Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘It is as I thought, effendi,’ he said. ‘They have not the value given to them by your friend. Here, take the glass and examine them closely. I have taken away a little of the clay and you will see that they have a slightly yellow appearance. This is typical of South African diamonds - we call them “Cape Yellows” - and it lowers their price. Now, also observe,’ he put a finely manicured finger to the edge of the slightly larger of the two stones, ‘the bearded girdle there. There are what we call tiny hairline fractures at the edge of the stone. You may also see one or two carbon spots in the gem itself.’

  Simon carefully examined the stone but could see none of this, although there was, perhaps, a slight yellowish tint to the gem. Damn! The prospect of them buying tickets for Durban seemed to be receding. And yet the suks were renowned for sharp dealing. And the English were universally disliked in Cairo . . . He decided to bluff it out.

  He returned the glass. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘It is kind of you to point out these imperfections. Perhaps, after all, it would be best for us to take our chances with the market in Amsterdam, because I cannot believe that the gems are worthless. So,’ he rose to his feet, ‘we shall bother you no more.’

  The old man laid a hand on his arm. ‘I did not say, effendi, that your diamonds were worthless. I merely pointed out that they were not worth two hundred of your English pounds.’ He smiled, gesturing for Simon to regain his seat. ‘I can have these stones mounted in a way that will, to some extent, conceal their imperfections, but the processing - the cleaning, the cutting, the polishing and then the mounting - will be an expensive matter. I could offer you no more than fifty pounds for the two.’

  Simon made a quick calculation. Their railway fare to Suez, then the cost of third-class tickets down the Suez Canal, through the Red Sea and on to the east coast of South Africa would cost at least sixty pounds for the two of them. The bargaining must continue.

  ‘I quite appreciate, of course, that your processing costs on the gems must be included in the price,’ he responded, ‘but I cannot believe that my merchant friend in Kimberley, who deals in world prices, would have been so wrong in his estimation of the worth of the diamonds. Perhaps I could accept one hundred and twenty pounds, but no less.’

  Jenkins blew his nose. He was clearly enjoying this.

  The Egyptian shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It would give me great pleasure to be able to meet your request, but I cannot do so. If I did business in that fashion, effendi, my wives would grow thin and my children would have no shoes for their feet. I will offer sixty pounds but no more.’

  Simon screwed up his eyes. ‘I understand your problems, but unfortunately I have difficulties of my own. One hundred pounds is the least I could accept.’

  ‘Alas, we are too far away on this puzzling question of price. Let me, then, make one last - and very generous - offer, which must be regarded, effendi, as positively my last. I will give you seventy-five pounds.’

  Simon noticed that there was no light now filtering through the stained-glass diamonds on the walls. It must be dark outside. Time to go. He waited a moment longer, then, with a great show of reluctance, nodded his head. ‘I fear I cannot accept,’ he said. ‘But I am prepared to take ninety, if you pay me in sovereigns, for where we must travel paper money will be a hindrance. I presume that this will be no problem?’

  The old man inclined his head. ‘You drive a hard bargain, but very well. It will take me a moment longer, effendi, to get the coins, that is all. Allow me to take the diamonds.’ A final thought struck him. ‘Where are you staying? Shepheards, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I shall send two of my men to guide you. It will not be easy to find your way in these lanes after dark, particularly,’ he smiled, although it did not reach his dark eyes, ‘carrying your precious burden.’

  ‘Oh, that will not be necessary, thank you. I believe we shall find our way safely.’

  ‘No. I insist. It will be safer and quicker.’ With a half-bow, the old man left the room, leaving the two friends sitting side by side, staring straight ahead and trying to retain straight faces.

  ‘Well,’ whispered Jenkins after a moment’s silence, ‘I know you can’t sit a horse properly nor shoot straight to save your life, but you lie and argue beautifully, bach sir. I’ll say that for you.’

  ‘Thank you, 352,’ Simon murmured to the wall opposite. ‘I’ve probably been diddled out of a fortune but the money will get us safely out of here.’ Another subdued giggle from beyond the lattice above them could have either confirmed or refuted that.

