorts of facts by myself or my colleagues writing in our respective newspapers.’ Alice gave her radiant smile, slowly crossed her legs again and smoothed the folds of her dress.

  Wolseley rose from his chair and walked to the front of his desk, perching on its edge. ‘Miss Griffith,’ he said, and this time his smile was a trifle forced, ‘I would hate you to think that I am not enjoying fencing with you in this delightful fashion, but I really do have some rather pressing work to do. I shall impose whatever restrictions on press reportage that I think fit and when I believe the time is right. That is my prerogative and my duty - and I always do my duty. Now, thank you for visiting me, but I really must ask you to leave.’

  Alice nodded her head. ‘Thank you, Sir Garnet,’ she said. ‘I really do appreciate your indulgence in listening to me and, of course, I appreciate all that you say. Please be assured that I would not wish to say or write anything which would harm your . . .’ she quickly corrected herself, ‘our cause. Thank you for your time.’

  The General inclined his head and Alice rose. Then she paused. ‘However, General,’ she said, ‘there is one question which I feel I must put to you.’

  Wolseley lifted his eyebrows.

  ‘As you well know, the Afrikaners are not at all well disposed towards the British administration here. You have told the farmers of Middelburg that they will be unable to buy further ammunition - which they need, of course, to maintain their way of life - until they have paid their taxes. You were forced to send a troop of cavalry from Heidelberg to put down an incipient revolt.’

  Wolseley listened without comment, but the scar under his blind eye stood out white as his cheek reddened.

  Alice continued, betraying no recognition of the General’s displeasure. ‘Now, these people are not going to wish you well in your punitive expedition against Sekukuni. In fact, they have a grudging respect for this black chieftain who has already defeated forces sent against him by both the Boers and the British. They call him “The Devious”. What is more, they don’t believe that you have the force available to beat him. After all,’ Alice tilted her head to one side and raised her eyebrows, ‘you are operating some five hundred miles from your base in Durban and you brought very few regular soldiers with you from there. How can we correspondents reassure the British public that what you propose to do is achievable?’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ exploded Wolseley. ‘I am in the process of raising the Transvaal Field Force, consisting of fourteen hundred infantry of the line, with some four hundred colonial horse and nearly ten thousand natives. Eight thousand of those will be Swazis, the sworn enemy of the bePedi, whom I intend shall bear the brunt of the attack. We shall have artillery too. This will be more than enough to turn over this bees’ nest and stop them marauding the border farms. You will see, young lady, you will see.’

  Alice inclined her head and smiled. ‘I am sure I shall, Sir Garnet,’ she said. ‘Thank you again. I shall bother you no further.’ At the door she turned and smiled again.

  Wolseley held up a hand as an afterthought to detain her for a moment. ‘To be frank,’ he said, ‘and this is no great weakness, I do need reliable scouts who are able to ride ahead of my column and sniff out exactly where Sekukuni is and how he will defend his township. I think I know, but I want to be certain. Don’t want to use Boers for obvious reasons and I can’t really rely on native sources.’ He walked towards Alice and lowered his voice. ‘Those two British ex-soldiers who sailed with you from India: I believe you know them, yes?’

  Alice frowned for a moment. ‘Yes, I do, Sir Garnet. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I know that they are damned - ah, excuse me again - jolly good scouts. I believe that they are somewhere Kimberley way. Miss Griffith, I could use those two. If you do see them, I would consider it a great service if you could somehow . . . er . . . put it to them or even . . . well . . . persuade ’em that it is their duty to serve with me. Do you think you could do this?’ And his face, hitherto so authoritarian, now broke into a boyish grin of entreaty. Alice realised why he was popular with women.

  She smiled back. ‘I cannot promise anything, Sir Garnet, but I will do my best.’

  ‘I am sure you will, d
ear lady.’ He seized her hand, briefly raised it to his lips and returned to his desk.

  Once outside, and in her carriage, Alice directed her driver to take her around the corner and stop. There she sat for a moment, drawing into her lungs satisfyingly deep breaths of this invigorating veldt air, so much more healthy than the humidity of Natal and the hot sun and fierce night cold of Afghanistan. She felt her cheeks glowing and realised that she was grinning. Then she slipped a notebook from her small bag and quickly wrote down the facts she had been memorising: 1,400 regulars, 400 col. horse, 10,000 blacks (8,000 Swazis). Difficulty with scouts. She allowed herself a quick, triumphant nod. Russell and the rest had been trying for days to obtain some idea of the strength and composition of the field force now being raised in the Transvaal to fight the bePedis (and, of course, impress the Boers). She had succeeded where they had failed. She replaced the notebook with a smile and requested that she be taken back to her hotel, which was so conveniently situated next to the telegraph office.

  Within her room she quickly wrote 750 words about Wolseley’s preparations for the campaign. Sucking the end of her pencil, she grudgingly decided that she owed Wolseley something - his grin was infectious - and added that the sheer professionalism of the force, whipped together quickly so far away from base, was bound to impress the Boers of the Transvaal. Then she hurried away to file her copy at the telegraph office.

  Back in her room - the hotel had given her a tiny sitting room leading from the bedroom, and she treasured this small luxury - Alice ordered tea, took off her shoes, lay back in her chair and allowed her mind to wander. It turned, as it increasingly did since her arrival in Pretoria, to Simon. She frowned. Alice had always regarded her contemporary from the green hills of Brecon as a friend - a good and dear friend - but nothing more. The very fact that her parents and his had made it clear years ago that a match between them would be more than acceptable had made the very idea anathema to her. She was not to be steered into a conventional marriage to please anyone. Events had pushed them together, of course, and Simon had rescued her career by taking her to Kandahar. She shook her head. But that was what friends were supposed to do: to help each other in moments of trial. It didn’t imply love.