by John Wilcox
Covington’s eyebrows rose. ‘Strong words from a man who usually lets a woman talk for him. Very well, Fonthill, creep away. I am sorry that I shall not have the opportunity of breaking you, but no doubt someone else will. Be off with you.’
‘Oh no. Not quite yet. There are several things I want from you.’
‘Damn you. You’ll get nothing from me.’
‘Indeed I will. First of all, I want a month’s pay. I need to draw from the battalion’s paymaster some cash against my salary banked in Cape Town. Secondly, I need fresh clothes - mufti hunting gear will do. I know that the stores have it. Then I need a Martini-Henry and a service revolver with ammunition, a bedroll and a horse, together with a saddle, bridle, and so on. I have noted these needs down here as an instruction to the QM,’ he threw the paper on to the table, ‘and it only requires your signature. I will give you a receipt.’
Covington’s eyes narrowed. ‘You can go to hell.’
‘No, not there. I shall go to Lord Chelmsford. I understand that he is already upset by the fuss you caused by calling this court martial on what turned out to be completely false charges, and he will not be amused to hear of the way in which you interfered with and delayed the delivery of my message back to Colonel Lamb. I shall call the Adjutant to give evidence that you threw my messenger into the guardroom for two days.’
Simon kept his eyes fixed on Covington’s. ‘If I don’t get what I want, I shall relay to the C-in-C the full story of that interference and of your persecution of me. As it is, I doubt if His Lordship, with all of his other troubles at this time, is going to take kindly to the Horse Guards’ reaction when they read the account of the court martial in the Morning Post. And the court martial, after all, was your idea, was it not?’ He sighed, histrionically. ‘Oh dear. I shall make an awful nuisance of myself . . .’
Slowly, Covington drew the note towards him and scrawled his signature on the bottom. He threw it back across the table. ‘Take it and get out of my sight,’ he said. ‘By the time we next meet I too shall have mastered the ungentlemanly business of assegai fighting, I assure you.’
Simon had just saddled his horse and was lashing on the bedroll when he was approached by the sergeant major who had officiated at the court martial. The warrant officer saluted smartly and said, ‘Could I have a word, sir?’
Simon took the man’s hand and shook it. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen you, Sar’nt Major, because I wanted to thank you for being kind to me when I was down. I am grateful to you.’
The warrant officer looked embarrassed. ‘Oh, that was nothing, sir. There was plenty who rode away from Ishandwanee who didn’t get court-martialled and I just thought it was unfair, because I ’eard you fought like a good soldier at the Drift, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.’
‘Well, that’s very kind of you. There’s no need to call me sir any more, by the way. I have resigned from the army.’
‘Oh, that is bad news, sir.’
‘Yes, but there it is. Now if you will excuse me, I have to get on the road to the Lower Drift at Tugela. There’s a man there I have to thank.’
‘Very good, sir. But there is one more thing . . . although it’s probably of no use to you.’ He fumbled in his jacket and took out a slip of creased paper. ‘Ah, here it is. You asked me about that batman of yours, Jenkins I think it was. Do you remember?’
‘What?’ Simon grabbed the paper. ‘What is this?’
‘Well,’ the sergeant major rubbed his nose dismissively, ‘it may be nothing, but I did put the word out, like, and I understand that a Welshman has been brought in by a Boer farmer. He’s in that place down the road towards ’Maritzburg called Umsinger or something. He’s in a bad way but I gather he will live.’ He raised his voice. ‘Don’t depend on it . . . it may well be someone else.’
But the last words were lost upon Simon, who was already galloping down the dusty track towards Pietermaritzburg.
Chapter 18
Most of the dust on the twenty miles of track that linked Helpmakaar with Umsinga seemed to have transferred itself to Simon by the time he rode into the little town. The passage north of a ragbag assortment of hastily raised reinforcements from Pietermaritzburg and Durban had deepened the wagon ruts on the track, and fine weather for five days had let the dust clouds gather. He had passed nothing that looked like a hospital and he now seemed to be riding south, out of the town. Simon wiped his dry lips and accosted a black man, clad in old khaki overalls, who was squatting by the roadside.
‘Where’s the hospital here?’ he asked.
The man spat. ‘Ain’t no hospital here, baas.’
