The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Simon turned from unbuckling his horse’s saddle girth. ‘Look,’ he said, keeping his voice down, ‘we must handle this with great care. Firstly, there’s a chance that this girl may not be Nandi, although I am sure she is. I can’t see why Mendoza would bring her all the way here and then take her back again to Kimberley. It’s more likely that, having deposited her here, he has gone back to Currey Street to get another shipment of diamonds to smuggle across the frontier, or,’ a further thought struck him, ‘perhaps he’s gone to see the King to tell him of Wolseley’s advance. If he’s close to the bePedi, he could be feeding the King information about the coming attack.’

  Jenkins sniffed. ‘Well, as you said, if ’e’s in ’is back pocket, so to speak, why did these Bapedo fellers attack ’is farm? It don’t make sense.’

  ‘What do you think, Faan?’ asked Simon.

  The Boer shrugged. ‘It could be that, as that Portuguese said, these Kaffirs came from the far side of Sekukuni’s land, probably by the Swazis, and they wanted the cattle to trade with the Swazis. I don’t think they were Swazis, though. That’s why they left so quickly. They had a long way to go back home and they knew that there was a British army nearby. But there’s another thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Rifles. Look.’ De Witt turned and Simon realised that there were two rifles propped against the stable wall by the Boer’s horse. De Witt picked up one of them. ‘See.’ He turned the butt of the gun over by the trigger guard. ‘That is a Mozambique stamp. This Mendoza is selling guns to the bePedi as well as smuggling diamonds. This rifle was dropped by one of the Kaffirs. That’s why he has . . . what you call it . . . safe passage through this land.’

  Simon nodded. ‘It makes sense.’ Then he shot a sharp glance at the Boer. ‘Where did you disappear to when we first arrived after the fighting? Did you go into the house?’

  The Boer dropped his gaze for a moment. ‘Ja. I just had a look around. But I couldn’t see anything.’

  ‘Very well. Now both of you listen. We will go in and have supper with them. It may be that Nandi will be allowed out to cook - they probably locked her away in a bedroom when the bePedis first attacked. Now, 352, if we see her, you must show no recognition and I will do the same. I will try to indicate to Nandi that she must show no sign of knowing us. None of us has been seen by this gang before today - except me, when Mendoza opened the door to me. And he, thank goodness, is not here.’

  The Boer growled. ‘What do we do then?’

  ‘Damned if I know. Obviously, we must get her out of here.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The best time will be just before dawn when, hopefully, the whole house will be asleep. If they need Nandi to cook for us all, I should be able to slip a message to her, warning her. Then, while you two saddle up, I will steal into the house and bring her out. We shall need another horse: 352, sniff around these stables and pick out a good one that we can take. I wouldn’t want to have to outrun this gang - or the bePedis, for that matter - with Nandi on my lap.’

  Jenkins tugged at his moustache. ‘What if they don’t let her out, like? Or . . .’ depression descended on him, ‘what if it isn’t Nandi at all locked up in there? We’ll be a bit buggered then, look you.’

  Simon nodded. ‘We will indeed. But I sense it is our Nandi. Why else lock her away? For some reason, she is precious to them, that’s obvious. Come on. Let’s just see what we find.’

  They finished feeding and bedding down the horses and Simon tore a page from his pocket diary and, with a scrap of pencil, wrote a message for Nandi. He folded it tightly into the size of a postage stamp and put it in his shirt. Then all helped to dig a grave for the member of the defending band who had been killed. Simon insisted that they also bury the fifteen bePedi warriors who had died, but the Portuguese said that they had the cattle to retrieve, and it was left to Jenkins, de Witt and Simon to dig out a shallow grave and lower the bodies into it.

  ‘ ’Eathens,’ spat Jenkins. ‘An’ I mean that lot,’ he pointed to the farmhouse, ‘not these.’

  It was not until just before dusk that the work was finished. The three washed in the river - they had been offered no other facilities - and walked into the farmhouse. As an afterthought, Simon took with him an empty water bottle. The house was typically Boer: wooden walls and floors, rough timber furniture and no decoration of any kind. But the table had been laid, Simon noted with a lift to his heart, with care, and precisely in the centre a veldt rose nestled softly in a small earthenware pot. It surely was - it must be - Nandi’s touch. Simon and Jenkins exchanged a glance.

