by John Wilcox
Simon made to get up to speak to Alice, but a small shake of the head from the sergeant major made him resume his seat. Feeling as though he was waiting outside the headmaster’s study for a caning, he sat still, staring ahead.
Suddenly, the far door opened and the sergeant major bawled, ‘AttenSHUN!’ Everyone sprang erect except Alice, who rose languidly to her feet and began fanning her face with her notebook. Into the room filed five officers, resplendent in their dress uniforms although somewhat hampered by their swords, which trailed low from their belts. They were followed by a tall, slim civilian, wearing a black gown and lawyer’s wig. The latter sat at the small table at the side while the officers arranged themselves behind the long table.
‘Please do sit down,’ said the officer sitting in the centre. He wore the uniform of a full colonel and his voice was soft. Thick-set and rather red of face, he wore a full beard and adjusted a pair of spectacles as he looked at the papers before him. Then he removed them and adjusted his gaze to Simon.
‘Please stand,’ he said. ‘You are . . .’ The Colonel tailed away into silence as he noticed Alice sitting at the back of the court. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘this is a court martial. A very private procedure conducted by the army. I am afraid that we cannot allow you to stay.’
Alice rose and smiled. ‘With the greatest of respect, Colonel, I have every right to be here, as a member of both the public and the press, as long as I don’t make a nuisance of myself. This court martial is not private; it is an open court. I think that you will find that the Deputy Judge Advocate will agree.’ Still smiling, she sat down.
Slowly, the arm of his spectacles hooked into his mouth, the Colonel leaned back and towards the lawyer. They whispered for a moment and then the Colonel addressed Alice. ‘You are quite right, madam,’ he said. ‘I am grateful to you for pointing this out and preventing me from making a mistake. Please do stay.’ He gave her a courteous seated bow, to which Alice responded similarly.
The Colonel now turned to Simon. Having ascertained his name and rank, he explained that he would introduce each member of the tribunal and that Simon would have the chance of objecting to the presence of any of them. Their names were read to him: a lieutenant colonel, one major and two captains. The chairman introduced himself as Colonel R.G. Glyn, Commander of the 1st Brigade. Simon remembered that he had been in nominal command of the central column, under Chelmsford, and had accompanied the General on the ill-fated reconnaissance to the east of Isandlwana. He had therefore missed the battle.
Simon objected to none of the members of the tribunal and then listened with care as the two charges were read out. ‘How do you plead to each charge?’ asked Glyn.
‘Guilty to the first charge,’ said Simon, ‘but,’ he hurried on, ‘I wish to offer mitigating circumstances. To the second charge I plead not guilty.’
With a slight frown, Glyn looked across at the lawyer, who gave a small nod. ‘Very well,’ said Glyn. He then went on to explain that the prosecution would be presented by Captain Bradshaw, the officer sitting with a worried frown and his files on the front bench, who would call his witnesses. These could be cross-examined by Simon, as could Simon’s witnesses by Bradshaw - or any member of the tribunal.
‘Now,’ said Glyn, adjusting his spectacles again and holding up a document before him. ‘I understand that you have requested that Colonel Lamb, of the Commander-in-Chief’s staff, and Major Baxter, of the Royal Artillery, should appear to give evidence on your behalf. I am afraid that this will not be possible. Colonel Lamb has urgent business in Cape Town and cannot leave there at present and Major Baxter is besieged by the Zulu with Colonel Pearson’s force at Eshowe and, obviously, cannot be here. I understand that you wished to present both as witnesses of character rather than of events, so we have been able to obtain statements from them - with some difficulty, I may say, in the case of Baxter - which the court will accept as evidence. Lieutenant Chard, of course, will attend.’
Glyn looked over the top of his spectacles at Simon, who, feeling that some response was called for, said, ‘I am very grateful, sir,’ but inwardly cursed at losing the chance of fielding Lamb.
