The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Re-entering the hut, he saw Jenkins wrapping a blanket around Nandi, who was clutching a pathetically small bundle of possessions. The two Ndebeles were searching through the clothing of the hut’s other occupants.

  ‘Enough of that,’ said Simon. ‘We must leave. Push this table underneath the hole. We will go back the way we came in. 352?’

  ‘Yes, bach sir.’

  ‘Is Nandi able to stand?’

  ‘Yes, Simon.’ The girl’s voice was little more than a whisper. ‘But they bound my legs and I don’t walk very well.’

  ‘Don’t worry, lass,’ said Jenkins. ‘I’ll carry you. Now, love,’ he said. ‘Lean on me. Offy, you get up on to that straw stuff on the roof and I’ll hand the lass up to you. Be careful now.’ He turned back to Nandi. ‘Put this other blanket around you, see, because it’s a wee bit wet outside and we don’t want you catchin’ your death o’ cold out there, now do we?’

  Nandi’s smile was weak, but strong enough to light up that corner of the hut, now that everyone’s eyes were accustomed to the darkness.

  Ophrus climbed on to the table and then, with a spring and a kick of his legs, he had wriggled through the hole back on to the roof. He stretched his arms down and seized Nandi round the waist as Jenkins lifted her up from the table. In a second she was outside, on the roof.

  ‘Take her under cover,’ hissed Simon to Ophrus. Then, to Ntanga, ‘You next.’

  As the second tracker disappeared through the roof, Simon felt Jenkins’s hand gripping his arm. ‘There’s only one problem,’ said the Welshman.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Mendoozi’s not ’ere.’

  ‘I know. He is sleeping in the other hut, obviously. Well, never mind.’

  Jenkins climbed up on to the table and bent down, making a cradle of his hands. ‘Come on, then, I can toss you up there, just like mountin’ a bloomin’ ’orse. Always the perfect groom, see. You go on, bach sir, and look after the lass. I’ll come on after you. I’ll only be a minnit, look you.’

  Simon drew in a sharp breath. ‘Oh no you don’t, 352. If you go in that other hut after him, you will be pushing our luck just too far. You could bring the whole bePedi nation around our ears. No. Leave him. We must get away while we can.’

  Jenkins shook his head, his moustache jutting out truculently. ‘No. I’ll be quiet and I’ll be careful.’

  ‘There’s no question of it. That’s an order.’ Simon looked up. Ntanga was looking down through the hole in the roof, his hands hanging down. ‘Get up there. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.’

  Slowly, and with a scowl, the Welshman raised his hands and was hauled up. Standing on the table, Simon took a last look around the hut, now a scene of carnage, with blood spreading into congealing pools beside the bodies of the three men. The place had a distinct and unpleasant smell about it of . . . what? Death, evil, or just dampness? Shaking his head, Simon felt momentarily nauseous. He had killed in cold blood, brutally. Was he becoming a monster? He shook his head again, as though to fling off the thought, and looked up into the face of a glowering Jenkins. Then he allowed himself to be pulled up.

  Regaining their blankets and their rifles, they began the long climb back through huts and trenches and walls, their journey this time made the more arduous because it was upwards and the rain had added mud to the hazards of slippery stones and clinging thorn bushes. But they regained their boots and, half carrying Nandi, crossed the summit, reaching the little clearing where their horses were tethered just as the rain stopped and dawn began to lighten the eastward sky. There they all mounted.

  Simon consulted his compass and then shot a worried look at Nandi. The girl sat behind Jenkins, her arms around his waist and her head lying on his broad back. She looked frail, soaked and exhausted, but there was a faint smile on her face. ‘Are you all right, Nandi?’ he called.

  She kept her cheek pressed against Jenkins’s back and whispered, ‘Oh yes, Simon. Oh yes. Now that I am back with you two, I know that I am all right. But please, don’t leave me again.’

  Jenkins snorted. ‘No question of that. No question at all.’

