by John Wilcox
‘When I rode up to the drift, what was the first thing I said to you?’
‘You said that you had come from Isandlwana and that a large force of Zulus were on their way to attack us and then, presumably, to go on to invade Natal.’
‘Did I believe myself to be the first man to convey the news to you of the imminent attack by the Zulu impi?’
‘It seemed so. I had to explain to you that others had already brought the news of our defeat at Isandlwana and of our danger.’
‘Did I urge you to pack up and leave?’
‘Yes, but I explained that it was too late for us to do that because we would have been cut down on the road to Helpmakaar, and that we were staying to defend the mission and were prepared to fight.’
‘Quite so.’ Simon took a breath and decided to venture down a high-risk route. ‘I was delayed on my ride to warn you. If I had arrived, say, twenty minutes earlier, might it have been possible for you to have packed up and gone to Helpmakaar and so defended that place with the help of the garrison there and with almost certainly fewer lives lost?’
Chard frowned for a moment. ‘I suppose it would have been possible, but to be honest, I don’t think another twenty minutes or so would have done us much good. We would never have got the wounded away in time. We had to stay.’
Damn! But it was worth the try. Simon reverted to his original line of questioning. ‘When you explained the problem to me, did I then ride away as,’ he shot a scornful gaze at Covington, ‘a coward would surely have done?’
‘No. I offered you the chance to do so.’ Chard turned to the tribunal with a wry smile. ‘Several others had previously ridden by, but Fonthill agreed to stay and help us defend the station. We had only two commissioned officers.’
‘Indeed. During the defence, did I play a full part, manning the walls where ordered?’
Chard nodded vigorously. ‘Very much so. Bromhead and I were glad to have you with us. You fought through the night with the rest of us.’
Thank goodness for that, thought Simon. An unequivocal tribute at last! He decided to leave it at that.
‘I have no further questions,’ he told Glyn.
The chairman nodded to Bradshaw, who rose slowly to his feet. ‘I won’t keep you long, Mr Chard,’ he said. ‘But tell me. How long after Mr Fonthill’s arrival at the drift did the Zulus begin their attack?’
Chard pulled at his beard. ‘Oh, very soon afterwards, I would think. They seemed to be on his heels. Perhaps three minutes. Maybe even less.’
‘Ah.’ Bradshaw nodded sagely. ‘So isn’t it true that Mr Fonthill really had no choice in staying to fight? The Zulus were so closely on his heels - and he must surely have known this - that they would have cut him down in the open ground beyond the mission station, particularly with him riding a horse which must surely have been exhausted.’
Chard shrugged his shoulders and looked embarrassed. It was clear that he would rather have led a thousand bayonet charges against the Zulus than be forced to pin down a colleague from the witness box. ‘I suppose so. But it didn’t seem like that at the time.’
‘You suppose so,’ repeated Bradshaw. ‘Yes. Quite. Just one further question. During the defence of the mission station, did Mr Fonthill play a particularly distinguished role? In other words, did you give him any task that demanded special standards of bravery and leadership - such as leading a sally against the attackers? After all, he was one of only three officers in the defending force and you must have been in need of senior soldiers who could take a leadership role. Or did he just take his place along the walls with the rest of the men?’
Once again Chard looked embarrassed. ‘I . . . er . . . don’t think so. He was very tired, you see, having been at Isandlwana. I let him play his part, with the men, on the walls.’
‘Ah yes. Thank you, Mr Chard, I shall not bother you further.’
Simon had to admit that Bradshaw had done a good job. Suddenly his role at Rorke’s Drift had been cut down to size: not being able to run like a rabbit, he had been put on the mealie bag wall with the men, leaving the leadership to the hard-pressed subalterns Chard and Bromhead. Surely the young captain of artillery could earn a good living at the bar - particularly with Covington as his briefing solicitor! But Glyn was addressing the court.
