The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Alice gave him another smile. ‘Of course, General.’ She would fight this battle on her own terms when she had to. But now was certainly not the time.

  Wolseley, clearly relieved, stood up. ‘Splendid. Well, now I am afraid you must excuse me, Miss Griffith. Oh, by the way,’ he bestowed on her his boyish grin, ‘I well knew that you would report on the details of the breakdown of my force that I mentioned to you when last we met, but I am glad that you were able to express the view that you felt our Boer friends would be impressed by the preparations I was making.’

  ‘Ah, but General, you are once again falling under the misapprehension that I express my own views in my copy. That was not my view, but that of the Afrikaner leaders who were observing your preparations in Pretoria.’

  Wolseley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, whatever. You clearly have good contacts among them, dear lady.’ And he shot her a hooded-eyed smile. ‘Ah, one more thing.’ The smile broadened. ‘I understand that you will be getting a visitor this afternoon. A most welcome one, I would think. But no more of that now, for you really must excuse me.’

  Alice frowned. A visitor? But she returned the smile, gave a courteous nod of the head and left the little General to his plans. As she walked back across the square to her hotel - only five minutes away and therefore not worth taking a carriage, even if one were to be found in this unsophisticated town - she pondered. Could it be Simon? Her heart leapt. Had he, somehow, freed Nandi, found that her father was here in Middelburg and brought her to join him? Would she see Simon this very day? Then the exaltation disappeared. Of course not. If Wolseley knew this, he would have told Dunn immediately and there would have been no need for that frightful confrontation. The thought of Dunn saddened her mood. In the end, she had done nothing to relieve his plight. True, she had successfully pleaded for leniency from Wolseley, but Dunn was in jail because of her. Was she not just an interfering busybody?

  Glumly, she turned on her heel and walked back to Wolseley’s HQ. She enquired as to the whereabouts of the guardhouse from the rather startled sentry, and found it - a very large converted shed - at the end of the garden. She was denied access to Dunn, but the guard sergeant, a grizzled veteran with a pepper-and-salt beard, succumbed to Alice’s smile and a folded one-pound bill and promised to deliver to the prisoner the note she hurriedly scribbled. She could offer only a little comfort to Dunn: W says that you will be in jail only for a couple of days, until he advances. Then you will be out without charges. DO NOT cause trouble! I will try and see you tomorrow. AG.

  Back in the hotel she was able to procure a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk for lunch and lay on her bed munching while she began drafting a colour piece to keep the Post happy until she was able to file harder copy. She wrote of the amazing mixture of black levies Wolseley had been able to assemble, and of the last-minute - and probably abortive - attempts to give them some kind of barrack-square discipline; of the still desperate need for scouts; and of the barren nature of the country that the British column would have to traverse to reach Sekukuni’s stronghold. She became so engrossed in the task that all thoughts of her visitor had slipped her mind. The brisk knock on her door, therefore, startled her and, forgetting to brush crumbs from her blouse and to push back a stray lock of hair, she rushed to open the door.

  There, beaming down on her, was her fiancé, Colonel Ralph Covington CB, resplendent in scarlet jacket, gleaming jackboots and sword. He encircled her waist in one movement and swept her to him, burying her mouth in his sweeping moustache.

  She broke free. ‘Ralph! What are you doing here? I thought you were still in Afghanistan. Why didn’t you cable or something . . . ?’ She tailed away, suddenly realising that she was not evincing perhaps the right amount of enthusiasm that an engaged woman should display to her future husband.

  Covington did not seem to notice. He strode in, looked about the little room with some distaste, and then, theatrically, held up his hand. ‘Deuce it! Knew I would forget something.’ He walked back into the corridor and reappeared carrying a rather scrawny bouquet of thorny mimosa and wild jessamine, together with a bottle of champagne. Without ceremony he threw out the half-dead wisps of bush blossom that protruded from the only vase, tossed the discoloured water out of the window, poured new water into the vase from the washing jug and thrust his flowers into it. He picked up the mug from which Alice had drunk her milk and looked around with a frown.

  ‘No glasses! Good lord, Alice, you should live better than this.’

