Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Please tell the president,’ Simon said, ‘that I have delivered this letter the moment I arrived in town. I shall now find lodgings and will call later to make an appointment to pay my respects to Mr Brand.’

  The clerk suggested that they might all be best suited at a medium-sized hotel just off the main square, and there, indeed, they found the luxury of three rooms, although the price seemed extortionate to Simon. In fact, it did not take them long to discover that all prices were high in Bloemfontein: five shillings for a bottle of Bass and one shilling for a slice of bread and butter and a cup of tea. On complaining, they were told that the capital had more than doubled in size over the last ten years and that business was booming. Simon knew that the Free State had finally settled its long war with the Basutos, who had ceded to the state a hundred-mile stretch of land, high in the Maluti Mountains, that had proved to be one of the richest corn-growing territories in South Africa. The diamond fields to the west of the state were providing a ready market for its meat and other agricultural products, and diamonds had also been discovered at Jagersfontein. Unlike the Transvaal, the economy of Mr Brand’s little republic, roughly the size of Great Britain, was obviously burgeoning.

  Simon was luxuriating in a hot bath when a messenger arrived to say that the president would receive him at four p.m. He put on a change of clothes - the tails hung, ludicrously irrelevant, in an unpainted wooden cupboard - and hurried round to the House of Assembly, the venue for the meetings of the Volksraad and the office of the President of the Free State.

  He was received courteously by a small, bearded man with upright posture and kindly eyes, who was wearing a well-cut suit of traditional broadcloth, heavy enough in the heat of this early summer.

  ‘Captain Fonthill,’ said Brand, ‘come here and sit beside me. It’s good of you to come straight round after your long ride. Won’t you take a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Simon regarded the man with interest. In the few moments he had had to spare at Newcastle before leaving, he had pumped Colley’s ADC for background on the president. What he had learned showed that in the turbulent waters of South African politics, Brand stood out as a stable rock. A lawyer from the Cape who had been called to the bar in London, Jan Brand had been appointed president of the new state sixteen years before, in 1864, ten years after the British Government had been quite happy to cede sovereignty back to the farmers north of the Orange River. Since then, he had carefully maintained good terms with both his Boer brothers north of the Vaal and the British in the Cape. He had also, however, showed courage by conducting a long and, in the end, successful campaign against his Basuto neighbours. The little lawyer, then, was a man of parts. War against the British Empire, however, was a different matter. Could he afford to stay on the sidelines now that the Transvaal had opened hostilities against the British? He would be under strong pressure from his people to establish a common Boer front against the colonial powers in the south. Which way would he jump?

  Whatever the pressures, they seemed to sit easily on the president. ‘Now,’ he enquired, ‘how was the journey? Did our people offer you food and shelter on the way?’

  Simon munched a biscuit. ‘Indeed they did, sir. I have every cause, both here and in the Transvaal, to be grateful for Boer hospitality.’

  ‘Ah yes. Sir George mentioned in his letter that you had been involved in the late campaign against Sekukuni’s people. I must congratulate you on that. Our folk there made a hash of trying to put him down. General Wolseley showed how it should be done. Most impressive.’

  Simon made a mental note of the phrase ‘our folk’. The Transvaal was a different country, but Brand obviously still regarded them as kith and kin. The president continued to make polite conversation.

  ‘If I may say so, Captain Fonthill, you are remarkably young to have seen so much active service in such a short time. The Zulu War, the business in Afghanistan and, lastly, the bePedi campaign. You are quite a veteran.’

  ‘Yes, Mr President, I have been lucky. Many of my contemporaries have been forced to kick their heels doing guard duties back home. But I am out of the army now.’

  Brand nodded. ‘So I understand. Do take another biscuit. What, then, do you think of this present mess?’

  Simon swallowed. Ah, the first test! He selected another oatmeal biscuit, such a delicious delicacy after so much biltong on the long ride from Newcastle. ‘Well, sir, that’s what it is, really, a mess. There is so much to do in terms of developing the territories here. We should not be wasting time and money and spilling blood in this way.’

