The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. I must.’

  Wolseley leaned forward, his face set earnestly. ‘My dear, your fiancé will quickly realise that his army career is over, and this will sadden him, of course. I may say that it saddens me also, for I regarded him - I still regard him - as an able and gallant officer. But he has the prospect of his wedding to look forward to. Miss Griffith, your fiancé will need you now more than ever. Knowing and . . . ah . . . respecting your courage and spirit as I do, I know that you will not let him down.’

  Alice heard the words as though they came from a distance. She held the General’s gaze for a moment without being aware of it and then switched it unconsciously to his glazed, unseeing eye. A silence fell between them. Eventually Wolseley, evincing some embarrassment at the silence, coughed, stood up, and extended his hand. Then he struck it to his forehead in a gesture of annoyance.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘One more thing. Knew I’d forgotten something. Here.’ He picked up an envelope from his table, withdrew the letter from within and handed it to her. ‘This concerns you and I think you will be interested in it.’

  Puzzled and annoyed at the intrusion into her fuddled thoughts, Alice looked at the bold, scrawled hand and began to read: Dear General,

  I am writing to say that I renounce all claim to the diamonds that you took from me. You are right, they did not belong to me. (Mind you, I don’t think they belong to the British Army either, but I leave it to you what to do with them.)

  The point is that I have heard from that remarkable woman Miss Griffith, via a black friend she has here in Pretoria, that Fonthill and Jenkins, God bless them, have found my daughter Nandi and that she is under care in your camp. I am riding now to see her. Now that my daughter is freed I have no need for those damned (excuse me) stones, so do with them what you will.

  I do not know how to contact Miss Griffith or Fonthill and Jenkins but I hope somehow to find them and to thank them personally for the great service they have done me.

  Yours sincerely,

  John Dunn

  She nodded to the General, distantly, her thoughts on other things. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That is very gratifying.’

  ‘Indeed. All ended happily. Now,’ he extended his hand again, ‘will you please tell Covington that I will call on him just as soon as I can clear this rubbish from my table. And, my dear, if there is anything I can do for either of you, you have only to request it.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Garnet, you are very kind.’ They shook hands and she turned and left the tent.

  Once outside, Alice spun on her heel and walked quickly without any sense of direction, her brain in a spin. Ralph Covington, the brave, insouciant, debonair Ralph Covington, now a one-armed, one-eyed man without a career! Ralph Covington, the fiancé to whom she was about to break the news that she loved another man, now dependent upon her! Ralph Covington maimed . . . Oh God, it was all too much; too cruel!

  Somehow she found her way back to her tent within the press enclosure and flung herself on her narrow bed. She stared at the canvas wall without taking in the green coolness, the heavy stitching so close to her face. What to do? What to do? Of course, society - stiff-backed, honourable society - would expect her to stand by her man; that was certainly what her parents would expect of her. But her parents and society - bloody hypocritical Victorian society - would know nothing of her deep passion for Simon Fonthill and of the true happiness which her love for him had brought to her life. Damn it all and damn them all! She turned on to her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. At that point, a deep sense of shame overcame her and she began to sob, as she realised that she was behaving with extreme selfishness, thinking of herself only and not yet sparing a thought for the handsome, manly soldier who had been so cruelly cut down in his prime and deprived of the career that meant so much to him. This was a man who, after all, she thought she had loved. What would he do now? The thought concentrated her mind and the old rationality returned. Do, do? He would get on with his life, that was what he would do. He was strong and, in his very own way, selfish too. He would do what he had to do, what life forced him to do. That was the way of things.

  Immediately, Alice rolled over, sought her handkerchief, blew her nose and sat up. The way of things. Well, indeed - damn society! Her deeply nonconformist, rebellious nature now surfaced - a fundamental part of the Alice who had talked her way into a career as a hard-nosed foreign correspondent of one of the greatest newspapers in Britain; the Alice who had ridden with armies and covered a dozen campaigns in two continents; the Alice who had scooped even the great Willie Russell. She would not let society dictate to her. She would tell Ralph Covington the truth - and he would be man enough to understand and not insist on her fulfilling her contract.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a diffident cough from outside her tent. ‘Miss Griffith?’