  The four defenders of the farmhouse were standing around a rustic stone fireplace, and the fifth, wounded man, sat nursing a bandaged shoulder. All were drinking what seemed like native beer from gourds, although none was offered to Simon and his companions. The five did not acknowledge the others’ entrance, but continued their low conversation in Afrikaans. From behind a closed door came cooking smells.

  Jenkins gave the room the benefit of one of his smiles. ‘Evenin’ all,’ he said. ‘Nice day for it, then, wasn’t it?’

  Five blank faces regarded him briefly and then they returned to their conversation. Simon held up his water bottle.

  ‘Can I get water from in there?’ He gestured towards the closed door. No one replied. ‘Oh good. I need to refill my bottle.’

  Before he could be prevented, he strode to the door, thrust it open and casually swung it closed behind him. There, bent over an open fire, was Nandi.

  It had been eighteen months since he had last seen the girl. Then, at a camp fire by the Buffalo River in Natal with Alice, they had drunk champagne, eaten well and laughed. They had been a little sad, too, because Nandi had mourned the coming reinvasion of Zululand and the killing they all knew was to come; yet there had been much merriment between the three young people and Simon remembered how pretty she had looked, dressed in a simple shift that was perfectly complemented by one of her brightly coloured scarves tucked around her throat. Her hair then, tied back in a tail like a young pony’s, had been black as a raven’s wing, with a sheen to it from constant brushing. Her eyes, within that elfin oval face, shone and danced in amusement at the good company.

  Now the face that turned towards him, though flushed from the flames of the fire, was sullen and lifeless, like that of a London East End drudge. Her hair hung lifeless and unkempt and her simple blouse and skirt were stained. She was shoeless, her feet were dirty, and a large bruise like a ripe plum glistened on her high cheekbone. Simon could not help recalling from a childhood nursery book a painting of Cinderella in her kitchen, a picture of despair. Yet the face that he saw now was transformed immediately. First, a look of astonishment swept across it, then one of huge relief and, lastly, great joy. She opened her mouth to speak, but Simon quickly bent his leg behind him to keep the door shut for a second while he put his finger to his lips in a plea for silence.

  ‘May I have water, miss?’ he asked loudly. As he did so, the leader of the Portuguese party flung the door open, but all he saw was a once-again-passive Nandi silently gesturing towards the water pump in the corner of the room.

  The man curtly demanded something of her in Afrikaans. She shook her head, pointed mutely to the pump and returned to stirring a concoction in the giant stewpot which hung above the open fire. The Portuguese stood silently in the doorway, watching as Simon pumped water into his bottle. When the task was done, Simon replaced the stopper and made to walk past Nandi at the fire. But he stumbled and dropped the bottle. Immediately she stooped, picked it up and gave it to Simon, who took it from her, quickly slipping the stamp-sized note into her hand as he did so.

  ‘Thank you, miss,’ he said. Then, to the big man, ‘I don’t mind water, but it would be kind if you could spare us a little beer, don’t you think? After all, we have been of service to you.’

  The man scowled - was he born with that expression? wondered Simon - and held the door ajar so that Simon could leave the kitchen. ‘Three beer,’ he demanded
of Nandi, and then followed the Englishman.

  Jenkins was sitting at the table and Simon put a hand on his shoulder as he passed and squeezed it hard. It was a warning to the little man, but, even so, it was hard for Jenkins to suppress his feelings as Nandi entered with three gourds of beer. After a first glance, the Welshman lowered his gaze, but Simon hoped that no one had seen the fleeting look, first of joy and then of anger, that swept across his face. As Nandi offered the beer to them, carefully keeping her back to the others, Simon observed that tears were beginning to pour down her cheeks. Hurriedly, he held the kitchen door open for her.

  ‘Smells good, whatever it is you’re cooking,’ he said. She nodded, and hurried back into the kitchen.

  The leader of the Portuguese was about to follow her when Simon stopped him. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we will be off before dawn tomorrow. We were journeying to Lorenzo Marques but we somehow lost our way. Can you give me a bearing for it on this compass?’ He snapped open the cover and offered the instrument.

  The man looked at the compass in puzzlement. ‘Don’t know those things,’ he said. ‘But you are long way from Lorenzo trail. Come. I show you.’

