The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Your Alice

  In a typically efficient gesture, Alice had remembered to add a separate PS, giving Wolseley’s news about Dunn’s imminent arrival and also Covington’s explanation of the pistol shot which, to Simon, seemed to have echoed round the Lulu Mountains years, if not centuries, before.

  He read the letter sitting on his trestle bed as Jenkins bustled around him, in and out of the tent, preparing a fire and something for them both to eat at the end of an exhausting forty-eight hours. Eventually the Welshman stopped in the middle of his chores, no longer able to avoid the quiet, fixed stare that Simon directed at the beaten earth at his feet.

  ‘Bad news?’ he enquired.

  Without speaking, Simon handed him the letter.

  ‘Are you sure - not too . . . er . . . personal, like?’

  Simon shook his head, and Jenkins sat on his own bed and began reading Alice’s letter, silently mouthing the words as his eyes slowly scanned the pages. It took him all of five minutes. Then he handed it back and the two men sat in silence for a while.

  ‘Blimey.’ Jenkins spoke eventually. ‘You know, bach sir, I just can’t understand - I never shall understand - the ways of the upper classes. She’s a lovely lass, bless ’er, but this is just bloody barmy. Isn’t it? I mean, I know the bloke’s ’urt an’ all that, but you an’ I know ’e ’s a bastard, saving your presence an’ all. So why is she takin’ ’im an’ not you?’

  Despite the agony, Simon had to smile. ‘Good question,’ he said. ‘But I think she has answered it in her letter.’ He paused for a moment, attempting to put together the conflicting thoughts that had raced through his head during the last few minutes: the initial pain and despair, then the bitterness, and now a deep, melancholic admiration for Alice Griffith and her decision. He hated it and yet somehow his spirit lifted at her passionate and articulate description of the agony she had gone through, and at the thought of his own love for her - a love that he had nurtured for so long and which had at last looked as though it could come to fruition. It had all seemed, in these last few days, too good to be true anyway. Perhaps the disgusting ending to the attempt to arrest Mendoza had been a portent. He sighed.

  ‘It is exactly what I would have expected of her,’ he said. ‘And she is right. It is the honourable and proper thing to do. And that’s the end of it.’

  Jenkins shook his head. ‘Well, look you, I dunno. I really don’t.’ He went outside to build the fire and then poked his head around the tent flap. ‘I managed to get a bit of mutton from the cook. Thought I’d just boil it in the pot. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course. It doesn’t really much matter.’

  ‘Blimey. It does, you know.’ Jenkins, his tired, unshaven face looking peculiarly jowly in the flickering firelight, was indignant. ‘We’ve got to eat, even if the whole bleedin’ world ’as collapsed around our ears. Life ’as to go on, you know, bach. In a way, you know, that’s what she’s sayin’ an’ all. We’ve got to get on with things. I shall boil the bloody stuff, then.’

  Simon scowled at Jenkins’s retreating back. He hated it when the man slipped into his role of barrack-room philosopher. Banal rubbish . . . and yet . . . ‘We’ve all got to get on with things.’ True. What alternative was there?

  Later that night, as they huddled in their blankets by the fire in the cold night air of the valley, drinking strong coffee, Jenkins returned to the subject, albeit hesitantly. ‘There’s one good thing about all this, bach sir,’ he said.

  Simon lifted a weary head. ‘Oh yes. What?’

  ‘Well,’ the Welshman looked away and spoke almost shyly, ‘although it wasn’t mentioned, I knew, o’ course, that you an’ Miss Alice were . . . you know . . . back on course, so to speak. An’ I wondered a bit where that would ’ave left me.’

  Simon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What do you mean? If we had . . . ah . . . married, as I think we would, you would have lived with us, of course.’

  Jenkins squirmed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t ’ave much fancied that. I would ’ave been very much in the way, wherever you settled.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. Anyway, it’s not going to happen and . . .’ he looked up keenly at his comrade, ‘aren’t you going to get married yourself?’

  Jenkins’s jaw dropped. ‘Bloody ’ell. Who? Me? Not on your life. Who would marry me?’