  Eventually the shopkeeper returned clutching a goatskin containing the coins. With him were two black-bearded men, tall for Egyptians, with visages that seemed permanently set in scowls beneath their black turbans. One would have been forgiven for thinking that they resented the tiresome business of escorting two infidels back to their marble-pillared hotel.

  ‘Please count the coins, and I insist that Sulimein and Abdul accompany you,’ said the old man. ‘I would not sleep if I thought that you had left here without escorts to guide you and keep you safe.’

  For the first time Simon thought that he detected a faint hint of irony in the old man’s tone. But, as ever, the black eyes remained expressionless and the half-smile that played around the thin-lipped mouth seemed genuine. He counted the coins quickly, replaced them in the bag and wrapped the cord which secured the puckered top around his wrist. Then he offered the shopkeeper his hand. ‘Thank you for the tea and for trading with us. May God be with you.’

  The old man took his hand and then that of Jenkins. He did not speak but gestured down the passageway, and the bald-headed servant led the way into the courtyard. There they regained their boots and the man slid open the bolts on the old door, and the four of them stepped out into the alleyway. They found that the narrow street had been transformed. In the gloom - for there was no lighting - they saw that all the shops had been boarded up and that the alley was now completely deserted. Where once the trinkets of the silversmiths had glittered, now each shop presented a dead façade, with crude wooden shutters bolted and barred. The stone walls of the houses, looming so close together, seemed to form narrow canyons. The suk now seemed an alien, unfriendly - even dangerous - place.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘What’s ’appened to all the fairy caves?’

  Simon strengthened his grip on the ebony stick and tucked the cord of the goatskin through his trouser belt, securing it with a knot. He spoke softly to Jenkins. ‘I may be completely wrong, 352, but I don’t like the look of these two. We need only one man to guide us to the hotel, so why give us these two great bruisers? It doesn’t seem right. It would be the simplest thing in the world for them to lead us into a dark cul-de-sac, cut our throats and take the money back to our white-bearded friend. Let’s see where they lead us, but if they are making for Shepheards Hotel, then we should be on that main street, the Musky, or the other wide one, the Muhammad Ali, within about three minutes. If we’re not, we had better prepare for trouble.’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘Right you are, bach sir. If it comes to it, look you, I’ll take that big bugger on the right. You take the littler one, though ’e’s big enough.’ He shot a quick, concerned glance at Simon. ‘Remember, if there is a fight, look at their eyes. That’ll tell you which way they’re goin’ to jump, see.’ He snorted. ‘Bugger it, I told you I should ’ave brought me extra knife.’ And he unbuttoned his jacket to free the handle of the knife protruding from his trouser top.

  It soon became clear that if they were being led to Shepheards Hotel, then they were certainly not being taken by the most direct route. It was no use relying on Jenkins. This impeccable horseman, crack shot, alley fighter, dedicated washer of shirts and polisher of boots had no sense of direction and had, in fact, taken the Queen’s shilling in Birmingham when he thought he was in Manchester. All Simon’s instincts told him they should be turning right. Instead, however, the two men ahead of them now turned left aga
in into what seemed to be the heart of the tangle of alleyways in the Old Town.

  The walls above them seemed to lean in closer and only a sliver of moonlight, catching the top of the stone-work high above them, cast any light at all on the street down which they were now being led. The echo from the clump of Simon and Jenkins’s boots on the cobblestones was the only sound and, screwing his eyes to peer ahead into the gloom, it seemed to Simon that the alley ended in a blank wall.

  ‘It’ll be now,’ whispered Jenkins.

  Suddenly both men whirled round, knives appearing in their hands as if by magic. The bigger of the two sprang at Simon in an obviously prepared plan, but in doing so, he had to pass Jenkins, who had moved a pace ahead of his partner. The Welshman’s boot caught the shin of the big Egyptian, who cursed and lashed backhandedly at his assailant, but Jenkins had slipped aside so that the knife swung harmlessly down and in front of the other attacker, thus hampering that man’s own attempt to close in on the elusive Welshman. Simon took advantage and slashed the weighted head of his stick across the second Egyptian’s face. The force of the blow was partly softened by the end of the man’s turban, but it was strong enough to send him staggering back.