  They rode for four days, taking a circuitous route. Nandi hardly spoke during the journey, half sleeping as she rode behind either Jenkins or Simon, for she could not sit on a horse on her own. They did not discuss her captivity but Simon did explain that her father was alive and told her a little of Dunn’s efforts to rescue her. At this, her eyes lit up and then filled with tears. She smiled and shook her head, as though she could not believe that her bad luck had turned and her misery was over. She was clearly exhausted, mentally and physically, and Simon decided that they would not intrude further on her recovery.

  Two miles from Fort Weeber they met a British patrol. Inevitably, it was commanded by Colonel Ralph Covington, late of the 21st Regiment of Foot and now of the general staff, the last man that Simon wished to encounter.

  The elegant horseman rode a little ahead of his patrol towards the bedraggled party. ‘Ah, it’s you, Fonthill,’ he called ‘Thought you’d run away again. You’re a day late reporting, dammit. Typical. What the hell . . . !’ As Simon’s horse half turned he had seen the slim figure of Nandi, now mounted behind him. The handsome face, already florid, turned a darker shade. ‘Ah! Now I understand. You haven’t been scouting for the General at all. You have been neglecting your duty to go off to find this damned half-breed. While we’ve bin waitin’ here, kicking our heels to start the advance, you’ve been gallivanting about the bloody countryside, pursuing your own agenda, no doubt to gratify your damned cock.’ He turned and shouted behind him. ‘Sergeant, bring up a section and arrest these two men. Sharply now!’

  ‘You’re making a mistake, Covington,’ said Simon. ‘You’re going to look a fool again. This girl needs treatment as soon—’

  ‘Be quiet. Take their weapons, Sergeant.’

  Six troopers surrounded Simon and Jenkins as the Ndebeles looked on, their frowns reflecting their puzzlement. The sergeant, his moustache almost as resplendent as Covington’s, slipped Simon’s Martini-Henry from its holster and his Colt from his belt and turned to do the same to Jenkins - only to find himself looking down the muzzle of the Welshman’s rifle.

  ‘Get your ’ands away from my ’orse, arsehole,’ growled the Welshman. ‘And don’t go anywhere near that lady there, or I’ll blow your belly open.’

  Covington’s voice rose loud and clear. ‘If he has not lowered that rifle within five seconds, shoot him,’ he called. ‘I will begin counting now. One, two . . .’

  Simon reached across and gently pulled Jenkins’s rifle from his hands, and handed it to the sergeant. ‘Steady on, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘This man fought at Isandlwana.’

  ‘I don’t care where he fought.’ The NCO’s face was as red as Covington’s. ‘He called me an arsehole!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon, ‘but there’s no need to act like one, now, is there?’

  ‘Surround them,’ called Covington, ‘and follow me to the fort.’

  Simon could sense Nandi’s distress behind him. ‘Simon,’ she whispered, ‘are we all in trouble now? Don’t let them hurt 352. It’s all because of me, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, no,’ he whispered back. ‘This is just the army behaving badly. You remember you said you didn’t like our army. Well, do you know, I find that I rather agree with you.’

  As the sad little party trotted back towards the fort, the sky darkened and rain began to fall again.

  Chapter 12

  At the fort, Simon helped Nandi to dismount and said to Covington, ‘Colonel, whatever you do to us, this lady needs urgent medical attention, food and a warm bed.’

  Covington nodded curtly. ‘I will see to that,’ he said. Simon and Jenkins then kissed Nandi, shook hands with the two Ndebeles and were led away to the guardhouse - a larger than usual tent - where they joined three native levies, still reeking of cheap beer, and a happy Welsh private of the 24th, whom Simon vaguely recognised. The latter rose un
steadily to his feet, peered closely at the visitors, allowed his jaw to drop and promptly fell over.

  Jenkins bent and hauled him to his feet. ‘Now, Jones 389,’ he said, brushing him down, ‘don’t go fallin’ over in the presence of an officer. Get yer ’eels together and say good mornin’ to Mr Fonthill ’ere, there’s a good lad.’

  The young man blinked and smiled. ‘Good morning, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, never thought to see you in the brig, isn’t it. Nor you, Jenkins 352. What’s bin goin’ on, then?’

  ‘Sit down, Jones, there’s a good fellow,’ said Simon. ‘How on earth did you manage to get drunk out in this desert?’