‘What’s that building there, then?’ Simon pointed to a long, low shed, outside which were tethered several horses.
‘Storehouse, baas.’
Simon dismounted stiffly and looped his reins over a hitching rail. Inside, the atmosphere was gloomy, but he realised he was in a vestibule. Opening a door to the left, he revealed stacks of mealie bags. The distinctive smell sent a sudden shaft of fear running through him as he recalled flames reflected from spearheads, wild black faces, a burning roof and noise - so much noise. Shaking his head, he opened a door to the right that led into an open room, more brightly lit by two windows, and containing four beds. Three of them were empty, but the fourth, in the far corner, contained a sleeping figure, half hidden by a sheet pulled to the chin. With his heart in his mouth, Simon tiptoed to the bed. As he neared, he made out, first, spiky black hair sticking out like a broom bottom along the white pillow, and then, mercifully, the shape of that familiar moustache.
Treading softly, Simon stole to the other side of the bed and looked down at Jenkins. He now saw that the hair on his crown had been carefully arranged around a dressing on his scalp, and another bandage seemed to sweep around his shoulder. The face was drawn but Jenkins seemed to be breathing easily and, certainly, was fast asleep. If it wasn’t for the dishevelled moustache, he would have resembled a cherub, swathed as he was in white.
Quietly Simon drew up a chair, sat down and began his wait.
He had no idea how long he had slept when he heard the familiar sing-song voice: ‘Hello, bach sir. ’Ow long ’ave you been there, then? I thought you was dead. But then I thought I was, too. Perhaps we are, eh?’
The black button eyes were shining merrily, and slowly a hand disentangled itself from under the sheet and extended towards Simon.
Simon enfolded it in both his own and found that he was unable to speak.
‘Ah, look you,’ said Jenkins, ‘we can’t be dead. If we was, then I wouldn’t be wearing this bandage and my ’ead wouldn’t’urt so.’ He stirred to look around. ‘On the other ’and, perhaps we’re in the other place. No fires, though.’ He smiled at Simon. ‘So I think we’ve survived after all.’
Simon smiled back. ‘352, I am so glad that you made it. I had given you up for dead, I really had.’
Jenkins struggled in his bed and laboriously pushed himself higher on the pillow. As Simon bent to help him, the Welshman put out his good hand in restraint. ‘No, no. I can manage and I’m feelin’ quite a bit better, really. ’Ad a good sleep, look you. So glad to see you, though. They told me - as best I can remember - that very few ’ad got away from the battle, and I’ve bin lying ’ere, see, driftin’ in and out of a kind of sleep, and thinkin’ what a pity . . .’ He smiled. ‘All right now, though.’
‘Who is looking after you?’
‘Well, an army doctor first patched me up, see, an’ then a nice enough little black woman ’as bin comin’ in and out to feed me and change me dressings and that. But I bin sleepin’ most of the time, I suppose. Tell me, bach, what ’appened?’Ow did you get away?’
Simon related his story, omitting any reference to the court martial. He had almost finished when a small native woman appeared, gave a warm smile to Simon and, putting a thin arm under Jenkins’s body, lifted him up surprisingly easily and fed him some gruel from a wooden bowl.
‘It’s just me ’ead an
d me right ’and, see,’ said Jenkins apologetically. ‘That spear in me back didn’t do too much ’arm, but it knocked me down and it’s still difficult to use me ’and, though it’s gettin’ better every day.’ He sucked at the spoon. ‘What did the most damage was crackin’ me ’ead on a rock as I ’it the ground. I was out for quite a few seconds. Then I was dimly conscious of you standin’ over me and fightin’ with your rifle and lunger like . . . well, like a Welshman.’ He looked across at Simon shyly. ‘I was grateful for that, bach sir, so I was. If it ’adn’t bin for you, they might ’ave put another spear in me as I lay, or torn me belly out, like.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. I was forced away by the Zulus all around. I tried to stay with you but couldn’t. Then I tried to get back but it was impossible. But tell me, what happened to you?’
Jenkins took the bowl from the woman’s hand, balanced it on the bedclothes and nodded cheerily to her. ‘Thank you very much, missus, I can manage quite well now.’ She smiled, stayed to wipe his mouth very quickly with a cloth and then padded away on shoeless feet. ‘Very nice little woman. Looks after me well. Right, I’ll tell you the story. It won’t take long.’