  ‘I quite agree.’ The president sighed. ‘I have already written to Sir George suggesting that he should send Sir Henry de Villiers, First Justice of the Cape Colony, to Pretoria to make a study of the Transvaal’s grievances on the spot and put forward a plan for a solution. But the outbreak of war makes that quite irrelevant, of course.’

  Simon felt this was the moment to take the initiative.

  ‘May I ask you, sir, whether you will stay out of it?’

  Brand shot him a quick glance. ‘As you probably know, Sir George has asked me the same question. He has also requested that I send a reply back to him with you as soon as possible. Well now,’ he dusted biscuit crumbs from his suit, ‘answering such a question requires a lot of thought. My position here is difficult, you know, Fonthill. There are already quite a few Free Staters in the north who have crossed the Vaal to join the Transvaalers in what they consider to be their struggle for liberty. It is all right for us. We have had the luxury of possessing our own independence for over twenty-five years now. We can well understand that our brothers to the north would like to be in a similar position.’

  Simon shifted on the sofa. ‘I understand that, sir, and it must be a difficult problem for you. But I presume that you would not wish this conflict to escalate into an Anglo-Boer war?’

  ‘Quite so.’ The president smiled. ‘But perhaps it will be all over quite quickly. The general must have strong forces he is gathering in the Cape, surely?’

  Ah, the gentle inquisition by the ex-lawyer! Simon thought quickly. As an ex-Cape Colony man, Brand would certainly have his own sources in Cape Town who would keep him au fait with the comparative paucity of Colley’s resources. It would not do to bluster falsely.

  ‘As you probably know, sir,’ he said, ‘the end of the Zulu War has meant that many of the seasoned troops that the general would have wished to have at his command have been sent home. But what is left will provide a hard core of professionals around which the general is building quickly. From what I have seen, I know that by now he will have sufficient troops to form a column capable of invading the Transvaal and relieving the garrisons there. And, of course, there are other detachments on the high seas on their way to reinforce him.’

  Simon smiled. ‘I have great respect for the fighting abilities of the Boer people,’ he went on. ‘They are probably the best marksmen and, indeed, light cavalry in the world. Sometimes, the British Army can seem to plod rather - I was at Isandlwana, remember - and lose the first battle. But we usually win the last battle and the war. Think of Waterloo.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Brand, ‘think also of Saratoga. You lost all your colonies in the Americas.’ He held up his hand as Simon began to reply. ‘But I do not wish to waste your time in debate, stimulating as it is. You have put your point of view very well and I must not detain you longer.’ They both stood, and the president continued, ‘As I have said, I wish to consider my reply to Sir George very carefully, and that includes consulting my colleagues, some of whom are away. The need for haste, in any case, is not now apparent, given that hostilities have commenced. I am afraid that one letter from me will not stop this war overnight. So, shall we say that I will give you my reply to General Colley in four days’ time? Can you remain with us for that time?’

  ‘Of course, sir, although I would not wish to stay longer.’

  ‘I understand. Now,’ the president’s expression softened,
‘it is my turn to ask something of you. My wife and I are holding a ball in three days’ time.’ He gave his gentle smile, so reminiscent of Colley’s. ‘We have to do something, you know, to relieve the monotony of life here on the veldt. It will not match the splendour of your London gatherings but we do have guests here from other nations and I must offer them entertainment. We are very short of presentable young men and I would be most grateful, Captain Fonthill, if you would be our guest.’

  Simon bowed. ‘Of course, sir, you are very kind, although I must warn you that I have yet to master this new style of Viennese waltzing, or whatever they call it.’

  ‘Dash it, so have I. We may be forced to dance together, my boy.’

  They both laughed at the jest, and Brand took Simon’s arm and gently ushered him to the door. ‘One more favour, I fear,’ he said. ‘My wife is holding a small dinner party tomorrow evening, in honour of two German guests we have here.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I think it would be a jolly good thing if the British Empire was represented at the table. It is really quite informal, so I don’t want to involve your diplomatic people here, although . . .’ His voice tailed away. ‘It is dress, I am afraid. I don’t suppose you have . . .?’

