by John Wilcox
Quietly, the column debouched on to the plain and the men took up their positions in the darkness, waiting for the dawn. As though awed at the prospect of slaughter, the weather now relented, but it remained cold and Simon found himself shivering as, with Jenkins, he lined up with the southern Afrikaners and mixed black troops under Ferreira’s command. They were within rifleshot of the rough stone walls that marked the edge of the town, but no sound came from them and no light shone from within the township itself. It seemed as though the place was deserted - like some ghost town of the American west. Simon fingered the long bayonet on the end of his rifle and looked across at Jenkins. The Welshman’s face was alive with anticipation, his black eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness. As ever, the warrior was ready for the battle.
Jenkins grinned and nodded. ‘Cleared up nicely for it, hasn’t it?’ he confided. ‘Remind me again what the bastard looks like, ’cos I’ve never seem ’im, ’ave I?’
‘Tall, very tall.’ Simon licked his lips. ‘About six foot four. Very broad and with long black wavy hair and a pock-marked face. I don’t know what we will discover when we get over that wall,’ he found that his voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat, ‘but once we’re inside we’ll try and make for his hut, and if and when I recognise him, I’ll shout, so stay by me.’
‘I always do, don’t I?’
Suddenly, as the sky began to lighten from the west, a single shell exploded high on the kopje to their left. The flare of the explosion added to the lightening of the sky to reveal the crouching attackers, and the low line of the wall ahead suddenly erupted into hundreds of yellow flashes as the waiting defenders saw their targets. At the same time a howl went up from the city - a cry of taunting ferocity that sent a shock wave through Simon’s body, so barbaric and ethereal was it in pitch and tone. It was as though a thousand lost souls had been unearthed from their tombs to run free among the living.
‘Blimey,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘They’ve bin waitin’ for us. What a welcome. It’s like attackin’ the gates of ’ell.’
The defenders’ volley was too high to take effect, but the howl was enough to daunt even the bravest soldier, and although sounds of attack came from the left, higher up the valley, the men of Ferreira’s force stayed crouching, their eyes wide. Then a shout - probably in Afrikaans and therefore unintelligible to Simon and Jenkins - came from the tall figure of Ferreira himself, who stood, waved his hand at the wall and ran towards it alone, the occasional low-aimed bullet tearing up a spurt of dust around his feet.
‘Come on,’ gulped Simon, and he scrambled to his feet and followed the colonel, with Jenkins close by his side. The firing from the wall was intense but quite erratic and undisciplined. If the rifles lining the wall had sights, they had clearly been set too high and the running men heard the ping of bullets flying over their heads. In addition, the single-shot rifles were not being reloaded quickly and there was no attempt at volley firing. As a result the two men were able to gain the wall without injury and scrambled up on to its top alongside Ferreira, who stood there jabbing downwards with his bayonet, seemingly impervious to the gunfire directed at him. All three used their long rifles and bayonets to deflect the assegai thrusts that came at them from below, but they remained terribly vulnerable to the gun of any marksman who had had the sense to remove himself from the mêlée to take cool, deliberate aim at them. Then a yell in Simon’s ear told him that the rest of the Colonials had reached the wall, and the crash of fire from Martini-Henrys sent a swirl of acrid smoke to engulf attackers and defenders alike. It was too much for the bePedis and they turned and ran - but only to a second line of defence, a ditch backed by a wall of roughly piled stones. Another line of defenders was waiting there, muskets and rifles levelled, but the fallback of the men from the first wall inhibited the field of fire from the second, and the volley that should have taken its toll of the Colonials was irregular and ineffective.
Following the fleeing bePedis, Simon slipped to the bottom of the ditch and lay there for a moment, his hands clutching his long rifle and perspiration running down his face. He fumbled to reload and then realised that he had not discharged the round already in the breech. He looked around for Jenkins, but all he could see were the backs of the brown uniforms of the colonial troops as they scrambled up the other side of the ditch and then the rough piles of ill-assorted stones that formed the wall. Once again Simon experienced the literal taste of battle - the acrid bitterness of cordite on his lips and the rough, choking smell of smoke from a hundred rifle barrels. He gulped. Oh God! Where was Jenkins?