‘. . . will now adjourn this court martial. You, Mr Fonthill, and you, Captain Bradshaw, will now write your cases for the defence and the prosecution respectively and mail them to the court by eight a.m. tomorrow morning. The tribunal will read them and then the court will reconvene to hear the Deputy Judge Advocate’s summing-up, after which we will adjourn again to consider our verdict. I estimate that we shall be able to reconvene for the last time to deliver our verdict by approximately four p.m. tomorrow afternoon.’ He sounded pleased that the miserable business was being concluded so expeditiously.
‘AttenSHUN!’ once more, and then Simon was back in his cell, sitting at the small camp table, hearing again Reynolds’s opinion of him as neither a malingerer nor a coward. It was the only good news he had received since first he and Jenkins had crossed the Tugela. Not a coward! Of course not. He had always known it - but how good to have it confirmed! What effect would Reynolds’s evidence have on the court martial, though? Covington’s case against him on the second charge was now circumstantial, although the QM’s evidence remained potentially damaging. He must now write a reasoned defence, one that would save his life.
It fell, of course, into two parts. The justification of his knock-down of Covington must be that he felt that his arrest could delay the news of the Zulu attack so that the border post would be taken by surprise. Violence was the only route he could take to do his duty - and Covington had manhandled him . . . The second charge was more amorphous. Lamb had confirmed that his orders were to play an intelligence role behind the Zulu lines, but, dammit, he had no witnesses to show that he had played the role. That was the rub. Best simply to tell the truth and make it sound as plausible as possible. At least this time he had a serviceable pen and not a stub of pencil. He began scratching away.
The court was reconvened at eleven o’clock the next morning to hear the Deputy Judge Advocate give his summing-up, after he and the other members of the tribunal had read the written cases for the prosecution and the defence.
The tall man rose, arranged his notes on the small table in front of him, grabbed his gown with both hands at his breast and looked around him. His face was thin and clean-shaven and the years of studying briefs showed in his eyes, which, behind his spectacles, were pale and watery. He began by explaining that his role was to help the members of the tribunal by advising on points of law and, specifically, by summing up the written cases and the evidence that had been heard. The sentences on both charges could be challenged on appeal by Simon to the Commander-in-Chief in South Africa - if it was decided that he had grounds for doing so - and the C-in-C, if he wished, could pass the appeal on to the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army at the Horse Guards in London.
Simon looked to the back of the court. The camp stool had been untenanted after the first few minutes of the first day. Alice, it seemed, had better things to do. He tried to concentrate on the words that were being dropped into the quietness of the courtroom like dry pebbles plopping into a tranquil pond.
The prosecution case, as summarised by the lawyer, was pure Covington. Simon had hit him to resist arrest after fleeing from Isandlwana when the fighting became difficult before the line broke. He and Jenkins had been nowhere near Cetswayo’s capital - how could any British officer who spoke no Zulu have survived there? - and had camped out in Zululand, sending back speculative information to the Cape, planning to rejoin the British column after it had successfully defeated the Zulus. However, they had got their timing wrong and had arrived at Isandlwana by mistake before the battle. The Surgeon Major’s view on the accused’s coma was, by his own admission, speculative, given the unknown nature of such a condition. Better to trust the judgement of Font
hill’s CO, who had known him for three years. The judgement on both counts must be guilty.
The lawyer’s summation of Simon’s case was equally balanced and forensically presented. However, here the Deputy Judge Advocate began, almost imperceptibly, to interpose some doubts of his own: the blow had been struck, the defendant was not denying it, but was the justification for it warranted, even in time of stress and war? Also it might be felt that the accused’s story of his four months in Zululand did seem perhaps to have been unusual, if not highly coloured. After all, he had been given an order by Colonel Lamb to return immediately to Natal and he had not done so. On the other hand . . .
The lawyer’s dissertation continued, the cool, carefully balanced phrases dropping limpidly into the humid little room. Colonel Glyn hardly took his eyes off the tall man throughout his summing-up; and then Simon realised, with a start, that Covington was sitting in the room, listening intently, one elegant leg crossed over the other, a finger stroking his moustaches.
Eventually the lawyer finished and, with a half-bow to Glyn, sat down. Simon felt that the delicate balance of the scales had been marginally tipped against him.
