by John Wilcox
Simon lowered the glasses and shook his head. ‘No. I’m not sure that three of us would make all that much difference. I think we would do better if we could get down there among the cattle and—’
‘No.’ De Witt began to get to his feet. ‘We should ride down now.’
‘ ’Alf a minnit, Fanny.’ Jenkins put his hand on the Afrikaner’s shoulder. ‘Listen to the Captain. ’E’s good at this sort of stuff. Soldiers’ work, look you.’
De Witt scowled, but lowered himself to the ground again.
‘Here’s what we do,’ said Simon. ‘352, you and Faan slip down this hill, keeping under cover, until you are within fairly good rifle range. Don’t be seen, now, and don’t open fire until you hear me shoot.’
‘An’ where the ’ell are you going to be, then?’
Simon pointed behind and to the right. ‘I am going to ride down behind this ridge here until it falls away and meets the top edge of that group of trees - the one where the cattle are being mustered at its bottom edge. Then I shall slip through the trees, get rid of those two natives down there and stampede the cattle so that they run right into the bePedi as they are massing to charge the enclosure.’
‘With respect, it won’t work, bach sir.’
‘What do you mean? Of course it will.’
‘Well it’s a sound plan, but it needs a good horseman and a crack shot to ride down there, kill them black fellers and then start the herd and run with ’em. With great respect, sir, you’d fall off.’
‘Oh, to hell with you, Jenkins. Very well. You go and we’ll cover you. Don’t shoot until you are near enough to kill. And 352 . . .’
‘Yessir?’
‘Don’t lose the damned way. Keep just below this ridge here and you will come to the trees. Even you shouldn’t get lost.’
‘Oh, thank you very much, I’m sure.’
The little man squirmed back into the cover of the trees, mounted his horse and galloped away, down the reverse of the ridge towards where the distant copse crept up to its crest.
Simon grinned at de Witt. ‘Thank God he’s gone in the right direction, anyway.’
Slowly the Boer grinned back. ‘I shall never understand the English,’ he said. ‘You are funny people - in all kinds of ways.’
‘Umm. Particularly when you throw the Welsh into the equation. Come on. Let’s get down this hill.’ He pointed. ‘If we can reach that outcrop of rocks there, we should be in good range. When Jenkins lets the cattle loose, fire off about half a dozen rounds and then come back up here and get the horses while I double down and help Jenkins.’
De Witt looked at Simon with narrowed eyes. Then, slowly, he nodded his head. ‘You seem to know what you’re doing, Englishman,’ he said. ‘I will do what you tell me.’
Slowly, the two men, bent double, flitted from rock to rock down the hillside until they had reached a stone outcrop that formed a little ridge some 250 yards from the bottom of the slope. They were unseen by the attacking tribesmen, who were all facing the farm, firing and then squirming forward to position themselves for the final attack on the walls. The bePedi herdsmen, on the edge of the other copse and roughly level on the hillside with Simon and de Witt, were also unaware of their approach, for they had their hands full with the cattle, who were becoming increasingly restive at the sound of gunfire.
Settling on to his stomach, Simon rested his rifle on the top of the rock and cocked the lever behind the trigger guard. The natives below were now only about fifty yards from the walls of the enclosure, but there was little further cover for them and it was clear that they were about to make that last charge, which, given their great advantage in numbers, must surely overwhelm the defenders. Simon looked to the cattle on his right. There was no sign of Jenkins. What on earth could have happened to him? He should have been in position long ago.
‘I don’t think we can wait any longer, Faan,’ he said. ‘Pick your target and fire quickly.’
As soon as he had spoken, two loud reports came from the edge of the copse to their right. The two herdsmen dropped immediately as a loud yell issued from the wood and Jenkins emerged, waving his rifle, his heels drumming on the sides of his horse. He drove the animal straight into the herd of steers, which rolled their eyes, flattened their ears, and began lumbering down the hill, ever faster as the horseman pursued them, scurrying round their rear like a Welsh sheepdog, harassing and steering the little herd towards the men grouped at the bottom of the hill.
