The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  He was in time to hear the clerk of the court open the proceedings by reading the charge against Jenkins, who stood in the partitioned box reserved for defendants, looking rosy-cheeked and freshly scrubbed. Simon’s heart went out to him, for the Welshman had donned his only suit and made every attempt to plaster down his stubbly hair. He bore the appearance of a collier at Sunday morning chapel. But would this air of innocence prevail?

  The charge accused Jenkins of assault and attempting to cause actual bodily harm. It was short and to the point and was taken up by the solicitor who appeared on behalf of Reeves, a small, birdlike man who wore his pince-nez on the end of his nose and who, when he spoke, did so with a sniff.

  ‘May I begin,’ he intoned, ‘by revealing to the bench a little about the defendant’s background.’ He examined a document in his hand and turned to Jenkins. ‘Is it true that you joined the army in 1874 and achieved the rank of corporal?’

  Simon’s heart sank. This man had done his homework.

  Jenkins beamed and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

  The solicitor’s thin nose rose into the air and he addressed the ceiling. ‘But you were reduced to the ranks, I think, some two years later. Why was that?’

  The smile had left Jenkins’s face now. ‘I was forced to ’it a colour sergeant, sir.’

  ‘Forced! Forced! What do you mean?’

  ‘I was forced to ’it ’im because he ’it me on the ’ead with’is swagger stick, sir.’ A murmer of laughter ran round the public gallery, causing the chairman of magistrates to scowl upwards in disapproval.

  ‘And because hitting someone of superior rank is a serious offence,’ continued the lawyer, ‘you were sentenced to one year’s detention in the army’s detention centre in Aldershot, were you not?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mr Jenkins, is it not true that you have always been of a rebellious and violent nature?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, sir, though I don’t like bein’ put upon, like.’

  ‘Indeed. And is it not true that you often imbibe alcohol to the point that it inflames this violent nature of yours and you get into fights? Eh?’

  ‘No. Well . . . not often, see.’ Jenkins was now visibly squirming. ‘P’raps once or twice. But it always takes two to start a fight, you know.’

  ‘Is it not true that since you came to live under Major Fonthill’s roof only three months ago, the police have twice been called to eject you from . . .’ the lawyer referred to his notes, ‘a public house called the Black Dog because you were involved in an affray?’

  ‘Yes. But I wasn’t the only one, you see . . .’

  ‘That will do, Mr Jenkins. Now, I want to turn to the events of the morning of the second of March last. If I may, your worships, I would first like to call the Honourable Tobias Barker,’ he gave the magistrates a dry smile, ‘no stranger, of course, to this Bench.’

  The elegant second rider came forward and, under careful prompting, gave his account of what had happened in the field near Wellard’s Cross. The facts as he related them were not specifically inaccurate, but they skilfully shaded the evidence against Jenkins. Major Fonthill had almost unseated the Colonel, who had merely tapped Fonthill on the shoulder with his whip, while Jenkins had moved in as quickly as an assassin and used a gutter fighter’s tactics to wound the Colonel.

  The beginning of Reeves’s own testimony was delivered with the Colonel leaning heavily on a stick, until the chairman insisted that he sit. From his chair, Reeves spoke in a voice that seemed to thunder back from the wood panelling cladding the walls. The charge of trespassing was ridiculous. All landowners around Brecon allowed the hunt to cross their land. It was a matter not only of tradition but also of good housekeeping, because the huntsmen kept down the fox population and so protected the sheep flocks. As for his so-called attack on Major Fonthill, it was really the other way around. Fonthill had grabbed his bridle so violently that he was virtually unhorsed and he had merely gestured with his whip to ward off the Major. The attack by the much younger Jenkins had been unprovoked and vicious. As a result, Reeves was still limping and forced to walk with the aid of a stick.

  At the conclusion of the Colonel’s testimony, the lawyer turned to the Bench. ‘I intend to call no further witnesses, your worships. I could call the landlord of the Black Dog if my references to the defendant’s behaviour there are challenged, but I have no wish to waste your precious time.’ He turned to regard Jenkins for a moment and sniffed. ‘For the same reason, I don’t even intend to cross-examine Major Fonthill. You have heard enough already to realise that this gratuitous attack on a respected member of our community by a violent man must result in a custodial sentence, of as severe a nature as the law allows.’