The Colonel took a gold watch from his pocket, consulted it and said, ‘We will now break for luncheon and consider our verdict. We will reconvene as soon as possible afterwards.’
Once again Simon was led away to his room in the shack, but this time he had no appetite for the simple fare provided for him. Whatever euphoria had been created by Reynolds’s evidence had now disappeared under the probe of the lawyer’s analysis. It was clear which way the verdicts would go: he would either be cashiered or shot. Both ways would bring dishonour and, quite soberly, he decided that he would prefer the latter. He was well aware of how structured was the society in which he had been brought up and of how heavy were the penalties for those who broke the rules. It was quite acceptable to be a privately dishonourable man; many men were, and even flaunted it. It was the public disgrace that was unforgivable - and it would be shared, in that cruel fashion of the day, by his parents. He would rather join Jenkins, that inestimable man who had lived by his own clear and, to the sensible mind, quite moral set of rules.
And Alice? Betrayal? No, far too strong a word. She had obviously tried to help and failed, and anyway, what could she have done in this militaristic milieu? She had her own life to lead and her own career to follow. Clearly she had attended the first morning of court to see if it was worth reporting and, realising that it was not, she had returned to more important matters, like following the progress of the war. Yet he would miss her - and Nandi . . .
The call for the resumption of the court came quickly - too quickly. The judges must have made their decision with almost indecent speed. Simon felt the certainty of disaster. As the tribunal members filed in, not one of them caught his eye and the two young captains looked positively sad. A low, tuneless humming came from the back of the room: Covington was singing to himself.
The Deputy Judge Advocate was the last to appear, and as he flared out his gown to sit, so the door to the courtroom opened and in bustled Alice. Without a glance at Simon, she hurried to the lawyer, gave him an envelope and then returned to the stool at the back of the room, followed by an astonished glare from Covington. Colonel Glyn rose and addressed Simon, who was already standing and desperately trying to stop his legs from shaking.
‘Lieutenant Simon Fonthill,’ he began in low tones, ‘this court martial has . . .’ The lawyer was also now standing and leaning towards the Colonel, whispering to him. The two men stood together for some thirty seconds like conspirators, before the Advocate handed Glyn the letter and sat down. ‘One moment, please,’ said the Colonel, then he too sat, adjusted his spectacles and read the letter. After he had finished he leaned forward to the lawyer and began another whispered conversation with him. Simon strained hard but could pick up no discernible phrase. Eventually Glyn nodded and removed his spectacles.
‘Please sit down,’ he said to Simon and turned to address his colleagues ranged along the table. ‘Gentlemen, although we have reached our verdict, there has been a development that I am advised we must take into account, and that, I fear, will mean a further adjournment after we have heard it.’
He held aloft the letter. ‘This has just been delivered to the court. It is from Colonel Lamb, Lord Chelmsford’s Chief of Staff in Cape Town, who has already submitted an affidavit to the court. The Colonel urges us to hear evidence from one more witness before we come to a decision - evidence that, he claims, is of some importance. I am advised that, as this letter has reached us before we have delivered our verdict, then we are still in session and that we should hear and, if necessary, question this witness, who is waiting outside. Do you all agree?’
Four heads nodded in agreement, but then Covington stood. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I must protest. You have heard a great deal of evidence already and spent much time on this case. Isn’t it time it was closed and justice done so that we can all return to the business of taking revenge for the awful reverse the army has sustained?’
Glyn looked enquiringly at the lawyer. The Advocate rose. ‘The court martial was not closed when this new witness was presented by a senior officer of the General Staff,’ he intoned. ‘In my opinion, if you do not hear this evidence, then you give the accused clear grounds on which to enter an appeal against your verdict; an appeal which, in my opinion, would have every chance of being sustained.’
Simon looked at Alice with wide eyes. Covington, too, was now glaring at her. With a pretty gesture, she resumed fanning herself with her notebook and smiled sweetly at both of them in turn.
‘I accept that,’ said Glyn. ‘Let us therefore hear the witness.’ He held his spectacles to his nose and read, ‘Miss Nandi Dunn.’