At the same moment, Simon and de Witt began firing. At that range it was difficult to miss, and six of the attackers fell immediately. The others scattered, wide-eyed and not knowing which way to run. Their problem was acute. The defenders were now standing and pouring in fire from the walls; rapid fire was also coming from their rear above them, and the stampeding cattle were bearing down on them. There seemed no escape.
‘Right, Faan,’ called Simon. ‘Fetch the horses before they get round us up the hill.’ The big Afrikaner got to his feet and ran back up the hill towards the clump of trees that harboured their mounts.
Some of the bePedi sprinted past the farm, plunged into the Steelport and were quickly carried downstream by the current. Others ran for their lives and disappeared round the slope of the hill that ran down to the river. The cattle had now caught some of the more indecisive of the warriors and their screams rose above the thunder of hoofs as they were hit by the herd and then disappeared in the plunging mass of horns and heads. Four warriors, however, avoided the beasts and headed directly up the hill towards Simon. For a brief moment he had time to admire their courage in singling him out in the middle of the carnage and then attacking him across open ground.
He brought the leader down quickly enough, but the others fanned out to present a more difficult target. Nevertheless, he was able to put a bullet into the thigh of a second man (damn, the rifle was firing low!), so that he too fell. The remaining pair were now within a hundred yards of him and he could see the perspiration pouring down their faces and hear their gasps of indrawn breath as they ran up the hill. To speed reloading, Simon had spread cartridges from his pouch along the top of the rock. Now, in his haste to select a round, he knocked all but one of them on to the ground. With fingers that seemed all thumbs, he thrust the remaining cartridge into the breech, fired it into the breast of the nearest attacker and struggled to his feet to meet the survivor, who was now some ten feet away.
The tribesman halted at that point, his chest heaving as he regained his breath. He was a big man and he carried a short stabbing assegai, which he held underhand, his other hand extended towards Simon, as though to balance himself. Slowly he approached, his face and massive chest streaming with perspiration, and his eyes wide, the yellow eyeballs giving a demonic cast to his features. Simon realised that there was no time to grope for the cartridges in the grass, so he gripped the empty Martini-Henry and presented it to the bePedi as though there was a bayonet at the end. He had no other weapon, for his Colt revolver had been left in his saddlebag.
At first the black man looked at the rifle apprehensively, then, as he realised that no shot was forthcoming, his features relaxed into a grin and he made a dismissive gesture with his free hand. Simon now knew fear. His mouth was quite dry and he could feel his heart thumping. He remembered only too well the pain made by an assegai thrust, and the old wound in his shoulder seemed to throb, as though to prompt that memory. Where was Jenkins - and how long would it take de Witt to return with the horses? He dared not turn to look for them. What was it Jenkins always said? Watch their eyes, that was it. Never let your gaze wander. Always keep your eyes on those of your opponent. That way, you had a chance of seeing what they were going to do a split second before they did it.
And it worked. The warrior’s gaze flickered for a second to Simon’s stomach. Then he feinted to Simon’s head before quickly moving his feet and swinging the assegai low and hard to the belly. Forewarned, Simon did not move his head but brought the long barrel of the rifle down to
parry the thrust, swung the butt of the gun over the blade of the spear and hit the bePedi hard in the face. The man staggered, and blood sprang from his nose. Immediately, Simon jabbed the barrel of his gun into his assailant’s stomach and brought his knee up into the man’s face as he doubled up. He swung the butt back again, on to the head, and the warrior collapsed on the ground with a grunt, to lie unconscious.
‘Well, look you. I’ve never seen anything so pretty in all me life.’
Simon looked up, his breast heaving and sweat oozing down into his eyes. Jenkins was sitting on his horse, rifle in hand, beaming down on him.
‘Where the hell were you when I needed you?’
‘I was farmin’, like, just as you told me to. Now I can’t do everythin’, can I?’
Simon realised that he was trembling, but he looked around. The bePedi seemed to have disappeared, and de Witt was riding down the slope, leading Simon’s horse. But on closer examination, he realised that the fight was not over. Not all of the attackers had run. To escape the stampeding cattle, a small group - perhaps a dozen - had braved the fire of the riflemen at the walls and leapt over the enclosure, where they were now engaged in hand-to-hand fighting with the farmers inside, who seemed to be outnumbered by two to one.