  He sat down and a murmur of – what? Appreciation, dissent, agreement? – ran round the old courtroom. For the first time, Simon realised that the public benches were full. His mother grabbed his hand. It was clear from the frown on her face that she felt the prosecution had made a strong case. She leaned towards her son. ‘Sir Roger should have been here,’ she whispered. ‘He doesn’t stand a chance, the silly man.’

  Jenkins, however, seemed unfazed. He gave his broad beam to the chairman of the magistrates as the latter asked, with some puzzlement: ‘I understand that you have no one to represent you, Mr Jenkins?’

  ‘That’s right, your honour.’

  ‘You will address the magistrates as your worship,’ interjected the clerk testily.

  ‘Sorry. No. I would rather speak for myself.’

  ‘Do you have any witnesses you would wish to call?’

  ‘Yes, your worship, Captain Simon Fonthill and his father, the Major. Then, after that, I would like to ask a question or two of the Colonel, if that’s allowed, like. Might as well get all the ranks in, eh?’

  His grin was not returned by the chairman. ‘That is quite in order,’ he said. ‘Now please call your first witness, but,’ he raised a warning finger, ‘I urge you to stay with the point and desist from making facetious remarks. This is a serious court of law. Pray do not waste our time.’

  The usher called for Simon, who, swearing at his unreadyness, slipped out of his seat and plunged down the stairs. Luckily, the hall was echoing with the buzz of conversation as lawyers met clients and witnesses and he was able to stride forward and apologise to the usher for ‘taking a walk’.

  In the witness box, facing Jenkins, Simon realised that the Welshman was not as composed as he appeared from the back of the court. He was perspiring slightly and his eyes betrayed his anxiety. ‘Now, Captain,’ he began, ‘much ’as been said ’ere about my character. Would you like to explain ’ow we met?’

  Taking a deep breath, Simon related how the two had met in the holding company of the 24th Regiment at Brecon, and how Jenkins had offered to be his servant and been gladly accepted. After leaving the army, they had been together for six years, acting as scouts through the campaigns in Zululand, Afghanistan and Sekukuniland, and had been offered permament positions, Simon as major and Jenkins as warrant officer.

  Jenkins’s beam had now returned. ‘Difficult to see, sir, that rank bein’ offered to an ’abitual drunkard, eh?’

  ‘Quite impossible, I would think.’

  ‘Thank you, bach . . . er, sorry. Thank you, sir. That will be all. That is . . .’ Jenkins whirled round to beam at the prosecuting solicitor, ‘unless this gentleman would wish to chat to the Captain, like?’

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows in disdain and shook his head.

  Simon left the court, and as his father was called, took advantage of the usher shepherding the Major into the courtroom to double up the stairs and regain his place at the back of the public gallery. His mother patted his hand. ‘Well done, dear,’ she whispered.

  As planned during their week-long preparation for the trial, Jenkins now turned to the question of trespass. Was the Major aware of the custom in the county for land to be crossed by the hunt when in pursuit of a fox?

&n
bsp; ‘Of course,’ said Fonthill. ‘That is why I wrote specifically to the MFH to explain my position. I took a copy at the time, and if the bench will allow, I will read it.’

  The chairman nodded. The Major’s letter was short but polite. It requested the members of the hunt to refrain from riding across his land, asked that if a fox was raised near his estate, it be headed off and that if this was impossible, the chase should be abandoned. Reeves’s reply had expressed his surprise at the request but promised to do his best to accede to it.

  ‘Ah.’ Jenkins turned to the bench. ‘P’raps your worships would like to hear from the Major why ’e so dislikes ’untin’?’

  ‘No we would not,’ growled the chairman. ‘Irrelevant. Get to the point.’

  Mrs Fonthill turned to her son. ‘They’re against us,’ she said. ‘Anyone can see that.’

  But Jenkins was unabashed. He asked the Major to relate exactly what had happened on that morning by the hawthorn hedge. He had not, Fonthill explained, pulled the bridle; merely held it to prevent Colonel Reeves from galloping away up the field. The whip had been used offensively and certainly not with a gentle tap on the shoulder. He had been hit severely across the shoulder and also across the face.

