by John Wilcox
Last Stand at Majuba Hill
JOHN WILCOX
headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 2007 John Wilcox
The right of John Wilcox to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010
All characters - other than the obvious historical figures - in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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eISBN : 978 0 7553 8169 2
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Author’s Note
John Wilcox was born in Birmingham and was an award-winning journalist for some years before being lured into industry. In the mid-nineties he sold his company in order to devote himself to his first love, writing. His previous Simon Fonthill novels, THE HORNS OF THE BUFFALO, THE ROAD TO KANDAHAR and THE DIAMOND FRONTIER, were highly acclaimed. He has also published two works of non-fiction, PLAYING ON THE GREEN and MASTERS OF BATTLE.
Praise for John Wilcox’s Simon Fonthill novels:
‘Another full-blooded Boy’s Own adventure with the likeable Fonthill and his ever-resourceful sergeant in the thick of history’ Huddersfield Daily Examiner
‘A ripping yarn’ Nottingham Evening Post
‘Wilcox now has the grand formula and the hope is that more Victorian escapades will flow from his pen’ Oxford Times
‘Wilcox . . . is skilfully accomplished at spinning a tangled web for his heroes to break. A cracking tale’ Coventry Evening Telegraph
‘A lovingly detailed, good old-fashioned adventure yarn’ Choice magazine
‘A well-researched and superbly paced story’ Bolton Evening News
‘What a treat . . . Wilcox has contrived a glorious adventure story’ Western Daily Press
In memory of my son,
Paul Leonard Wilcox, 1959-1979.
Acknowledgements
My thanks, as always, go to the helpful staff of the London Library, whose shelves have given me a contemporary, as well as retrospective, view of the events I have described in 1880-81. They are due also to Sherise Hobbs, my editor at Headline, for her creative suggestions and her impeccable eye for the non sequitur.
In South Africa, I found the most exemplary and informative guide in Dave Sutcliffe at Newcastle, who knew more about the Majuba campaign than I shall ever learn and who, somehow, hauled, pushed and goaded my wife and me up the steep slopes of Majuba Hill to the summit in afternoon temperatures of more than thirty degrees. Back home in peaceful Salisbury, I was grateful to Edward Beauchamp of the famous Greenfields company of gunsmiths, who explained how Jenkins could cause the Baron to misfire in the duel on the Nek.
And, as ever, my love and thanks go to my wife Betty, who fought the Majuba battles with me on site and who read and often corrected every word that I wrote.
I tried to read as widely as possible during the research for the novel and I found the following books particularly helpful:
Some of these, alas, are out of print now, but they can be found in the London Library.
J.W.
Chilmark
April 2006
Location of First Anglo-Boer War, South-East Africa, 1880-81
Chapter 1
Cairo, 1880
The Honourable Edward Ashley-Pemberton, First Secretary to Sir Evelyn Baring, British Representative on the Egyptian Commission of Public Debts, screwed his monocle more securely into his eye socket and dabbed his brow with a handkerchief, woven, of course, from the finest long-staple Egyptian cotton. Although the new mechanical fan creaked in the ceiling over his head, its effect was to stir only marginally the heavy, humid air that clung like swamp fever around him and his two visitors. Even in early October, Cairo was hot. Damned hot.
‘Dashed if I know why the Consul General sent you to us,’ he drawled. ‘Dashed if I do.’
‘He told me that nothing concerning the English here happened unless Sir Evelyn approved.’ The response came from the slimmer and taller of the two men sitting opposite the First Secretary, in tones similar to his own: those of an upper-class Englishman who would consider it very bad form to betray any hint of emotion or, indeed, any great interest in what was being said.
Ashley-Pemberton’s top lip moved fractionally. Given a touch more energy it could have been a sneer. ‘That’s all very well, but Sir Evelyn has just been posted to be Finance Secretary in India. Went off yesterday, as a matter of fact. No replacement yet. Anyway,’ he looked down at the single sheet of paper on his desk, ‘says here you want employment in the Khedive’s army. Eh? What?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes. Well then.’ He paused for a moment and took a good look at the two men opposite. The word ‘adventurers’ flashed through his mind and left a sour impression. In truth it was not surprising, for his visitors seemed an ill-assorted pair.
