The Diamond Frontier (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Agreed.’ The two shook hands.

  ‘Agreed,’ chimed in Jenkins, who, to the General’s consternation, also rose from his chair and warmly shook Wolseley’s hand. ‘Very good of you, General bach,’ he said.

  ‘Er . . . yes. Very well. Set off early in the morning and return to me at Fort Weeber. Now go and get some rest.’

  Simon and Jenkins were up before dawn, and were joined by a sleepy young army surgeon who would have looked perhaps twelve years old without his fair, swept-back moustache. The party was completed by a black-bearded sergeant and ten men of the 21st Regiment. The surgeon sat by the driver in the Scotch cart and the party set off, Simon anxiously consulting his compass, for the veldt seemed characterless and, with Nandi’s life at stake, the last thing he wanted was to lose his way in this semi-desert.

  It was with huge relief, then, that after a day’s ride, slowed by the pace of the bumping, bouncing cart, they located the sunken water course. The cart followed the lip of the donga round as it curled sinuously, while the horsemen carefully negotiated the stony banks down to the dry river bed. Simon stood in the stirrups and hallooed as they picked their way between the stones. ‘Faan!’ he shouted again. Only a startled secretary bird fluttered up to acknowledge the call.

  ‘Hey, something’s up,’ cried Jenkins, spurring his horse on around the bend of the river bed. Simon dug in his heels and followed close behind.

  They pulled up in horror as they came upon the campsite. The ashes of the fire had been scattered and the blankets and the meagre belongings of de Witt and Nandi were strewn up the sides of the donga, slashed and torn as though in a fit of vindictiveness. The Boer lay prone in a pool of blood, one arm outstretched, the other folded across his chest. Of the horses and of Nandi there was no sign.

  ‘Doctor,’ called Simon as the cart appeared on the edge of the donga, ‘get down here quickly and see to this man. Sergeant, spread your men out and look for a young lady. She might be further down the donga or out on the veldt. Quickly, now.’

  Though he wore no insignia of rank, Simon’s air of command was enough for the sergeant, and he and his men galloped away. Yet Simon realised how abortive would be the search. The look of the camp - the tattered cloth, the cold ashes and the congealed blood in which de Witt lay - all were evidence that the attack had taken place some time before, probably the previous day as he and Jenkins were riding to find Wolseley.

  A low moan made him spin round. Jenkins was on his knees, holding a torn fragment of Nandi’s dress. The Welshman looked up at Simon with deep fear in his black eyes. ‘ ’Ave they killed ’er, d’yer think?’ he asked. ‘Or ’ave they taken ’er again?’

  ‘I don’t know, old chap. Come on, we must help them look. Perhaps they have left her nearby.’

  The two men joined the soldiers who had fanned out around the site. There was evidence enough of a fight, for spent cartridge cases lined the bottom of the donga and the walls of the bed were broken and marked where horsemen had forced their way down. But there was no trace of the girl they sought.

  Simon, out on the veldt, was alerted by a cry from the doctor. ‘Mr Fonthill,’ the young man shouted, ‘this man is still alive.’

  Simon ran back to the river bed with Jenkins on his heels. The doctor - now looking much more mature - was forcing a little water between the lips of de Witt as he cradled the Afrikaner’s head. ‘Here,’ he called to Simon, ‘take this and see if he can drink, while I see if I can dress this wound.’ The young man tore away de Witt’s bloodstained shirt to reveal a crusted black hole on the right side of the Boer’s breast. An assegai had torn a terrible cut in his shoulder, there was another stab wound under his ribs on the left side, and it was clear that he had been steadily bleeding, although the big man had stuffed a handkerchief in the breast wound to staunch the blood. Bending over him, Simon could hear a low rattle as the wounded man fought for breath.

  The doctor spoke as he gently probed the wound. ‘I’m afraid this has gone downwards through the lung,’ he said. He looked up. ‘Whoever did this must have shot him as he lay on the ground. He must have been down and almost out with these spear wounds anyway. Then they came along and shot him as he lay.’ His face wrinkled into a frown. ‘Doesn’t seem like the work of natives. Who are the people who would do this?’