  ‘Why, Nandi, of course. You love her, don’t you?’

  Simon was not sure if he had ever seen Jenkins embarrassed, but that look of abject misery, shame and awkwardness, which combined to make the Welshman’s face appear even more lugubrious than ever in the half-darkness, seemed as close to embarrassment as he would ever manage.

  ‘Love?’ he said. ‘Blimey, people like me don’t know much about that, see. I’m a bit rough for that sort of stuff, bach sir.’ He looked up and shot Simon a quick look, almost of appeal. ‘If it ’adn’t been for you, look you, I would ’ave drunk myself to death by now. After all, I’m a soldier really, even if, like you, I don’t wear a uniform - an ’appy state which I much prefer, as you know. No, I suppose I kill people for a livin’ an’ that don’t exactly lend itself to marryin’, now does it? Though . . .’ he looked down at the floor again and his voice dropped, ‘I am a bit fond of ’er, as you know.’

  ‘Well, there you are. You ought to settle down. Look, I think you feel a bit more strongly about Nandi than you say, and . . .’ Simon’s voice tailed away slightly in some embarrassment, ‘I don’t blame you. She’s a brave, intelligent and very pretty young woman. Also, I think she is fond of you; in fact I know she is. There are those diamonds we gave her and these extra few here that you could bring to the partnership. You could set up home together, in Natal or even Zululand, and you could take up farming or whatever—’

  Jenkins sat up immediately and cut in, his voice expressing high indignation. ‘Farmin’! I don’t want to go back to bloody farmin’ - even with Miss Nandi, God bless ’er. What’s wrong with what me and you do together? It’s a bit ’ard and downright dangerous at times, but I enjoy it. Don’t you want me to stay with you? Someone’s got to look after you, particularly now.’

  Simon looked hard at his comrade. Was this another case of someone being loyal beyond the call of duty? No. Jenkins couldn’t be disingenuous if his life depended upon it. He made one more try.

  ‘Look, 352,’ he said, leaning forward. ‘This is a golden opportunity to find happiness and do the normal things: marry a splendid woman, have children, build a life together, all that sort of thing; away from violence and death. Of course I don’t want to lose you, but I would come and see you.’

  ‘Oh yes. And what would you do? Who would look after you?’

  ‘I’ve told you often enough, I don’t need nannying. What would I do?’ He mused for a moment. ‘Well, you know that originally I wanted to spend a bit of time at home, with my parents. That’s where we were both heading when we got Nandi’s letter. But I am not sure now.’ He leaned over and poked the fire with a stick. ‘I don’t want to be in England when Alice marries, and because her parents and mine are virtual neighbours, we would be bound to meet. I don’t think I could face that just yet.’

  He turned back to face Jenkins. ‘Anyway, I - we - seem to have built a bit of a reputation with the army. I certainly don’t want to take up a formal commission again, but perhaps Wolseley could fix me up with some employment that’s interesting - and exciting - on the edge of the army. He owes me something. I sense that this country could erupt in some way soon and there will be plenty to do. I am not sure I want to leave it just yet.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Jenkins’s joy lit up the embers of the camp fire. ‘That’s exactly what I want to do. That’s settled then. We’ll do it together, whatever it is . . .’ he finished rather lamely.

  ‘Oh very well. But you’re a bloody fool.’

  ‘Well, it takes one to know one. Oh, sorry, bach sir. Didn’t mean to be disrespectful, like.’

  Simon gathered up his blanket and crept into the low bivouac tent - the
army could find nothing smartly bell-shaped for them. He pulled off his boots and, unwashed, crawled between the blankets on the trestle bed. After much loud washing of the plates outside, Jenkins followed suit and, within a minute, was loudly snoring. Simon looked across in the dim light to the humped figure of the Welshman on the other bed and, amazingly, his deep sadness began to lighten before he too fell asleep.

  It was hardly light when a footfall outside the tent woke him. ‘Mr Fonthill, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘General would like to see you, sir, as soon as is convenient. By which I think he means now.’

  Simon sighed and knuckled his eyes. ‘Very well. I will be there in ten minutes.’ What now? He rolled out from between the blankets and pulled on his boots. The call seemed urgent, so he did not stop to shave, merely splashing water, cold from the night air, on to his face and neck.

