Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  As the music began, Simon said: ‘Anna, if I tried to dance this with you, I should tread all over you and make a complete fool of myself. May I get you a glass of champagne or punch and take you into the garden? It is a beautiful evening.’

  She cocked her head on one side coquettishly. ‘Simon, I can’t imagine anything nicer. Champagne, please. You will find me by the big blue gum tree at the end of the garden.’

  At first he could not see her, for the sun had gone down and a milky moon was hidden by clouds. Then he caught a flash of white from the dark foliage in the distance, away from the path. He found her leaning against the far side of the tree and he silently offered her the champagne. She took it, and as she lowered her head to sip, looked up at him. There seemed to be no evidence of the coquette in the glance, no teasing, no smile - just a look of open directness, perhaps questioning.

  Simon felt a pulse begin to beat in his forehead. Slowly he bent and put his glass on the grass and gently took hers from her hand and put it down also. Then he took her into his arms. She offered no resistance but came to him willingly, slipping both arms around his neck, running the fingers of her right hand through the hair at the back of his head and responding to his kiss ardently.

  For Simon, all the hardship and frustration of the past months - the agony of his rejection by Alice, the discomfort of the days in the desert, the threat of death in the Boer camp - slipped away as he held this beautiful woman to him in the warmth of the evening. Desire exploded within him in resistance to the enforced celibacy of his lifestyle. Her perfume seemed to consume him as he kissed her neck and shoulders.

  Anna pulled away from him for a moment and cupped his face in her hand. ‘Mein lieber lieber Junge,’ she murmured.

  Simon clutched the hand and brought it to his mouth. ‘Anna,’ he said, ‘I desire you. You must know that. I . . . I . . . I can’t help myself.’

  She kissed him again, this time softly and with great tenderness, and then withdrew again, shaking her head slowly. She had tears in her eyes. ‘It is not possible, Simon,’ she whispered. ‘There is too much . . . too much . . .’

  ‘Too much what? You are not married, are you?’

  She shook her head again, and this time the tears were rolling down her cheeks. Simon held her close again and began kissing away the tears, murmuring into her ear.

  They were still locked in this embrace when Simon felt a hand seize his arm. Von Bethman’s eyes were blazing. ‘Get away from her,’ he snarled. ‘How dare you assault my cousin, you barbarian? Englische Schweinhund.’

  Anna put a hand to her mouth. ‘Nein, Wilhelm. Nein . . .’

  Instinctively Simon swung his fist. The blow was too hurried and missed the chin, catching the baron high on the cheekbone. But it was strong enough to send the German crashing to the turf. He lay there for a moment, his hand to his face. Then he rose and confronted Simon.

  ‘You have laid your hands on a member of my family and you have struck me,’ he said, almost in a whisper. Simon noticed that the scar on his face now seemed blue in the moonlight. ‘I demand satisfaction. You are clearly no gentleman, in that you fight with your fists. But, because I have issued you the challenge, you may choose your weapons. Do so now, for we must fight in the morning.’

  Anna drew in her breath and stepped between the two men. She began talking to von Bethman in German, speaking urgently and, it was clear, pleadingly. In supplication, she clutched at the lapel of his coat. He removed her hand and shook his head. ‘I and our family have been insulted,’ he said. ‘We duel in the morning.’

  The countess turned her tear-stained face to Simon and began talking to him in German for a moment before, realising her mistake, she changed to English. ‘Simon, don’t do this stupid, awful thing. I have told him that this was just a matter of the moment. I have explained that I . . . I led you on. Now please apologise and nothing will come of this.’

  Simon regarded her with horror. ‘It was not a matter of the moment,’ he said slowly. ‘If you are not married or betrothed, then I have every right to kiss you, if you were willing. And dammit, Anna, you were.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I was.’ Then, as though recovering, she shook her head fiercely and her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘No, Simon. Please, please apologise. He . . . he will kill you. He is a famous duellist. He does not wound, he kills. Please, please . . .’

  Simon turned to the baron. ‘I am at your service, sir,’ he said.

  Von Bethman gave a stiff bow. ‘Very well. Your weapons? Pistols or swords?’

