The Horns of the Buffalo

by John Wilcox

  ‘Oh really, Major?’ said Alice mischievously. ‘Do sing it.’

  ‘I . . . ah . . . am not familiar with the tune but I believe that the words go something like this:

  ‘We don’t want to fight,

  But by jingo if we do,

  We’ve got the ships,

  We’ve got the men,

  We’ve got the money, too.’

  ‘How vulgar!’ said Mrs Fonthill.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Alice. ‘But it is rather a lovely word. Jingo. Jingo . . .’ She repeated it ruminatively. ‘It sums up beautifully the attitude of those thoughtless people of whatever class who believe that Britain should involve herself in any and every war. They want blood and glory and see opportunities in other people’s conflict to add to the Empire. I am not sure that I would not even exclude Lord Beaconsfield, as we must now call him, from their ranks. The jingoes. Yes. It’s perfect for them.’

  Mrs Fonthill pursed her lips and ignored her husband’s almost imperceptible shake of the head. ‘My dear Alice,’ she began, ‘we must help the Turks. Russia is up to her old tricks again and only we have the strength to intervene and face her down. If she conquers Turkey then she has an additional route to the North West Frontier of India and Afghanistan. Now, these are commonly held and common-sensical views. Does this make me - what d’yer call it-a jim-jam?’

  ‘Jingoist, dear,’ corrected the Major diffidently.

  Alice flushed. ‘Oh, I had no wish to give offence, Mrs Fonthill. But I do believe that we tend to rush into conflicts too quickly. Really, you know, we cannot have defensible interests in every confrontation between countries and I do think it rather arrogant, if I may say so, to consider ourselves the peacekeepers of the world.’

  ‘The Pax Britannia has served the world very well so far,’ responded Mrs Fonthill, ‘and I hate to think what state the benighted people of inferior countries abroad would be in if it were not for the British Fleet. Take slavery, for instance . . .’

  The Major gently interrupted his wife’s flow by asking for some more of her excellent onion sauce with his mutton. The intervention, however, failed to divert the conversation.

  ‘Yes, take slavery,’ said Mrs Fonthill. ‘That abominable traffic has virtually ground to a halt because of our naval patrols off the coast of West Africa. We were the first nation in the world to ban slavery in our own country and our own empire. Goodness knows how big the loathsome trade would have grown if we had not made a stand. No other country would have done it.’

  Alice nodded. ‘I quite agree. But, if I may say so, it was only right and proper that on this issue we should take the lead. After all, it was the English who began the awful business in the first place. Bristol and Liverpool have grown fat on it over the years. And, while we may have reduced the international trade, the ex-slaves of the southern states of America are, I am told, still living in penury and, of course, are not recognised as citizens by their government. I presume that you would not wish to declare war upon the United States of America to remedy their lamentable position?’

  ‘Tosh, Alice. That is quite a different matter, as you know very well. Goodness, it would be intolerable if the vote was extended to everyone! Think of it - servants and manual workers who have had no education being allowed to decide the government of the country. Whatever next! No.’ She shook her head. ‘My point is that Great Britain has a moral right to intervene when wrong is being done in the world. And when it comes to wrongdoing, Russia is behind most of it. Everyone knows that.’

  Both Alice and the Major drew in their breath to speak but Mrs Fonthill continued remorselessly. ‘Well, I say everyone. But that’s not true. The Liberals, of course, continue to seize every opportunity to undermine our position on foreign affairs, even though Gladstone, that awful old man, says he has retired to the back benches. I don’t believe that for a moment, I can tell you.’ She squared her shoulders and settled back in her chair. ‘His influence persists. Why, only the other morning the Morning Post, which is usually so sound on these matters, carried an article that suggested that the Russians might have a point in their attitude to Turkey. Can you imagine—’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted Alice. ‘I wrote it.’

  A sudden silence descended on the room. ‘What?’ exclaimed Mrs Fonthill.

  The Major beamed. ‘I say. How very interesting, Alice. Congratulations.’

