by John Wilcox
‘That’s the man,’ said the unmistakable voice of Lieutenant Colonel Covington. ‘Arrest him, Sergeant, and put him under guard. Be careful. He can be violent.’
Chapter 16
Early the next morning, Simon was taken under armed guard to Helpmakaar. There he was marched through the rain to the smallest of the three original wooden shacks that were all that the hamlet had boasted before the army arrived to transform it into a tented settlement capable of housing more than a thousand men. Small as it was, the interior of the shack had been roughly partitioned, and Simon was put into the largest section. Through the gloom, he detected a palliasse in the corner and a small table and camp stool. On a further table stood a collapsible washing bowl and a pitcher of water. One window let in what little grey light there was, but strands of wire had been stretched across the glass on the outside. It was the nearest that Helpmakaar had to a prison cell.
Only a few curious faces had watched his departure from Rorke’s Drift before dawn. There was no sign of Covington, nor for that matter of Chard and Bromhead. Simon hoped that the latter were sleeping the sleep of the (heroic) just. The sergeant in whose charge he was placed was uncommunicative on the miserable ride through the rain to the little township, but once there, he was handed over to a sergeant major of the Buffs who was kindly.
‘There you are, Mr Fonthill sir,’ he said as he ushered him into the room. ‘Not very comfortable, I’m afraid, but we’re a bit pushed for comfort around here. By the look of it, not many of your things have come with you from the Drift, but I’ll have them sent in to you. Williams here will be on guard on the other side of the partition.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant Major.’
The warrant officer paused by the door. ‘At Ishandwanee, I hear, sir. And at the Drift too, then?’
Simon nodded.
The sergeant major scratched his beard. ‘Not many fought at both, from what I hear, sir. In fact, after the first battle, a lot rode by the Drift. It seems to me, sir, beggin’ your pardon like, that you should get a medal, not a court martial.’
Simon smiled. ‘Not much chance of that, I fear.’
‘Ah well, sir. I should try and get as much sleep as you can now. You look a bit washed out.’
Simon slumped on to the mattress. As the escort made to leave, he sat up. ‘Sar’nt Major?’
‘Sir.’
‘I don’t suppose you have any definite news about the dead at Isandlwana, after the battle, have you? I’m fairly certain that my man went down there, but I’d like to know for sure. His name was - is - Jenkins, of the 24th; last three, 352.’
The sergeant major frowned. ‘I wasn’t with the column that found ’em all, sir, but from what I’ve heard from them that was, there was nothing left alive there. Even the dogs had been speared. And all our chaps had been disembowelled - horrible business. But I will put the word about, sir.’
‘That’s kind of you. Do let me know if you hear anything.’
The thin door was firmly shut and he heard a padlock snap into place. There was a scraping as the young sentry pulled up a chair and sat down on the other side of the partition. Simon lay back on the bed, put a hand behind his head and silently began to laugh. For God’s sake! He had only been out of Cetswayo’s prison for a couple of days and now the British - his own people - had put him in another one! Well, he had no regrets. Whatever was going to happen to him - and he had no idea what the punishment for striking a senior officer might be - it would be worth it for that one moment of sheer joy he had experienced after knocking Covington flat on his back. He rubbed his knuckles reminiscently and then, thoughtfully, brought them to his mouth, as the smile died away. Could the sentence be death? After all, they were on active service and Covington had just placed him under arrest. He would have to plead guilty to delivering the blow, for there were too many witnesses to evade the charge. Could he submit extenuating circumstances to justify his act - the long imprisonment, the fight with the Zulus in the gully, the horror of Isandlwana and then Jenkins’s death? And Covington had grabbed him roughly. What the hell! He would not go down without a fight and the world would know what sort of bastard was commanding the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Regiment of Foot. Anyway, if he was to be shot, then it would be a kind of poetic justice after narrowly escaping death over the past three days, when so many good men had gone. Pity about his parents, though. He put a hand to his eyes and rolled over.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of low voices on the other side of the partition, then the key in the padlock. ‘A visitor, sir,’ said the sentry. And in walked Alice.