  Simon’s mind was in a turmoil, but he forced himself to think rationally. If von Bethman was determined to kill him, then pistols would be the easiest way, particularly as Simon was such a poor shot. Just one bullet would do it . . . He might stand a better chance with swords. He regarded the baron critically. Small physique, no doubt light on his feet. Not foils or épées, then.

  ‘Swords,’ he said, realising his voice sounded hoarse. ‘Sabres.’

  For a moment the baron looked disconcerted. ‘Sabres? We might have difficulty in finding them here. I—’

  ‘Sabres. If duelling sabres are not available, then cavalry sabres. There should be plenty of them about.’

  ‘Very well. I will consult with my colleagues and we will find the weapons to match your choice and also suggest the venue. You are happy that I do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You will need a second. My second will call on him to arrange the details. Can you nominate him now or do you need time?’ There was an undoubted sneer in the German’s voice.

  ‘Of course not. His name is Jenkins and we are both staying at the Voertrekker Hotel.’

  ‘Very well. We should fight early but we need time to arrange everything. Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow? Good. My man will call on yours at eight-thirty.’

  He took a step nearer and put his face so close to Simon’s that the latter could detect a faint trace of garlic on the German’s breath. His eyes were cold still, but now gleaming with a kind of suppressed pleasure. ‘Now, my friend,’ he murmured, so that Anna standing nearby, her hand to her mouth, could not hear. ‘No man has ever struck me and lived. Tomorrow, I will kill you. Be sure that you say your prayers tonight, Englishman.’

  Then he turned. ‘Now, Anna. Wipe your face and come.’ He took the countess’s arm, and with one anguished look over her shoulder, she and her protector were gone.

  Chapter 7

  ‘You’re doing what?’ Jenkins sat on the edge of his bed in his underdrawers, his mouth open and his eyes popping.

  ‘I’m fighting a duel at ten o’clock tomorrow morning,’ repeated Simon, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. ‘I want you to be my second.’

  They were talking in Jenkins’s room at the hotel, a little before eleven p.m., after Simon’s return from the ball. He had sought to follow Anna, but she had been swept away by von Bethman and the German contingent, and after staying a while in desultory conversation with Colonel Bentley to preserve appearances - Simon could not remember a word they exchanged - he too had made his excuses and left.

  Walking back to the hotel, Simon’s thoughts had whirled around in his head to produce a conclusion as sour as the aftertaste of the champagne. He was almost certainly going to be killed in the morning. His opponent was a skilled swordsman - that scar on his face was obviously a relic of a previous encounter - and if by some miracle he escaped, he was bound to be disgraced. Duelling was illegal in England, and although there had probably been no necessity to pass the same law in the Free State, he had seriously compromised his position by provoking a challenge from a German nobleman in the president’s garden. Once again he recalled Colley’s stricture to ‘tread with care’ and he groaned inwardly. What a mess! It had been with nothing but despair in his mind, then, that he had knocked on Jenkins’s door.

  ‘I’ll be your third or fourth if you like, bach sir,’ said the Welshman. ‘But tell me about it. Who are you fightin’, why are you fi
ghtin’ ’im and what do I ’ave to do? Is it like bein’ second in a boxin’ match, then?’

  ‘More or less. I don’t know much about it. I’ve never fought a duel before.’ Simon sighed, sat on the edge of Jenkins’s bed and related the story, stumbling a little as he spoke of Anna and his feelings for her.

  The little Welshman sat up, tugging at his moustache. ‘Well, I must say,’ he said eventually, ‘this is a bit of a pickle, isn’t it? I don’t know what Miss Alice would say about it, I really don’t.’

  ‘Alice Griffith is married by now and out of my life,’ hissed Simon, glad of a chance to vent his anger and despair. ‘Don’t mention her again.’

  Jenkins held up his hand. ‘All right, all right. It’s not my fault, now is it? We’ve got to think about this. Mind you,’ his face descended into lugubrious folds, ‘you run the thinkin’ department, so I don’t really see what I can do, short of shootin’ the bloke. Can you fence, then?’

