The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘To the slaughterhouse.’

  They spent the rest of a desultory day keeping watch on the township. The bePedis seemed remarkably sanguine about the danger of attack. Although the tiny figures seen down below sauntering between the huts and out into the valley often carried rifles, there was no sign of patrols combing the hills flanking the valley. The life of the bePedi capital seemed to continue as normal, with women cooking on open fires and, further away, washing garments in a little stream that threaded its way across the desert floor from the Steelport on the far side of the valley. If riflemen were manning the ramparts on the far hillside, they gave no evidence of their presence.

  The four observers, now cramped and uncomfortable in their hiding place among the low trees, curled up early in their blankets as the temperature dropped sharply at dusk. They rose well before dawn. Simon crouched down by the two Ndebeles to repeat his instructions. They smelt of oil and stale perspiration but their senses were alert and their eyes were sharp in the darkness. ‘Take the woman from the eastern edge of the village, away from us.’ He pointed. ‘Take her into the trees,’ he said, ‘and make sure she makes no sound. But don’t hurt her. Tell her that the white soldiers are all around watching her and that she will be shot if she does not go directly to the big Portuguese and give him the letter. Now go. Good luck, boys.’

  Simon and Jenkins breakfasted meagrely on biltong, hard biscuits and figs and returned to their observation post as dawn sent exploratory fingerposts of sunlight down the valley. They watched, with growing anxiety, as the township came to life, and waited, their hearts in their mouths, for a shout, a shot, from the eastern end of the huts that would show that the plan had failed. But all seemed quiet and normal. Then Jenkins, who was watching through the field glasses, stiffened. ‘ ’Ere,’ he said. ‘She’s come. It must be.’

  He handed the binoculars to Simon, who focused on a small female figure, running through the huts, her head turning up to search the hillside as she went. She made her way to the second largest hut, that from which Mendoza had emerged, and disappeared inside.

  ‘Good,’ muttered Simon. ‘So far, so good.’

  After three minutes or so, the unmistakable figure of the big Portuguese emerged. Simon concentrated hard on him, through the lenses. Mendoza walked out tucking his shirt into his trousers, hatless and his long hair dishevelled, but Simon’s notepaper in his hand. His pock-marked face came into clear focus as Simon rotated the lens wheel, and he was scowling as he scanned the hills on the far side of the valley and then turned to look immediately above him to where the two men lay. Instinctively, Simon and Jenkins ducked their heads but, hidden as they were in the foliage, it would have been impossible to detect them from so far away.

  ‘I think I could pot ’im at this distance,’ murmured Jenkins. ‘It might save us a lot of time and trouble.’

  ‘No,’ said Simon. ‘Good as you are, you might miss and that would reveal our position. No. Let the plan run. The vital thing is to see if he has Nandi. We will just have to wait until noon, unless he tries to move her before then. But, then, where would he take her?’

  The Ndebeles returned, happy at the success of their mission and bringing news that gave huge relief to Simon and Jenkins. The woman had been taken easily and she had confirmed that there were four Portuguese Mozambiques living in the town, and that, indeed, they had a young woman with them, a woman who was kept in their hut and not allowed to leave. Noon brought further confirmation. Mendoza’s door was opened and the big Portuguese emerged, holding by the arm a slim, girlish figure. Simon focused on her quickly and the sad face of Nandi sprang into view, so clear from the magnification that he felt he could put a hand out to touch her. Even at that distance, it was clear that her face was sunken. She was shrouded in the blanket that Jenkins had given her at the donga and, as before, her feet were bare.

  ‘Yes, that’s ’er all right.’ Jenkins’s voice was hoarse. ‘Let me see.’ Simon handed him the binoculars. The Welshman’s sigh was a mixture of relief and anger. ‘Thank God for that,’ he murmured. ‘Poor little thing. She’s not well, look you. You can see.’ He lowered the glasses. ‘That man will pay for what he’s done, see if he won’t.’

  The girl was taken to the centre of the valley by Mendoza, turned to face the far hillside, as instructed, and then brought back to the hut and thrust inside.