  Alice sighed. She hated to be rebuked. ‘I am on campaign, Ralph.’

  He gave her his great smile that almost, but not quite, lit up the china-blue eyes, yet did curve upwards to the great moustaches that bent around his face until they met his long sideburns. Covington was a handsome man. At forty-two, he was beginning to lose the hair at his forehead, but his brow and cheeks (those, at least, that could be seen around his whiskers) were smooth, and he was tall and broad-shouldered. The early signs of a middle-aged paunch were mitigated by excellent tailoring and his fine military bearing.

  ‘My darling, we are all on campaign out here,’ he said. ‘Never mind. I will find two glasses. Now, don’t you move an inch. We must talk.’

  Champagne bottle in hand, he marched to the door and she heard him crashing down the uncarpeted stairs (he must have tiptoed to her room!) and calling, ‘Boy, boy!’ She took the opportunity to smooth her skirt and hurriedly brush her hair, throwing cold water from what was left in the jug on to her face. He came back within a minute holding two wine glasses.

  ‘Not for champagne, but they will have to do. After all,’ he smiled impishly, holding them up, ‘we are on campaign, you know.’

  Despite her irritation - her fiancé was the last person she wanted to see at this time and in this place - she smiled back. ‘But why are you here, and why didn’t you telegraph or cable?’

  ‘Wanted to surprise you.’ He twisted the cork and then used his thumbs to prise it out. The subsequent explosion gave childish pleasure to them both. ‘And I am here to fight - and keep an eye on you.’

  ‘I don’t need a nanny, thank you.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that, my girl.’ His face became stern for a moment. ‘Shortly after you left Kandahar, word came back that there had been some sort of fuss in Bombay and that that bounder Fonthill and his damned Welshman had probably been involved in it. And that he had cut and run for South Africa - your destination, of course.’

  Alice blushed. ‘What sort of fuss? I know nothing about that.’

  ‘I don’t know the details, but it’s typical of the man that he should leg it on to the nearest steamer. But I was not at all happy that it should be one bound for Durban and probably with you on board as well.’ He handed her one of the glasses and began to pour the biscuit-coloured wine into it. Keeping his eyes on the task he asked softly, ‘Did you know he was sailing to Durban, and on your vessel?’

  ‘Certainly not. I met them - Simon and Jenkins - on board the ship for the first time when I boarded it. Their destination was nothing to do with me. They were as surprised as I when we met on the deck.’ Alice’s indignation began to grow as she realised that her cheeks were burning and that these veiled accusations now had some foundation. Untypically, she felt the need to bluster. ‘Look here, Ralph, I will not be questioned like this. There is no point in continuing our engagement unless we trust each other.’

  He held up his glass to her and said, ‘And, darling Alice, do you wish to continue our engagement?’ His eyes, levelled at her from just above the rim of the glass, were clear and cold. Ah, the moment of truth! The confrontation she had been dreading. Did she love Covington? Did she really want to shed this present fascinating lifestyle for the security of marriage, wealth and the very different challenge of motherhood? And, most probing of all, wasn’t it now Simon whom she loved? Was that love strong enough to make her go back on her word, an act which she had always considered to be dishonourable and the characteristic of a we
ak, shallow person?

  She gulped and forced a smile. ‘Of . . . of course.’

  If Covington had been aware of that momentary hesitation, he gave no sign. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then we shall say no more about blasted Fonthill. Let us, my dear, drink to us.’ He lifted his glass in a toast and, after a brief moment, Alice lifted hers in reply.

  ‘To us,’ she whispered.

  ‘Now.’ Covington dabbed his whiskers with the back of his forefinger in that familiar movement, sat on the bed and patted the mattress in invitation. ‘You asked me what I was doing here.’ He lifted her hand and pressed it to his moustache. ‘Of course, in replying that I wanted to keep an eye on you, I was telling the truth, in that I know how headstrong you can be, my darling, though I also admire your guts, you know that. I am well aware that, whatever Wolseley says, somehow you will get to the fighting, and I want to be there to make sure that you don’t court danger unnecessarily. Now, I shall have my own responsibilities once we attack, so I can’t exactly watch over you, but I stand more chance of being of some use to you here than stuck back in Afghanistan.’