  ‘Oh,’ enquired Jenkins innocently, ‘enough to leave a mark, then?’

  ‘Yes. A small one, but enough to sting. Across the forehead, here.’

  The Major pulled back the lock of hair that hung over his forehead to reveal a red weal running above the right eye. ‘Here.’

  ‘Would you care to show their worships that, please?’

  The Major turned towards the bench. The three magistrates leaned forward and gazed intently. The chairman made a note.

  ‘One to us,’ hissed Mrs Fonthill. ‘Don’t remember that showing up before, though, do you?’

  ‘No, Mother. But damned good point.’

  The Major finished his evidence, and to Simon’s surprise, the prosecuting solicitor made no request to cross-examine. ‘Arrogant devil,’ muttered Simon. ‘He thinks he’s got it in the bag.’

  Jenkins, with ponderous deference, offered to recall Simon to give his version of events in support of the Major, but again the chairman felt that it would not be necessary and the prosecutor did not demur. Simon bit his thumb. Now came the key element of the trial, Jenkins’s cross-examination of the Colonel. Would the little man have the forensic skill to counter Reeves’s bluster and innate air of superiority – not to mention the obvious bias against him shown by the three magistrates?

  It was a surprise, then, when the Welshman took a completely different tack.

  ‘’Ow tall would you be, then, Colonel?’ he asked.

  ‘What? What? What on earth’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Oh, come on, sir. It’s a simple question. ’Ow tall are you? Five foot eleven? Six foot?’

  Reeves pulled back his shoulders and sat very straight in his chair. It was obvious, from the care with which he was dressed and the careful grooming of his side whiskers and moustache, that his appearance was important to him. ‘No. Six three.’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘Ah, a big man. An’ what weight would you be, then, Colonel? Thirteen stone or something like that?’

  Reeves turned to the bench. ‘Look here, this is ridiculous. What’s the point of these silly questions?’

  The magistrate on the chairman’s right nodded in agreement but the chairman held up his pencil. ‘I think I might glean a point,’ he said quietly. ‘Unless you specifically wish to avoid the question, Colonel, perhaps you would answer it?’

  ‘Very well. I’m just under sixteen stone, about two hundred and twenty pounds, for whatever that’s worth.’

  ‘An’ ’ow long in the army?’

  ‘Nineteen years.’

  ‘Cavalry or infantry?’

  ‘Cavalry. Dragoon Guards.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Jenkins nodded his head sagely, for all the world as though he was an ex-comrade chatting with the Colonel in their club. ‘The ’eavy stuff. Big ’orses.’ He paused for a moment. Simon began to sense that Jenkins was beginning to enjoy himself. If he became overconfident it could be dangerous. He had only the most tenuous hold on the chairman’s patience.

  ‘Now,’ Jenkins resumed. ‘Would it be right to presume that you ’ave ’unted all your life?’

  ‘Course I have.’

  ‘Good. Now, take your mind back to when you used your whip on the Major. We’ve ’eard that you just tapped the Major on the shoulder to make him let go of the bridle. Is that right?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘But in actual fact you lashed him twice, didn’t you? Once across the shoulder and once across the face?’

  ‘No, nothing as bad as that. Just a couple of taps.’

  Jenkins’s eyebrows rose histrionically. ‘A couple! I thought you said you touched him only once.’

  Reeves’s face darkened. ‘Oh, I can’t remember exactly. Once, twice, what does it matter?’

  ‘Well, with respect, sir, it matters a lot to the Major, ’cos you ’urt him, see, and now you’re sayin’ I attacked you. But more of that in a minute. If you only tapped the Major, ’ow did he get that nasty mark across his forrid, then?’

  ‘What? I don’t know. Perhaps the end of the whip caught him. I didn’t intend to . . .’ He turned to the bench. ‘I didn’t intend to cause harm, you know. The man was being damned infuriating.’

  But Jenkins was continuing. ‘So let’s see. We know now that you gave the Major two bashin’s with that whip of yours. Then, to stop you ’ittin’ ’im again, I tipped you out of your saddle. Do you remember what ’appened next?’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘What ’appened next, Colonel, was that I nipped round when you were sprawled on your arse and put out me ’and to ’elp you to your feet, but you ’it me across the wrist with that bloody whip and then, when you were standin’, you raised it to whip me again, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’ The big man’s eyes were now blazing. ‘And I’d do it again, damn you. How dare you throw me off my horse? And then you kicked me in the . . . er . . . groin. A cowardly, swinish thing to do.’