His prayer was answered in a cascade of stones as the little Welshman tumbled down the slope to crash into his shoulder. ‘Sorry, bach sir,’ he said. ‘ ’Ad to finish a bit of business,’ and he gestured to his bayonet, whose tip was red with blood. ‘Any sign of ’im?’
‘No. Can’t see a damned thing in this smoke. He could be anywhere. We’ll just have to penetrate further with these men into the heart of the town, then, if we can, we must go to that hut. But I’m sure he won’t be there. He could be with the King, which will mean the Fighting Kopje, I would guess. Come on.’
But penetrating the town was easier said than done. The wave of the attack had broken on this wall. After climbing it and sending its defenders fleeing once again, the line of Colonials had been halted by strong and, this time, well-directed fire from yet another set of earthworks ahead. Leaving a littering of dead and wounded brown-clad figures on the earth between the two lines, the attackers turned and scrambled back over the second wall, where they settled to exchange rifle fire with the bePedis, whose heads could just be seen intermittently behind puffs of blue smoke as they levelled their rifles from the top of the trench. Simon nuzzled his rifle stock into his shoulder and released his first round of the campaign. Then he was conscious of a figure at his elbow.
Lieutenant Colonel Baker Russell scowled ahead at the obstruction and then lifted his binoculars towards the summit of the mountain behind the township. ‘It’s going to be damned hard taking this place wall by wall,’ he muttered. ‘Where the hell is Covington with his Swazis?’
Simon directed his own gaze to the jagged line of the mountaintop ahead. There was no sign of life. The Swazis should have been swarming down the mountainside by now. He held his hand to his eyes, the better to focus. He frowned and then reached a hand across to the binoculars that now dangled on Baker Russell’s chest.
‘May I, sir?’ He had left his own field glasses in his saddle bag. The colonel grunted assent and Simon focused the lenses. ‘I thought so,’ he murmured.
He handed back the binoculars. ‘Sir, direct your glasses to the break in the line of bush, just below the summit, to the right there. What do you see?’
Baker Russell gave Simon a questioning glance, but then focused his glasses. ‘Can’t see a bloody thing . . . No. There are a crowd of natives, by the look of it, standing there and looking down on us. Who the hell are they? Eh? Do you know?’
‘I think I do, sir. They are Swazi chiefs - and no doubt Colonel Covington is in there somewhere urging them to move. But they won’t just yet.’ Simon gave a mirthless smile. ‘As I told the General, they have been caught too many times being made to take all the risks against the bePedis while the redcoats and, for that matter, the Boers too stand by and watch them break the back of the resistance and take all the fire. They are waiting to see how well we do down here before they attack. When they are convinced we mean business, they will come down, you will see.’
‘What? Can’t Covington get ’em to move?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Obviously not, sir.’
‘Good God.’ Baker Russell lowered his glasses. ‘Well. We have no choice but to go on. If necessary we’ll just clear this place by ourselves. But we’re going to lose a lot of men if we can’t put pressure on the higher end of the defences, up that mountain there. Why can’t Covington stick a poker up the arses of his black men and get ’em to come down from the top?’
&nb
sp; ‘No, no. Look.’ Simon gestured to the top of the mountain. As though in response to Baker Russell’s indignation - but more likely as a result of the gradual inroads being made into the defences of the town on the valley floor - the mountaintop was suddenly lined with a host of black figures. Even at that distance it was clear that hundreds, probably thousands of warriors, were slowly mounting that ridge line from the other side and descending towards the town. As each line of Swazis crossed the ridge, the tiny, insect-like creatures could be seen to lift their shields, and even above the desultory rifle firing and occasional crump of artillery shells against the stone of the kopje, a low rumble of intent, a distinctive, barbaric war cry, could be heard.
‘By jove,’ exclaimed Baker Russell, ‘the bastards are coming at last. Look at ’em. See how they come!’
‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s like Zululand again.’
The Swazis were now swarming down the mountainside like a broad stream of soldier ants, spreading out to encircle the walls lining the upper reaches of the township’s defences and prompting a rattle of musketry from the walls there. A new sound emerged in the terrible cacophony of warfare: a resonant, deep clicking from the hollow bones that the men from the east carried into battle and beat one against the other. The Swazis were now clearly in view and their great headdresses could be seen nodding and bobbing as their wearers thrust and slashed with their spears against the defenders behind the walls. Behind and up above the waves of black warriors, small rectangular patches of red stood out as the four companies of British soldiers of the line descended the hillside more cautiously.
‘Now we shall have them.’ Baker Russell lifted his voice. ‘Colonel Ferreira. Now is the time to advance. Have your command resume the attack at once.’
Immediately, the Colonials reloaded their rifles and discharged them, then, with a high-pitched shout, scrambled over the low wall and rushed across the intervening space with their bayonets levelled. This time the defending bePedis did not break but manfully leapt to their feet in front of their trench and met the attack, spear to bayonet, knobkerrie to rifle butt. The hand-to-hand fighting that ensued was brutal and atavistic in its medieval ferocity. There was no time for the adversaries to reload their rifles; it was now a matter of brute strength and dexterity, the winner in each individual combat being he who could wield cold steel more effectively. In this, the soldiers of Ferreira’s Horse, although fine marksmen and possessing consummate skills in horsemanship, were at a disadvantage. They had received little training in bayonet fighting, and at first, the savage counterattack of the bePedi spearmen drove them back.
Simon and Jenkins fought side by side, using the superior length of the Martini-Henry rifles - some six foot from the tip of the triangular bayonet to the butt of the rifle stock - to great effect. Remembering a tactic from the Zulu War, Simon repeatedly jabbed his bayonet through the centre of his adversary’s cow-hide shield to where he estimated he was holding it, spearing the knuckles and forcing him to drop the shield, so that he could follow up with a coup de grâce thrust to the ribs. But it was fiercely hard and dangerous work, and there was no doubt that the Colonials were gradually losing the initiative when a volley of rifle shots and a loud cheer announced the arrival of a detachment of red-coated infantry from Wolseley’s reserve. Their arrival swung the balance of the conflict. The bePedis broke and the Colonials and the British swept through into the kraal behind.
Simon and Jenkins followed, but with a nod of the head from Simon, they diverted to the left and began running through a maze of little alleys between the huts, moving towards the back of the township and up to the cleft in the hillside where the King’s large hut and those of his honoured guests stood. Although they were now well in advance of the attacking force, they saw no one but a few scattered women and children, peering round the open door of one or two huts, wide-eyed in their fear. Simon remembered that the majority of the non-combatants and their cattle would be sheltering in the depths of the ‘storage’ mountain. As he ran, however, he had little hope of finding Mendoza in his hut. Such a man - if he still remained in Sekukuni at all - would be fighting alongside his client king.
However, there was another problem that occupied Simon’s mind as he ran, rifle at the ready, through the deserted centre of the bePedi capital: how was he going to stop Jenkins from killing Mendoza?
He had long ago resolved that, villain that Mendoza was - rapist, gun-runner, diamond thief, would-be murderer and abductor - he could not be killed in cold blood. In retrospect, Simon had been disgusted by the killing of Nandi’s guards in the hut, but at least that had been a necessity, if they were to escape from the citadel alive. Deliberately seeking out and slaying the Portuguese-Mozambiquan was an entirely different matter. All Simon’s instincts, upbringing and training persuaded him that the proper, the civilised thing to do would be to capture him, hand him over to the authorities and lay charges against him. Harbouring these thoughts himself, however, was a far cry from persuading Jenkins of the rightness of the course. There was no question but that 352 was determined to kill the man who had abused the woman he loved. As he ran, he cast a quick glance at Jenkins. The Welshman’s eyes were black-button sharp as his head turned this way and that. They were the eyes of an executioner.