  Together they went to the door, where the setting sun was reflecting dazzlingly from the waters of the Steelport. The man gestured to the east. ‘You go that way,’ he said. ‘Keep sun on your left shoulder and climb all time to Drakensbergs. You will hit trail,’ a humourless grin broke his features, ‘but you probably hit bePedis also. What would an Englishman want in Lorenzo?’

  Simon smiled back. A mischievous thought had occurred to him. ‘Diamonds,’ he said. ‘We want to buy diamonds.’

  The face opposite his remained expressionless but he thought he caught a quick gleam in the eye. Silently, they went back into the house.

  The meal was equally silent. The Portuguese ate their soup with both hands, dipping in spoon and bread, but they exchanged no word with each other. It was clear that Jenkins was desperately trying to keep his eyes off Nandi, who served them demurely, but it was equally clear that the little man was seething within. Once, as Nandi leaned over him to ladle soup into his bowl, Simon saw him brush her hand momentarily with his and what was almost a smile appeared on the girl’s lips, but the gesture went unnoticed as far as he could see. He allowed himself one look at Nandi as she backed through the kitchen door - clearly she did not eat with the men - and their gazes met. Her eyes immediately moistened but this time they were glowing. Then she was gone.

  Simon wasted no time with pleasantries once the meal was finished. He stood, nodded and led his companions out into the barn.

  ‘Did you see that bloody bruise on ’er face?’ demanded Jenkins. ‘Did you see it? The swine ’ave been ’ittin’ ’er.’

  Simon put a hand on his arm. ‘It looks like it. But we must not get upset. Our priority is to get Nandi out of here. There are five men in there and I don’t want to have to fight them all to get to her.’ He gestured to the newly dug grave outside the enclosure. ‘There has been enough killing here for one day.’ He turned to the Boer. ‘Faan, you went into the house while we were talking to the Portuguese out here; did you see any sign of Nandi then?’

  ‘No. But I think that they had locked her in that one little room with the ladder leading to it. In what you would call the loft, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that too. The others must all sleep downstairs, which makes it awkward for getting Nandi out.’

  The Boer nodded. ‘What is your plan then?’

  ‘Let’s just go in there with our rifles and take ’er, that’s what I say.’ Jenkins’s face was still flushed, but he looked imploringly at Simon. ‘Come on, bach sir. It’s the simplest and easiest way.’

  Simon sighed. ‘Then what do we do - kill them all in cold blood, or tie them up and hope that they don’t break free and follow us? No. Let’s try my way. We can get violent afterwards if we have to. This is what we do. We rest here until an hour before dawn, which is when most people sleep the heaviest. Then you, 352, will saddle our horses, including one for Nandi - but you must be very, very quiet.’

  The little man opened his mouth to protest, but Simon held up his hand. ‘Faan and I will enter the house—’

  ‘How?’ growled the Boer. ‘It will be locked.’

  ‘No it won’t.’ Simon reached into his pocket and showed them a key. ‘I palmed this when we went outside to be shown the trail to the border. And there is no bolt.’

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed,’ said Jenkins. ‘You’re gettin’ to be less of an officer and more of a barrack-room fiddler every day.’

  ‘The problem is that they might realise I’ve taken it, but we have to risk that. In any case, they will probably have a guard on watch - to look out for the bePedi, if not for us. Faan, we will have to deal with him somehow - but I don’t want him killed unless we really have to. We must be quiet.’

  De Witt nodded, but Jenkins was still unhappy. ‘Look, bach sir,’ he said. ‘Let Faan look after the horses an’ I’ll come in with you. I won’t make a fuss, I promise.’

  ‘Sorry, old chap, we can’t take that risk. You’re just itching to clump someone, I can see that. Besides, you’re good with horses. Come on now. I will take the first watch. You two get some sleep.’

  De Witt and a still-reluctant Jenkins spread their blankets out on the straw while Simon, rifle crooked in his arm, leaned in the shadows just inside the door of the barn. The others were soon asleep. After about an hour, the door to the house opened and a tall figure emerged, also carrying a rifle. He picked his way between the cattle which had been herded into the enclosure to the edge of the wall and scanned the hills around before turning and strolling towards the barn. Simon silently crept to the straw, lay down and pulled a blanket over him, with his cocked rifle hidden beneath it but pointed towards the doorway. He placed his hat over his face, low enough to conceal his features but positioned so that he could observe the doorway from under the brim. The Portuguese loomed into the opening and Simon braced himself to shoot. But the man merely inspected the inert figures, appeared satisfied and walked away.