  He chuckled, and Alice began to warm once again to this strange mixture of a man: the bully and the sensitive carer, the stereotypical career officer and the admirer of rebellion. Sitting at his side on the lumpy bed, she became aware of the strange, musky smell of the man; a combination perhaps of tobacco, horseflesh and . . . what? Downright animal magnetism? She stirred uncomfortably, aware of the conflict which had so recently disturbed her, but Covington was continuing.

  ‘I also said that I had come to fight, and that is equally true. Once you had gone, I realised how empty things were in Kandahar. Old Bobs, the General, had completely destroyed what was left of Pathan resistance and I felt that there was nothing really left for me to do there. I knew that Wolseley was planning this campaign and I itched to be with him.’ He smiled at her, almost in apology. ‘I’m a Wolseley man, yer know, fought with him in Ashanti, and I suppose I’m regarded as being one of the Ashanti Ring. So I cabled him and asked if I could join. He wired back saying that I would be welcome if Roberts would let me go. Bobs didn’t think much of it, I imagine - you know that he and Wolseley are fierce rivals now - but he really couldn’t stop me, so here I am.’

  Alice stood and refilled her glass and his. ‘What are you going to do on the campaign?’

  ‘Oh, I shall have a line command of some sort. Haven’t been told exactly what yet. I gather that Sir Garnet is in a bit of a stew about exactly how to attack this damned heathen’s hill fortress, because there’s no reliable information about it. He’s got no decent scouts - none that he can trust, anyhow - and those he has got are afraid to penetrate too deeply into the Sekukuni territory, which I gather is pretty rough and wild. As a result, he doesn’t know the lie of the land and is in a bit of a quandary about how to launch an attack. But all this will be sorted out when we near our objective, I am sure. I gather we move tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh yes. The little man is fed up with hanging around here. He will leave with the vanguard tomorrow, and I shall go with him. The rest of the army will come on in stages. The General will set up an advance base north of Lydenburg. He calls it Fort Weeber. Weather looks bad, though.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Forgive me, then, Ralph. I must file a story today and also make my own preparations for the move. I shall go with the van, of course.’

  Covington’s eyebrows rose. ‘Don’t know whether the press johnnies are going with the forward party or not . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, they will. Now, Ralph, please excuse me, for I have much to do.’

  The tall man rose. ‘Of course, my dear.’ He put down his glass and enfolded her in his arms. She did not resist. He murmured into her hair, ‘Now this will be your last campaign, my love. You really must get used to the idea.’ He gently pushed her away and held her by the shoulders at arm’s length, looking into her eyes. ‘You must, you know.’

  Alice nodded, trying to keep the tears back. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said.

  ‘Very well.’ He kissed her lightly on the mouth and was gone.

  Alice slumped on to the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Then, almost immediately, she sat up, blew her nose, walked to the wash stand and sponged her face. As she dried herself, she scrutinised her features in the wall mirror. Well, she told her reflection, that was that. If she was not committed before, she was now. Better make the most of it and get on with her life. No more thoughts of Simon Fonthill. She threw down the towel, tied her hair back and slipped on her riding jacket.

  At the General’s HQ, she received reluctant confirmation that the advance guard would be marching out at dawn the following day to march north-eastwards, and that the press contingent would be allowed to accompany the column. Alice gained details of the make-up of the party, then wandered the square and surrounding area to gain further colour details for her story.

  She cabled it that evening and then gave notice to her hotel of her early departure. She took care, however, to pay for John Dunn’s room for the next three days, and then hurriedly penned a note to Dunn, explaining that she would be unable to see him because of the advance, urging him to return to Pretoria to seek help there, and, as an afterthought, enclosing £50. She felt guilty and frustrated that she could do little more to help Nandi, but prayed in her heart that Simon had been successful or that Dunn would swallow his fears and go to the authorities in Pretoria. The grizzled sergeant took the note this time with no thought of payment and confided that he had instructions to release Dunn in two days’ time. Alice felt better at this news and returned to her room to pack. She had a job to do - yes, and when it was finished? She would prepare for her new life, of course. Her jaw was set as she pushed her carefully folded garments into her battered bag, but her eyes were moist.