She stood for a moment and looked in the half-light at the figure lying on the mattress. Simon was still wearing the ill-fitting blue patrol jacket issued to him by the QM at Isandlwana, and from underneath it peeped the grimy bandage put round his shoulder by Jenkins. His breeches were threadbare and soiled and the right leg was bloodstained from where the assegai had administered the flesh wound on the barricade at Rorke’s Drift - Reynolds had promised to patch him up as soon as he had seen to the more severely wounded, but Simon’s arrest had intervened. It was Simon’s face, however, which caused Alice the most concern. His eyes, which she had remembered as clear and alive, were now sunken and stared out of a gaunt face that carried three days of beard stubble.
To Simon, looking up in amazement at his visitor, Alice appeared as a vision from another, forgotten world. Still framed in the open doorway, she slowly took off her riding cape and threw it into a corner. Her hair had been pulled severely back and tied with that grass-green scarf, but it had been bleached in the sun over the months so that it shone now in the dust-rays from the window like a golden helmet. Her crisp white shirt was tucked into tight riding breeches and her long boots were still polished, so that they glistened under the raindrops. She stood looking down at him, a half-smile playing on her face. The door shut behind her and the padlock clunked into place.
Simon struggled to his feet. ‘Alice!’ He gave a wan smile and wiped the back of his hand across his face. ‘You were just about the last person I expected to see come through that door. I’m sorry . . . I must look rather a mess.’
The girl walked towards him and, without ceremony or embarrassment, put her arms around his neck and brought his head down to her cheek. ‘My dear Simon,’ she whispered. ‘My dear boy. What on earth has happened?’
Simon broke free awkwardly and pulled up the little camp stool. ‘Sorry again,’ he said. ‘This is all I can offer you, but do sit down.’
She remained standing, looking steadily at him. ‘Very well,’ she said. She pushed the stool towards the wall so that she could lean back on it. ‘They tell me that you knocked down Colonel Covington. That doesn’t exactly sound like the Simon I remember, but I suppose tribulations change a man. Anyway: true or false?’
Simon sighed. ‘True, I fear.’
Alice put a hand to her brow. ‘My goodness, Simon. I presume that you had provocation?’
‘Oh yes, Alice.’ Simon smiled. ‘Plenty of that.’
‘But what about the desertion charge?’
‘The what?’ The smile dropped from Simon’s face and he jumped to his feet. ‘Desertion? What do you mean?’
‘Simon, do sit down. I have been told that I am allowed only half an hour with you, so it won’t do to get excited.’ She waited until he was sitting once more on the edge of his bed before continuing. ‘Now, do you mean to tell me that the charges have not been read to you?’
‘No. Not yet.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘The hitting of Covington, of course I know about. I thought that was bad enough. But what is this about desertion?’
Alice’s face now betrayed no emotion. ‘In addition to the charge of violence, Colonel Covington is also accusing you of lying about your activities in Zululand and of deserting from the battlefield of Isandlwana.’
Simon gave a mirthless laugh. ‘But the bloody man was not there. How would he know what happened, for God’s sake?’
&
nbsp; ‘I understand that he has witnesses whom he will bring against you at your court martial. Now, my dear,’ she took out a small spiral-bound notebook and a pencil, ‘we have little time and I think you had better tell me everything that happened.’
For the next thirty minutes, the two sat together in the gloom while Simon recounted his experiences since his crossing into Zululand two - or was it three? - lifetimes ago. Alice occasionally interrupted with a question but mostly she sat silent, her face expressionless. When Simon began his account of the battle, she started scribbling quickly, overriding his objections with a wave of her hand.
‘I have already sent my dispatch back to London,’ she said. ‘What you have told me confirms what I have already hinted at. No laager around the camp, you say? How far did the runners have to come for the ammunition?’