  The rest of the night passed without further incident, and at about four a.m., the trio slipped out of the barn. As Jenkins tiptoed to the stables, Simon laid a hand on de Witt’s arm.

  ‘Do the bePedi have night calls to communicate before they make a surprise attack?’ he asked.

  The Boer pulled a lugubrious face. ‘Perhaps, but I don’t know them.’

  ‘What about a nervous cow? Can you imitate that?’

  De Witt grinned. ‘Oh, ja. I think I can do cows.’

  ‘Good. We need the guard to come outside. We will stand either side of the door and, when he pokes his gun out to investigate - as I hope to God he will - I will pull him out, you hit him hard on the head and I will break his fall. The point is to make very little noise. Understand?’

  The Boer nodded.

  ‘We will need rope to tie him. There’s bound to be some in the barn.’

  Within a few minutes, de Witt returned with a length of rope. The two men tiptoed to the house and stood either side of the door. Simon nodded, and the Boer took a deep breath and made a very passable imitation of a steer in discomfort. Nothing happened. Simon mouthed, ‘Again,’ and the big man cupped his hands and lowed, directing the sound away from the house. Its verisimilitude was sufficient to set the herd moving restlessly, and within seconds, the door latch was lifted and, first, a rifle barrel and then a head appeared. Simon, flattened against the wall, sprang forward and, forgetting the plan, crashed the butt end of his Colt into the man’s face. The guard staggered against the door post and Simon was only just able to catch the rifle before it clattered on to the wooden floor. He thrust the muzzle of the revolver into the man’s bleeding face and, finger to his lips, motioned him outside. Once beyond the opened door, de Witt sprang forward and hit the guard on the head with the butt of his rifle. Simon caught him, and as the man lay senseless, they stuffed his own kerchief into his mouth, gagge
d him with Simon’s handkerchief and then bound him with the rope.

  Breathless, the two men crouched, but whatever noise they had made was covered by the restless movement of the cattle and no one within the house stirred. Simon beckoned, and he and de Witt moved stealthily into the house. Six doors led off from the big living room, including that for the kitchen, but all were closed. A rough stairway rose up to a single door high up on the wall. Simon nodded towards it and de Witt gave a confirmatory nod.

  Simon leaned close to the Boer. ‘Stay down here and cover each doorway,’ he whispered. ‘I will go up and get her. We can only gamble that it is her room - and that the bastards haven’t locked her in. Don’t shoot unless you have to, but if you have to, shoot to kill.’

  De Witt nodded and, pistol in hand, Simon ascended the stairway, testing each step before putting his weight on it to avoid creaks. At last he reached the little platform at the head of the stairs. He looked down, but the Boer had disappeared. What the hell . . . ? Simon craned his head, but de Witt was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was directly underneath the platform. Too late to go back now, anyway. With bated breath, Simon put his hand on the latch and gently pushed it upwards. It lifted and he was able to push the door open. Inside, all was dark and Simon realised that either the room had no window or that it was shuttered. Was she inside? His question was answered within a second when two arms were thrust around his neck and he felt tears on his cheek as his ear was roundly kissed.

  He shushed her and untangled himself. ‘Are you ready?’ he whispered into her ear.

  Nandi choked a sob and he felt her nod her head.

  ‘No shoes,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t have them any more, Simon,’ she whispered back.

  ‘Bastards. Now, down the stairs very quietly, on your toes. Hold my hand and follow me.’

  Together, in the light cast by the moon through the unshuttered windows, they crept down the stairway. As they did so, de Witt loomed out of the open kitchen door. The two men exchanged glances and de Witt allowed Simon and Nandi to tiptoe through the front door, while he stayed behind for a moment, rifle in hand, to cover their exit. Simon took a precious moment to lock the door behind him and throw the key as far as he could beyond the enclosure wall. Then all three ran for the stables, where a very anxious Welshman was waiting for them, holding the reins of four saddled horses.