  ‘It looks as though it’s worked,’ said Simon. ‘Now we’ll let him stew for a while, waiting for our next message.’

  That afternoon, while Jenkins kept watch with the binoculars, Simon, Ophrus and Ntanga cautiously reconnoitred a route down the steep hillside to where the town began. It did so, in fact, way above the valley floor and Simon realised that to reach their destination they would have to pick their way through, firstly, a surprisingly elaborate defensive network of trenches and stone walls erected in rows along the hill about two hundred feet from the bottom, and then more than a score of wooden shacks which straggled down the hillside. The trenches and walls were not manned although there were plenty of tribesmen and women in evidence among the huts. As a result, the three could descend no further in daylight and the crouching Simon concentrated on the hut in which Nandi was imprisoned. Its door was made of wood and, although it had no obvious padlock, it looked quite substantial. It was roofed in what appeared to be reed and it huddled up to the hillside against a large rock. Thoughtfully, Simon led the retreat back to where Jenkins was waiting.

  Darkness was falling as Simon told the others of his plan. ‘We wait until the hour before dawn,’ he said, ‘when, hopefully, the town will be in its deepest sleep. As I have said, the bePedi know that they cannot be taken by surprise by a large force, so they will not have guards posted on the periphery of the town.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ Jenkins gave Simon his most impatient frown.

  ‘The edge, dammit. Now, if we wake anyone we are as good as dead, so we must creep silently through those shacks at the bottom there. We must all wear blankets, so that, if we are seen, at a quick glance we will look like bePedis - no boots for us, 352, I fear. We cannot make a frontal attack on the hut, so we will go in through the roof, from that big rock which is roughly level with the top of the hut. Ophrus tells me that it should be possible to cut through the reeds quietly with a couple of sharp knives, so he and Ntanga will do that. Then we will all drop through - it’s only about eight feet or so. Now comes the hard part.’ He smiled. ‘We must leave our rifles on the rock because they will hinder us on the roof. So it will be knives for Ophrus and Ntanga and bayonets for us two, 352, once we are inside the hut.’

  Jenkins’s teeth flashed in the dark. ‘Then we kill the buggers inside, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Simon made an effort to keep his voice level and unemotional. ‘This is a huge risk because we don’t know how many people will be sleeping inside, we will not be sure if they are sleeping, of course, and we can’t afford to make a loud noise. I have looked carefully and, thank God, I have seen no dogs in this corner of the town. So . . . 352, you will drop in first and take out immediately the guard, if they have one, and if they haven’t, go for the man nearest the door. I will follow and single out Nandi—’

  ‘Can’t I do that?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘No. You’re a better . . . killer than I. You two boys drop in quickly and stab the others. I will help as soon as I have found Nandi and pushed her out of the way. Look, this is going to be very difficult. Our success depends upon silence, speed and ferocity. We must kill these men as they sleep, if possible.’ He shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘I know it sounds terrible, but we have no choice. Once a hole is cut in the roof, you, Ophrus, should be able to look inside and tell us by signs how many men are there and roughly where they are sleeping. Is this understood?’

  The two black men nodded, no smiles now on their faces, for the danger inherent in the attack was obvious. ‘How do we get away, once we’ve done the business?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘Ideally, the way we came, back
up on to the rock, through the bush and over the top to our horses - which, by the way, we will tether a little higher up the hillside. If we are discovered, there are about seven bePedi ponies tied past the huts on the left, facing the valley. We must get our rifles and fight our way through to them and escape that way.’

  Jenkins gave a grim smile. ‘I know what you’re going to say,’ sighed Simon before the Welshman could speak. ‘They won’t be bridled or saddled. Well, you will just have to tie me on.’ Everyone grinned.

  ‘Right. Any questions?’ Three heads shook in unison. ‘We must get some rest now. You, 352, will take the first watch. I will do the last one, until three hours before dawn. I estimate that it will take us about an hour to find our way quietly down the hillside, which leaves us two hours to carry out our work and be back up here well before daylight. Sleep now.’