  Simon, tipping the water bottle to release a little more liquid, saw de Witt’s mouth twitch and he began to swallow. ‘Mozambique Portuguese, I think,’ he said. ‘He’s beginning to swallow. What hope, do you think, Doctor . . . ?’

  The young man grimaced and spoke almost in a whisper so that the wounded man could not hear. ‘None, I’m afraid. The gunshot has shattered his lungs and he has lost so much blood. It is amazing that he has survived the night.’

  As though to refute the statement, de Witt opened his eyes. His lips worked for a moment without sound and then he said, ‘Ach, English. So you’ve come then. Too late, I think, though.’ He began to cough, and blood trickled down his chin on to his beard.

  ‘Faan,’ said Simon, ‘can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘And where Nandi is.’ Unnoticed, Jenkins had crept up.

  The Boer’s eyes flickered open again and he spoke in a voice so low that Simon had to hold his ear near to the man’s lips to hear him.

  ‘They came about three hours after you had gone. Mendoza and maybe twenty bePedi. I got a couple but they were too much for me. Mendoza shot me after I had been speared. Thought I was dead.’

  ‘What about Nandi?’

  ‘They took her.’

  The Boer’s eyes closed. Simon bent closer. ‘Faan, do you know where? It’s important.’

  It was all of thirty seconds before de Witt’s eyes fluttered open again. ‘I heard them say Sekukuni’s place. To report on the roijneks’ approach. English,’ his eyes were now wide open, ‘I don’t think they kill her. They keep her for something . . . I don’t know what.’

  The eyes closed again and the Boer’s breath was now coming in shallower bursts, his face contorted in pain.

  ‘Can you hold his head?’ asked the doctor. ‘I have some morphine in the cart. Stupid of me to have left it. It will ease his pain. I won’t be long.’ The young man got to his feet and scrambled up the side of the donga.

  As though he had waited for the doctor’s absence, de Witt opened his eyes again and his lips curved into some resemblance of a smile. ‘I cheated them, though,’ he murmured. ‘They didn’t get the diamonds.’

  ‘Diamonds? What diamonds?’

  ‘Ach, you didn’t think I had come with you for a ride in the country, did you? No. I wanted those diamonds. The house in Kimberley was empty. Knew they had taken them. So while you were talking to the dagoes in the farmyard, I went into the house. Saw they were buried under the floorboards in the kitchen. Took them while you were upstairs getting the girl . . .’

  He burst out coughing again, and Simon said, ‘It doesn’t matter, Faan. Don’t talk.’

  ‘They’re buried by the fire here. Big stone. Underneath it.’

  ‘What do you want us to do with them?’

  The dying man gave his wan smile. ‘They were meant for Commandant Joubert in Pretoria. That was my job in Kimberley. Get diamonds to provide money for the fight against the English. I don’t suppose you will give them to him for me now, eh?’

  Simon smiled in return. ‘Sorry, Faan. Can’t quite do that.’

  ‘No. Thought not. All right. Give them to the girl when you find her. She deserves them . . . She’s a good . . .’ His voice died away and his head fell to one side.

  ‘ ’As he gone?’ asked Jenkins. ‘I couldn’t ’ear what ’e was sayin’, see. There’s no sign of Nandi. Does ’e know if they took ’er?’ His eyes were wide, and perspiration was trickling down his face.

  Simon bent his ear close to de Witt’s lips. ‘He is just about breathing, but I don’t think he will last long. He says he thinks Mendoza has taken Nandi to the bePedi capital.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Jenki
ns buried his face in his hands. ‘That bastard has got ’er again.’ When he took his hands away, his face was contorted with anger. ‘Look. We can’t waste no more time ’ere. We’ve got to go after ’er.’

  Simon sighed, still cradling de Witt’s head. ‘No. The attack took place yesterday, and they had horses. We would never catch them, even if we knew exactly which way they were heading. But look, 352, we will get her back, I promise you that.’ His voice took on a harder edge. ‘It’s my fault, because we should never have left them alone, but we came to this God-forsaken place to rescue Nandi and we will not leave it until we have done so. I promise. I just need time to think.’