  The advantage of surprise had been lost to the attackers and now the fight had been reduced to two separate encounters, so that, despite the narrowness of the alley and the closeness of all four men, each pair of antagonists had only eyes and ears for his opponent. It was as though two separate duels were taking place, at venues far from each other.

  Certainly Simon had no sense of how Jenkins was faring, for with throat dry and perspiration trickling down his forehead, he was fiercely concentrating on the man confronting him - a man who was now softly approaching him again, his left hand extended as though to maintain balance, his right hand held slightly back, with the long, curved blade of the knife glinting in the half-light. Simon licked his lips and found them as dry as sandpaper. He felt fear all right, for he remembered what it was like for sharp, hot steel to cut into soft flesh. That had been a Zulu assegai two years ago, but at least he had had a weapon of sorts to defend himself then. Now he had only a walking stick and no training in this disgusting alley-cat, knife-in-the-ribs warfare to fall back on. Or was that quite true . . .? He remembered the fencing master at Sandhurst encouraging him after hours with foil and sabre: ‘You’ve got talent for this, Fonthill. You could make a swordsman.’

  Simon immediately reversed his grip on the ebony stick, which he had previously used two-handedly as a cudgel. Holding it only with his right hand, his left held high behind him, he bent his knees and presented the sharp end to the Egyptian and stood waiting, en garde. The latter halted in his advance for a moment, clearly puzzled. What was it Jenkins had said? Ah yes, watch the eyes. Simon looked hard at the dark visage opposite him, the face exuding hate and determination, the whites of the eyes standing out.

  Now those eyes glanced quickly at the end of the stick. Simon realised intuitively that his opponent was going to grab the end of that piece of wood, pull Simon towards him and then swing his blade from the side deep into the ribs. And so it proved. Quickly the Egyptian feinted to Simon’s right with his left hand and then swung it back to clutch the end of the stick. But Simon was even quicker. Now perfectly balanced, he lifted the end of the stick marginally, took a quick fencer’s step forward and lunged in the classic style, left leg braced behind him, right leg bent to its fullest extent, his sword arm stretched to the limit. The thrust was made with the speed of a cobra striking and the end of the stick took the assassin directly in the left eye as he swung forward. The man let out a howl of anguish and staggered back, clutching his eye with his free hand. Quickly reversing his grip, Simon now brought the club end of the stick across the wrist of the Egyptian’s knife hand, splintering the bone and sending the blade spinning across the cobbles.

  A cry behind him made Simon spin round, his heart in his mouth at what he might see. Jenkins and the big Egyptian were locked together in a strange embrace against one wall of the alley - strange because the big man was half draped across the Welshman’s broad shoulders, so that Jenkins’s head protruded from under the other’s armpit. As Simon watched, the Egyptian uttered another cry, more a half-sigh this time, and gradually crumpled to the floor, Jenkins seemingly helping him down with his shoulder but in fact sinking his knife even deeper into the other’s stomach until, with a twist, he sent him crashing on to the cobblestones.

  Jenkins withdrew the blade and looked up, his black hair matted across his forehead. His face distorted, he cried, ‘Look out, bach!’

  Simon instinctively ducked his head and twisted low, but there was no threat. The second assassin, still clutching his eye, was running as fast as he could down the alley, away from these foreigners who looked so easy to take but who fought like tigers. The encounter had lasted less than a minute and now the street was silent again, apart from the heavy breathing of the victors.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, man,’ gasped Jenkins. ‘You only ’ad a bit of wood. What did you do?’

  ‘Just watched his eyes,’ said Simon, both hands on his knees, trying to regain his breath. ‘Good advice. Thanks.’ Then he looked across at the inert form of the big man, blood oozing out of two wounds, one in the chest and the other in the stomach. ‘Oh hell, 352,’ he wheezed, ‘did you have to kill him, for God’s sake?’