  Simon drew himself up in mock indignation. ‘I do hope, Mr President,’ he said, ‘that you would not imagine for a moment that an English gentleman would cross three hundred and fifty miles of veldt without taking white tie and tails with him?’

  Brand threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Ah, you English,’ he said. ‘Where in the world would we be without you?’

  Back in the hotel, Simon found that Jenkins and Hardy were absent, presumably exploring the pleasures of Bloemfontein, and he lay back on his bed for a while, his hands behind his head. The gentle sparring with Brand had proved inconclusive but he did not see what more he could do to bring the president down on the side of non-intervention. After all, the man was a shrewd politician and he would do what was right for his people - the role he had been fulfilling successfully now for more than sixteen years. What was rather more daunting, however, was the prospect of the dinner party.

  Germans? He knew enough about foreign affairs to realise that Bismarck, the German chancellor, was the greatest opponent Britain and its empire faced on the continent of Europe. Throughout the world, the old Prussian was working to build an empire of Germany’s own: a ‘place in the sun’, particularly in Africa and usually to Britain’s detriment. The two Germans at the dinner party were probably members of the German diplomatic corps, sent here from Berlin to persuade - bribe? - Brand to throw in his lot with the Transvaal. If so, where were the British diplomats? Surely the British Empire was represented in the Orange Free State capital? Simon frowned. It was all very well Brand saying that it was an informal dinner party. Politics and the war were bound to be discussed and Simon felt himself ill-equipped to represent his country at this highly skilled game - and he certainly did not fancy extending his fledgling diplomatic career at this level.

  Nor, for that matter, did he look forward with relish to attending the ball. He hated small talk and he was a hopeless dancer. When was the last time he had danced? Of course, with Alice . . . Alice! Damn it all to hell and blazes! He sprang to his feet, found the bar, sank two large whiskies very quickly and went to bed early.

  The next morning, Simon gave his companions a rough outline of his conversation with Brand and they seemed happy enough to wait in this pleasant town for four days before setting out on the long journey back to Natal. The three tended their mounts in the livery stable and then a grumpy Jenkins was put to finding an iron with which to press Simon’s tails, while the other two walked through the town. Hardy was strangely reticent with Simon, although he had made a firm friend of Jenkins, and Simon, resolved to take his mind off the prospect of a difficult evening, decided to take advantage of their time together to find out a little more about the tall Texan. They found a bar and leaned on it to drink two very expensive pints of beer.

  ‘Hey,’ said Hardy. ‘Is 352 really your servant?’

  Simon nodded. ‘He was my batman in the army, and when I came out he wanted to stay with me, so I bought him out.’ He smiled, half apologetically. ‘I know it sounds terribly stuffy, but an English gentleman is supposed to have a servant, you know.’

  Hardy supped his beer. ‘Yup,’ he said, ‘sounds stuffy all right.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as bad as it seems. I have to pay Jenkins, of course, because he must be independent and that means he has to do some work for the money. That’s the way he wants it. As a matter of fact, there is very little to do because, as you can see, we live a rough sort of life. Actually, he is my best friend. He has saved my life about half a dozen times since we first met in the army depot at Brecon back home, and I have managed to get him out of trouble a few times too. It’s a partnership, really.’

  ‘Waal,’ the Texan drawled. ‘Seems to work beautifully, ah’ll allow that.’

  ‘What about you, Al? Were you born in Texas?’

  Hardy’s eyes seemed to glaze over and he looked away. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Anywhere I’d know?’

  ‘Doubt it. Little bitty town.’

  Simon sipped his own beer. ‘Where on earth did you learn to shoot with those pistols like that? It was breathtaking.’

  A slow grin came over the American’s face. ‘Took mah breath away a bit too, ah can tell ya. Thought ah was jest a bit too late a-drawin’.’

  ‘Yes, but where did you learn to shoot like that?’