  The two men looked into each other’s eyes without speaking, and then Jenkins’s angry glare softened. ‘It’s not your fault, bach sir. You did what you did for the best, as you always do. O’ course we’ll get ’er back. O’ course we will.’

  Simon looked beyond Jenkins. The doctor had not returned and the soldiers were still searching the bush. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Just round that bend, by the ashes of the fire, there’s a big stone. I noticed it when we came in. Underneath it will be a small package - probably more like a little sack. Can you take it and hide it without anyone knowing?’

  Jenkins gave a puzzled nod.

  ‘Right. Go now, but don’t let anyone see you.’

  As he spoke, the doctor came glissading down the side of the donga in a shower of stones, small bottle and gauze pad in hand. ‘Is he still . . . ?’

  ‘Just about, I think.’

  ‘Right.’ The young man took up de Witt’s wrist and felt for the pulse. Then he put his ear to the Boer’s chest. Eventually he sat up, his face wearing that look of disappointment and self-admonishment that only doctors know. ‘Ah, he’s gone,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault, Doctor. You did all you could.’

  ‘Not enough, I fear.’ The young man tugged at his moustache and looked up at Simon. ‘Who was he, anyhow?’

  ‘Ah.’ Simon thought for a second. ‘He was a . . . patriot.’

  ‘What? A . . . er . . . patriot, you say? Oh, I see. Well, I don’t actually, but never mind. I suppose we had better bury him.’

  The sergeant appeared at the lip of the donga. He addressed the doctor, as befitted one serviceman talking to another in the presence of a civilian. ‘Found two bodies, sir. In freshly dug graves. Both of ’em Kaffirs, sir. Spears an’ all. But nuffink else.’

  ‘Right, Sergeant.’ The doctor looked down at de Witt, almost apologetically. ‘Well, I’m afraid that we have another one to bury now. Can you see to it, please? There are shovels in the cart.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  At that point Jenkins reappeared, a small bulge in the pocket of his jacket. His eyes asked a question of Simon.

  ‘For Nandi,’ said Simon.

  ‘Ah, right. O’ course. When we find ’er, that is. Good idea, bach sir.’ He looked down at de Witt. ‘ ’As ’e gone, then?’

  ‘Afraid so.’

  Jenkins blew through his moustache. ‘Pity, that, isn’t it? ’E was a good chap, old Fanny. Funny feller, though, in ’is way. But pity. I could’ve taught ’im to fight, see. With ’is build an’ all, ’e could ’ave been a champion, look you. But not now. Not now. Pity.’

  As they spoke, four soldiers scrambled down the side of the donga and, with some difficulty, picked up the big man.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Simon. ‘I must go through his pockets to see if there is someone we should tell of his death.’ He quickly searched the dead man, but found nothing except a couple of pound notes and a handful of change. It was as though de Witt belonged to no one and had passed through life without putting down even the greenest of roots.

  Simon stood up and nodded to the sergeant, then handed him the notes and the change. ‘You and your chaps might as well have this,’ he said.

  The little party camped that night in the sad donga, taking care to pitch their tents away from the scene of the fighting. Before sun-up the next day, they set off back to find Wolseley’s forward post at Fort Weeber. Simon and Jenkins rode side by side, the former deep in thought, and Jenkins knew well enough not to interrupt.

  ‘Look,’ Simon said at last. ‘We know that they have taken her back to Sekukuni’s township, for a while at least, while they decide exactly what to do with her. It seems they want to trade her for the diamonds that John Dunn is supposed to have. And Dunn won’t know that she is at Sekukuni, so it might seem pointless to keep her there. Pointless, that is, unless . . .’

  Jenkins, his brows pulled down as he tried to follow Simon’s reasoning, pulled at his moustache. ‘Pointless, yes, what?’

  ‘Pointless,’ said Simon, his face lighting up, ‘unless we somehow send a message to Mendoza at Sekukuni, saying that we, not Dunn, will come and trade for Nandi. Give him the diamonds that de Witt stole in exchange for her freedom. What about that, then?’

  Jenkins turned a lugubrious face towards Simon. ‘Oh yes, fine, absolutely fine, look you. And ’e lets us ride into this Secooni place, drop ’im the bag of sparklers and then ride out again with Nandi. Oh, very plausible, I’d say.’