When they had finished, Alice sat quietly looking at her notes. ‘Hmmm,’ she mused, then: ‘Simon, I fear that you are in trouble. The problem is, you see, that these charges are brought against you by your former commanding officer who, I happen to know, is regarded within the army as an up-and-coming man of honour and courage.’ Simon thought he detected a quick flush come to her cheeks as she uttered these words. But she hurried on. ‘The fact that he was your commanding officer means that people will presume that he knows you and your character well, and that could be influential.
‘However,’ she gave him a bright smile, ‘things are by no means lost, my dear. You are not without friends and it sounds as though your Colonel Lamb could be helpful.’ Then the smile disappeared and was quickly replaced by a frown. ‘The trouble is that Chelmsford sent him back to the Cape before the invasion to handle the dispatches with the Horse Guards - the General was still hoping to wheedle reinforcements out of London, you see - so he will be unaware of all this.’ She stood up, thrusting her notebook away.
Simon scrambled to his feet. Tenderly, Alice kissed him on the cheek. ‘I must go now, for I have work to do. But I shall visit as often as I can.’ She walked to the door and paused for a moment there. ‘Simon, make sure that you understand what your rights are in these proceedings and don’t let them rush things through. I have a feeling that Lord Chelmsford will not want this court martial to be prolonged. He’s got enough bad news to handle as it is, so I believe that he will want this affair to be pushed through as quickly and as quietly as possible, without it causing too much fuss back home. Hold fast and make sure that you have the witnesses that you want.’
She smiled and then rapped on the door and was gone, leaving in that fusty room a faint odour of perfume. Simon lay back on his mattress and felt a strange mixture of hope and despair blend in his puzzled mind. The hope came from Alice’s presence and her advice. Perhaps she could help him, although exactly how he had no idea. But desertion . . .? Why should Covington bring this accusation? Somehow it rang deeper warning bells than the charge of assault, for it smacked of cowardice, of running away in the face of the enemy. It was the worst charge the army could bring against one of its own. And Alice was right, his peers (would there be a jury?) would presume that his former CO knew his character very well. Oh hell!
The next day, Major Spalding came to see him. Clearly ill at ease - not certain whether to treat his prisoner as a suspected criminal or as a colleague in difficulty - he explained that, as the nominal commanding officer of the post at Rorke’s Drift and Helpmakaar, it was his duty to read the charges to Simon and to explain the procedure that would follow. The first charge was straightforward and accused him of striking a senior officer while in the field and on active service. The second, to which Simon listened with even more attention than the first, alleged that he had deserted the firing line at Isandlwana before its collapse, and had rushed to the rear.
The Major shifted awkwardly on the little stool. ‘The Deputy Judge Advocate wallah has been in touch with me,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know we’d got one in Natal, but it seems we have, or, at least, we do now. He tells me that the court martial is to be held here in a week’s time and that you must let him, through me, know what witnesses you want to call in your defence. What happens, it seems, is that the prosecution witnesses are called first and questioned, then your witnesses are heard. Then the court adjourns while you and the prosecution write your cases. These are then put to the court - I’m told it’s called “mailing” them, which seems a bit strange to me - and then this Deputy Judge Advocate fellah sums up and the court comes to a decision. Fairly straightforward, eh, what?’
Simon blinked. ‘Don’t I have any legal advice? A defending lawyer, or something like that?’
‘Good lord, no. This is a court martial, not a civilian trial. It’s much more straight and to the point. You’re a soldier, so you will be judged by soldiers. Quick but fair, eh?’
‘What if I am found guilty?’
Again Spalding looked uncomfortable. ‘Not quite sure, actually. ’Fraid it could be a firing squad, given that you’ve got two charges against you. Or, on the other hand, if there are special circumstances, you could just be cashiered. But I can’t really help you there, Fonthill.’ The discomfort vanished and he rose. ‘Right then. Let me have your list of witnesses as soon as you can. Yes, well. Right then.’