  Alice felt herself colour. ‘Yes, well, it was the first time that I have done this sort of thing, you know.’ She looked at her lap and then smiled at them both. ‘I received ten guineas for it, which I thought was rather splendid.’

  Mrs Fonthill blew out her cheeks. ‘I am surprised, Alice, that a well-founded institution such as the Morning Post takes offerings from, well, amateurs, on matters which are so, ah, complex.’

  The Major frowned slightly. ‘Oh come now, my dear. That is rather condescending. The Morning Post has very high standards and obviously Alice has met them, or her article would not have been carried. I read it myself, without,’ he smiled, ‘realising that its author was our neighbour. I thought it very well argued, although I did not quite agree with every point.’

  Alice’s pride was now retreating as she realised that her secret was out. ‘Oh, Major, you are very kind. And Mrs Fonthill, I do understand your position. I had no intention of telling you about this and it rather, er, slipped out. I am not sure whether Mama and Papa would approve of my writing, although I intend to tell them very soon. For the moment, however, I would be most grateful if you would be so kind as not to mention it to them. I would like to do so soon, but in my own way.’ She regarded them both anxiously.

  Mrs Fonthill looked down her nose and flicked a crumb away from her lap. ‘Well, I don’t approve of children having secrets from their parents, Alice,’ she said. ‘But,’ and she looked up and suddenly smiled, ‘this one is safe with us.’

  ‘Oh, thank you both. You are really very kind to me, you know, and I am most grateful.’

  ‘We will say no more on the matter,’ said Mrs Fonthill. ‘However, it would be nice, you know, if you submit another article, perhaps to include one or two points of view from . . .’ her smile became a little fixed as she sought the right words, ‘the other side, so to speak.’

  Alice exchanged a half-hidden smile with the Major. ‘Of course, Mrs Fonthill, I do take the point.’

  They took a cup of fine China tea in the conservatory, although it was really too cold to sit there, and then Alice made her excuses. ‘I fear the weather may close in and Papa dislikes me riding when the light begins to fade.’

  ‘I shall ride with you,’ said the Major.

  Alice resisted his offer. She felt embarrassed at having to beg the Fonthills’ indulgence on the matter of her writing - something that she had resolved to keep to herself. To ride with him would leave the matter hanging between them awkwardly and she wanted now to get away from her faux pas as quickly as possible. A compromise was reached by summoning Owen to drive Alice home in the carriage, with her horse tethered at the rear. This was just as well, because the heavens opened shortly after she had left and the rain beat heavily on the roof of the coach. By the time the Manor was reached, Alice’s mood was one of annoyance at her indiscretion and frustration as, once again, she considered her future.

  She remained subdued through dinner with her parents in the panelled dining room.

  ‘Have the Fonthills heard from Simon lately?’ enquired Mrs Griffith brightly.

  ‘No, Mama.’

  ‘Strange,’ said the Brigadier.

  Alice frowned. ‘Really, Father,’ she snapped, ‘it is not strange at all. He has only been in South Africa for three or four months. He is obviously very occupied, and anyway, the mail takes several weeks to travel the great distance involved.’

  ‘Quite so, my dear,’ said the Brigadier.

  The meal continued in silence until Alice took a deep breath and addressed her father again. ‘Papa, I really must have something to do.’

>   The Brigadier put down his knife and fork slowly. ‘Do? Do? What do you mean, Alice?’

  ‘I mean, Father, that I cannot remain here filling my days with trivialities. I cannot simply do good works. I must use my mind in real work - just as a man would.’

  Mrs Griffith leaned forward comfortingly. ‘My dear, you must be patient. The right man will come along. Simon—’

  Alice exploded. ‘Simon is not the right man. Nor is any man. I am not going to sit at home waiting for some young barbarian to propose to me. Papa,’ she turned back to her father, ‘you know what I mean.’

  Brigadier Griffith had the reputation among his neighbours of not being able to refuse his wilful daughter anything. Nevertheless, the officer had been renowned throughout his career for being a strict disciplinarian. His attitudes were those of his station and his time: he was illiberal and High Tory. His eyes narrowed now as he addressed his daughter.