Captain Bradshaw now rather nervously rose to his feet. ‘I have three witnesses, sir,’ he said, ‘one of whom will give evidence on both counts.’ (Covington, of course, thought Simon.) ‘The second will speak only to the first charge’ (the sergeant, naturally) ‘and the third only to the second charge.’ (Now, who the hell can that be? mused Simon.)
Glyn nodded and the first witness was ushered in by the sergeant major. It was, predictably, Sergeant Evan Jones, of the 2nd Battalion 24th Regiment, who Simon had last seen standing thunderstruck beside the fallen Covington, out on the plain after Isandlwana.
Bradshaw, who had obviously rehearsed everything with great care, extracted from Jones all that he wished: the vagabond stranger riding out of the plain, being questioned by the Colonel and then suddenly striking down the senior man, before riding away quickly towards the Buffalo River, shouting vague instructions after him as he went. Glyn made several notes before turning to Simon, his eyebrows raised interrogatively above the spectacles.
Simon stood and cleared his throat. He must be cool, unprovocative, but firm. ‘Now, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Tell us what condition I seemed to be in to you, when I rode up.’
‘Well, with respect, sir, you seemed to be a bit of a mess.’ Smiles appeared on the faces of several of the officers at the table.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, you were a bit wild, like. You was agitated, see, and very badly dressed for an officer, like. You ’adn’t shaved properly and your coat didn’t fit and you looked a bit thin an’ wasted, though that didn’t stop you punchin’ the Colonel very’ard indeed.’
Simon frowned. This was not going the way he wanted it. ‘Did it look like I’d been in a battle, then?’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘Don’t know, sir. You wasn’t in proper uniform, that is certain.’
Simon tried another tack. ‘Did you hear Colonel Covington put me under arrest?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Did you hear me tell him that the General’s column was in danger of being ambushed and ask him to hurry back to tell the General that, while I rode off to Rorke’s Drift to warn the garrison there?’
For the first time the sergeant looked shifty. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, see. I couldn’t quite ’ear what the two of you was sayin’.’
‘Very well.’ The little swine had obviously been got at by Covington. ‘Did you see Colonel Covington grab me by the shoulder - my wounded shoulder - and swing me round when he tried to put me under arrest?’
‘I saw the Colonel put ’is ’and on your shoulder but I don’t know about any swingin’.’
Simon let the man go. He had obviously been well coached by Covington and was not going to let slip anything which might put his CO under pressure.
Covington was the next witness. Once again Bradshaw rather ponderously set the scene, eliciting that Covington had been given the task of finding a trail back to the Buffalo and a crossing downstream of Rorke’s Drift, should the column have to retreat. His questioning was so laboured, in fact, that Glyn interrupted testily. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘this is all irrelevant. Where and when it happened is not in dispute. Please get on with it.’
Damn, thought Simon. They are trying to rush this through. Where and when may not be in dispute, but how and why almost certainly are. So it proved when Simon began to question the Colonel.
The tall man’s blue eyes hardened as Simon rose. ‘Tell me, Colonel,’ he asked, ‘what did I look like when I rode up to you on that plain?’
‘Humph!’ Covington let the exclamation hang in the courtroom for a moment, as if to underline his contempt for the questioner. He was, as Simon knew he would be, arrogantly confident, in no way fazed by the ritual of the court martial. ‘You looked scruffy in the extreme, as though you had been sleeping rough in the bush for
some considerable time.’
‘But Colonel, I had fought at the battle of Isandlwana. Did I not look as though I had been through a battle - had been engaged in hand-to-hand conflict and seen my comrades massacred?’
‘No. You looked as though you had been sleeping rough in the bush.’ Covington repeated each word with emphasis.
‘Did you not see evidence of a spear wound in my shoulder?’
‘Certainly not.’
Simon looked at the completely blank piece of paper in his hand to hide his mounting anger. He must not appear provocative. ‘When I told you that there had been a battle and that the column at Isandlwana had been wiped out, what was your reaction?’
‘I didn’t believe you.’ Covington turned to the tribunal. ‘I knew that Pulleine had been left at the camp with some eighteen hundred men and I could not accept that he had been overrun. If I may say so, the Commander-in-Chief had exactly the same reaction when he first heard the news.’
