Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Look, arsehole, let me show you.’ Still smiling, Simon produced a cartridge from the palm of his left hand. ‘See, this is what you do, you piece of camel dung.’ He cocked the lever and inserted the round into the slot behind the backsight of the rifle. Then he pointed to his right, across the plain, and as the Arab turned to look, Simon noted from the corner of his eye Jenkins slipping his own rifle free from his pack. Simon put the rifle to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

  Far across the plain - perhaps four hundred yards away and certainly well in excess of the range of the Bedawis’ own jerzails - a spurt of dust and rock fragments showed where the bullet had struck home. A deep murmur rose from the intruders and Mahmud’s men alike.

  Simon turned his gaze back on to the black eyes facing him. The man’s jaw had dropped and he seemed almost mesmerised by Simon’s air of confidence, the strange, unintelligible words he spoke and the ever-present smile. Taking a deep breath, Simon produced another cartridge, slipped it into the breech, cocked the mechanism and made as though to offer the rifle to the swordsman. Then, as the man narrowed his eyes and reached forward for the rifle, Simon’s smile disappeared and he suddenly reversed the gun and rammed the muzzle into the Arab’s chest.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘drop that damned sword.’ Without removing his eyes - now as cold as those of his opponent - he nodded towards the sword and indicated the sand. ‘Drop it now.’

  Simon saw the expression in the man’s eyes change suddenly from puzzlement to fury. Whatever he was, he was not a coward. He quickly moved his left hand to push away the rifle barrel and flung up his sword arm to bring the blade crashing down on to Simon’s shoulder. But the move was all too predictable and in the time that it took for the sword to be lifted, Simon swung the Martini muzzle back and upwards and pressed the trigger. At point-blank range he could not miss and the bullet tore through the Bedawi’s lower arm, shattering it and sending the sword twisting high into the air, its blade twinkling in the sunlight as it arced towards the sand. In almost the same movement, Simon brought the butt of the gun round to crash into the man’s head, sending him too to the ground.

  A great shout came from Simon’s right, followed by the deep crack of a jerzail, and Simon felt the ball whistle past his head. Then Jenkins’s rifle barked almost simultaneously and one of the Bedawis, his musket still smoking, slowly crumpled over his saddle and slid to the ground, a neat black hole in his forehead.

  Simon quickly reloaded and pulled his camel away so that he could cover the remaining four intruders. ‘Mahmud,’ he shouted as he squinted down the barrel, moving the muzzle slowly to threaten all four. He was aware that Jenkins was now at his side in a similar posture.

  ‘Yes, effendi.’ There was a new note of respect, if not fear, in the Egyptian’s voice.

  ‘Tell these men to throw their muskets and their swords to the ground, then to dismount slowly. If they do as I say then they will not be harmed, but if they try to harm anyone else or to ride away, tell them that either I or Sergeant Jenkins here will kill them. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  Mahmud’s voice was hoarse but the orders were conveyed and the four brigands, all traces of arrogance now long since gone, threw down their weapons and dismounted. They stood together, surly but apprehensive.

  ‘Now, Mahmud, tell them that they must go along the line and pick up all the possessions that they have thrown to the ground and then, with the owners telling them exactly what to do, they must repack all those things on to the camels. When they have finished, they must bury the man that the sergeant was forced to kill. Tell them now.’

  ‘Blimey, bach sir.’ Jenkins’s voice too was now a little hoarse. ‘You’re certainly rubbing their noses in it.’

  Simon lowered his rifle and realised that perspiration was rolling down his cheeks. ‘Do you realise, 352,’ he said, his voice unsteady, ‘that that man tried to kill that little child?’

  ‘I do indeed, bach sir. That’s why I wished you’d left’im to me. But I must say, you ’andled ’im beautifully. And your language . . . my word! I thought you was supposed to be a gentleman. I don’t know where you picked up them expressions, indeed I don’t. Dear, dear me.’

  The look of lugubrious offence on Jenkins’s face broke the tension and Simon was forced to grin. ‘Must be the company I keep,’ he said.