  ‘How dare you speak to your mother in that intemperate manner. You will go to your room immediately. I shall think of something for you to do, in due course.’

  Alice recognised the storm signals. ‘Very well, Papa. I am sorry, Mama.’ She rose and left the room.

  In her bedroom she walked to the window and looked out at the rain. She pursed her lips and reviewed her situation yet again. Her parents could say and do what they liked but they would not imprison her or present her as a slave on the country marriage market. To hell with that! If her determination to employ her brain in more demanding tasks than planning dinner menus led to conflict, then so be it. It was a confrontation she would win!

  Slowly, Alice turned to her writing desk. She picked up a copy of that day’s Morning Post and read once again the leader on the Russian-Turkish crisis. Rubbish of course. Impulsively, she reached for her pen, dipped it in the ink and began writing.

  To the Editor of the Morning Post.

  Dear Sir,

  I read your leading article of today’s date with growing disquiet . . .

  Chapter 6

  The two horsemen crested the hill with care, keeping a patch of high scrub behind them so that their silhouettes would not be exposed on the skyline.

  ‘Sorry, sir, but you’re still not relaxin’,’ said Jenkins with exasperation. ‘You’re grippin’ too tightly with your calves an’ ankles instead of your knees an’ the poor beast doesn’t know whether to walk or trot. If you go on like that, you’ll ache like you’ve bin on a twenty-mile march, see, an’ we’ll never get to this kraal place.’

  ‘To hell with it, man,’ snarled Simon. ‘Leave me to sit on the damned animal as I like. And don’t call me sir. We’re supposed to be traders.’

  ‘What am I supposed to call you then, sir?’

  ‘Call me bach. Or Fonthill.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Are you deliberately trying to annoy me, 352?’

  ‘No, sir. But you shouldn’t call me 352, then, should you?’

  ‘Damn you, Jenkins.’ Simon dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and cantered on, raising a small cloud of red dust. The Welshman urged his mount on and overtook Simon.

  ‘Seriously, though, sir. I don’t think we should raise dust. It can be seen for miles on this plain.’

  Simon sighed. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said, and the two riders slowed to a walk. Little remained to show that they were soldiers. They wore Afrikaan-type slouch hats and leather jackets worn smooth, particularly where their bandoliers of ammunition crossed their shoulders. The only hint of their military roles was their .44 calibre Martini-Henry rifles, which, after careful thought, Simon felt they should keep. These had been issued to the British army only four years before and, at eight pounds ten ounces, they were the lightest rifles ever produced for the military. More importantly, however, they were accurate up to 700 yards and deadly at 250 or less. Only one bullet at a time could be inserted into the breech but they were potent weapons and too good to leave behind, even if they were unlikely rifles for traders to carry.

  The terrain through which they rode now was very different from that which they had left behind at the Lower Drift of the Tugela. Instead of sugar cane plantations and moist, wooded valleys, here the red-earthed plain was broken by jagged escarpments and conical, brown-grassed hills that rose haphazardly as though a giant had plucked them up at random, as a child pulls at a tablecloth. The track that they had followed from the river crossing had long since disappeared and they made their way now by compass, on a NNE bearing that they had been assured would eventually bring them to Dunn’s kraal. It was not easy riding, for the plain was studded with thorn scrub and ant-bear heaps and crossed by dried riverbeds, or dongas, often forcing them to dismount and lead their horses. It also provided easy cover for a possible ambush.

  They had been riding most of the day after crossing the river. At first they had met scattered groups of Zulus, some herding cattle, others regarding them stoically from their beehive-shaped huts. Simon was relieved to find that they seemed to take no interest in the two horsemen. As they penetrated further into Zululand, however, all signs of habitation disappeared. Occasionally they disturbed a small antelope but otherwise they seemed to be the only living things on the plain. Only the cries of raven-type birds wheeling high overhead disturbed the silence. The very quietness was discomforting.

  The shock when they met the warriors, then, was all the greater.