‘Quite so,’ murmured Glyn sympathetically.
‘But you were wrong, Colonel, weren’t you?’ Simon pressed. ‘I was bringing you accurate news straight from the battlefield, was I not?’
Covington gave a cynical smile. ‘Oh yes. You’d seen the battle all right, but you hadn’t fought in it. You had run away from it and we intercepted you.’
‘You know that’s a damned lie.’
Glyn’s voice cut through the exchange like a sabre swing. ‘I will remind you, Mr Fonthill, that you are addressing a senior officer and you will treat him with respect. If I have any more behaviour from you of this nature, I shall stop the court martial and a verdict of guilty will be returned without any more ado. Do I make myself clear?’
Simon cursed inwardly. He must not lose control. ‘Yes, sir. I apologise.’
‘Very well. Continue, but in a respectful manner.’
Simon turned and looked once more into Covington’s icy gaze. ‘But I was right about the battle and I urged you to tell the General immediately, while I rode on to Rorke’s Drift to warn the defenders there. Why did you not do so?’
‘Because,’ Covington pushed up the end of one moustache and turned to address the tribunal again, ‘I am not in the habit of accepting orders from junior officers - particularly those I believe to be deserters.’
Ah, thought Simon, a chance at last. ‘But,’ he said, ‘you had no evidence then that I was a deserter, even if you have now - and I shall contend, of course, that you do not.’
Covington was quite unperturbed. ‘You are forgetting that I know you, Fonthill, and, from my previous experience when you served under my command, regard you as a malingerer.’ He addressed the tribunal again. ‘I was attempting to detain the accused for further questioning when he suddenly assaulted me, without, I may say, giving me any chance to defend myself.’
Simon turned to Glyn in appeal. Surely the court would not let that charge of malingering lie unanswered? It did not. The Deputy Judge Advocate leaned back in his chair and, behind the backs of two of the tribunal, engaged in a whispered conversation with the chairman. Glyn nodded and addressed his colleagues. ‘I am advised,’ he said, ‘that we should ignore Colonel Covington’s accusation of malingering until some evidence is presented to substantiate that charge.’
‘Ah, with respect, sir,’ said Covington smoothly, ‘I think that you will hear something more to that effect later in this hearing.’
So that old charge was to be resurrected! Simon’s mind raced. Best ignore it for the moment and face it when it came. He returned to his questioning. ‘Let us get back to the facts concerning my alleged attack on you, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Did you not seize my shoulder - my wounded shoulder - and swing me round quite sharply?’
‘Can’t say I did, actually. I merely put a hand on your arm to detain you from running away once again.’
Simon pressed on. ‘And did I not say to you that it was imperative to tell the General about Isandlwana and that I must complete my task of riding to the Border to warn the garrison that the Zulus were on their way to invade Natal?’
‘You were gabbling away somewhat incoherently as though you were in a blue funk, and I can’t remember what you said.’
‘And wasn’t it clear to everyone that by detaining me you were preventing me from giving that warning - and that that was the reason I hit you?’
Covington smiled. ‘Certainly not. You hit me to avoid arrest for desertion.’
Simon shook his head but turned to Glyn. ‘I have no further questions for the Colonel, sir,’ he said.
Captain Bradshaw also stood. ‘I have no further witnesses to call on this first charge, that of assault, sir,’ he said.
‘Very well,’ intoned Glyn, adjusting his spectacles and studying a paper in his hand. ‘As I see that Mr Fonthill has no witnesses to be called, then I suggest that we now consider the case against him on the second charge, that of desertion from the field of battle at Isandlwana. Captain Bradshaw, please present your case . . . oh, and, ah . . .’ He looked across at Covington, who was about to leave. ‘I see no reason, Colonel Covington, why you need to leave the court and hang about outside, so to speak, until you are called as a witness on this charge. You will be needed in just a few moments, I expect.’
