by John Wilcox
She swallowed. ‘Sir, my husband is no longer a young man. He is nearing fifty, I doubt whether—’
Curzon cut her short. ‘My dear Mrs Fonthill’ – Alice noted that the form of address had now changed – ‘I do appreciate your concern. But it is only a little over a year since Brigadier Fonthill, as he then was, was spending months in the saddle on the South African veldt in hot pursuit of those Boer generals Botha and de Wet, service for which he was awarded a DSO, to match his Companionship of the Bath. And, as you yourself have admitted, he is a man who quickly became bored at the life of a farmer back home. Kitchener himself was hugely impressed by the exploits of your husband in this late war and approves of him being approached to lend his services to help Younghusband and Macdonald in the difficult tasks ahead of them.’
‘Well, I will certainly put this to him, sir.’
‘No need to, ma’am. I have put my request to him in writing and I would be most grateful if you would carry my letter back to him.’ Curzon raised his voice. ‘Willoughby!’
‘Sir.’ The young secretary glided through the doorway.
‘My letter to Brigadier Fonthill.’
‘Very good, My Lord.’
Curzon was now beaming at his guest. Alice realised that this was a discreet form of blackmail: she had been granted the interview and been made privy to the Viceroy’s thoughts on Tibet in return for acting as messenger to Simon. Her thoughts turned quickly to picture her husband, bandana wrapped round his perspiring forehead, on his knees in the dust beside some recalcitrant tea plant, cursing it and wishing that he had never invested his money in tea growing in the hills of Assam. Go? He would be off like a shot!
She suddenly smiled. Two could play at this game.
‘Very well, Lord Curzon,’ she said sweetly. ‘I have a request to put to you.’
‘Certainly, dear lady.’
‘Well, if my husband accepts your request, I would like to accompany him on the mission.’
‘What!’ Within seconds, Curzon’s smiling face had turned to thunder. ‘Good gracious, no, madam. The mountains of Tibet are no place for a woman.’
‘Do you know, sir,’ she took a deep breath, ‘that is more or less what was said to me about the deserts of Egypt, when Wolseley invaded that country, the hills of Afghanistan when Lord Roberts fought the Afghans, the jungle of northern Matabeleland when Cecil Rhodes’s mercenaries created Rhodesia; the Khyber Pass when the Pathans revolted; and, indeed, the veldt of the Free State when de Wet and Botha roamed freely there. But I went anyway and reported on the deeds of our soldiers in all those places.’
‘Yes, but … there will be no place for wives in this column.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go as a wife. You will shortly be receiving a request from the editor of The Morning Post that I be accredited as a war correspondent for that newspaper with the column. I shall wish to be treated as I always have been: as a journalist reporting on a matter of keen public interest. And the background facts that you have so kindly given me today will help me considerably when I come to carry out that task. I am very grateful.’
Ten minutes later, Alice leant back luxuriously onto the cushions in the viceregal carriage that Lord Curzon had insisted that she use to travel to her hotel and hoisted her parasol with a smug smile. It had been a good afternoon’s work. She had gained splendid material for an exclusive story about what was undoubtedly an invasion by Britain of Tibet. She was, she knew, clever enough these days to roast the oleaginous Curzon in her story without appearing to deviate from reporting the facts, so staying within the the Post’s policy of supporting the Tory government through thick and thin. She would, of course, tell her unsuspecting editor that the Viceroy had certainly raised no objections to her accompanying the column as his newspaper’s accredited correspondent – he had, of course, no idea that she was intent on going – and she had no doubt that Simon would accept the offer contained in the Curzon’s letter, now housed safely in her handbag.
She would write her story that evening at the hotel, despatch it to London from the cable office, send a telegram to Simon in the morning and, with any luck, catch the train and commence the long journey back to Assam and her husband tomorrow afternoon.
Ah, Simon! She smiled as she summoned up his face, then frowned at the thought of the danger he would face on those Himalyan peaks. She had not been dissembling when she had talked of his age. Yet, all those years of campaigning and farming had, she knew, left him as fit as a man half his age. What was he doing now, she wondered, at that very moment, among the tea plants in Assam, some 450 miles away?
