by John Wilcox
Pausing to regain their breath on a precious piece of level ground behind a large boulder, Simon and Jenkins were joined by a young subaltern of the 94th, sword in one hand and revolver hanging from a lanyard round his neck. ‘Good God,’ said the young man, ‘this is hard work.’ He took a pull from his water bottle and offered it to the others, who accepted gratefully. He stoppered the bottle, wiped his mouth and grinned. ‘Well, onwards and upwards,’ he said. ‘One good thing, though. These Kaffirs couldn’t hit a haystack at fifty yards, otherwise—’ His sentence was cut off as a bullet smashed into his throat, sending a perfect parabola of blood arcing on to the ground. He stood, wide-eyed for a second, before crumpling and toppling backwards down the steep slope, bouncing and crashing down in a landslide of shale.
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins. ‘I don’t like this at all. It’ll be the bloody bees next.’
And so it was. As they crouched beneath the shelter of the jutting boulder, they glimpsed a series of small columns of smoke from on high to their right. Then they saw several rectangular wooden boxes, smoke rising from them, being tossed high into the air, outwards from the kopje’s side, to hit the slope below. As they did so, the boxes burst open and black clouds of insects came buzzing malevolently from the ruins of the hives to engulf the red-coated infantry struggling up the mountain. Disregarding the other dangers, the men took off their helmets and lay on their backs, swatting at the angry bees which surrounded them.
‘Come on,’ said Simon. ‘What was it that poor devil said? Onwards and upwards. Bullets are better than bees.’
‘Absolutely right you are,’ agreed Jenkins. ‘Let’s go, quick like.’
Still climbing, Simon and Jenkins eventually came level with a ring of combatants - Swazis, redcoats and colonial troops - engaged in close-quarter fighting with a line of bePedis, who were stabbing desperately with their assegais from the protection of a long, low stone wall. The wall seemed to run at irregular levels completely around the kopje, and the effectiveness of the defence showed in the number of black and, to a lesser extent, brown- and red-clad bodies that lay on the slopes below it. The pair edged along, below the level of the fighting, until they found a gap where, their boots slipping and sliding as they sought to gain purchase on the slope, they could add their bayonets to the spears of the Swazi warriors fighting on either side of them. They stayed there lunging and parrying, sometimes being able to slip a round into the breeches of their rifles and firing them, and remained, virtually wedged in between the sweating warriors on either side, until, almost miraculously, the opposition seemed to melt away.
From the left came the cry, ‘Cease firing. Advance with care. They’ve gone into the caves.’
A strange quietness descended upon the kopje - not a complete silence, for an occasional shot echoed from various levels of the conical hill, and the moans of wounded men and, particularly, the cries of that section of the 94th who were still being tormented by the angry bees echoed around. But the tumult that had assaulted the ears during the height of the battle had died away. Even the pipers on the plain below had suspended their wailing. It seemed that a strange victory had been won and that the Fighting Kopje now belonged to Queen Victoria.
Jenkins took out a soiled handkerchief, wiped his forehead and slumped to the ground. Simon sat beside him. ‘I’ve seen some fightin’,’ said the Welshman, ‘but this was the most devilish and the most awkwardest, if you know what I mean, bach sir.’
‘I know what you mean all right. I suppose that we’ve won, but it’s all stopped so suddenly, I can’t quite understand it.’ Looking up, he saw the moustached captain of the General’s staff gingerly making his way down the steep slope. ‘What’s up, Jackson?’ he called. ‘Is it over?’
The young man sat on his bottom and slithered down to Simon’s side. ‘Well, actually,’ he said, ‘it is and it isn’t. I’m just going down to report to the General.’ He swept back the edge of his moustache with the back of a filthy hand. ‘It seems the Kaffirs have bolted down their holes. The mountain is full of them and the bePedis have retreated into them. We are on the summit now and we’ve won the mountain all right, but how we get the buggers out of these caves I don’t know. Perhaps a bit of cheese at the entrances? Eh, what? Sorry, can’t stop.’
Simon called out as Jackson continued his descent, ‘Any sign of the King or of a big Portuguese who is supposed to be with him?’