  Jenkins was leading and had wearily dismounted to lead his horse down the bank of yet another dried-up donga when, suddenly, they were no longer alone. From the riverbed appeared some thirty Zulus, who deployed to surround them with a speed that exuded military discipline. Simon observed them closely, for they were the first warriors he had seen. He had expected extravagant feathered headdresses and brightly coloured beads, but these men were unadorned, naked except for thongs around their waists from which hung flaps of animal skin front and back and tufts of what appeared to be grass tied above their calf muscles. Their black skins glistened in the evening sunlight. Most of them carried short stabbing spears - the famous assegai. These weapons looked quite as fearsome as their reputation. The blade was about ten inches from tip to shoulder and about three thick fingers wide at the broadest part, near where the tang, the slender point at its base, had been rammed into the hollowed haft and bound with what looked like resin over a tube of hide. The haft was some three feet long, broadened into a slight bulb at the bottom. The warriors carried long, dappled shields, probably made of cowhide, behind which Simon glimpsed other spears and clubs clutched in their left hands. Looking at them, he received an impression of great individual strength. Although the warriors were only of medium height, they all had thighs like young oaks and chests that were wide and deep. The Zulus he had met in Natal were nothing like this.

  No Zulu spoke but their assegais, all held underhand, were pointed at Simon and Jenkins. ‘Don’t touch your rifle, 352,’ said Simon, quietly.

  ‘I thought you weren’t goin’ to call me 352,’ murmured Jenkins.

  The tallest of the Zulus, who wore a headring waxed into his short, tightly curled hair, raised his spear to Simon and spoke several words in Zulu. There was no reaction from the other natives, so Simon presumed it was a question.

  He rose in his stirrups and pointed ahead. ‘We go to Jantoni,’ he said. ‘We are English, not Afrikaaners. Not Boers. English.’

  Slowly, the Zulu repeated the name. ‘Jantoni.’

  ‘Yes. We go to Jantoni. To trade.’

  The leader gestured to Simon with his assegai in a motion that clearly ordered him to dismount. He did so and the Zulus immediately closed in on the two men. ‘Don’t let go of the reins,’ said Simon. ‘We may have to leave quickly.’

  ‘If we have to leave quickly, you’ll fall off,’ replied Jenkins, keeping his eyes on the tall Zulu.

  The leader now approached them and slowly, with the end of his assegai, thrust open the leather coats of first Simon and then Jenkins. He gestured to another Zulu and gave a low orde
r. Immediately, their saddlebags were opened and the contents scattered on the ground. They were briefly examined by the chief, who uttered another command, and to Simon’s surprise, the contents were then carefully replaced in the bags, which were then buckled up again.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Simon noticed a Zulu lay a hand on one of the rifles and begin to withdraw it from its saddle holster. Unhurriedly, Simon raised his hand and touched the Zulu’s shoulder. ‘No,’ he said and shook his head.

  The man jumped back and raised his assegai. With startling speed the leader leaped forward and plunged his own assegai into the man’s stomach, twisting the blade and withdrawing it in one smooth movement, so that it was free long before the warrior doubled up in agony and sank to the ground. For the first time, Simon heard the iklwa. Everyone stood motionless and watched as the Zulu, in grotesque silence, writhed at their feet, his hands vainly attempting to stem the blood which pumped from his terrible wound. Without a word, he curled into the foetal position and died in the dust before them. The incident had lasted perhaps only forty-five seconds.

  The silence was eventually interrupted by Jenkins. ‘Fancy that,’ he murmured.

  The speed and gratuitous barbarity of the act had transfixed Simon. He had never before witnessed violence so brutal and final. It had happened at such speed that there had been no time to feel afraid or even threatened. Nor did he feel fear now, only curiosity at what would happen next. He looked at the Zulu chief, who returned his gaze imperturbably, with eyes black and quite expressionless.

  Then the leader uttered another command and gestured and the body was dragged into a patch of scrub. He turned to Simon and spoke quickly in Zulu. Simon thought he heard the name Jantoni as the chief pointed with his red-bladed assegai in a more northerly direction than that which they had been following. It was a clear command and the party set off, Simon and Jenkins leading their horses and the Zulus, still surrounding them, setting a brisk pace, half walk, half trot.