CHAPTER TWO
In fact, Simon was fingering the butt of his Webley revolver nestling in its holster, as he stood, feet wide apart, questioning his overseer among the neat rows of tea bushes.
‘Where did they go?’
The man was wide-eyed and obviously fearful. He gestured over his shoulder. ‘They disappear into the trees over there, sahib. About six of them. They have knives.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘Yes, one. They stab him in arm. He all right, though. We bandage him up. But they take the few rupees the men have. Everyone frightened.’
Fonthill frowned. The workers had downed tools and were huddled together in the middle of the plantation, surrounding the wounded man who sat on the ground holding his arm. The group was well away from the trees which swept down from the hills and marked the edge of the plantation in a geometric line. Simon could see the opening in the woods from which the attackers had debouched.
He cursed silently. The labourers had been imported from Southern India, for the Assamese were notoriously averse to working on the tea plantations. The immigrants were better workers than the locals but timid and terrified of the wild men of the hills. This was not the first time that the Nagas had visited and robbed. They would have to be followed and taught a lesson, otherwise they would come calling again … and again.
He looking at his overseer appraisingly. ‘Duleep,’ he said. ‘I left you with a rifle.’ He gestured to the old Lee Metford that the man was now using as a prop. ‘Why did you not use it?’
Duleep looked at the ground. ‘Ah, sahib. I was afraid that if I use it they would come at me with their knives. So I pretended to aim it at them and blew my whistle to fetch you, as you told me. When they heard it they run away.’
‘How long ago?’
‘About five minutes.’
‘Hmmm. Take the wounded man into the house and get Ahmed to look at the wound and treat it with antiseptic cream from the first-aid kit. But,’ he held out a restraining hand, ‘before you go, tell me if there is a good tracker amongst the men. Someone who could help me follow the Nagas’ trail. They can’t have gone far.’
The overseer thought for a moment, searching the huddled men with his yellow-balled eyes. ‘Yes, I think.’ He pointed. ‘That one, the young one, on the edge staring up the trail, his hands on his hips. He is young and strong and came originally from Tibet but he was brought up near Madras in the south, where there is much forest. I think he knows the ways of the woods, as well as mountains. And he is brave. He tried to attack the man who stabbed. Oh yes.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘Yes, he go to mission school, I think.’
‘Good. Call him over.’
Simon broke open his revolver and checked that six cartridges were still in their chambers. Then he emptied the cartridges from the cardboard box that he had brought with him from the bungalow and stuffed them into the pockets of his breeches.
Sunil now stood before him, a slim young man of sixteen or so, who held his head back and looked steadily into Fonthill’s eyes.
Simon held out his hand. At first the young Indian did not understand the gesture. Then, slowly – for he had never touched a white man before – he extended his hand and shook that of Fonthill limply, for he was, of course, unused to the custom.
‘Sunil, I understand that you tried to attack the Naga who stabbed your
friend.’
The Indian switched his gaze to the floor and spoke softly. ‘Yes, sahib. Man, he stabbed my uncle. My uncle not harm him. I was angry.’
‘You had every right to be. It was a good action. Thank you.’
The boy looked embarrassed. ‘I did little, sahib.’
‘Now, I propose to go after the Nagas. But I need someone to come with me. Someone who is not afraid of them and who can follow their trail. Can you do that, do you think?’
Sunil’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘Oh yes, sahib. I see the way they go. They crash through trees. I can follow. And,’ he thrust his chest out, ‘I not afraid of them.’
‘Good man. Can you fire a rifle?’
A frown crossed the black face. ‘No sahib. But I learn.’
Simon grinned. ‘You certainly will. Duleep.’ He spoke drily now. ‘As you don’t seem to want to use your rifle, please give it to Sunil here. I will show him how to use it. Pass over your bandolier, too.’
Sullenly, the overseer did so.