‘Come on!’ shouted Simon and, clumsily climbing into the saddle - he realised that his damned legs were still trembling - he urged the horse down the hill and directly at the low stone wall. Somehow, at full gallop, his mount picked his way between the fallen bodies left by the stampede and then, at some twenty yards from the enclosure, Simon’s heart came into his mouth. He realised that he had left it too late to change direction. There was nothing for it; there was no time to pull up or veer to left or right. He would have to jump the wall! He felt the horse tense itself for the jump, and, in a split second, he tried to remember the rules about jumping: something about gripping tight with your knees, going forward as the horse took off and leaning back as it landed . . .
The horse took the wall beautifully but, seeing the milling figures around it in the enclosure, shied away on landing, tossing Simon through the air to land on the back of a bePedi warrior, who was in the act of spearing one of the defenders. The collision completely winded the tribesman, sending him sprawling on the ground, his assegai knocked from his grasp to skitter along the beaten earth of the enclosure. It also severely jolted Simon, but it saved him from injury and, shaking his head, he was able to scramble to his feet within seconds. It was then he realised that he had arrived in the middle of a vicious hand-to-hand fight without a weapon of any kind. His horse saved his life. The excitement of the gallop, the jump and the violence all around it caused it now to rear and kick, its eyes rolling. The enclosure was not large and it already contained some ten cattle, which, alarmed at the gunfire, took further fright at the arrival of the bucking animal in their midst and now themselves began to mill around the little courtyard, bellowing, their heads down and their horns tossing from side to side.
It was all too much for what was left of the attackers. As one man, they leapt over the wall and ran for the river without a backward glance, hugging its banks and disappearing around the bend of the hill. After three attempts, Simon was able to grasp the bridle of his horse and quieten it. The four defenders who remained standing instinctively spread out and began to soothe the cattle, helped now by Jenkins and de Witt, who had pushed open the gate to the enclosure and ridden in on horseback.
Jenkins looked down on Simon with a slightly shamefaced smile. ‘Sorry, bach sir,’ he said. ‘You went off like a bat out of hell, look you, and I couldn’t keep up. Mind you, you took that jump beautifully. Pity about the landin’, though, wasn’t it?’
‘Bloody horse.’ Simon wiped the mud off his face. ‘Had a mind of its own. Have the bePedi gone?’
Before Jenkins could answer, one of the farmers approached them and addressed Simon in Afrikaans.
Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I only speak English.’
‘Ah.’ The man nodded and then spoke in heavily accented English. ‘Now I see. A Dutchman would take that jump easy.’
Simon, aware that Jenkins was listening with interest, frowned. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there was a bloody fight going on, and there wasn’t much room for a graceful sort of landing, now was there? But you said Dutchman. You are not a Boer, then?’
The man, tall, heavily bearded and with closely set eyes that reflected no amusement, shook his head. ‘No. Part Portuguese - from Mozambique. But tank you for coming. It was going bad when you arrive.’
Simon nodded and exchanged a quick glance with Jenkins. De Witt seemed to have disappeared. ‘Mozambique, eh? We must be near the frontier, then?’
‘Ja. About two hundred kilometres there.’ He pointed to the east.
The other defenders had now gathered around. They were all big men, dressed like Boers in scruffy corduroy and broad-brimmed black hats. Simon gave them a quick glance. Like their spokesman, they had a lighter tinge to their skin than that of the ordinary Afrikaner; a sallow, almost almond colour. They wore their hair long, greasily curling over their collars from behind their big hats, and some of them carried revolvers in holsters on their hips - something rarely seen on the veldt. They seemed more interested in Simon and Jenkins than in their two wounded colleagues propped up against the wall.
Simon nodded towards the wounded. ‘Are they badly hurt?’
The spokesman turned, regarded the slumped men and spoke without emotion. ‘One dead. One not so bad.’
‘Oh, I am sorry.’