  She quickly wiped her eyes and put her head through the tent opening. A young medical orderly stood there. ‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, ‘but the General felt that you might like me to take you to Colonel Covington. The lines are in a bit of a mess, see, and it can be difficult to find the hospital.’

  Alice swallowed hard. The confrontation so soon! She was not being allowed to escape. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘How thoughtful of him. Please wait a moment and I will join you.’

  She found her still-damp face cloth and wiped away the residue of tears, applied a little face powder, ran a comb through her hair and joined the young orderly. Together they walked through the detritus of an army in the field until they found the large red-crossed hospital tent. There the orderly left Alice and she was met by a bearded army doctor whose face looked even more tired than that of Wolseley. He had obviously had much to do since the end of the battle.

  ‘Ah, Miss Griffith,’ he said, giving her a wrinkled smile. ‘Good of you to come and see the Colonel. Won’t you sit down for a minute?’

  ‘Oh . . . well . . . thank you, but I would like to see Colonel Covington as soon as possible, please.’ Don’t stop me now. I must get it over with before my courage fails me!

  ‘Of course, I quite understand. But perhaps it might help you if I tell you a little about his injuries first. At least . . .’ the doctor’s smile drooped, ‘it will save the Colonel from having to acquaint you with the . . . ah . . . gory details himself.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ If you must. If you damned well must!

  ‘Good.’ He drew up a chair. ‘I am afraid the injury to his arm was very serious. The heavy slug shattered the bone just below the elbow - at least that was good news in that we were able to preserve the joint, as was the fact that, as a right-handed man, it was his left arm. But it was some time before we could operate and the beginnings of gangrene had set in, so I was unable to save the forearm.’ His voice, previously so professionally matter-of-fact, now softened. ‘It will mean, I fear, that some sort of hook or similar apparatus will have to be fitted eventually, to give him a modicum of digital dexterity, you know.’ The doctor’s voice now dropped further and acquired the smoothness of expensive velour. ‘As his fiancée,’ he murmured, ‘I felt that you should know that.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’ Make it quiet clear what is required of me, you swine!

  ‘By the same token, you should be prepared for the fact that his face has been . . . ah . . . mutilated by the spear thrust and will not exactly present a pleasant appearance for, perhaps, the first year. But, of course, the wound will heal, and although he will be scarred, an artificial eye can be fitted, or, if preferred, an eye patch can be worn and the Colonel will look Nelsonically distinguished, if I may say so.’ He gave a gruff laugh.

  Alice forced some sort of smile. ‘It is good of you to tell me all of this. Now, perhaps, I could see the Colonel?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I know he will be so pleased to see you, but don’t stay too long. He tires easily.’

  They both stood and the doctor led her down between rows of narrow beds containing wounded men, some bandag
ed, some seemingly uninjured but staring motionlessly at the roof of the tent, until they came to a curtained section at the far end. There, the doctor called out, ‘You have a visitor, Colonel,’ then bowed briefly to Alice and left.

  Alice, biting her lower lip, stared down at Ralph Covington. As she entered, he was lying on his back, with the heavily bandaged stump of his left arm - Alice sucked in her breath when she saw it; that was where the hook would go, of course - lying above the bed sheets and his head, equally swathed, turned away from her. Hearing the doctor’s voice he slowly turned towards his visitor to reveal the left side of his head and face bandaged whitely, throwing into relief the one good eye that stared at Alice with what at first seemed almost like ferocity. Then the lopsided gaze softened as he attempted to smile, twitching the one end of his moustache that could be seen. He withdrew his good hand from beneath the bedclothes and extended it to her, gesturing to a camp stool by the side of the bed.

  His voice was muffled and almost unrecognisable. The spear thrust had, she realised with horror, probably extended down to the upper lip. ‘Good of you to come. Knew you would. Do sit. Sorry about all this.’