  The next morning, shortly after dawn, Alice mounted her horse and joined the long column that wound out of Middelburg. Ranged out ahead of it rode a distant screen of colonial cavalry, while in the van of the infantry marched the soldiers of the 21st Regiment of Foot, under their white cork helmets, known as ‘Wolseley topis’, their pipe-clayed belts and crossed bandoliers standing out brilliantly from their red coats. Immediately behind the first company, Sir Garnet Wolseley and his staff, dressed in sombre blue, walked their horses as they chatted. At the rear of the infantry, just ahead of where the cannon of the field artillery bumped and jingled along the bush veldt track, rode Alice and her colleagues - ahead of the artillery to avoid the dust clouds which the latter produced. Behind the guns, the black levies loped along in noisy disarray, bulging out wider than the regimented lines of the column, as though a python had swallowed a warthog and not yet digested it. Then came the commissariat, with its waggons and carts piled high with camping gear and cooking utensils. A detachment of the 94th brought up the rear, forming the narrow tail of the snake and marching in glum discomfort as the dust enfolded them. Far out on either flank, brown-uniformed cavalry pickets patrolled, to protect the column from surprise.

  Riding out on that fine morning, with a crispness in the air reminding her that they were some four thousand feet above sea level, Alice felt excited to be with the army again. Ahead, above the bobbing pith helmets of the 21st, she could just make out the broad shoulders and ramrod back of Covington, engaged in conversation with the General. Whatever the future held, it was good to be on the march again.

  Chapter 10

  Simon and his companions rode as fast as they could for the first two miles and then slowed to rest their horses. As the reborn sun gave welcome warmth to the riders and their mounts, the four bunched together companionably and, for the first time, began talking - all, that is, except for de Witt, who stayed silently in the rear.

  ‘You’ve had a bad time by the look of it, Nandi,’ said Simon.

  ‘Bloody awful I’d say, look you,’ Jenkins chimed in.

  She smiled at them both, tears appearing again in her eyes. ‘Oh yes. But I am much better
now. I am so grateful to you and I can never begin to thank you all for getting me away from those awful men.’

  ‘What I don’t understand, see—’ began Jenkins.

  ‘No.’ Simon held up his hand. ‘Not now, 352. We can hear Nandi’s story when we stop. I just want to make sure that we are not being followed.’ He looked behind them and pulled his horse’s head round so that he could climb a small mound that gave some distance, at least, to his view. In the growing light he scanned the landscape behind them with his binoculars. ‘I can see nothing,’ he called down, ‘but I don’t think it safe to stop yet. Can you keep going for a while, Nandi?’

  She nodded acceptance and they set off again in single file, travelling at as fast a pace as their horses could take, until they came to a small kopje that provided some shade and the chance to establish a lookout post. There they dismounted and broke out some of the meagre provisions they had saved. While de Witt climbed the kopje to keep watch, Simon and Jenkins heard Nandi’s story.

  Her letter to Simon had been a forlorn gesture because she harboured little hope of the letter reaching him, so vague was the address. Yet she could think of no one else she could turn to as the days went by and her father did not return. Police seemed nonexistent and her mother in distant Natal was too frail to help. Mendoza and his companions had made her a virtual prisoner from the start, only allowing her to leave the house accompanied in the first two days and then afterwards denying her access to the outside world completely. She had escaped once, only long enough to post her letter, before they found her and brought her back. That was the first time they had beaten her, but it happened often after that.

  Here a grim-faced Jenkins interrupted. ‘Did they, did they . . . you know . . . did they ever . . . ?’

  Nandi sat cross-legged, gnawing a piece of biltong, her bare, dirty toes burrowing into the coarse veldt grass. She looked up at the Welshman with eyes that hid a wealth of misery in their dark depths. ‘I would rather not talk about that, please,’ she said, and looked down, into her lap.