Simon jumped to his feet. ‘With respect, sir, I do feel that it would be unfair for the Colonel, who I understand is the main protagonist in this case against me, to remain to hear what the other prosecution witnesses may have to say. It could have a bearing on the evidence he will give.’
Glyn’s eyebrows rose. ‘I don’t agree, young man. This is a court martial, not some civilian court of law where, I understand, such frivolous objections may be heard. I shall conduct these hearings in the way I think fit, not you. I do not believe for one moment that someone of Lieutenant Colonel Covington’s rank or stature would give prejudiced evidence and it does not reflect well on you that you should suggest it.’ He nodded to Covington. ‘Please stay, Colonel, if you wish.’
‘Very kind of you, sir, I’m sure,’ murmured Covington, taking a seat on the bench behind Bradshaw.
Simon turned his head to commune with Alice in his misery but she had left the court. He felt suddenly very alone and vulnerable.
Bradshaw now began his presentation of the second charge. He made no reference to the circumstances in which Simon had arrived at Isandlwana; they, he said, were a matter for conjecture and had no place in a court martial whose task was to ascertain the facts and to balance them. (The prosecutor, perhaps gaining in confidence from the performance of his two previous witnesses, was undoubtedly beginning to enjoy himself. As he gestured to Simon with one hand, he hooked the thumb of the other in his tunic, rather as a barrister would clutch the lapel of his gown. If he had a wig, reflected Simon, he would surely tilt it over his ear.) What mattered, emphasised Bradshaw, was that Simon Fonthill had been seen to leave the firing line and, via the ammunition wagon, double back up the neck of the mountain. Many others had done so, he conceded, but no officer had left the line before it broke. Such an act was tantamount to desertion in the face of the enemy and could well have contributed to the panic that ensued amongst the native levies and to the general collapse of the organised defence on the day.
It was, admitted Simon to himself, a competent and potentially damning indictment. But who could be produced as a witness to support it? - and Bradshaw (or rather Covington) had two witnesses to call on this charge. Who the hell could they be?
The first question was answered when Quartermaster Sergeant Morgan of the 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment was called. Simon immediately recognised the smug features of the man he had last seen in a wagon at Isandlwana, refusing to provide ammunition for Durnford’s native cavalry.
The questioning began. Morgan, it seemed, had escaped in his shirtsleeves from the battlefield by cutting across country and crossing the Buffalo further south of Fugitive’s Drift, the name poignantly given to the main crossing point of the men who had escaped from the battle an
d been pursued to it by the Zulus. He had ended up, more dead than alive, at Umsinger on the road to Pietermaritzburg. He described how he had seen Simon and Jenkins ordered into the line by an officer and then, later, how they had both doubled back from the line and appeared at his wagon demanding cartridges.
‘Then what happened?’
‘Well,’ said Morgan, ‘the private soldier this officer was with, see, tells ’im to fix ’is bayonet, and they jumps down from the wagon and legs it up towards the road back to the crossin’ place.’
Bradshaw’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, making the most, Simon surmised, of this little coup de théâtre. ‘What?’ asked Bradshaw, turning to the tribunal. ‘This private soldier ordered the officer to fix his bayonet?’
‘Yes, sir. Then they jumped out of the wagon and left me to it. Soon after, the Zulus were all around me and I ’ad to fight for me life. I think I got away because I wasn’t wearin’ me tunic, see.’ He turned to Colonel Glyn. ‘I’d stripped down to me braces, see, sir, because it was so damned ’ot in that wagon. That’s what saved me life, I think, because the Kaffirs seemed to be only after our chaps in the red regimentals.’
Glyn nodded sympathetically.
‘Now, Quartermaster Sergeant,’ said Bradshaw, ‘let me get this right. You first observed Lieutenant Fonthill watching the fighting, without taking part. Then he is ordered into the line to fight. Shortly afterwards, he runs from the line and appears in your wagon, and then - on the instruction of a private soldier, it appears - he runs back up to the neck of Isandlwana. Is that correct?’
‘Yessir. That’s about the size of it.’