‘Now,’ Fonthill spoke to him again. ‘Sunil and I will follow these Nagas, find them and teach them a lesson they will never forget. You will be in charge of the plantation while we are away. If there is any trouble, send a man to fetch Mr Jackson on the next plantation. Understand?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Now, Sunil. Go back to the bungalow quickly and ask the cook to make sandwiches from last night’s lamb – you are not vegetarian, are you?’
‘No, sahib.’
‘Good. Bring water bottles and fruit. We may be away overnight. Go quickly now. We have no time to lose. I will wait for you at the beginning of the trail over there.’
‘Yes, sahib.’
Simon nodded to Duleep. ‘Now, fetch the wounded man and get the rest back to work. Tell them I am going to follow the Nagas and punish them so that they will never attack the plantation again.’ Then he walked firmly past the men towards the opening where the narrow trail through the forest ended at the edge of the plantation.
He stood looking at it for a moment. He could see no sign of men having rushed down it. The trees stood thickly on either side of it – no broken twigs or anything of that kind. The earth of the trail itself was hard and bore no signs of footprints. God, he hoped that Sunil did indeed have tracking skills, for he doubted if he himself could detect the way the attackers had gone, if they moved off the trail. He looked upwards. The trees closed in on either side of the narrow path and seemed impenetrably dark. It would be so easy for an ambush to be launched from them.
The Nagas had knives, of course. He swallowed hard. The thought of cold steel involuntarily reminded him of Zulus and of Rorke’s Drift all those years ago, where the warriors kept attacking the barricades in wave after wave through the night, howling and brandishing their assegais. He had seen stomachs ripped open by those blades that night. Damn! He should have witnessed enough blood spilt since that time to have washed away all those old fears. He shook his head and licked his lips.
If only 352 Jenkins was here! For over twenty years the stocky, immensely strong Welshman had been by his side through all the adventures he had shared with Alice, and sometimes with just the two of them, miles behind enemy lines. Known affectionately only by the last three digits of his army number – to distinguish him from the many other Jenkinses in the old 24th Regiment of Foot, that most Welsh of all British units – Jenkins had been his batman and had stood by him when he had been falsely accused of cowardice during the Zulu War. Together they had gone on to wipe away all memories of that accusation. After serving as the regimental sergeant major to the column of Mounted Infantry that Simon had commanded against the Boers, Jenkins had married at the end of the conflict and settled down to farm in South Africa.
Fonthill suddenly realised that, by going after the Naga tribesmen, he would be going into action again for the first time since 1878 without his old comrade at his side. Then the sound of footsteps made him turn his head to see a grinning Sunil running towards him, carrying a knapsack and rifle, the sun glinting from the cartridges cases in his bandolier. Well, he reflected, he had a new comrade now. He swallowed hard. Into battle once more!
He returned Sunil’s grin. ‘Give me the rifle. Now, watch me carefully. Before firing, make sure that there is a round inserted from the magazine into the breach, like this.’ He worked the bolt.
The youth’s eyes widened as he watched.
‘The magazine takes ten bullets. You load it by taking cartridges from the bandolier …’ and he went through the process of loading, aiming and firing. ‘Do you think you can do that, Sunil?’
‘Oh yes, sahib. I kill the man who hurt my uncle.’
‘Good.’ Fonthill smiled. ‘Now, as I shall be walking ahead of you I don’t want you to fire the gun accidently up my arse …’
‘Arse, sahib?’
‘Ah, sorry. It’s a rude word for bottom. This little lever is the safety catch. Put that on until you want to fire the gun. On second thoughts, as you are tracking you must go ahead, but I shall be close behind you. We need to look particularly to see if and where they leave the trail. Understand?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Good. Give me the haversack. Now, off we go. Quietly now. I don’t think they will expect to be followed, but you never know. They could be waiting in ambush, so look very carefully about you.’