  Wolseley was hard at work at his trestle table by lanternlight as Simon was ushered in. The General gestured with his pen to the empty camp chair before him and sat back. ‘Sorry to get you up so early,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t much time and it was important to see you right away.’

  Simon sat down. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Look here. One of our patrols has brought back news that a man - a Boer from his appearance - has been found out on the plain, north of here, brutally murdered by the look of it. From what I hear, he sounds like this man Mendoza you have been pursuing. Know anything about it?’

  ‘Yes, General.’ Simon thought quickly. There was no use denying the killing. Wolseley would find out soon enough about the pursuit. Yet Jenkins - disadvantaged, working-class Jenkins - must not be put at risk. ‘I killed him. I am sorry we couldn’t bury him but we didn’t have the tools to do so, and, anyway, both Jenkins and I were wounded and, frankly, more or less exhausted. So we had to leave him where he was, under a few stones, and ride back in.’

  Wolseley remained silent for a moment, his face expressionless. ‘Fonthill,’ he said eventually, ‘you continue to amaze and - yes - shock me. You had better tell me about it before you and your man are arrested for murder. You are still under my command.’

  Simon sighed and related the story of how he and Jenkins had tracked Mendoza down and attempted to arrest him and bring him back for trial. And of how Mendoza had resisted, shot Jenkins and disarmed Simon, and of how the two had fought with knives, with Simon eventually emerging as the victor.

  Offering his hand with its bloody bandage as proof of the encounter, Simon concluded: ‘He had tricked us, sir, and it was him or me. I had a bit of luck in the struggle and, in the end, it was him - although I had to stick him twice in the fight before I was able to cut his throat and finish him.’

  Wolseley listened without interruption. At the end he tilted back his chair. ‘And your man, of course, can vouch for this in every way - particularly the fact that this, ah, brute resisted arrest?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well.’ The General’s chair crashed back. ‘Then nothing more will be said about this matter. I have far too much to do to worry about the death of one man, when I have to report in detail that of so many others.’ A half-smile now crept on to the little man’s face. ‘I must say, Fonthill, you are a determined sort of chap. You do what you set out to do, don’t you? This was your kill. Eh? What?’

  Simon ran his hand across his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Sir Garnet. We would have preferred to bring him back and see him hang, but both Jenkins and I felt strongly that this man had to be apprehended and shouldn’t be left to rape, cheat and kill wherever he liked. We hadn’t intended to kill him. I am sorry if this has caused you trouble.’

  ‘Dammit no. But I had to clear it up. Now,’ his tone softened, ‘you’ve heard about Covington?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I am sorry.’

  ‘So am I. Damned good soldier.’ Wolseley’s eye stared at Simon. ‘Just as well, though, that he’s got his marriage to look forward to. Damned fine girl, eh?’

  Simon tried to keep his face expressionless. ‘Indeed, sir.’

  ‘You know her quite well, I think?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We are - were - neighbours in Brecon, and her father and mine served together in the same regiment.’

  ‘Good.’ Wolseley’s tone softened again. ‘Good that she’s going to stand by him. No doubt about that, I suppose . . . ?’ The question was left hanging and Simon let it stay there, just for a second or two. He had no wish to buttress the sense of proprietry of the military ruling classes - but then, he quickly realised, he could not let Alice down.

  ‘Oh, no doubt at all, sir.’

  ‘Splendid. Now, Fonthill, I don’t want to keep you too long.’ He gestured again at the papers on his table. ‘I sometimes think that there’s more to do after a battle than before it. But before I get completely immersed and you disappear again off into the depths of Africa, or wherever it is you intend to go next, I do wish to talk about you.’

  ‘Sir?’ Simon felt a familiar warning bell jingle.

  ‘Yes. You, young man, are clearly a damned fine soldier. Your appreciation of how to attack Sekukuni’s fortress was impeccable, and,’ he held up a tattered piece of paper, ‘even this sketch you did of the kopje was accurate and most helpful. You must, you really must, come back into the army.’