‘We will bury him. The bePedi will not be back.’ He gestured with his head over the wall. ‘They have lost warriors. More than they tink. It will be some time before they come to this farm again.’
‘Is it your farm?’
The Mozambiquan shook his head. ‘No, it belongs to . . . to . . . my friend.’
‘Ah, I see. Who is that, then?’
‘Why you want to know?’ A hint of suspicion appeared in the big man’s eyes. After the initial expression of gratitude there had been little friendliness in his manner. Nor did the other men looking on seem to convey any appreciation of the fact that the arrival of Simon and the others had probably saved their lives. The attitude was one of sullen curiosity.
‘No real reason.’ Simon became aware that he was suddenly very tired. The tension of the duel with the bePedi warrior - the nearness of death represented by that gleaming, sharp-as-a-razor assegai aimed at his stomach - had left him, he realised, as weak as a baby. The bloodbath in the enclosure and the killing on the hillside now brought back to him the disgust he felt about the slaughter of war. Why did it always affect him so and not others? He stole a quick glance at Jenkins and then de Witt, who had silently joined the party and was standing at the back. Their faces betrayed no disquiet. Damn the army and its ritual of violence! He turned back to the Portuguese, whose face now seemed to exude malevolence. He decided that truculence could be a two-way street. ‘Is it a secret, then? Why are you worried? Did you steal the bloody farm?’
The big man was taken aback for a moment, ‘Ach no. Owner is Joachim Mendoza. Important man. He live in Kimberley.’
Simon heard Jenkins draw in his breath sharply but he did not look at him. Holding the gaze of the Portuguese, he said, ‘Well, I don’t know him. I am from England, you see, and am unfamiliar with these parts. Is Mr Mendoza here?’
‘No. He left for Kimberley last night. Important business.’
‘Good lord. Travelling alone in bePedi country? That’s dangerous, surely?’
The other smiled, for the first time. ‘Mr Mendoza, he know the bePedi,’ he said. ‘They don’t touch him.’
‘I see. But why did they attack his farm, then?’
The smile disappeared and was replaced with a frown. ‘You ask many questions. Could be that these bePedi not from King Sekukuni’s people. Could be Swazis. We don’t know why they attack.’
An uneasy silence fell on the little group. Jen
kins broke up the awkwardness.
‘Well,’ he said, leaning forward in the saddle and favouring the Portuguese with one of his face-splitting grins, ‘now that we’ve got rid of them buggers, is there any chance of a nice cuppa tea? Or p’raps even somethin’ a bit stronger, eh?’
Simon shot a grateful glance at the Welshman. They had to get inside the house somehow to see if Nandi was hidden there - or had she been taken back to Kimberley by Mendoza? He felt his mouth dry again at the thought that they might be near the end of their quest. But the big man opposite was showing no sign of extending hospitality in the Boer fashion.
He glowered at Jenkins and said, ‘We don’t have tea.’
Jenkins allowed the smile to slip from his face. He leaned forward and down so that he was almost on a level with the big man’s eyes. ‘Then, boyo,’ he said softly, ‘we’ll just ’ave to ’ave coffee, won’t we?’
For a moment the two men looked at each other without blinking. Then the Portuguese turned and asked a question in Afrikaans of one of his comrades. The man shrugged his shoulders, cast a quick look towards the house, and replied. It seemed to satisfy the leader, for he said, ‘Come inside. We give you food and you sleep here tonight if you want. In the barn on hay. No other room.’
‘Thank you very much.’
The group broke up. Two of the defenders went to their injured comrade, who had a bullet wound in his arm but seemed otherwise unharmed, and took him into the house. Another gestured to the three travellers and they followed him, leading the horses to a barn that extended from the farmhouse. He pointed to where they could feed and house the horses and then left them to it.
Simon quickly turned to de Witt. ‘What did the big man ask the other one?’
‘He asked, “Is the girl still locked away?” and was told, “Yes.” This is good, I think, yes?’
‘Good?’ Jenkins almost shouted. ‘It’s bloody marvellous, boy. We’ve found ’er at last. We’ve done it.’