Fonthill shouldered the haversack, withdrew his revolver from its holster and gestured ahead. Together, they began the climb. The plantation was situated some 4,000 feet above sea level and, although he was long acclimatised to the altitude, the trail through the woods was steep and Simon was immediately forced to draw in his breath in short gasps. Sunil, however, despite coming from the southern lowlands, seemed to have no difficulty and his long stride began to pull him away, until Fonthill drew him back.
‘Stay close,’ he hissed.
They had climbed for some forty minutes and pines were beginning to outnumber the bold birches which had fringed the trail earlier when the youth held up his hand and dropped onto his hands and knees.
Fonthill stood above him, revolver in hand, breathing heavily. ‘What?’ he mouthed.
Sunil held his finger up to his lips and beckoned Simon to kneel beside him. ‘Look,’ he whispered and pointed. At first, Fonthill could see nothing unusual in the dust and pine needles on the ground. Then, he noted that the needles had been disturbed and there, in the dust, was the impression, faint but clear, of the ball of a naked foot and of a big toe.
‘This point to right,’ whispered Sunil, ‘which mean they go off trail. Through there.’ He gestured to where the pine branches were no longer interlocked. A little further ahead, some had been snapped off to facilitate progress between the trees.
‘Well done,’ breathed Simon. ‘We’ll follow.’
Sunil held up his hand again and stood up. He put his head back and sniffed the air.
‘They not far away,’ he murmured. ‘I smell them.’
‘Smell them?’ Simon was incredulous.
‘Oh yes. They put oil on bodies and hair. I smell it when they hurt my uncle. They near. Perhaps they camp.’
‘Or wait for us.’ Fonthill swallowed hard. It was almost impossible to see beyond ten feet or so off the trail, where low bushes covered the ground between the trees. If the Nagas truly were near, then they could well be lying low there, hidden under the ground cover, waiting to pounce. Ah well, there was nothing for it but to advance.
He paused for a moment and then knelt to pick up a fist-sized piece of rock off the ground, which he retained in his left hand. Then he reached across to switch off the safety catch on Sunil’s rifle, gestured to say that he would now take the lead and began cautiously to thrust his way through the faintly marked opening between the bushes and trees.
After some thirty yards a low sound ahead made him pause. He was unsure what it was – little more than a faint rustle, perhaps a small animal. He turned his head and Sunil, close behind him, hi
s eyes wide and his pink tongue protruded between his lips, nodded and pointed ahead with the rifle, a little to the right.
Fonthill drew back his hand and lobbed the stone hard towards where Sunil had pointed. It crashed through the undergrowth and landed on something soft, eliciting a shout of pain.
Immediately, the bush came alive with six figures who sprang to their feet on either side of the trail, brandishing long knives and crashing through the undergrowth towards the two men.
It was, in fact, that density of ground cover that probably saved their lives, because it impeded the charge of the natives.
Simon fired instinctively and cursed as the bullet missed the leading man. His second shot, however, took the Naga in the breast and felled him. Dropping to one knee, Fonthill heard the crack of the rifle behind him and saw a second man fall – thank God Sunil had learnt to shoot! Then the third was upon him. He caught a glimpse of a gleaming black face and a naked torso and he ducked as the long knife swung above his head. He fired, with the barrel of the revolver almost touching the belly of his assailant. The man howled and doubled over, so that Simon was forced to thrust him aside and, panting, present the revolver again – at nothing.
There was just time to see one naked back vanish through the trees before all was quiet again. Simon turned to Sunil. The boy had tears of frustration streaming down his cheeks as he struggled to work the bolt on the Lee Metford.
‘Sorry, sahib,’ he cried. ‘I do not do this well. Thing is … what you say … stick.’
‘Stuck. Here, let me.’
Fonthill took the rifle and eased the bolt back. He forced a smile and handed the gun back. ‘You did well. I could not have shot them all with this handgun, but we got three of the varmints, anyway. Now we must see if any of them are still alive.’
In fact, all three of their assailants had been killed, with the third – the man whom Simon had shot through the stomach at close range – dying as they knelt by him. Fonthill realised that the boy was shaking and he patted him on the shoulder.