  But sleep did not come easily for Simon. He lay under his blanket, his eyes closed but his brain racing. Success for his plan, he realised only too well, demanded outrageous luck. Everything must fall into place perfectly, like the easiest of jigsaw puzzles. They must not be heard on their approach past the stone walls, the trenches and the shacks; they must cut through those reeds so quietly that no one sleeping below would be disturbed; they must drop eight feet or so without injury, and then kill silently and ruthlessly - all without disturbing man or dog, and who had heard of an African village without a regiment of dogs keeping watch through the night? Then they must make good their escape, avoiding the bePedi patrols that would be guarding the approaches to the valley. Simon’s thoughts turned to the killing and he felt a small rivulet of cold perspiration creep down his face. He had killed with cold steel: with the bayonet at Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift and yet again in Afghanistan, and he trembled at the memory and brutality of it all. But that was in the heat of battle. Here, this would have to be brutal assassination, cold-blooded killings of men emerging from sleep and desperately struggling to their feet. Could he do it? He frowned and thought of Nandi, innocent, childlike Nandi being brutalised. Oh yes, he could do it all right! Eventually, he drifted off to sleep.

  He woke the others at the end of his watch and without a word they checked their rifles, knives and bayonets, pulled their rough homespun blankets tightly around them - as much for protection from the cold at this altitude as for disguise - and, with Ophrus at their head, made their way in single file down the hillside. Some two hundred feet down, they stopped and Simon and Jenkins removed their boots. The moon was shrouded with sullen cloud, visibility was poor and Simon blessed the sure-footed presence of the two trackers, who seemed to pick their way through the shrub and scree with the nimbleness of mountain goats. The problem, however, lay with the scree, for it seemed impossible, in the stillness of the night, to place one foot in front of the other without causing a small cascade of stones. To Simon’s sensitive ears, the four sounded like a battalion on the march. The worry about noise was compounded by the pain from the sharp stones which made the two white men, in their socks, hop and silently curse, as though they were walking on pin cushions.

  And then the luck that the audacity of the plan demanded came along - it began to rain. At first the fall was soft and gentle, but then thunder rumbled and the rain fell more steadily and heavily. The noise became a hiss as the heavy drops bounced off the rocks, and their footing was further hindered as the narrow track they were following became a rivulet. The blankets wrapped around the four men became sodden and heavy. But Simon, his hair plastered to his head and streams of rain coursing down his cheeks, exchanged a grin with Jenkins in the semi-darkness. Their discomfort did not matter. The storm relieved them of the need for silence, and down below, dogs began to howl their distress to the moon.

  They picked their way through the network of stone walls and rough trenches and then, heads down, rifles concealed beneath their sodden blankets, trod even more warily between the shacks. No one challenged their progress and it seemed as though the whole of the population of Sekukuni was huddled indoors, sleeping through the downpour. At the flat rock, the four men laid down their rifles and covered them with their blankets. Simon gestured to the others to lie prone and he crawled to the edge to look out over the rooftops of the town. No one was stirring and even the dogs, it seemed, had given up their protests. The rain was drumming a muted tattoo on the reed roof immediately below him, so noise should not be a problem, unless the downpour was keeping the occupants of the hut awake. But would the seemingly fragile roof take Ophrus’s weight? He beckoned the Ndebele forward.

  ‘Be careful,’ he hissed. ‘Spread your weight out and cut quietly and quickly.’

  The big man put his long knife between his teeth and lowered himself on to the edge of the reeds, where they met the wooden wall of the hut. Then, with infinite care, he knelt down, gradually transferred his weight on to his hands and then lowered his stomach to the reeds so that he was spread-eagled across the roof. The reeds sagged a little but did not collapse. Ophrus edged his way forward until he was within arm’s reach of the ridgepole and began cutting, carefully removing each handful of reed and distributing it around him. Eventually he had made an opening about three feet square. He lowered his head inside and kept it there until his eyes were accustomed to the gloom within. Then he pulled out and began crawling back to the rock, clambering up to sit beside Simon, his body glistening in the rain. The others gathered round.

  ‘How many?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Four, baas, including the lady.’

  ‘Where are they sleeping?’

  ‘Lady is here, by the rock. The others are like this.’ And he pointed to the three corners of the hut.