The slimmer and taller was obviously a gentleman, not only because of his accent and tone of voice but also because behind the veneer of indifference - or was it genuine diffidence? - could be detected an air of command. He carried himself well, sitting upright in the chair, and although the cream cotton suit was anonymous enough, it was well made and sat easily on his wiry but broad-shouldered frame. It was the face, though, that was most arresting. Burnt black by the sun, it was high-cheek-boned, clean-shaven - unusual for this hirsute age - and the nose had been broken at some time, leaving it slightly hooked and bestowing a lean and predatory look on his appearance. He could have been a young hunter - perhaps in his mid-twenties - from the middle of the great continent, or even a haughty, well-bred Arab from the Saharan wastes, dressed well for the civilised city. Yet the eyes were brown not black, the thin-lipped mouth was more sensitive than cruel, and underneath the burnishing which the sun had given it, the hair was clearly brown.
The other man was decidedly different. Certainly no gentleman, he sat leaning forward on the chair, his great hands resting on his knees, a cheerful, enquiring grin bending upwards a huge black moustache that seemed to touch his ears. These were eyes black enough to match the short-cut, bristling hair, and they sparkled like an urchin’s marbles in the somnolent atmosphere of the room. The suit was of similar cut to that of his companion but it clothed a muscular body clearly not used to being confined by such sartorial discipline. He was short - at five foot four perhaps some five inches shorter than his comp
anion - but he exuded great strength. He seemed, in fact, like an errant bruiser confronting a magistrate. But in no way fazed for all that. A strange pair indeed.
Ashley-Pemberton cleared his throat and repeated, ‘Yes. Well then. Can’t be done, y’ see. Consul General should know very well. This city is teeming with ex-officers of the Egyptian army - Gyppies, I mean, not Europeans - who have been thrown out of work because the Egyptian Government can’t afford to keep ’em on. You must know that the whole damned country is still virtually bankrupt and we and the French are tryin’ to haul ’em out of it.’ He looked again at the paper on his desk. ‘Y’ see, Mr . . . sorry, Captain Fonthill, and . . . er . . .’
‘Three five two Jenkins,’ said the broad man. ‘Late of the 24th Regiment of Foot and Royal Corps of Guides, Indian Army. Same as the captain ’ere.’ His voice carried the lilt of the Welsh valleys and his tone was cheerful, anxious to please.
Fonthill felt it necessary to intervene. ‘Sergeant Jenkins is always called 352 because there were so many Jenkinses in the 24th - a Welsh regiment - that the last three figures of his number had to be used.’
‘Really.’ The word expressed disdain. ‘Well, although there is plenty of work for soldiers to do, particularly down south to the Sudanese border and here in the desert where the damned Bedawis are raiding villages and caravans, there’s just no money to pay ’em.’
‘I see.’ Fonthill leaned forward. ‘But we walked here through the new city, with all the fine buildings and that fantastic Azbakiyya Square, with its fountains and plants. The whole place seems crowded with well-dressed people and fairly buzzing with prosperity.’
The First Secretary allowed his monocle to fall and polished it with his handkerchief. ‘Bit of a façade, I fear,’ he said. ‘The American Civil War brought great prosperity to Egypt as a result of the North’s blockade of the Southern ports. Manchester couldn’t get cotton for love nor money, so we had to buy it from India and Egypt, and this lot’s long-staple stuff fetched a pretty penny, I can tell you. It rose from sevenpence ha’penny a pound to nearly two shillings and five pence within a few months.’ He sniffed. ‘But Ismail Pasha, the Khedive, blew it all on trying to make Cairo like Paris.’
Fonthill smiled. ‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Well it wasn’t. The Egyptian National Debt soared from four million pounds to a hundred million, and it got to the point where Egypt couldn’t even pay the interest on the bonds let alone begin repaying the debts.’ Ashley-Pemberton’s voice registered indignation. He was clearly shocked. ‘We and the French were the main bankers, so we had to foreclose, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘What?’ The First Secretary looked up sharply. But Fonthill’s face betrayed no sarcasm. ‘Quite so. We appealed to the Turks - they still formally own this damned country, y’ know - and got Ismail out and put his son in his place. As you can see, we’re now running the finances here and trying to sort things out. Trouble is, we’re getting the blame for the fact that the fellaheen - the peasants - in the fields are hungry. Which reminds me. You’re staying at Shepheards, of course?’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘No.’
‘The Continental? Savoy?’
‘No.’
‘What . . .?’
‘We are in the Metropolitan in Bourse al-Gadid Street.’