‘No, old boy. Not a sign. In the depths of this ant hill, p’raps.’
Jenkins made a face. ‘What now, then?’
Simon levered himself to his feet. ‘Let’s search the slopes. Mendoza could be amongst the dead, he could be down in a cave somewhere, or perhaps he has got away. If he has escaped, then . . .’ he looked apologetically at the Welshman, ‘I’m sorry, 352, but I don’t see what more we can do. He could have gone anywhere, but probably back to Portuguese East Africa. We shall just have to get the General to issue a warrant for his arrest.’
Jenkins made no reply, but his face was set hard.
Together they began the unpleasant business of looking at the bodies which were strewn around the conical hill. It was clear that the bePedis had received the heaviest losses, followed by the Swazis, who had been first up the kopje. The colonial and British troops, it seemed, had got off comparatively lightly, although the forward dressing stations of the 94th Regiment were attracting lines of soldiers in extreme discomfort from bee stings. Simon and Jenkins’s search among the dead attracted enquiring glances, but nowhere was there a trace of a large, swarthy Portuguese.
In their search, they encountered Baker Russell climbing the lower slopes of the hill with a party of Royal Engineers, who were carrying slabs of gun cotton. ‘He’s going to try and blast them out,’ murmured Simon. ‘Poor wretches, they won’t stand a chance down those holes.’
But Simon was wrong. As the day wore on, the sound of muffled explosions came from all parts of the kopje. In some instances they were followed by sporadic gunfire as the defenders in their caves displayed their continued defiance, but there were no surrenders.
Simon met Jackson again. ‘We may have to try cheese after all,’ said the young captain with a wan smile. ‘Many of these devils have worked in the Kimberley mines and they know all about explosive devices. They’re just cutting the fuses and staying put. Amazin’. One good thing, though. A captured bePedi has told us that the King is still up there somewhere with his entourage. Plucky old bounder, by all accounts. He says we’ll never get him out. Oh, and he’s got at least one foreigner with him - that big feller you were asking about.’
Simon smiled gratefully. ‘That’s just what we wanted to know. Many thanks.’ This news, when relayed to Jenkins, brought the biggest smile from the Welshman that Simon had seen for days. He said nothing, but nodded his head and began oiling his rifle.
Towards the evening a large party of native labourers were set to shovelling out a primitive trench all the way round the kopje, about one third of the way towards the top. Lobbing in explosives and direct attacks on the caves had proved abortive and it was clear that Wolseley had decided to invest the fortress and starve out the defenders - or, more likely, force them out of their warrens for want of water. It could, therefore, be a long wait, and an air of impotent frustration had descended upon the British command, denied of what had seemed at first to be a quick and decisive victory.
Simon sought out his friend Jackson but he was nowhere to be found. Instead, he accosted a young subaltern whom he had noticed among Baker Russell’s staff and, in as offhand a manner as he could manage, enquired about Alice. He was greeted with a sharp glance and then a knowing smile. ‘Ah yes. The pretty one - not that she’s got much competition.’ Simon frowned at the familiarity and the young lieutenant composed his features quickly. ‘Sorry, old boy. Can’t help. All the press johnnies are round the other side of the kopje with the General. All scribbling like mad when last I saw ’em - writing the news of Sir Garnet’s great victory, no doubt. Cou
ld be a bit premature, don’t you know. But we shall see. Complicated business, getting their stuff home. I suppose they have riders to take their dispatches to Lydenburg, where there are cable facilities. Bit of a race against time and each other, I gather. Strange way to earn a living, ain’t it?’
Simon nodded and then asked after Colonel Covington. The young man knew no details. ‘I gather he’s in no danger but there had to be an operation of some sort. Nasty business. Got it coming down the mountain, tryin’ to keep up with old Macleod’s Swazis. By the way, those bloody natives have refused to guard the kopje higher up. I think they’re a bit miffed because they’ve been prevented from taking the bePedi women. So most of us will have to stand guard during the night. Not much fun after a hard day’s fightin’, eh?’