  Mahmud relayed Simon’s orders and slowly the Bedawis moved along the line of camels, picking up the goods they had thrown to the ground and, with the timid help of the families, packing it all up again in great loosely bound bundles. It was clear that Mahmud’s people were still in awe of the brigands. They averted their eyes from them and no one was taking great care about the repacking. Abdul, however, had recovered from the blow to his head and was determinedly collecting the discarded jerzails and scimitars and stacking them well away from the camels.

  A worried-looking Mahmud walked across to Simon. When he spoke, his voice was angry. ‘I do not think that what you did was wise,’ he said. ‘Killing a Bedawi is a terrible thing to do. It will bring retribution on us. Now we will all probably be killed by the brothers of these people. And,’ he gestured to where the man shot by Simon lay on the sand, his face contorted with pain as he held his shattered arm, ‘what do we do with him?’

  ‘Ah yes. We will talk in a moment about the Bedawi, Mahmud.’ Simon spoke with a certainty he did not feel. ‘But first, the injured man. Do you have someone - perhaps one of the women - who knows a little about healing?’

  ‘Yes. My chief woman knows a little but she is not a doctor.’

  ‘Good. Tell her to bring water, cloth and something we can use as a splint to support the broken arm. I will help her. Sergeant Jenkins will stay here and make sure that the Bedawis do not make trouble. Perhaps Abdul can bring one of the captured muskets and stay with him. I don’t want them to get away, for I have something to say to them.’

  Frowning - he who had always been in complete control of his caravan was now being told what to do by this Englishman who could not even sit on a camel properly - Mahmud nodded and walked away.

  Jenkins leaned forward and gestured to the injured Arab. ‘Better, surely, to finish off that devil now, before he can cause further trouble, eh? I could do it quietly with me knife, look you. ’E deserves it well enough.’

  Simon sighed. ‘He probably does, but I want to set these bastards some sort of example. We’ve got our Egyptian friends into enough trouble as it is. Keep an eye on the repacking - and on Abdul. He’s in the mood to knock somebody on the head.’

  Unwinding the sling of his water bottle from the saddle pommel, Simon tapped his camel on the head, awkwardly slid to the ground as it knelt and approached the wounded Bedawi. The man watched him approach with eyes that expressed hatred and apprehension - a fear confirmed when Simon knelt by his side and produced a knife. But the blade did not go to his throat but began gently sawing away at the sleeve of the injured arm. When the wound had been completely exposed, Simon put his arm under the Bedawi’s head, cradled it and put his water bottle to the man’s mouth. He gulped eagerly, never for a moment taking his eyes off Simon’s face.

  At this point Mahmud’s wife arrived and Simon recognised the large woman who had served the main dish on the first night of the journey. She was carrying a white cloth slung over her shoulder, a bowl of water and a small goatskin bag. Nodding to Simon, she knelt and spoke softly and vehemently, presumably in Arabic, to the Bedawi who had attempted to decapitate her nephew, then, none too gently, she seized the injured arm and began to bathe it in the warm water. The Arab rolled back his head and gritted his teeth in agony, but made no sound.

  Simon noticed that his bullet had not hit the bone in the centre, luckily, for at that range it would have completely severed the arm. Instead, it had caught it on the edge of the forearm, splintering it and setting the wrist askew. As he watched, he realised that Mahmud’s wife was not bereft of skill, for she was now deftly removing small bone splinters wit
h a pair of tweezers. Eventually satisfied, she again bathed the break with water, then dipped into her bag and, gently this time, smeared some kind of ointment over the wound. Next she applied what appeared to be green moss to it. A rough dressing of white cotton completed the treatment. Then she motioned Simon to hold in place the small piece of wood she had brought and tied it to the arm with shreds of cloth to act as a splint. Gathering up her bits and pieces, she squatted for a moment and addressed the wounded man in guttural tones before clearing her throat and deliberately spitting into his face. Then she rose to her feet and walked away, her great buttocks swinging as though in derision.

  Simon could not help grinning, but he took out his handkerchief and removed the spittle from the Bedawi’s face. ‘That’ll teach you to swing your bloody great sword at a little boy,’ he murmured. The Arab continued to stare at him, his black eyes now showing puzzlement.