As the words echoed round the room, Nandi was ushered in by the sergeant major.
‘My God!’ exploded Covington. ‘She’s half Zulu. How can we give credence to what she says? She’s a damned half-breed!’
The damned half-breed flinched as she heard Covington’s words but gave a small smile to Simon and then a larger one to Alice, who nodded back encouragingly. Nandi was wearing the simple cotton shift that Simon remembered so well, and her glistening hair was pulled back demurely and tied with a scrap of orange silk. She was wearing shoes for the occasion, Simon noted: well-cut leather pumps with a high heel. She was clearly nervous but she looked ravishing.
Her appearance was not lost on Colonel Glyn. ‘Please do sit down, young lady,’ he said. ‘Now,’ he looked again at Lamb’s letter, ‘will you please tell us your full name, give us your address and tell us your occupation - if you have one, that is,’ he added kindly.
‘My name is Nandi Elizabeth Dunn. I live with my mother and father in Natal, near the Lower Drift of the Tugela. I have no formal occupation, although I assist my father.’
‘And what does he do?’
‘He is chief of intelligence to General Chelmsford for the column that is now being prepared to cross the Tugela and relieve Eshowe.’
Glyn looked up at Covington, and beneath his beard, his lips curved in the faintest of smiles. ‘Is he now?’ he murmured.
‘Yes, sir.’ Nandi now spoke with a little more confidence. ‘He has just been appointed to this position by the Commander-in-Chief. My father is English, you know, or at least, Irish, although he has lived all of his life here.’ She directed this last sentence, with a touch of hauteur, at Covington, who scowled at her. Simon was forced to put his hand to his face to hide a smile.
‘Very good, Miss Dunn. Now please tell us in your own words as much as you know of what has happened to Mr Fonthill over the last four months, or since you met him. However, you must only tell us what you yourself observed at first hand. No hearsay. Please proceed.’
Nandi stole a quick glance at Simon and then, in her low voice, began to tell the story of his and Jenkins’s sojourn in Zululand, taking in the dispatch of Jenkins to Cape Town, Simon’s journey to Ulundi, hi
s imprisonment and his escape with Jenkins. As she related her own nocturnal visit to the prison hut in the Zulu capital, her words seemed to echo in the courtroom, so profound was the silence.
‘How do you know that they were able to make their escape?’asked the Deputy Judge Advocate in a rare intervention.
‘I know,’ said Nandi, ‘because before I left Zululand, I talked to one of the Zulu warriors who had attacked Mr Fonthill and Mr Jenkins when they had gone about seven miles from Ulundi. He said that both men got away after fighting like wounded buffaloes - particularly the thin one.’ She turned and nodded towards Simon.
‘Hearsay, I’m afraid, and not allowable,’ murmured the lawyer, half to himself. ‘But interesting despite that.’
There was little more to be said. No further questions were directed at Nandi and the court was adjourned. Simon had no chance to exchange words with either Nandi or Alice before being escorted back to his quarters. There, he sat at his table staring unseeingly at the wall. His mind tried to grasp the significance of Nandi’s evidence. Was it enough to show that he had not been lying about his imprisonment and escape, and more significantly, would the words of - what had Covington called her? Yes, a ‘damned half-breed’ - would they have weight with this tribunal of men who clearly regarded non-whites as inferior beings? Of course they had made up their minds to find him guilty before Nandi’s arrival. Would they swallow their pride and change this verdict? The more he considered the question, the more he found it unlikely. Covington was such a strong presence in that group and he was clearly determined to pin his man down, like a butterfly to a dissecting table, and so complete the ritual of humiliation begun so long ago - and the force of this persecution had been redoubled after Simon had struck him. For Covington, the blow had been more than physically painful; it had been an affront to his dignity and his superiority. It must be avenged. Simon put his head in his hands. It all seemed so inevitable and so damned unfair! But he must prepare for all eventualities. He sat up and pulled pen and paper towards him and began writing a letter. It did not take long, for it contained only three sentences. He addressed the envelope, sealed it and waited for the call back to court.