  ‘Right. In you go, 352. Make sure the reeds can take your weight. As soon as you go down, we will follow quickly.’ He held out his hand to the Welshman, his face anxious against the wind and the rain. ‘Good luck, old chap.’

  The two men shook hands and then Jenkins edged his way out along to the opening. His bayonet between his teeth, he wriggled his feet into the opening and disappeared. Simon followed him, crawling along the reeds on hands and knees without caution, until he too thrust his feet down and, not stopping to look, launched himself down into the blackness below.

  He fell with a soft thud on to a floor of beaten earth. Aware that Ophrus would be following him, he immediately rolled away, gained his feet and transferred bayonet from mouth to hand. It was dark but strangely quiet. Then he became conscious that figures were rising from the corners of the hut. Looking above him to the square of lighter darkness in the roof to orientate himself, he fumbled his way to where, he hoped, Nandi was lying. His hand touched something soft beneath a rough blanket.

  ‘Nandi?’ he whispered.

  ‘What? What?’ The voice was weak but unmistakable. ‘Simon, is it you?’

  ‘Yes. Pull yourself to the wall of the hut and lie still.’

  He heard a grunt and the sound of a scuffle from the other side of the hut, and then a sigh. As he swung round, a dark figure cried out and launched itself at him in the half-light. Simon jabbed out his left hand, his arm held stiff, and caught his crouching assailant on the top of the head. But the charge was only deflected and the man’s head crashed into Simon’s midriff, winding him and sending them both sprawling so that they slammed into a low bed from which a third man was rising. He was knocked over in the mêlée and the three men began a desperate tussle on the floor of the hut, Simon trying to find room to free his bayonet, the other two impeding each other in their attempts to rise and face whatever had materialised to attack them in the darkness of the hut - all as the thunder crashed and rolled above them.

  Then Ophrus’s knife flashed and the third man groaned and fell, but Simon was unaware of this because his original assailant had now clasped both hands around his throat and was pressing hard. Blackness was descending and a loud pounding developed in his ears, but the Mozambiquan’s double-handed attack enabled Simon to free his bayonet at last and thrust it into the man’s side, feebly but effectiv
ely, for the pressure on his throat relaxed immediately. Once again Ophrus’s knife swept down and Simon was dimly aware that hot blood was pouring over his face as he lost consciousness.

  He must have come to almost immediately, for he was dimly aware of Jenkins’s voice hissing, ‘No more. We’ve got all of the bastards.’ Then the familiar face appeared above him, the eyes full of concern above the bedraggled moustache. ‘God, the blood!’ said Jenkins. ‘Where’ve you been ’urt, then, bach?’

  Simon struggled to speak but no sound came from his aching throat. He shook his head, blinking hard to see through the blood, and was eventually able to croak, ‘I’m all right. It’s his blood. Half throttled. Help me up.’

  The Welshman spat on his handkerchief and was about to wipe Simon’s face when he was thrust aside by Nandi, who knelt down and, with the edge of her shift, began to clean away the blood with infinite tenderness. ‘Thank you,’ gasped Simon. ‘Must get up.’ Together the two helped him to stand and, still sucking in air, Simon looked around the interior of the hut.

  The three Portuguese lay dead on the beaten earth, one bayoneted by Jenkins and the other two killed by Ophrus’s knife. The fight - no, the massacre - had taken no more than forty-five seconds. All was suddenly still and quiet in the hut, except for the gasps of the raiding party. The surprise had been complete. Ntanga, who had dropped into the hut last of all, had not been needed in the affray.

  Simon put a hand to his bruised throat and swallowed with difficulty. He nodded to Jenkins. ‘Help Nandi get her things together,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll look outside. Stay quiet.’

  The last injunction was hardly necessary, for as Simon eased the door of the hut open, the rain was still falling with a hiss and the black sky was booming with thunder. A flash of lightning lit up the surroundings for a second, but no one stirred among the shacks. Amazingly, Sekukuni remained comatose under the deluge. Gratefully Simon held up his face for a moment and allowed the rain to wash away the blood, his face smarting under the sharp pinpricks.