  Although the reloading of the camels had been completed, Simon noticed that no attempt was being made to bury the dead man. Mahmud explained that the Bedawis had requested that they be allowed to carry the body away back to their camp. ‘I think it would be wise to allow this to happen, effendi,’ he said.

  ‘Very well. Perhaps it will serve as a warning. Now, Mahmud, I want to talk to them - and I want your people to hear and understand as well, so ask them to gather around. Perhaps you would be kind enough to interpret what I have to say?’

  Mahmud bowed, his face still showing surprise at the crisp air of command Simon had adopted since the arrival of the brigands.

  Simon insisted that everyone gather around the wounded man on the ground. The Bedawis did so with some signs of returned truculence at the humiliation they had been forced to endure. They glowered at Simon through the slits in their headdresses. The Egyptians had eyes wide with puzzlement and anticipation. Jenkins, his rifle at the ready, took up position at Simon’s side.

  ‘Now,’ began Simon, ‘I am Captain Simon Fonthill of the British Army, and this is Sergeant Jenkins, who also serves the great British Queen.’ He waited while Mahmud interpreted. The Bedawis still glowered but Mahmud’s men uttered a communal ‘Ah!’ and nodded their heads, as though they had known the strangers’ identity all the time.

  ‘We serve our Queen as soldiers but we also serve the Khedive and we were specially selected to travel with the funduq to give protection to these good, honest traders against criminals such as you. From now on, all caravans that cross the desert will have at least two - and often more - British soldiers with them, dressed like Egyptians but armed with the latest weapons, to kill anyone who tries to rob the camel trains.’

  Simon swallowed. There was still no reaction from the Bedawis, but the men of the caravan were clearly impressed. They nodded their heads solemnly and uttered words of obvious approval.

  ‘That is not all,’ continued Simon. ‘Any Bedawis who rob the people of the villages at the oases will be hunted down by the British soldiers serving the Khedive and killed. Now,’ he nodded down at the wounded man, who was sitting up and listening attentively, ‘this man attempted to kill a small child. If he had succeeded I would assuredly have hanged him like a dog. He was lucky in that his sword missed. I have therefore only shattered his arm. He will not use that sword for many months now.’

  He paused again and heard Jenkins chortle quietly.

  ‘But it is the way of my people to bind the wounds of our enemies and send them on their way.’ At this translation, the Bedawis exchanged glances. ‘You too will be allowed to return to your camp and tell your families of my words. But you attempted to rob this funduq so you will be fined. You will forfeit your jerzails and swords and you will pay an additional fine of three camels. Now you may go, and take my warning back to your people. Go in the name of Allah. See to it, Mahmud.’

  With a backward glance at Simon - half in wonder, half in consternation - Mahmud broke out three of the intruders’ camels and gestured to the Bedawis to mount. The wounded man, none too gently, was thrust aboard one camel with the dead body slung behind, and the four unwounded Arabs mounted, two to each animal. Then, with what sounded like a cry of derision, they loped away.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ gasped Jenkins, ‘that was well done, that it was. Ah, you’re a lovely liar when you get goin’ like. But do you think they’ll be back?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Simon, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. ‘But I couldn’t think of anything else. I think I’d better apologise to Mahmud.’

  The two approached the big Egyptian, who was talking animatedly to his men. Mahmud turned to meet them. He spoke quietly but sternly. ‘I wish what you had said was true but it was all lies. What do we do when they come back and you are not here with your big guns, eh? What do we do then?’

  Simon sighed. ‘I am sorry, Mahmud, really I am. But I could not let them have our rifles. If we had meekly turned the other cheek, as our Christian religion urges us to, then they would have become better armed and much more arrogant. Their attacks on you would grow. At least now perhaps we have warned them off.’

  The big man remained silent for a moment. ‘You were brave there to stand up to that man.’ A wide smile suddenly split his beard. ‘And I have never heard an English gentleman use those rude words. I am glad that my women could not understand.’

  Simon blushed under his tan. ‘Ah yes, sorry about that. But I lost my temper. It never does to do that. But look, Mahmud, I - we - never intended to endanger your people. It was rather forced on us. And I did not wish to speak as though I was leader here. You are in charge. Yet I had to pretend that I was still a British officer. Now, do you think they will return?’