  Alice held his hand, sat on the chair and promptly burst into tears: shoulder-heaving sobs that she could not control as she clutched her hands together in her lap.

  ‘Now, now, now.’ The words were slurred, but even so, the tenderness was apparent. Alice noted, even in her agitated state, that she could not remember him ever speaking tenderly to her before. ‘Do not distress yourself. Where is the tough foreign correspondent now, eh? What would Willie Russell think of his feared opponent, blubbing away there like a little girl, eh?’

  She sniffed and smiled at him - at his solitary eye - through her tears. ‘I am sorry, Ralph, I must look a wreck.’

  ‘Look marvellous to me. Here, have a blow.’ He tossed across a handkerchief. Typically, it was starched clean and white. She wiped her nose and tried to regain some kind of equilibrium, furious with herself for breaking down.

  ‘Now,’ said Covington. ‘Can’t talk very well, as you can hear. Stitches in and hurts a bit. But got something important to say to you and want you to listen carefully and believe me. All right?’ What little she could see of his face was contorted in pain.

  She nodded.

  He spoke now as loudly and as fast as his impediment would allow, as though he had rehearsed the sentences well. ‘No question of our engagement continuing, I’m afraid,’ he began. ‘I have important and difficult things to do in adapting my life and I cannot be tied to a wife. For that matter, you cannot be tied to a one-eyed, one-armed man. Not a brilliant young gal like you.’ His eye, which had engaged her so fiercely, now turned to the ceiling. ‘You are relieved of your commitment and I shall explain to everyone that you wished to continue but I had lost the will. Which is true. Sorry to hurt you, but I don’t want to be married to anyone now. I am sure you understand . . .’ His voice tailed away, rather lamely, so reducing much of the credibility that its earlier strength had given to his words.

  At first Alice listened with growing incredulity, and then her heart leapt. He was releasing her. She was free! Then, almost as soon as that joyous thought had entered her mind, it was replaced by a sudden deep surge of pity and admiration for the crippled man opposite - the man who was making such a ridiculously inept job of being honourable, of doing the decent thing. He needed her, probably desperately, but he was prepared to sacrifice his need and any prospect of dredging some happiness from his blighted future, so that she could be spared from having to share his disability. Clearly that’s what those gabbled words implied, for she knew what she meant to him, not just because of Wolseley’s plea but also from the two years of his patient courtship. The immensity of his gesture pierced through the jumble of her thoughts like a lance. Covington, scarred, pain-stricken Covington, was sparing her at the very moment when she was about to hurt him far more savagely than a thrust from an assegai. Could she - could anyone - do this to such a man?

  These thoughts tumbled through her mind in split seconds as she looked at the half a face staring at the ceiling. She had to make a decision - and make it now. Of course, she could pretend to believe him, to offer even some semblance of hurt pride at his ‘rejection’ of her. Then do what: run into Simon’s arms? From somewhere deep within her - perhaps springing atavistically from a well of breeding that had been fed for centuries by the drip of education and the constant reminder from parents, clergy and teachers of where the path of duty and honour lay - came the overwhelming realisation of what she had to do. She heard herself answering him as though from far, far away.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Ralph,’ she said. ‘Of course we shall get married.’

  ‘No, no.’ His voice was half strangled and he still addressed the ceiling. ‘Don’t wish to. No sacrifices. Too much . . . too much.’

  ‘It is not a sacrifice. We shall be married and I shall look after you and we will live happily ever after.’ Once again Alice heard herself speak as though from a different place and time, yet she knew that she was commiting herself irrevocably; there would be no turning back, however terrible the consequences. She felt something cold surround her heart.

  Slowly Covington turned his head towards her. She realised that his eye was moist. ‘Do you mean it? Honestly mean it?’

  Alice gripped his hand tightly. ‘Of course I do, my dear.’ She forced a smile. ‘What on earth else did you expect me to say?’

  The incipient tear now swelled into his eye and rolled down his cheek. ‘Knew it,’ he said. ‘Always knew it. Wonderful woman. Love you with all my heart. Dammit, bloody cryin’ now.’