In the event, as Simon had suspected, the hut next to that from which they had rescued Nandi was empty. Bursting through the low doorway, their rifles cocked, the two men found only a large bed, from which the blankets had been thrown, a table containing dirty earthenware dishes and, hanging from a peg on the wall, a strange sombrero and an old European-style jacket. Simon rifled through the pockets while Jenkins poked under the bed. Their only reward was a faded label inside the jacket that gave a Portuguese-sounding name and an address in Lorenzo Marques.
Simon held it up. ‘This must be his,’ he said. ‘Has that bed been slept in recently, do you think?’
Jenkins nodded expressionlessly. ‘Still almost warm,’ he said. ‘The bastard’s around ’ere somewhere.’
Simon rolled up the jacket. ‘He could be manning the walls or he could be on the kopje. Let’s see if we can find out.’
Cautiously, they left the hut. The sounds of battle echoed from all around, but here, in the epicentre of the storm, all seemed strangely quiet and even deserted. Simon pushed open the door of the King’s hut. This, too, was empty - or was it? In a dim recess, he saw something move under what seemed to be a pile of skins. He strode across and observed one small bare foot quietly inching its way back under cover. Simon levelled his rifle and whipped away the top skin to reveal the hunched figure of a little black boy, perhaps six or seven years old, whose wide eyes now regarded the pair of them with fear.
Simon allowed himself a grin and, extending a hand, gently pulled the boy to his feet. ‘Dammit,’ he said to Jenkins, ‘this is where I wish I had a twopenny bun to offer him.’
‘Better still . . .’ said Jenkins, and he fished in his pocket for a silver sixpence. ‘ ’Ere, Jimbo,’ he said, pressing it into the little hand, ‘buy yourself a pint of good African beer.’
The boy’s eyes grew even wider as he looked at the coin and then from one to the other of the men who were bending at his side. His fingers tightened over the sixpence.
‘Now,’ Simon addressed him, speaking slowly, ‘do you speak English? No, how bloody stupid. Of course you don’t.’ He picked up the jacket and opened it out. ‘Mendoza?’ he asked. The huge brown eyes regarded him expressionlessly, but at least they did not now show fear. Simon opened the jacket to show the label and tried again. ‘Joachim Mendoza?’
At last an awareness dawned on the urchin’s face. He nodded his head quickly in affirmation, happy to know that he was not about to be killed and proud that he understood what he was being asked. He spoke quickly in unintelligible bePedi.
‘Yes, but where?’ asked Simon. He shielded his eyes with one hand and mimed the action of a man looking everywhere. ‘Where Mendoza?’ he repeated.
Again recognition dawned. ‘Mendoza, Ntswaneng,’ he said, mimicking the slowness of Simon’s own speech. ‘Ntswaneng.’
‘Oh, where the bloody ’ell is that, then?’ asked Jenkins, turning to Simon in despair.
‘It’s the native name for the Fighting Kopje. It’s as I thought. He’s probably with the King, making a stand in the fortress. Damn, it’s going to be difficult winkling him out from there.’
Jenkins frowned. ‘Don’t worry about that, bach sir. It will be done. I promise you that.’
‘We must go. I don’t want to be cornered in here.’ Simon gave a rub to the curly hair of the urchin, who, as they strode to the door, put the sixpence in his mouth, presumably for safekeeping. The centre of the citadel was still deserted and the problem now arose of how to get through the perimeter, which, by the sound of musketry and shouting, was still a ring of fighting.
‘ ’Ow the ’ell do we get out of ’ere?’ demanded Jenkins.
‘I know.’ Simon gestured. ‘The way we left the first time. Through the roof of Nandi’s hut and on to that rock.’
The door of the hut sagged open and the interior still seemed much as they had left it: dishevelled blankets on the beds, the table still standing under the hole in the roof. The bodies, however, had disappeared, only three dull terracotta-coloured stains on the beaten earth to show where three men had been killed. Leaping upwards from the table, Simon was just able to pull himself through the aperture in the roof and lie on the thatch for a moment to get his bearings.