  ‘A bit. I was quite good at sabres at Sandhurst. That’s why I chose them. You know I’m not much good at shooting.’

  ‘Well there’s a bit of relief, isn’t it? Let’s get old Ally out of bed and see what he can suggest.’

  ‘No.’ Simon stood. ‘There’s no need to involve him. I’ll just have to get on with it. Look, the German’s second will come around to see you at about nine tomorrow to inform you of the venue and whatever other details are necessary. That’s the way it’s done, it seems. Be honest with him and explain that you don’t know much about this business and he will tell you the rules.’

  Simon walked to the door, paused and turned. ‘There’s one other important thing. I am supposed to be calling on President Brand at eleven tomorrow, to pick up his reply to General Colley. If . . . if . . . I am unable to see him, I would like you to find Colonel Bentley, who is the British diplomatic representative here - they will tell you at the House of Assembly where he is to be found - explain that I am . . . er . . . indisposed and ask him to collect the letter himself. I have a couple of letters I must write myself tonight which perhaps you would post for me tomorrow if, ah, things go wrong.’

  Jenkins’s face was now so crestfallen that Simon was forced to laugh. ‘Cheer up,’ he said. ‘He’s only a little fellow and we all know that little chaps can’t fight. Look at you. I’ll cut his head off. Now get some sleep. You have some hard seconding to do tomorrow.’

  The jocularity disappeared immediately Simon returned to his own room. He pulled a rather curled sheet of the hotel’s plain notepaper towards him, dipped a pen into the inkwell and wrote a short letter to his parents, at home in Brecon. He avoided giving them too many details, merely explaining that it was a matter of honour and expressing his love and thanks to them for their support of him during his upbringing. His letter to Anna Scheel was even shorter. He thought for a moment of writing to Alice Griffith but decided against it. She had now left his life and there would be no point. She would discover his fate soon enough.

  Lying in bed, he desperately tried to recall the fundamentals of fencing. He had received some training in it as a sport and he dimly recalled something about not attacking when one’s opponent was on the offensive; one had to wait one’s turn, so to speak. He remembered a series of stamping forays and then retreats along a defined area. It all seemed so much nonsense now. Much of the instruction at Sandhurst had centred on fighting from horseback: using the point, the slash, and the reverse swing on poor natives or infantrymen on the run. He had never been trained to duel. After all, that was what Prussians did. Perhaps von Bethman would let him bring his horse? What the hell! He eventually found escape in sleep.

  Rising early, Simon packed his belongings and dressed simply in riding boots, corduroy breeches and open-necked white shirt. He had no appetite and took only a cup of tea. There was no sign of either Jenkins or Hardy, so he wandered into the small tree-shaded garden at the rear of the hotel, found a heavy stick and spent some minutes swinging it and then simulating lunges and parries. He felt vaguely ridiculous but it loosened his muscles. He looked up through the tracery of the willow tree’s branches to the blue sky above. This waiting was awful, but at least it was a fine morning on which to die.

  It was nearly 9.45 before a perspiring Jenkins returned to the hotel. ‘I was getting worried,’ said Simon. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been chattin’ to the bleedin’ enemy, surveyin’ the battlefield and inspectin’ the weapons. Now listen, bach sir. We’ve only got a few minutes.’ He motioned to the ground and they sat cross-legged together in the garden.

  ‘First of all,’ said Jenkins, ‘they’re a lot of bloody toffs an’ they don’t think much of you for ’avin’ me as a second.’

  Simon found it within himself to grin. ‘No, I didn’t think they would. The trouble was I couldn’t get the Prince of Wales at such short notice.’

  ‘Quite so, indeed, an’ all that stuff. Second thing is, I’ve caught a glimpse of the opponent an ’e’s a cocky little shit. Now listen, bach sir.’ He gave Simon a meaningful stare. ‘You know I’ve fought all me life - all kinds of blokes, see, with all kinds of weapons: me fists, shovels, pickaxes, bricklayer’s ’ods, knives an’ bayonets. Well, I’ve always won an’ I’ve always felt good when the other bugger felt cocky to begin with. I think ’e will come straight at you from the word go, so be prepared for that and if you can let ’im blow ’imself out a bit. ’E’s a lot older than you and less fit.’