  ‘Goodness, sir. It was these lads here.’ He indicated the three levies, who were regarding events with lacklustre eyes. ‘They’d brought along a jug or three and I was just ’elpin’ out with ’em, see.’

  Jenkins’s eyes lit up. ‘Blimey. Beer? None left, is there?’

  ‘Not in ’ere, mate. Sorry.’

  Further conversation was interrupted by the entry of the moustached sergeant, who scowled at them all. ‘General wants to see you two ’mediately,’ he growled. ‘Step out smartly now. Can’t keep Sir Garnet waiting. Outside now.’ His voice rose to a scream. ‘I SAID NOW! Right. Now. Lef’ right, lef’ right, lef’ right . . .’

  ‘Fer Chrissakes, bach,’ said Jenkins. ‘You’re shoutin’ at Captain Fonthill, late of the 24th Regiment of Foot and of Her Majesty’s Royal Corps o’ Guides, and Sergeant Jenkins of the same. But we’re not in the army now, see. So we’ll just walk to the General, if it’s all the same to you. Right?’

  The veins in the sergeant’s forehead suddenly became prominent and his face once again began to change colour, but Simon intervened. ‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘No disrespect intended. Just show us where to go and we will get there smartly, I promise.’

  ‘What? Oh, er, very well, er, sir. Straight ahead then an’ turn left at the end. But I’m right behind you, now.’

  Simon and Jenkins were ushered into the large tent which formed the General’s headquarters. The little man, dressed in his field khaki, was sitting at a trestle table on which several maps were spread. Behind him stood an array of officers, with Covington prominent among them. They looked up as the sergeant slammed to attention, gave a huge salute and shouted, ‘Prisoners on parade, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant. That will be all. Wait outside.’ Wolseley’s voice was measured but cold. Two chairs were placed in front of his table but he uttered no invitation to use them. His good eye ran over the two men standing before him, their clothes still dusty from the journey, their trousers and shirts crumpled and creased from the heavy rain and their faces grimed and seamed.

  ‘Well, Fonthill,’ he said eventually. ‘I think you had better explain yourself.’

  ‘In what way, General?’ asked Simon pleasantly.

  Wolseley slammed his hand on the table and rose to his feet. ‘Damn your impertinence, young man,’ he shouted. ‘Don’t you play games with me. I sent you off on a mission, and from what I hear, you have gone off on a chase after a young woman.’ Once again the scar under the General’s blind eye stood out vividly. ‘Now, sir. As I said: explain yourself.’

  Simon felt Jenkins stiffen beside him. ‘I was on my way here to report to you,’ he responded, ‘when that man there,’ he gestured towards Covington, ‘arrested me and Jenkins here. Now, sir.’ He kept his voice level but cold. ‘I am happy to report to you, but - and you must understand this - I will not be shouted at. Neither of us is in the army and I would have thought that rules of civilised conduct should apply, wouldn’t you agree?’

  There was a massed intake of breath from the officers behind Wolseley, and Simon heard Covington say, ‘Damn you, Fonthill.’ The General regarded Simon steadily. When he spoke, his voice was as level as Simon’s and equally cold.

  ‘You will not be impertinent towards me, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘I have martial law powers here, which means that I can throw you into jail without specific charge and leave you there to rot, if I wish. I would have no qualms in doing so.’

  Simon sighed. ‘I don’t wish to be disrespectful, sir, not least because, back in Durban, you were most understanding of what I was trying to do and, indeed, you helped me. But I do resent very much indeed being arrested and thrown into the guardhouse and then treated as some sort of miscreant. Now, General, you can do what you wish here. I understand that. So arrest me - arrest us both - by all means, but I think it would be better if I was allowed to make my report to you, as I intended, without being shouted down. You have a battle to fight. I can help you. The choice is yours.’

  A silence fell. Simon ran his eye along the faces of the officers arrayed behind Wolseley. Covington’s, of course, was suffused with anger but his features also demonstrated a kind of satisfaction that the man he clearly hated so much had gone too far this time. His eyes gleamed and his chin was thrust forward. The others displayed only one emotion: shock that anyone should talk to this revered general, the most feared and respected senior officer in the British Army, in this adversarial manner. It was not lèse-majesté. It was worse than that. It was suicide.