That evening Simon and Jenkins ate a lonely meal around a flickering camp fire in front of their bivouac tent. Each was silent: Simon yearning to see Alice and wondering how the news of Covington’s wound would affect her, and Jenkins sitting with his eyes rarely leaving the darkening outline of the kopje. Simon once again considered the problem not only of finding Mendoza, but of preventing Jenkins from killing him before the Portuguese could be arrested. Looking at the Welshman’s grimly set visage, he realised that reasoned argument would not deter him. It would have to be a case of reacting to the situation when they found the man - if they found him, that is.
‘We had better join the trenches for the night watches,’ observed Simon eventually. ‘Just in case they try to break out during darkness.’
Jenkins nodded glumly and they prepared to stand watch.
It quickly became apparent that the vigil in the trenches would be less than comfortable. The pair took up their position with a section of the 94th at the less steep part of the hill, where a breakout by the defenders could be feasible, at least, under cover of darkness. They wriggled and squirmed, trying to find some ease among the stones that lined the bottom of the shallow trench and which made lying or sitting down agony after a few minutes. As they did so, an ominous boom of thunder came from the south, the other side of Sekukuni’s mountain, and as they lay in the gathering darkness, they heard the thunder growing nearer and began to see the top of the mountain outlined against the red flashes of lightning.
Simon had pulled his ground sheet over his head and was surrendering himself to misery when he felt a tender hand stroking his cheek. He looked up into the grey eyes of Alice, smiling at him from a distance of three inches.
She put her finger to her lips. ‘Shush. Don’t wake 352.’ Awkwardly, because of the voluminous ground sheet, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she whispered, ‘I am so glad you are safe. I have been so worried and I had to be sure. I’ve spent half the night looking for you, peering under ground sheets and being shouted at by sergeants.’
Simon grinned. ‘You, young woman, are not supposed to be halfway up this mountain and halfway through a battle. Wolseley will have you shot.’
She sniffed and kissed his nose. ‘And you, young man, are only supposed to be a scout, not a front-line infantryman. You shouldn’t be here either.’
They hugged each other, lying on the damp ground companionably. ‘How on earth did you get through the lines?’ asked Simon.
‘Hair tied back, breeches, black mackintosh.’ She smiled. ‘No one expected to see a woman up here. Everyone thought I was an officer - except the sergeants.’
Simon grinned. ‘Typical. Now, really, Alice, you must go. Even if the bePedis don’t try and break out you could get drenched soon. Off with you. And stay out of the line, I insist . . .’
As he spoke, the storm reached them. It began as a few hard spots, and then the heavens opened and rain came thundering down like vertical liquid rods, bouncing from the top of the soldiers’ capes and immediately filling the bottom of the trench. Rivulets began to surge down the kopje and the miserable guards ringing the hill bent their heads against the stinging storm and tucked their rifles under their capes.
It was at just this point that the bePedis broke out. The noise of the rain and the thunder of the electric storm provided ideal cover for their escape. A glissade of stones came suddenly down the hill, followed by hundreds of black warriors carrying shields and spears, looking like devilish apparitions in the jagged flashes of lightning as they leapt and slid down to the trench. Many of the soldiers, half dozing in their wet misery under their capes, were speared as they sat. Others were knocked over by shields as the warriors swept through and over them, screaming their battle cry, and streaming down the steep sides of the kopje to spread out on the valley floor below.
Simon had time only to shout a cry of alarm and throw himself over Alice before the first man hit him - literally, for the bePedi, his face contorted with the desperation of battle, leapt into him from above and struck him on the shoulder with both feet. Simon was knocked over and went rolling down the hillside, joining the bePedi in their descent, his hands clutching at rocks to stop his slithering fall. With a crash that winded him, he hit a large boulder and curved around its contours, gasping for breath. His rifle had been left in the trench and he lay defenceless but in no real danger, for the tribesmen were intent on escape, not further conflict. As he lay, trying to gather his breath, he watched as the glistening black figures, illuminated intermittently by the red lightning, came down at him, then bounded away in their frenetic dash for freedom. It was a scene from some lycanthropic ballet, lit by the heavens and choreographed by the very devil himself.