  Jenkins drew himself up to all of his five feet four inches. ‘Well, as a matter of fact, bach sir, I bloody well did, saving your presence, like. The bugger was trying to kill me an’ ’e ’ad a knife and ’e was bigger ’n me as well, see.’ His tone grew grudging. ‘I’m surprised you ’ad to ask that, look you.’

  ‘Sorry, old chap. You’re right, of course. Lordy, I wouldn’t want to go through that again.’ Simon hitched up the goatskin of coins which was now hanging down his thigh and looked again at the dead man. ‘I’m afraid we’ll just have to leave him and get out of here before my one-eyed friend gets back to the shopkeeper and starts a hue and cry.’

  Jenkins sniffed, only half mollified, but he bent over the corpse, wiped the blade of his knife clean on the dead man’s burnous and slipped the weapon back beneath the band of his trousers. Together the two friends walked quickly down the silent street and began the difficult task of finding their way back, out of the maze of suks and alleys, to one of the main thoroughfares.

  They were lucky, and after some ten minutes of squinting up at what stars could be seen in the narrow slits of sky they emerged on to the Musky. There, in a doorway, they jettisoned Jenkins’s bloodstained jacket and did what they could to smarten their appearance before hailing a late hackney cab to take them back to their hotel. Jenkins, typically, seemed quite unperturbed by their desperate encounter and hummed tunelessly - he was one of the few Welshmen who could not carry a tune to save his life - as he sat back on the buttoned cracked leather. Simon’s mind, however, was racing.

  ‘That nasty business means that we must change our plans,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Why? We’ve got our money and that killin’ wasn’t our fault.’

  Simon sighed. ‘Look. Despite the English influence, Egypt is a Turkish possession and not part of the British Empire. We are unknown here and must appear as just a pair of penniless adventurers. You have killed a man and I’ve injured one and, more to the point, let him get away to tell the story. The body will be found in the morning. That villainous shopkeeper will want his money back, and in this city with its strong anti-British atmosphere he could spin any story and raise feelings against us. I am not sure that old Ashley-Pemberton would raise a finger to help us - in fact he’d probably throw us to the dogs to placate the authorities - and Wolseley is too far away to help, even if he could.’

  Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘Ah. Right. So what do we do, then?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Simon mused. ‘We will have a few hours in hand anyway, because I told old greybeard that we were staying at Shepheards. First thing in the morning I shall cable General C
olley in South Africa that we are on our way to serve him as scouts, following Wolseley’s message to us - that will put him under some sort of obligation and make sure that we get work. But Ashley-Pemberton knows that we intended to go back to Alexandria and pick up a steamer going down the Canal from Port Said, and I don’t trust him not to pass this on if he is questioned.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we won’t take the train across the desert to the mouth of the Canal.’

  ‘What? Are we goin’ to march through the jungle to South Africa, then? It’ll be a bit ’ot.’

  Simon smiled. ‘You’re not far off, 352. But no. Not through the jungle. We’re going to go due east across the desert to Suez at the southern end of the Canal and pick up a steamer from there. No one will think of looking for us there. The train will be too dangerous, but I would think that there will still be traders crossing the desert. We will buy passage on a camel train.’

  Jenkins’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Ride on camels?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s the only way.’

  ‘But with respect, bach sir, you can barely sit on a horse when it’s movin’ a bit. You’ll just fall off a camel.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent. Anyway, I’m much better on a horse now. A camel goes slower. They must be easier. You’ll see.’

  They found Ahmed still at the reception desk on their return - in fact, he never seemed to leave it. If he was surprised at Jenkins’s appearance in shirtsleeves and their general air of dishevelment, he gave no sign. ‘Whisky, effendi?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes please. Two large ones, in my room, please. But Ahmed, there is one further service you can render us.’ Simon placed two gold sovereigns on the desk.

  ‘Ah sir, you are very kind, but no.’ He gently pushed the coins back. ‘We are honoured to have you stay at the Metropolitan. No extra payment is required. I shall be glad to help you further.’