He scraped the bowl with his spoon. ‘Well, I was more or less coming to but I could see you ’ad to leave me, so I felt it was better to keep me ’ead down for a minute or two, see. Several of the black chaps just trod on me but they was a bit busy, like, and wasn’t botherin’ too much about me.
‘I must ’ave passed out again at that stage because I came round and found I was lookin’ at the biggest army boot you’ve ever seen in your life, plonked there, see, just by me face. I thought to myself, I know that boot. So cautiously I turned and looks at the other one, just there on the other side of me ’ead. Very carefully, in case it was a Zulu who ’ad captured them boots, I looks up - and I was right! There’s old Coley, Colour Sergeant Cole, standin’ over me with ’is rifle and bayonet at the ready just like England’s Old Glory. ’E’s a big man, is old Coley, and he looked a fine sight then. ’E’d lost ’is ’elmet and’is ’air is quite grey, long and straight, and ’is white teeth were a-flashin’. Seein’ me move, ’e looks down and says, “Malingering again, 352 Jenkins? Get up or I’ll put you on a charge as sure as God made little apples.” So ’e gives me a little kick, like, and, some’ow I struggles to me feet, me ’ead singin’ like a lark in a field.’
As though his appetite was revived by the memory, Jenkins took a piece of bread and awkwardly wiped it round the bowl. ‘Now, when I’m up, look you,’ he resumed, ‘I find I’m in a little circle of the lads from the 1st Battalion who were standin’ shoulder to shoulder and slowly - with Coley in charge - movin’ up the ’ill to that neck place on the top. They’d run out of ammunition but they was presentin’ their lungers to the Zulus real proud, I can tell you. Anyway, Coley gives me a rifle an’ bayonet from one of the dead chaps and I joins ’em, though I’m still very weak. In fact, if I ’adn’t bin rammed into the circle, like, I would probably ’ave fallen down.’
He sniffed at the memory. ‘Somehow we clung together, although there was ’ardly enough blokes left to keep a circle goin’. Then, suddenly, a lot of free ’orses - probably from those Natal Mounted fellers, remember? - galloped through the crowd an’ broke us all up. Old Coley grabs one by the reins as it goes by - it takes a big man to do that - and I thought, Well now, ’e’s off, an’ good luck to ’im. But no. ’E ’alf ’elps,’alf throws me into the saddle, looks me in the eye and says, “Jenkins, I got you into this bloody mess in the first place back there in Birmingham. Now I’m givin’ you the chance to get out of it. Off you go!” An’ he slaps the ’orse’s arse and off we go,’ell for leather, with me clingin’ on like . . . well, no disrespect, sir, but like you.’
Simon smiled. ‘What happened to Cole?’
Jenkins looked down his nose and paused for a moment before answering. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I looked back once and caught a quick glimpse of ’im. There he was, standin’ as tall as Nelson in Trafalgar Square, presentin’ an’ lungin’, presentin’ an’ lungin’ as though ’e was showin’ recruits ’ow to do it. ’E was on ’is own an’ completely surrounded. It was as if the Zulus were afraid of ’im.’ Jenkins sniffed. ‘But ’e couldn’t’ave lasted five minutes like that, with ’is back unprotected, like. Silly bugger. ’E could ’ave got away, see, on the ’orse ’e gave me.’
The two men were silent for a moment. Outside they could hear the rattle of harness and the creak of an axle as a wagon went by. Inside, in the cool of the room, everything was quiet.
‘He was a very brave man,’ said Simon.
‘Aye, he was. You know, bach sir,’ Jenkins lowered his bowl to the floor and, with his elbow, pushed himself up higher on the pillow, ‘I’ve bin thinkin’ a bit about this bravery business. In particular,’ he shot a quick, slightly embarrassed glance at Simon, ‘I was thinkin’ about you an’ all that.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Simon, looking away. ‘Well, you know very well that I’m not brave.’