Frantic at the thought of Alice being speared, he staggered to his feet and realised that his Colt was somehow still wedged in its holster at his belt. He drew it and fired at a huge shadow that materialised at him out of the rain. He missed and the man struck him back-handedly as he went by, knocking Simon down and sending the Colt spinning into the mud. On hands and knees he looked up at the descending warriors and froze. Down the hill, leaping and jumping the stones and skidding in the scree, came the incongruous figure of Alice, black mackintosh glistening, revolver in hand, in the middle of the bePedi hordes, who seemed completely impervious to her.
‘Alice,’ he cried, desperate to make himself heard above the rain and the howls of the warriors. She saw him just before she hit him, and the two went rolling together down the hill, in the shale and mud, locked in an embrace that owed nothing to passion. Together and completely winded, they lay for a moment up against the stunted bush that had stopped their descent. Alice recovered first and immediately fired the revolver that she had continued to grip during their rolling slide at a warrior who had raised his spear at them. They both saw the spurt of blood from his arm, where the bullet tore through, but he carried on running, his face a grimace of determination.
‘No.’ Simon pulled Alice down towards him. ‘Lie still. They’ll run past us.’
And so they stayed, perhaps for a minute, curled up to the bush, watching fearfully up the hill until there was a break in the figures streaming down it. Simon scrambled in the mud for his Colt and then they rose to their feet, only to see a huge man rushing straight at them. Simon pulled the trigger of his revolver, but the Colt, jammed with mud, refused to fire and the figure swerved away and rushed by them - not before, however, Simon had glimpsed at close quarters the distorted features of Joachim Mendoza. At almost the same time, Jenkins crashed into him amidst a shower of stones.
‘Thank God I’ve found you,’ shouted the Welshman. ‘I thought you’d gone for good. But did you see ’im? It was ’im, wasn’t it? Giant of a bloke, wearin’ civilised clothes. It must ’ave been ’im.’
‘Yes, it was Mendoza all right.’ Simon’s chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath. ‘Go after him, I’ve got to get Alice out of here.’
For the first time, Jenkins noticed Alice crouched at the base of the bush. ‘Good lord,’ he said. But then he turned and continued to half run, half slide down the hill after Joachim Mendoza.
Simon and Alice followed, jumping as best they could from
stone to stone, slipping and sliding and only dimly aware of the black figures that were now once again all around them. Stabs of light in the darkness below showed that some of Wolseley’s men in the valley had turned out from their tents and somehow become aware of the situation, and were firing to stem the mass exodus. But the chaos of the night - the pounding rain, the thunder claps and the now less frequent flashes of lightning - did nothing to aid their aim. The running warriors reached the valley floor and streamed through the tent lines and away to the east to the temporary safety of the Lulu Mountains. Simon and Alice somehow reached the bottom of the kopje without turning an ankle or receiving a spear thrust and there they met a sodden, furious Jenkins, who was looking around him, not knowing which way to turn.
‘Fuck it!’ he screamed - it said everything for his distress that he spat out the invective without a thought for Alice. ‘The bastard’s gone. ’Es got away. ’Ow we goin’ to find ’im now. Eh?’ Jenkins was almost hysterical with dismay. ‘We’ll never find ’im in this bleedin’ mess.’
‘No,’ gasped Simon. ‘We’ll find him. He’ll have nowhere to hide in Sekukuni land, which means he will head for the border. For that he will need a horse. We will get him. But first I must look after Alice.’
Despite her own distress, Alice could not forbear to smile at the woebegone face of the Welshman, black hair plastered over his brow, mud caked into the great moustache, who looked at her as though seeing her for the first time. ‘Oh, sorry, miss,’ he said. ‘Please excuse the language. Under a bit of stress, see. Didn’t know that you’d joined the army, look you.’
Trying to smile, Alice turned to Simon. ‘Don’t worry about me. What are you going to do? Let me come with you, please?’
‘I’m sorry, darling. Jenkins and I have got some rather unpleasant business to attend to. Best if you’re not with us.’
Simon caught the sleeve of a passing young NCO. ‘Corporal,’ he shouted, ‘take care of this young lady immediately. She is the niece of General Wolseley and there will be hell to pay if she comes to harm. Take her back way behind the lines at once, do you hear?’
