The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Whoever ’e is, I swear I’ll kill the bastard,’ he said. ‘We’ve gotta go now, bach sir. Right away, isn’t it?’

  ‘Right away. We must change those damned tickets.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Kimberley, is it? Is that a port then?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, but I don’t think so. It must be in the north somewhere; in the Transvaal or the Orange Free State. I think they’ve found diamonds there.’

  ‘Is that where we were - with the Zulus?’

  ‘No. Much further north and west. But I don’t really know and we must find out - and quickly. Are you sure you want to come with me?’

  Jenkins lowered his gaze and spoke quietly. ‘I’d do anything for that little girl. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Simon. ‘I knew you would. Right. Go to that shop in the Fort where they sell everything. You know, the one with . . . no. You’ll get lost again. I will go. We need a map of South Africa. But can you find your way back to the shipping office? Honestly?’

  ‘ ’Course I can.’

  ‘Good. Change these tickets. Better book us to Durban. If we find we have to go on to Cape Town we can change later. But find the very first ship that is leaving and get us on it, because we have no time to lose. Leave the whisky. Go now.’

  Without a word, the Welshman turned on his heel and was gone.

  The all-purpose shop, kept by the good and famous Parsee Jangerjee Nusserawanjee, sold everything from candied fruits to French clocks. It even possessed a much-folded map of South Africa. But the northern territories were blankly white and Simon could find no trace of a town named Kimberley. He bought the map anyway and returned home to pen a quick letter to his parents, explaining that alas, once again they would have to postpone their journey home to the Welsh borders - he hinted at urgent business but gave no other reason.

  This time, Jenkins returned within the hour and triumphantly announced that he had secured passages for them both on a steamer that was leaving the very next day, bound for Durban, Port Elizabeth, Cape Town and London. They rose early the next morning, just as the half-naked halalcore Kolis, the lowest of the Untouchables, were sweeping the streets, and Simon bought a copy of the local daily newspaper. He read it with some anxiety but there was no mention of a body being found in a carpet warehouse, nor any raised eyebrows when he announced at hotel reception that they were leaving early. Eccentrics who left their whisky and leapt from twelve-foot-high balconies were, it seemed, accepted as part of the rich pattern of life in bouncing, burgeoning Bombay.

  They took a gharry, complete with leather hood and buttoned upholstery, down past the grand new Yacht Club to Apollo Bunder, where a bunder boat was waiting to take them out to the steamer riding at anchor in the bay. In what the experienced India hands called ‘the good old days’, the journey home under sail round the Cape of Good Hope could take nine months or so. Now, since the opening of the Suez Canal eleven years before, the passage by steamship and via the Mediterranean could last as little as seventeen days.

  The best ships, of course, were now plying that route, and it was an older vessel, with sails and spars still rigged to act as an auxiliary source of power - as well as a stabilising influence, where necessary - which awaited them out in the placid turquoise waters of the bay. Jenkins, no sailor, noticed rust patches on the waterline of the vessel as they climbed the ladder up its side.

  ‘Indeed to goodness,’ he muttered, ‘I don’t fancy this one little bit, bach sir.’

  Not for the first time, Simon noticed how Jenkins’s Welshness increased the more agitated he became. He smiled. ‘Nothing to it, 352,’ he said. ‘Just a pleasure cruise across the Indian Ocean, that’s all.’

  ‘Humph. That’s what you said last time. And then we sank, look you.’

  ‘That was the Atlantic. This will be different. Sunshine all the way, you’ll see.’

  Their cabins were spartan but comfortable enough and seemed luxurious to Jenkins, who, on the outward passage, had shared the Devonia’s fo’castle - a Stygian, plunging steel shell - with some 250 other troops. Nevertheless, Simon was less than happy at the age of the ship. The voyage to Durban would be slow and he was anxious to make all speed to go to the aid of Nandi. Goodness knows what might have happened to her, he mused, since she had penned her cry for help. And would they be able to find her on those vast plains of the northern Cape?

  His state of mind was not improved when the appointed time for their departure in the late afternoon came and went. Steam had been raised but they remained moored to the giant buoy riding in the centre of the bay. Why the delay? He sought out one of the ship’s officers.