  Alice smiled and leaned across and wiped his eye and cheek with the crisp handkerchief. ‘Well, don’t,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be all right. But, my dear, I think you should get some rest now. I was warned not to tire you, but I will come and see you again tomorrow. Oh, and Wolseley says that he will come soon.’

  He smiled and nodded but couldn’t stop another tear rolling down his cheek. ‘Rather see you. Off you go. Start planning your trousseau.’

  The words sounded like a death knell, but she forced another smile, bent over and kissed his unbandaged cheek. ‘Goodbye,’ she said.

  ‘Ah. Sorry.’ He seemed agitated. ‘One more thing. Not terribly important but you should know in case scuttlebutt gets about. You remember Fonthill being left high and dry when we were on reconnaissance with Wolseley?’

  She nodded, frowning.

  He blinked his eye. ‘Well, didn’t fire my revolver deliberately, whatever bloody Fonthill might think. Hate the man but wouldn’t do that. Stumbled over a tree root and damned pistol went off. Complete accident. Want you to know that.’

  ‘I never suspected anything else, Ralph. Neither, I think, did Simon Fonthill.’

  ‘Good. Just wanted to clear the record, so to speak. Goodbye, my darling. And thank you, so much.’

  Alice Griffith walked back to the press enclosure with her head held high, her step firm and her mind now quite clear. There was no other way. Happiness with Simon would have been bought at too high a price: that of delivering a terrible blow to a man at the lowest point of his existence, when he needed her - she specifically - to help him rebuild his life. Simon, with his high standards, would understand. He must understand!

  Back in her tent, Alice sat with her head in her hands, wondering how to tell Simon. For the first time since her interview with Wolseley, she also began to worry about what had happened to him and Jenkins. Could the terrible Mendoza somehow have turned the tables on his pursuers and killed Simon? To lose him at this point, completely, would be too much. Even the God who had played this most unkind of tricks on her surely could not go that far! No. He was out on the veldt somewhere, with the great and good 352 Jenkins to look after him. She lay back on the bed and agonised about how to break this terrible news. It did not take her long to decide that she could not face Simon personally. The sight of his sad brown eyes would be too
much for her; she might relent and that would be intolerable. No. She was a writer, after all, so she would pour out her heart to him on paper and explain the reasons for her decision in a way that he could not interrupt in an attempt to dissuade her. He would understand. She pulled paper, pen and ink towards her and began to write.

  Simon received her letter that evening, after he and Jenkins had made their slow, sad way back to the camp in the Sekukuni valley. They had first sought out a surgeon to apply proper dressings to their wounds and this delay meant that it was nearly dusk when they were able to locate a quartermaster, who told them which tent they had been allocated at the southern end of the valley, pitched away from the officers’ lines among the stores. It was there that a flushed orderly came with Alice’s letter, explaining that he had spent half a day trying to find them.

  Simon recognised the writing immediately and his throat dried as he wedged his thumb under the flap of the envelope and tore it open. Alice had taken five pages to tell him of her decision. Typically, she had not attempted to dissemble but had explained exactly what had happened, and described the conflict of emotions that she had felt in visiting Covington and in making up her mind. Her decision, however, was irrevocable. Her closing paragraph read:It would be cruel and dishonest to pretend that all of this has changed my feelings towards you. If anything, this tragedy has made me love you more than ever and I know that, throughout my life with Ralph, I shall always keep that love in my heart. But I could not live in dishonour - I don’t mean the opprobrium that my leaving of Ralph would bring from society, you know that I wouldn’t give a fig for that - but rather the knowledge that our happiness had been built on the unhappiness of someone who was impaired, both emotionally and physically. I know that you, of all people, will understand. You will also understand why I cannot see you to tell you all of this face to face. I am not as strong as you, my darling, and I know I would break down and that would not help either of us. I am leaving the camp tomorrow to be out of everyone’s way (I have to make preparations in Lydenburg anyway for Ralph’s onward journey home) and I would rather that we did not meet. Give my love to dear 352 and take my deepest, most special love with you for the rest of your life.