  Jenkins seemed quite unmoved. ‘Right, then. We’ve established that I tried to ’elp you get up but you wouldn’t let me, slashin’ me with the whip. An’ then you were goin’ to whip me again until I defended myself with me boot an’ stopped you.’ He turned to the bench. ‘So the picture is this, then, your worships. ’Ere’s this big man, on ’is ’orse, who attacks my master, then, when I ’elp the Major, ’e turns on me. Now . . .’ Jenkins sighed for effect. ‘The Colonel ’ere is six foot three and I’m just five feet four, as you can see. ’E’s sixteen stone and I’m eleven stone when I’ve ’ad a scrubdown, like. ’E’s a big man and ’e’s as fit as a fiddle ’cos ’e’s ridden horses all ’is life, ’unts twice a week and carried a big sword in the ’Eavy Dragoons when ’e was servin’. Now, ’e’s got a whip and I am unarmed. Was I goin’ to stand there and let ’im whip me? Of course not. We’re both ex-soldiers. ’E must ’ave known I would defend myself, and I did it in the only way I know ’ow, when faced with a really big man, see. In those circumstances, look you, you just ’ave to use your natural faculties, like. An’ that’s what I did.’

  As Jenkins paused, the court stayed silent. The Colonel’s jaw had now dropped and his eyes seemed quite protuberant. Simon smiled. The bench were now regarding Jenkins with, if not sympathy, at least careful attention. Was his rough but logical marshalling of the facts beginning to win them over? Simon was conscious that his father had joined him, standing at the back of the gallery. They exchanged grins. Mrs Fonthill, however, was unaware of her husband’s presence. Her eyes remained fixed on Jenkins as she leaned forward, fist supporting her chin.

  The little man had not finished. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s consider this terrible injury I inflicted on you.’

  Reeves blew out his cheeks. ‘I won’t have this sneering,’ he shouted.
‘I was in extreme pain and I can hardly walk, even now.’

  ‘What about ridin’, then?’

  ‘I find it incredibly difficult to stay in the saddle.’

  ‘But Colonel,’ Jenkins’s eyes were now wide in mock astonishment, ‘you can hardly walk or stay in the saddle. Yet you went out ’untin’ last Wednesday and stayed in the field all day. I know, and I can call witnesses to prove it.’

  ‘What? Well . . . I am recovering a bit, I suppose. I felt I had to stay out, you know . . .’ he turned to the bench again, ‘to set an example. Yes. To set an example . . .’ His voice tailed away and somehow he seemed smaller.

  But Jenkins did not wait for his adversary to recover his bluster. Quickly he turned to address the bench. ‘The facts are, your worship, that the Colonel ’as admitted that he struck the first blow or blows – and they weren’t just gentle taps either, ’cos they left their mark. It’s true I tipped ’im off ’is ’orse, but that was to stop ’im further ’urtin’ the Major, an’, of course, I kicked him in self-defence. ’E’s a big man and you can all see ’e ’as a temper, and if I’d let ’im, ’e would ’ave near murdered me.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Now, my lords, we can’t ’ave blokes goin’ round whippin’ other people in this day an’ age, now can we? Whoever they are. It’s the sort of thing that causes . . .’ he cast his eyes up to the ceiling in search of the right phrase, ‘revolutions an’ that. We saw this in Italy. Let them eat cake, wasn’t it? Well, we can’t ’ave that sort of thing in England, or Wales, look you. What I did I did in self-defence.’

  Jenkins’s face now adopted a lugubrious air of abject confession. He went on: ‘One last thing: I do ’ave too much to drink sometimes. It’s when there’s no soldierin’ to be done with the Captain an’ just nothin’ to do. But the lads at the pub will be the first to say that it’s six of one an’ ’alf a dozen of the other, ’cos it always takes two to cause a fight and no one would ever think of bringin’ charges, see. An’ my army record over the last six years ’as been . . . er . . . impecunious; no, impeccable, so it ’as.