  The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Unusual, I agree,’ he said, ‘but not so vital these days when we don’t have to catch the evening breeze to sail or worry so much about the tide at this anchorage. We are waiting for a last-minute passenger. We understand that she is on her way and should be out with us within the half-hour. Then - a toot on the steam whistle and we’re off!’

  Simon frowned. Time and tide, it seemed, waited for no man - but it could for a woman! While Jenkins unpacked their belongings down below, he walked to the stern and looked out at Bombay, the gateway to India for most Englishmen, where he and his servant had landed, it seemed years ago, but in fact only some ten months before. They had been shuttled off immediately to Gharagha, in the hills, for a lamentably short spell of training in the art of spying on the North West Frontier of India. Both he and Jenkins still bore, under their eyes, faint traces of the dye that had been applied to their skin to make them look like natives of that wild country. He gazed now over the pretty yellow and cream houses of the city to the white-spired Scottish church. The view was charming but he took little of it in. In his mind’s eye he saw the low mountains of Swat and the more terrifying jagged peaks of the Hindu Kush. The famous late-afternoon breeze that brought succour after the heat of Bombay’s day touched his cheek but it went unnoticed. Instead, he winced as he felt again the musket barrel crashing into his nose and remembered the torture he had endured in that Afghan village. He had been lucky to survive and would always bear the scars. He heard nothing of the steam whistle sounded by a passing vessel, only the pitch of Alice’s voice in the fort at Kandahar as, hurriedly - to prevent him interrupting with his own proposal of marriage - she explained that she had accepted Covington’s proposal and had resigned from the Morning Post and her hard-won position as foreign correspondent to journey home to prepare for her wedding. His knuckles tightened on the stern rail. Well, that was that and it was all over now. He was glad to be leaving India. Good riddance to it, and to the British Army!

  From the quay he saw now a bunder boat pulling towards them. He could just make out the figure of a woman sitting in the stern. Thank God for that! Now they could get under way. He turned and walked to the other side of the ship and looked out across the bay, where shallow-draught tramp steamers and coasters were anchored, waiting for their turn to pull in and unload. Beyond them stretched the line of the horizon where the light blue of the sky met the darker colour of the ocean. He couldn’t remember how long the voyage was expected to take - a week, perhaps, and then the trek to the north to find Kimberley. He still had no idea where this little township lay, but he suspected that the nearest point for disembarkation would be Durban, from which they could strike north-west towards the Transvaal border. They should be able to buy a map and horses at Durban, where the army would still have a strong base following the resettlement of Zululand. They would need rifles, too - and not just for hunting. This Kimberley sounded like a rough-and-ready border settlement and they would probably need guns to rescue Nandi.

  His speculation was interrupted by a cry from Jenkins, who had materialised and was now standing in the space between two deckhouses, beckoning him to come to the starboard side. ‘You’ll never believe this, bach sir,’ he called. ‘Quick, come over.’

  Simon hurried to join the Welshman and together they looked down at the
little boat gently rising and falling by the side of the boarding platform.

  ‘Good lord,’ exclaimed Simon. ‘Alice!’

  Hearing her name, the young woman balancing in the boat looked up and then put her hand to her mouth in consternation. The movement did not prevent a blush from spreading across her cheeks. Then she gave a half-wave at the faces looking down at her and spoke quickly to the bunder boat boy, who nodded affirmatively.

  ‘Yes,’ called down Simon. ‘Bound for Durban. But you as well?’

  Momentarily she frowned, and then nodded. She grasped the hand extended to her by a sailor and stepped on to the platform at the bottom of the companionway, pulling her light shawl tightly across her shoulders. She made a graceful figure as she mounted the steps, climbing without hesitation, the sunlight shining in her blonde hair and the simple shift dress she was wearing accentuating her slimness. The flush was still on her cheeks as she greeted the two men waiting for her as she stepped on to the deck.

  ‘My dear 352,’ she said, and kissed the beaming Welshman on both cheeks. It was with a little more restraint that she saluted Simon similarly, and her grey eyes were slightly troubled as they looked into his. ‘You were the last two people I expected to see here,’ she said. ‘I thought you would be well on your way along the Suez Canal by now.’