  Hardy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yah had to learn to shoot when ah was a kid, just to survive. The Injuns were all around us in them days. It was rough. Mah daddy was scalped.’

  ‘Good lord, how terrible. What tribe?’

  ‘What?’ The pale blue eyes swung round on Simon, almost accusingly.

  ‘Er . . . what tribe was it? I’ve always been interested in the American West, you see.’

  A cloud seemed to descend on Hardy’s face. He pulled on his neat little beard for a moment. ‘Cain’t quite remember,’ he said distantly. ‘Sioux, Cheyenne. Somethin’ like that.’

  Simon drew a breath but then thought better of pursuing the conversation. It seemed clear that Hardy did not want to talk about his past. They finished their beer in silence and walked back to the hotel.

  Six hours later, Simon struggled into his white tie and tails, with a little help from Jenkins. The shoes were far from being patent leather and they had resisted much of the little man’s attempt to buff them into some sort of gleam. In addition, the shirt was a little too big and the cuff links provided by the quartermaster in Newcastle were made of some sort of alloy stamped with a rather vulgar reproduction of the 58th Regiment’s numerals. Nevertheless, said Jenkins, standing back to take in the general impression, ‘You look good enough to sit next to the Queen.’

  There were eight for dinner: the Brands; a rather elderly Afrikaner lady whose name Simon never did catch but who it seemed had recently been widowed and was a friend of the Brands; a stout German whose name Simon did retain - Borkenhagen - who had settled in Bloemfontein and was editor of The Bloemfontein Express, with his wife; and two German visitors who seemed to be the centre of attention.

  They were introduced as Baron Wilhelm von Bethman and his ‘business associate’ Countess Anna Scheel. The baron was small, slim and elegant, with a clipped black moustache, cold grey eyes and a scar that ran from his cheekbone to the corner of his moustache. He wore his white tie and tails as though born to them and spoke with confidence in almost unaccented English - the adopted language, it seemed, of the gathering. The baron was clearly a man of the world. Yet there was something disturbing, even threatening, about his manner. He stood braced, legs well apart, with his chin thrust forward. He rarely smiled, and when he did, the smile never travelled as far as his eyes, which remained expressionless. On introduction, those eyes took Simon in slowly, almost insolently, as they travelled the length of his ill-fitting tails. He nodded without
bowing, briefly shook hands, held Simon’s gaze for a moment with those dark grey eyes and then turned away without a word. It was as though an unspoken warning had been given, or territory had been marked. Simon felt cold suddenly and turned with relief to meet the baron’s companion.

  He was rewarded. The countess too was dark, with hair as black as a raven’s wing that gleamed richly in the gaslight and that had been arranged high on her head in lustrous waves above a diamond tiara. Her eyes were doe-like brown and set wide apart under arched brows. She had dressed for the heat of the summer and her silk gown was cut very low to reveal skin whose ivory texture was set off impeccably by a brilliant diamond necklace. Her cheekbones were high, her hands were small and she was quite the most beautiful thing that Simon had ever seen. In contrast to her companion, she smiled warmly on introduction and began chatting in equally faultless English. The fact that she was probably three or four years older than Simon - perhaps thirty years of age? - made her only more intriguing.

  The eight exchanged slightly awkward conversation while drinking champagne and Simon realised that he had been invited, of course, to partner the Boer widow, a role he felt handicapped to play because, for the life of him, he could not remember her name. His embarrassment was heightened when they were called to dinner because, of course, he was placed next to her. On his right, however, was the countess - a fact that both delighted and daunted him. Simon became acutely aware of both her haunting perfume and his own gauche cuff links. He felt like a stevedore at a Palace garden party and he compensated for his awkwardness by engaging the Afrikaner lady in desperate conversation.

  After a while, this was interrupted by a delicate touch on his arm. He took a deep breath and turned. ‘Captain,’ the countess said, with a look of histrionic reproach on her face, ‘I do believe you are neglecting me.’ He realised that her English did, in fact, carry the slightest of accents, but the pouting reproach was immediately replaced by a warm smile.