  Simon moved his buttocks on the chair. ‘That’s extremely kind of you, Sir Garnet, but—’

  ‘I can offer you an immediate majority in whatever regiment of the line you choose - sorry, not the Guards, as you will appreciate - and the rank of warrant officer for my familiar friend, Jenkins. So you two can continue to serve together. Now what do you say to that? You would probably be the youngest major in the British Army.’

  ‘As I say, sir, it really is most kind, but I fear I must decline. I am just not a line officer any more, I fear. However, if we can be of service to you in a less conventional capacity here in Africa, perhaps . . . something which will not bind us to strict army discipline and that sort of thing. Perhaps as scouts, wherever there is trouble. I don’t know. But not a formal commission, thank you, sir.’

  Wolseley puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘Well, you’re a peculiar one, Fonthill. No doubt about it. I won’t attempt to argue with you because I’ve got too much to do. But you are right. The army shouldn’t lose you completely. What do you intend to do now?’

  Simon smiled. ‘Not quite sure yet. But perhaps we might escort Mr Dunn and his daughter back to Natal to Zululand and help them to set up wherever it is they wish to settle.’

  ‘Good.’ Wolseley stood and offered his hand. ‘Make sure you contact me at my headquarters in Durban when you get down there. Now, be off with you - and for God’s sake don’t go killing any more Thugs or Portuguese rapists until I’m out of this damned country.’

  They exchanged grins and handshakes and Simon walked out into the warmth of another dawn in the Transvaal. He stopped for a moment and looked around at the familiar signs of an army camp beginning to stir itself. He sniffed the crisp, clear air. Perhaps life could go on, after all. Dammit, of course it could! And he strode off to find Jenkins and demand breakfast.

  Author’s Note

  The Sekukuni campaign earns only a small footnote, if that, in the history of British colonial warfare. But most of those historians who have noticed it seem to agree that, by putting down this previously invincible chieftain, Wolseley did impress the Transvaal Boers sufficiently to delay the onset of the First Boer War. It was a complete victory for ‘the Very Model of a Modern Major General’ and, as Wolseley predicts at the end of the novel, Sekukuni was found hiding in a cave within a few days of the end of the battle and was put into captivity and later exiled. The King was murdered by his brother in 1882 and the bePedi power was destroyed and the people scattered. In fact, the once-proud citadel of Sekukuni, with its population of more than 4,000, had been reduced by the year 2003 to a few scattered huts on the sandy floor of the valley. The town, these days, is spelled Sekhukune, but
I have followed the 1880 spelling, as shown in the old map which illustrates this story.

  I have described the battle, with its two distinct phases, as best I can, basing the details on respected accounts at the time and on the folk memory of local residents now. However, I must confess to setting back the date of the battle by a few months into 1880, to allow Alice, Simon and Jenkins to see the end of the Second Afghan War and arrive in the Transvaal in time to take part in the conflict. I hope studious scholars of the period will forgive this modest time-switch. I should also report that contemporary records seem infuriatingly imprecise about the exact locations of Wolseley’s forward camps from which he launched the final assaults. I have therefore been forced to make what I hope are intelligent assumptions on these points.

  Most of the characters in the novel are fictional. But Wolseley, of course, was not, and was probably the most skilled exponent of colonial warfare in British history. He went on, as did General Roberts, his great rival from the Indian Army, to become a field marshal and a great reformer of the army. Wolseley’s attack on Gladstone and his eulogy on the desirability of dying from bullet wounds, made in his first meeting with Simon in Durban, are taken from the General’s letters home to his wife. Similarly, the startlingly jingoistic diatribe delivered by Cecil Rhodes to Simon in Kimberley is based on Rhodes’s ‘Confession of Faith’, a document he first drafted in the mining town in about 1877. I have included extracts from both because they do help, I feel, to illustrate the attitude of the British ruling classes towards the Empire at its apogee. Rhodes, of course, went on to become one of the most influential and controversial figures in late-nineteenth-century Africa. Inter alia, he tightened his grip on Kimberley to build de Beers into the leading mining company in South Africa, from which it has become the commanding force in today’s international diamond industry.