  ‘No,’ said Simon, not knowing whether to feel delighted or despairing to see so unexpectedly the loved face he was now so used to banishing from his mind. ‘Our plans have changed - or, at least, have been changed for us.’

  ‘But South Africa! I thought you were going home.’

  ‘I could say the same of you. You told me that you were returning to England to marry Covington.’ A sudden, heart-lifting thought occurred to him. ‘The, er, wedding . . . it’s not been cancelled, has it?’

  She looked away quickly. ‘No. Merely postponed.’

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ a ship’s officer intervened. ‘We have been waiting for you to board. If your baggage can be unloaded from the boat quickly, if you please, then we can get under way. I will show you to your cabin and you can meet your friends at dinner.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry. Yes, of course.’ She turned back to Simon and Jenkins. ‘We will, then, exchange our stories over a glass of wine. Please excuse me.’ She gave a rather stiff smile and turned away.

  ‘Wonderful to ’ave you on board anyway, miss,’ Jenkins called after her, his face beaming.

  Alice looked back over her shoulder. ‘Ah, it’s so good to see you again, Mr Jenkins - oh, sorry, I mean Sergeant.’ And this time her smile was wide and genuine and she waved as she disappeared down the companionway.

  Jenkins was still beaming as he turned to Simon. ‘Well, bach sir, that’s a turn-up for the book, eh? You must be as pleased as punch.’

  ‘I don’t know why you should say that.’ Simon’s voice was cold as his mind grappled with the renewal of his disappointment. ‘Miss Griffith is engaged to be married and means nothing to me now. Have you unpacked?’

  ‘Yes, everything stowed and shipshape. All ready for the bleedin’ shipwreck.’

  ‘Very well.’ The second and last of Alice’s bags - she travelled amazingly light, noted Simon - was put on to the deck and taken down below. Then the anchor chain rattled and a steam whistle on the funnel sounded its farewell to Bombay and India, and slowly the big ship began to gather way. ‘I’ll see you down below in a minute or two,’ said Simon curtly and he strode away towards the bow.

  ‘Suit yerself, bach,’ muttered Jenkins to himself. ‘But it’s no use mopin’. She’s a strong-willed lass. She’s goin’ to marry ’im, that’s for sure.’

  The three met up again some two hours later as sherry, wine and whisky were dispensed to the first-class passengers in the lounge before dinner. In deference to Jenkins, who, of course, possessed no evening wear, Simon did not dress for dinner. But Alice was looking radiant in grey taffeta which matched her eyes and revealed well-rounded shoulders of astonishing whiteness compared to her face, which, despite a light coating of powder, still showed a tan from the Afghan sun. Alice was Simon’s age, but she carried herself with a maturity that belied her twenty-five years and reflected, perhaps, something of the hardship of the campaigns on which she had reported in Zululand and Afghanistan over the last two years. Her face beneath its halo of shining hair smiled easily, but to Simon, her eyes seemed a little sad as they stood together, slightly self-consciously and apart from other passengers, Jenkins in his best white drill suit, formally at ease, army style, hands clasped behind his buttocks.

  ‘Now, Alice,’ said Simon, ‘do tell us why you are sailing for South Africa when you should have been sailing home to England.’

  ‘Please,’ said Alice, looking out of the porthole as though to seek inspiration on how to start her story. ‘You first.’

  Simon related the story of Nandi’s letter and of their decision to go to her aid. Alice’s face clouded as she heard of the girl’s desperation. ‘But are there no police or government people she can turn to?’ she asked.

  ‘Apparently not. This Kimberley place sounds like some sort of frontier town from the American west. She does not seem to have help at hand. I only hope that we can find her and that, if we do, we are in time to be of some use.’

  Alice grasped Simon’s arm impulsively. ‘Oh, my dear. I want to help you find her.’ Then she paused. ‘But I am afraid that I cannot come with you. You see . . .’

  ‘Yes. Tell us what has happened.’

  ‘Very well.’ The words were spoken with a sigh, as though she was not particularly proud of what she was about to relate. ‘Shall we sit at the table?’

  They sat and Alice began. She spoke without looking at either of them, her eyes downcast. ‘You will remember that after . . . after you had so bravely taken me over the mountains to report the battle of Kandahar, when General Roberts forbade me from accompanying his column and . . .’ She paused.