  ‘So would I. I’m glad you agree, 352. That’s what we’ll do, then.’ And Simon urged his horse forward in a canter to pass the trundling Scotch cart.

  Chapter 11

  They found Fort Weeber with little difficulty, for it was easy to follow the trail left by the column across the virgin veldt. The fort was just that: an artificial town, or large village, constructed simply to serve the army as a holding post in hostile territory. There were no wooden ramparts built to keep out attackers, not least because there was insufficient timber available, but also because Wolseley, in his arrogance, did not expect to be attacked. He was the aggressor on this campaign. Sekukuni’s stronghold was some twenty miles distant, along the Steelport River valley, and although occasional small parties of bePedi patrols had been sighted, keeping the column under observation, the General was confident that the native chieftain would sit behind his impressive fortifications, waiting to repulse the aggressors, as he had so many times before. Fort Weeber, therefore, was a temporary army camp, the springboard for the final assault.

  In fact, as Simon and his small party approached it, it was clear that Sir Garnet was not yet prepared to attack, for his force was by no means concentrated. They passed some contingents of red-coated British infantrymen, plodding along under field service marching order packs and accoutrements, but the main elements of the long, straggling column that now stretched back to Lydenburg were local units hurriedly gathered by Wolseley. Simon recognised elements of Ferreira’s Horse, a colonial regiment which had distinguished itself under Buller in the Zulu War; the unusual sight of 150 coloured men of the Transvaal Mounted Rifles; and even a handful of Hlubi’s men of the Natal Native Horse, whom he remembered from the war as the ‘Basuto Horse’. There were many others he did not recognise, all riding or marching north to clear out once and for all the hornets’ nest of King Sekukuni. It was obvious to Simon that the General had scoured the territory to build his force for this campaign - an eclectic mix. Would it meld together into an effective and homogenous fighting unit?

  Simon thanked the doctor and the sergeant, who peeled away to find their units, and he and Jenkins rode towards the centre of the bustling little metropolis, where they could see the Commander-in-Chief’s standard fluttering. As they did so, there, striding towards them, the sun glinting off her fair hair, was Alice.

  She stood still for a moment, her eyes wide. Then she threw up her arms and came running towards them, her smile removing any doubt that an onlooker might have of her feelings of warmth towards these two dusty travellers. ‘Simon, Simon!’ she shouted, and then, half apologetically, ‘352. Wonderful! You have come through. Wonderful! Thank God . . .’ She put her hands on the stirrups of the two men and stood between them, her face looking at each in turn, flushed at the exertion and at her pleasure in seeing them. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I am
so glad. So glad. I have been so worried. I thought you might have—’ She stopped suddenly, realising that her display of emotion was not, perhaps, seemly, gulped and regained her composure. ‘Sorry,’ she said, looking up at Simon and taking in his tired, worn face, burned by the sun to a dark mahogany colour. ‘Sorry, it’s just that I am so glad and relieved to see you . . . both.’ She turned to Jenkins, almost as an afterthought.

  Startled, surprised and yet, despite his reserve, delighted by her welcome, Simon slipped from his horse, went to embrace her, thought better of it and seized her hand to bring it to his lips. She flung it aside and put her arms around his neck, and hung there for a moment before, blushing now, she stepped away.

  ‘Alice,’ gulped Simon. ‘I am . . . er . . . very glad to see you. How have you been?’

  ‘Oh, I have been fine. But what about you, and where . . . ? Did you find Nandi?’

  Jenkins leaned down from his saddle. ‘Yes we did, miss,’ he said, his face set hard, ‘but we lost ’er again, so to speak, like.’

  Very quickly, Simon recounted the story of Currey Street, the farm and the attack in the donga, and also what Wolseley had told them about John Dunn.

  Alice frowned as the enormity of it sank in. ‘I know about Dunn, but not the rest. Where do you think she is now?’

  ‘I should say that Mendoza is keeping her in Sekukuni’s township for the moment. It would be difficult to smuggle her out now, anyway. And we intend to go there and get her out.’