  The Egyptian tugged at his beard. ‘I do not know. When they rode away, they cried that we were all sons of dogs and that they would come back. So yes, I think they will. Then what will we do?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well let me think about that. Perhaps we had better get moving again?’

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Abdul, a cheery grin back on his face underneath a gull’s-egg lump which had appeared on his right temple. Unlike his two older brothers, Abdul’s English was poor, but he approached now with his arm extended and shook hands warmly with the two ex-soldiers. ‘Good thing,’ he said. ‘Good thing. Brave thing. Good. No more Bedawis, eh?’

  Mahmud spoke sharply to him and, only slightly crestfallen at the rebuke, the young man waved and remounted his camel. Slowly the funduq resumed its slow progress across the desert, leaving two large bloodstains behind on the sand.

  Simon pondered as his camel plodded along in the middle of the line. If the Bedawis attacked in more force, this long single column was completely vulnerable. He and Jenkins could not gallop - gallop? Oh lord! - up and down the line firing their Martini-Henrys. Somehow he must define a system for defending the caravan. But how?

  Then he remembered an old Afrikaner in Kimberley telling him of how, some forty years before, a Boer commando of only about two hundred men had defeated a Zulu impi of some two thousand warriors at Blood River. They had circled their waggons and fired their muskets from behind this makeshift fortress, with the women reloading the guns. And hadn’t the pioneers crossing the North American plains done something similar when they were attacked by Indians? Simon looked along the line and frowned. It would take ages for this single-file column to wind itself into a circle and the fast-moving Bedawis would be upon them before the manoeuvre could be completed. Then his mind went back just under two years to the battle of Ulundi, when the Zulus had been finally defeated. The British General Chelmsford, remembering the disaster at Isandlwana, had actually advanced his army in a cumbersome square. The Zulus had flung themselves unavailingly against the British square and been shot to pieces. Now, the Egyptians lacked the firepower of the British army, but if they could be persuaded to resist - for he and Jenkins could not do all the shooting - they would have the advantage of firing their muskets from behind the cover of the camels, which, if the caravan was moving in a loose square, c
ould be made to kneel before the attackers were upon them. It was worth a try!

  Simon slapped the haunches of his camel, indicated Jenkins to follow and then drew level with Mahmud. ‘If the Bedawis come, will they attack at night?’ he asked.

  Mahmud shook his head. ‘No one moves at night in the desert if they can help it,’ he said. ‘It is too cold and difficult to find the way.’

  ‘Good.’ Simon explained his plan. At first the Egyptian was doubtful that his people would have the discipline to move in a square, for it was traditional to cross the desert in single file. Simon pointed out the advantage of the formation, given that the best marksmen would be placed at the right angles of the square, so that they could direct their fire through ninety degrees whichever way the attack materialised and so enfilade the enemy. Mahmud grudgingly conceded the point.

  ‘But they have fast camels, and amongst the dunes they could be upon us before we have time to kneel the camels.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. You must put up outriders. Four men. One in advance of the caravan, one in the rear and one on either flank. Far enough out so that they can give adequate warning but close enough to ride back to safety. I know that your chaps are not soldiers, but they could do this, couldn’t they?’

  Mahmud frowned in silence for a moment.

  ‘You should listen to the captain,’ said Jenkins. ‘ ’E’s a fine soldier. This is brainwork, see. It’s what ’e does best.’

  The big man nodded. ‘Very well. We will try. I have about half a dozen men who can shoot quite well - and we have the Bedawis’ jerzails. They are better than ours. And . . .’ his eyes brightened, ‘perhaps if we do well then they will not attack us again, eh?’

  Simon grinned. ‘That’s the spirit. See if you can form the square now.’

  On broken ground it would have been impossible to have advanced the caravan in this new geometric form. But on the wide swelling desert dunes, and given that no specific road was being followed, it proved to be quite feasible, once the excited Egyptians had grasped the idea. In fact, they enjoyed the new, more sociable formation, which allowed families to converse more conveniently.