  The two nodded, although Alice was still staring at the tablecloth. ‘Well, I felt that I had had enough of killing - what with endangering your lives and all.’

  ‘No, no,’ Jenkins interrupted, his black eyebrows nearly meeting his moustache, so fierce was his frown. ‘You mustn’t blame yerself for all that, miss. These things ’appen in war, look you.’

  She turned on him quickly. ‘That’s just the point. I didn’t want any more of it. Writing about killing and even being involved in it. I felt sick of it all. And then . . .’

  ‘And then?’ prompted Simon.

  ‘Yes, well,’ her eyes returned to the tablecloth, ‘then Ralph proposed to me and it seemed the way out. So I cabled to my editor at the Morning Post and resigned my job. He responded by trying to change my mind, but I refused. Then, I was packing to leave when I received another cable from him. This contained an urgent plea to “deviate”, as he put it, to Durban on the way home and file a couple of reports from there on the situation. It seems,’ and here her eyes began to light up as she turned to each of her listeners in turn, as though to share her excitement at the task offered her, ‘that there is a chance of war with the Boers of the Transvaal, who want their independence back. But before that, General Wolseley, who, as you know, is in command in South Africa and is at Durban, is determined to put down the bePedi tribe.’

  ‘Who are they, then, miss?’ enquired Jenkins.

  ‘They are people very like the Zulus who live in the north-eastern part of the Transvaal, near Portuguese-Mozambique territory. They raid and maraud from the mountains there and have been attacking farms. Both the Boers and the English have sent expeditions against them and been well and truly defeated by this tribe. Wolseley believes that he must put them down before he can even begin thinking about the problems with the Boers.’ She smiled. ‘There must be a touch of the good housekeeper about this general.’ Then she shrugged her shoulders. ‘It doesn’t really seem like a great international incident to report - perhaps just another little colonial bush fire - but the point is, William Russell is the
re, with Wolseley.’

  ‘William who?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘Russell, the great special correspondent of the Telegraph. You will know of him, Simon.’ Simon nodded, as Alice went on. ‘He made his reputation on the Times in the Crimea by revealing just how poorly led and badly organised was the British Army in that war.’ Alice’s face became even more animated. ‘If it hadn’t been for his reports from the front line, none of the reforms of the army, such as Cardwell - you know, the introduction of formal officer training at Sandhurst, and so on - would have happened. Russell is a great journalist and someone I have always admired. But the point is that if he is there, there must be something up. He smells stories from continents away. It may be that he believes this little bePedi campaign could turn out to be another Isandlwana, and if that is so, the Morning Post mustn’t miss the story. That is why. . .’ she paused rather self-consciously, ‘my editor has asked me to go.’

  The three sat silently for a moment. Then Simon cleared his throat. ‘But Alice,’ he said, ‘I thought you had had enough of fighting and wars. What has made you change your mind?’

  Alice studied the tablecloth again. ‘Yes, I know. It seems perverse. Perhaps . . . oh, I don’t know.’ She looked up defiantly. ‘One can’t turn off being a journalist just like that, you know, as though twisting a tap handle. Anyway, I was the nearest member of staff to South Africa, the others having gone back long ago after the end of the Zulu War. I could not let my editor down.’

  ‘What did Covington say?’

  Alice flushed and was silent for a moment. ‘He did not like it, of course. But he understands. Anyway,’ the defiance came back into her voice, ‘the wedding is only postponed. Not cancelled.’ She stared fixedly out of the porthole.

  They spent the rest of the meal attempting to make light conversation, but the atmosphere between them was uncomfortable. And it continued to be so throughout the voyage, which, as Simon had prophesied, turned out to be calm and uneventful. Alice increasingly took her meals alone in her cabin and seemed to avoid Simon, although she sometimes spent minutes leaning over the ship’s rail with Jenkins, listening as he regaled her with stories of his early life as a farm worker in Wales and as an itinerant bricklayer. Jenkins himself received attention from the ship’s doctor for the flesh wound in his shoulder, which, given rest for his arm, began to heal rapidly. Covington’s name was never mentioned again by any of them, and it was almost a relief when they rose one morning to find the surf booming on Durban’s beach on the far side of the bar.