  Eventually, Wolseley spoke. ‘Tell me what you know, Fonthill.’

  ‘Very well, sir. May I?’ Simon gestured to the maps on the table.

  The General nodded.

  Simon pulled the maps towards him. He discarded all but one, the largest. ‘Right, sir,’ he said. ‘You are now camped roughly here. Your best plan of attack would seem to be - as you yourself intimated before we set off - a straightforward march to the north-east, along the old Boer track here, up the valley of the Steelport up to here, where the valley opens out and where Sekukuni has his capital. But I suggest that you would have trouble taking this route with the whole of your force.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There is very little fodder for the animals because the veldt quickly transforms into virtual desert country. From what I can gather, it is also pony-sickness country, which could affect your transport, although I don’t know what causes it. But the main point is that there is almost no water so you would have to carry everything with you, which would be expensive and cumbersome and would slow you down considerably.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Covington’s voice cut in. ‘We should be following the line of the Steelport. For God’s sake, man, there is plenty of water along the river route.’

  ‘How do you know? Have you been along there?’

  ‘No, not exactly . . . well, not all the way. But it stands to reason that we can use the river for our horses and the rains should replenish it if it is dry. There will be plenty of water.’

  ‘You have not been there but we have.’ Simon’s voice remained unemotional but it had a cutting edge when addressing Covington. ‘The river goes underground, just about here.’ He prodded the map with his finger. ‘And it comes out around here. I gather it is one of the longest stretches of underground watercourse in the whole of Africa. You can’t get at water at all while the river goes underground like that. You would have to carry it with you.’

  ‘Go on, Fonthill.’ The General’s voice now displayed interest and involvement.

  ‘The other reason for not making a single attack along this route is that, as the valley narrows here and then broadens out to where the town is situated, the bePedis have dug trenches and erected stone walls along the sides of the valley and around the town itself. I don’t think they have artillery but they do have rifles, and they could make it hot for anyone who launches his main attack along this way.’

  ‘Hmm. Are there other ways of approach?’

  ‘In essence, sir, you are going to have to make two assaults. One on the township itself here, Thaba Masega, tucked in a cleft in the sides of the valley and spreading out across the valley floor. When they discover you are coming - and with a column of this size, the bePedi scouts will know when you move so there will be no chance of a surprise attack - the townspeople will put their cattle, wo
men and children into this hill here, by the side of the mountain, which is honeycombed with passages.’

  ‘What, it can take cattle, too?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. The Ndebeles know all about this. In they will go and the tribesmen will then man the rifle pits and entrenchments that have been built around the town and the hill. These will command the approaches along the ground here, and coming down from the hills here.’

  ‘What’s the other attack you say I will have to make, then?’

  ‘On Ntswaneng, here, the famous “Fighting Kopje”. It stands in the middle of the town and rises straight out of the flat bed of the valley, like a sort of pyramid. It’s their Gibraltar, really. The story goes that no one, ever, has been able to dislodge the bePedi when they take refuge there. Higher up it is ringed by trenches and stone walls and deep caves. Oh, and I am told it has beehives which the bePedi tip over on to their attackers as they try and climb the kopje. Not much fun, really.’

  The General put his hand to his chin. ‘Hmm. Why can’t I surround the damned place and stop them running to it when I attack the town?’

  ‘Well, you could, sir, but my guess is that it will be separately manned and defended. They will know you are coming and man it before you arrive. From what I have seen, studying the town for a while, they will have enough tribesmen - and they all seem to have rifles - to defend both places.’

  ‘Very well. So what’s the best approach to this blasted place?’

  Simon swept his finger round to the east side of the Lulu range. ‘I would take your main column up here, sir, along the valley of the Oliphant River where there is fodder and water. We rode back that way to avoid pursuit.’ He shot a quick glance at Covington. ‘That’s why we were a trifle late getting back to you, and I wanted to scout the territory there anyway. You could then swing round the northern tip of the Lulus here, in a loop, so to speak, come down this little valley and attack the town here. Another column should follow the route of the first, but stop off halfway along the range, about here, and go over the mountains to take the town, down the hillside, from its south-eastern side. A two-pronged attack, in fact.’