Witnesses. Witnesses . . . Simon crouched by the little table with a stub of pencil and several sheets of writing paper and thought hard. On the assault charge, he could produce no one who could help him. He had struck Covington and that was that. He must simply explain his tiredness and his frustration at being prevented from warning Rorke’s Drift. Desertion was another matter. Alice had said that Covington intended to throw doubt on Simon’s work in Zululand. Nandi and Dunn perhaps could help, but where were they? He only had a week. How to find them? They might well have left the country by now and he had no one to search for them - no team of lawyers or detectives. Jenkins . . . Alas, Jenkins was dead. He believed that now, beyond doubt, and his best friend could help him no more. He chewed the end of the pencil and dredged through his tired mind. Colonel Lamb would surely testify about his task in Zululand, and for the rest, he would just have to rely on character references: Major Baxter, who had mentioned him in his dispatches could, must, provide one, and Chard, of course, the other. That would have to do. He scribbled a rough note for Spalding and called for the sentry.
Alice visited him just once more during his week of waiting. He told her of the date of the court martial and of the procedure and she made a note in her book. She had gained an interview with Lord Chelmsford but had found him predictably guarded about Isandlwana and claiming little knowledge of Simon’s case. However, to Alice’s gentle suggestion that there did not seem to be much of a case to answer, the General had snapped that any question of insubordination and desertion in the face of the enemy by a commissioned officer had to be thoroughly examined. If not nipped in the bud, he declared, this kind of thing could run through the army like cholera - particularly when the army faced a savage and efficient enemy.
Simon’s heart sank at the news. It sounded as though they were going to make an example of him. Alice was reassuring but somehow distant and preoccupied. She could not stay long, she explained, because she was dining with the officers of the 2nd Battalion in the mess that evening and the next morning she had a journey to make. For the first time since their reunion, a little flame of jealousy flickered within Simon - but it was as much resentment of Covington, who would assuredly be her host, and envy of the sparkle and comfort of the occasion as any sexual emotion. Nevertheless, he reflected, as he threw breadcrumbs at a beetle scurrying across his floor, Alice did look gorgeous: like some houri from a glamorous former existence, serendipitously reappearing to taunt him. Life as a foreign correspondent was obviously suiting her. He stood up and squashed the beetle with his boot.
The day of the court martial arrived with one small boost to Simon’s morale. His campaign trunks, left behind at Cape Town when he sailed for Natal, had now been forwarded and he was able to wear his dress uniform for the trial:
tight (although not so tight now) red jacket with light green facing and polished brass buttons down the front; narrow dark blue trousers; gleaming black boots (buffed by himself, for he was not allowed a servant); the fore and aft glengarry on his head, with its black silk ribbons hanging down his back; and his sword. He felt that, at least, he now looked like a soldier.
The court martial had been set up in the largest of the wooden buildings in Helpmakaar. Even so, the room seemed small to Simon, who was marched in and told to sit on a folding camp chair set to one side. Two large benches stretched the width of the room and they faced a long table, behind which five chairs had been placed. At the side of, but set apart from, the top table a much smaller table had been set, with one chair behind it. A captain of engineers sat on the first bench, sifting through a pile of paper. Behind him sat two orderlies, with further files in cardboard folders. Two privates of the 2nd Battalion, with rifles and fixed bayonets, stood guard at the doors (why the bayonets, for God’s sake - did they think he would attack the whole court?) and the company sergeant major who had taken him to his shack stood ramrod-straight, cane under arm, against the far wall. He gave a friendly nod to Simon and just the suspicion of a wink. The room was hot and humid and Simon hoped fervently that he would not perspire and give the impression of unease. He had decided to comport himself authoritatively, speak the truth and react intuitively to anything that Covington threw at him. In the absence of seeing any formal submission of the prosecution’s case, that was all he could do.
Then, to his surprise, he saw Alice, sitting on a camp stool at the back of the room. To Simon’s eyes she stood out again as some fragrant anomaly in the harsh military surroundings of the room-a visitor from another planet where there were no bloodstained spears, disembowelments or butchered drummer boys. She had braided her long hair and wore it Dutch style, wound round her head to frame her face. Her blouse was now complemented by a long riding skirt in soft green, revealing the familiar polished boots. She seemed to favour no cosmetics but her teeth gleamed whitely as she smiled at him across the room.