  Simon nodded and quickly reflected that a man could have a far worse second than Jenkins when fighting for his life, despite his inexperience of the etiquette of duelling.

  ‘Now,’ continued the little man, ‘third thing is, these sabres are bloody ’eavy things. Von something or other - the other bloke’s second - tells me that they couldn’t find proper fencin’ things, so you are using cavalry sabres. They’ve sharpened them up but they still feel like a ton o’ bricks. This is in your favour because the other bugger is only a little chap. Now I’m only a little chap but I’m strong, see. For all ’is prancin’ about, look you, I reckon that this baron bloke ain’t all that strong. So when you get the chance, swing the bloody sabre at ’im’ard. ’E won’t be used to that sort of stuff. ’E’ll be used to them thin, pointed things.’

  ‘You mean foils or épées?’

  ‘Don’t know what they’re called, but even though I can’t speak German, I knew that none of ’em were ’appy with fighting with these bloody great meat cleavers. So that’s again in your favour, see.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, 352. Hadn’t we better be going?’

  ‘Last thing. You’ve gotta toss for choice of ends. I think you’ll be allowed to call because - what do they call it? - you are the challenged one, see. All right then. I shall be providin’ the coin, or rather Ally is though I’ve got it in my pocket, so make sure you call tails. Right? And then you must face the sun.’

  ‘Surely not! That will be a disadvantage, won’t it? The sun will be in my eyes.’

  ‘Not this mornin’ it won’t. Trust me. Now. Come on or we shall be late.’

  ‘Where are we fighting?’

  ‘In the garden of the Germans’ place - embassy or whatever you call it. Off we go. It’s only round the corner. There’s plenty of bloody rules about this business but I’ve already forgotten ’em. They’ll explain.’

  They rose to their feet and set off, Jenkins wiping the perspiration from his forehead, for the sun was strong. Simon’s mouth was dry but he felt immensely comforted by the little man’s participation. He no longer felt vulnerably alone. He had a sudden thought. ‘Where’s Al?’

  ‘Never you mind about ’im, bach sir. ’E’s around somewhere. Just you keep your mind on the job in ’and and we’ll wipe the floor with ’em, you’ll see.’

  The German Embassy was an unimpressive wooden house with the customary galvanised-iron roof, although the building was a little larger than usual. At its rear, it boasted a square garden protected by a green wall of bushes and trees. More import
antly, the garden was laid to well-watered lawn and it was quite flat.

  The scene that met Simon’s eye made him gulp involuntarily. By the entrance to the garden, a scrubbed table was set with a bowl of steaming water, various coloured bottles and a gruesome display of surgeon’s instruments. A man wearing a rubber apron stood by its side. On the lawn, white tapes had been laid to create a rectangle some twenty metres by six in area. Outside it stood half a dozen men, two of them in the grey uniforms of German officers, tightly buttoned to the neck despite the heat. Von Bethman stood a little to one side. He looked slim and neat in black riding breeches, soft rubber-soled shoes and a white shirt, open to the waist. He stared at Simon expressionlessly. Of Anna, of course, there was no sign.

  One of the uniformed officers approached Simon and Jenkins, clicked his heels and bowed to each in turn. His monocle glinted in the morning sun. ‘Good morning,’ he said and then addressed Simon in heavily accented English. ‘Captain, your second appeared to be unfamiliar with the rules for duelling. If you are in agreement, then, I suggest that we roughly follow those established in Germany for the Mensuren events in Heidelberg.’

  ‘By all means,’ said Simon. He had no idea what that meant, but he was grateful and surprised to find that his voice was not croaking.

  ‘Good. We cannot follow them closely, of course, because we do not duel in the right conditions, but permit me to explain the basics in English for you both.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said, calling von Bethman over. The two combatants regarded each other. Simon kept his face expressionless but his eyes remained firmly fixed on those of the baron. The latter allowed his lip to curl in a faint smile as he took in Simon’s scuffed riding boots and wrinkled shirt.