‘That’s just the point, see. We’re all not particularly brave. The bloke who struts about when the spears are flyin’ is usually just a show-off, isn’t he? But most of us can do our bit when we’ave to. You did that on that bloody ship - and then in that gully when all you ’ad was a bit of a spear. But you are not and never was a coward, see. Although, perhaps you thought you was goin’ to be . . .’ He tailed off.
‘You mean when I collapsed in the mess?’
Jenkins nodded his head vigorously, glad to have avoided having to spell it out. ‘Yes, well, see, I knew what they was sayin’ about you at the time . . .’
‘That I’d faked the collapse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you think I was faking, back there in the hospital?’
‘Course I did. You were, weren’t you?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No. I have been told recently that it was something to do with concussion that I received before - that and what has been called my high imagination. I think it’s known as hysterical fugue, or something like that.’
Jenkins blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, I’ll be blowed.’
‘But look,’ said Simon. ‘If you thought I was a fake, why did you want to be my servant, and then why stay with me?’
Jenkins wrinkled his nose. ‘Well, at first I just wanted to get out of that ’ospital, and as I told you, I didn’t fancy just goin’ back to servin’ in the ranks again and bein’ told what to do by every Tom, Dick an’ ’Arry. An’ you seemed a nice young feller, with respect. The blokes in your platoon said that you was a good officer, though they said you couldn’t ride for toffee.’
‘Well, they were right about that. Though I’m much better now.’
‘Glad to ’ear it. About time. Anyway . . .’ Jenkins looked slyly up at Simon, ‘I felt that you could do with a bit of lookin’ after, until you found your feet, that is. An’ then, on that blasted boat, I realised that you’d got good stuff in you, and once we were off that pleasure cruise, I began to enjoy myself.’
The effort of talking and of putting usually unspoken thoughts into words was making perspiration run down Jenkins’s face, but he went on, leaning forward. ‘That collapsin’ business, look you. That was not really physical, see. You can be as physically brave as the next bloke. It’s the brain stuff, p’raps, as did for you then - you got frightened about bein’ frightened, see, and then you passed out. It’s the imagination, see. But you’ve been there now, with a spear an’ rifle an’ bayonet, an’ you’ve done it all. You know now that you can’andle it, see.’
The force of the argument exhausted Jenkins and he fell back on to the pillow, his black hair plastered to his forehead. Simon smiled slowly at him.
‘Frightened of being frightened, eh?’ he said, his brain trying and failing to drag up once again his emotions on hearing the Adjutant’s voice as he announced the regiment’s posting abroad. ‘Frightened of fear itself. Hmmm.’ He leaned forward and took Jenkins’s hand again. ‘
Jenkins, you are not only a splendid sommelier, a horseman nonpareil, a fighter par excellence and the worst boot cleaner in the world - you are also a master philosopher. I shall think about what you have said.’
Jenkins’s eyes brightened. ‘Very nice of you to say so, sir, although I ’aven’t understood ’alf of those words. But now, what’s next for us, then?’
Simon shook his head. ‘No, first complete your story. How did you ride to this place? It’s a bit off the beaten track and most of the refugees from the battle crossed the Buffalo further north and ended up in Helpmakaar, like me.’
‘There’s not much to tell, really. If I’d been a bit fitter, look you, I would probably ’ave followed the crowd to that Fugitive’s Drift place they’ve been telling me about. An’ I’d never ’ave got through there because I was as weak as a ninny and couldn’t’ave defended meself. I was so weak that I just gave the ’orse its ’ead and it must ’ave meandered off the trail and gone further south, or do I mean west? You know I can’t find me way around on me own. We wandered off into the bush, and because the Zulus were a bit busy with you lot, we weren’t followed. We crossed the river somewhere and that made me pretty exhausted, so I fell off the ’orse on the other side after a bit. A farmer bloke eventually found me and brought me ’ere. I’ve bin in a bit of a fever but I’m getting better by the hour.’
He touched his head dressing. ‘They’ll ’ave this off soon and then I can report for duty again. So - what do we do next? I’m still your servant, look you.’
Simon looked sadly round the room and then back at the little Welshman. ‘I’m sorry, 352,’ he said. ‘I think it’s the end of the partnership. You see, I have resigned my commission. I’ll tell you about it when you’re fitter.’
Jenkins’s eyebrows rose comically. ‘Well I’ll be blowed again. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll come out with you.’