‘Yes,’ Jenkins chimed in. ‘Nice little place, see. Two pound ten shillings a week for two rooms, a bath, light and breakfast each. Worth rememberin’ it is, look you, in case you’re ever ’ard up, like us at the moment, see.’
Ashley-Pemberton slowly replaced his monocle, his face set. ‘How kind of you to let me know,’ he murmured.
Jenkins beamed back. Irony was always wasted on him.
‘What I was going to say,’ continued the First Secretary coldly, ‘was that there is considerable anti-British feeling in Cairo at the moment and I recommend that you don’t stray into the Old Town after dark. But you seem to be living there at the moment anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ said Simon. ‘It’s good of you to advise us.’
‘Hmmm.’ It was clear that Ashley-Pemberton’s worst apprehensions about his visitors had been confirmed by Jenkins’s happy explanation of their financial condition. ‘I’m afraid,’ he continued, his voice now quite remote, as though he was making an aside in his club, ‘I cannot help you in your search for employment. Under the circumstances, I could not possibly recommend you . . .’ As he spoke, his eyes strayed down to Simon’s letter and then his voice tailed away. He looked up again with a frown. ‘Captain Fonthill, did you say? Ah, Captain Simon Fonthill?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Would you, by any chance, have made the acquaintance of General Sir Garnet Wolseley, the Quartermaster-General at the army’s headquarters at the Horse Guards, London?’ He asked the question as though there was only the faintest chance of the answer being in the affirmative. Wolseley was the best-known soldier in Queen Victoria’s army, and after a series of brilliant successes against her enemies in various parts of the Empire, he had recently returned in triumph to London to be fêted, and, indeed, to be genially satirised by Gilbert and Sullivan in their latest musical The Pirates of Penzance, as ‘the very model of a modern major general’. It seemed quite impossible that these two penniless adventurers could know this hero.
‘Yes. Knew him very well. We served with him in the Sekukuni campaign in South Africa, on the Mozambique border, a few months ago.’
‘Ah.’ The First Secretary’s jaw didn’t exactly drop but his mouth opened perhaps an inch and stayed that way for a moment. Then he spoke again, this time with an air almost of urgency. ‘I say. I do wish you’d said . . . or at least made clear . . . Do forgive me, Fonthill.’ He picked up a small silver bell on his desk and tinkled it. ‘I . . . er . . . think we may have something for you, don’t you know.’
Within seconds an Egyptian in loose garments topped with a red fez materialised and Ashley-Pemberton addressed him sharply in a language unknown to Simon. The man returned equally quickly with a single sheet of paper and gave it to the First Secretary, who perused it briefly and passed it over the desk.
‘Cable, from Sir Garnet,’ he said. ‘Came about a week ago. Addressed to you but we didn’t, of course, know you from Adam so we just hung on to it, so to speak. Slipped my mind. I do apologise.’
‘Good lord.’ Simon took the cable. ‘He must have contacted my parents. They’re the only people who knew we would call here. Excuse me for a moment.’ Companionably, Jenkins leaned over his shoulder and they read the cable together:GENERAL POMEROY-COLLEY NOW C-IN-C DURBAN STOP GOOD MAN STOP TRANSVAAL BOERS THREATEN WAR STOP HE NEEDS GOOD SCOUTS STOP HAVE RECOMMENDED YOU STOP IF INTERESTED CONTACT HIM MARITZBURG SOONEST STOP REGARDS WOLSELEY END
‘It seems,’ murmured Ashley-Pemberton, ‘that you are in demand.’
‘Yes. More than here, anyway.’
Jenkins took the cable and his lips moved slowly as he followed the words again. Then: ‘We’d better get goin’, bach sir. Back the way we came, I suppose?’
Ashley-Pemberton’s brows rose - threatening the security of the monocle - at the familiarity between the two. ‘You’ll need to take the train back to Alex,’ he said, ‘and then on to Port Said to board a steamer going to Durban down the Canal.’
Simon was frowning and spoke almost to himself. ‘Yes, dammit. It’ll take at least a month and it’s damned expensive.’
‘Can’t help there, old boy, I’m afraid.’
Simon stuffed the cable into his pocket and rose. ‘Wasn’t asking for it. Thank you. Good afternoon.’ Then he spun on his heel and walked through the door.
Ashley-Pemberton belatedly got to his feet and raised a finger. ‘I say . . .’ he began.
Jenkins gave him a beatific smile. ‘Cheerio, old top.’ Then he too was gone.
Outside, under the high white sun, the pair walked together in silence back to the green shade of the Azbakiyya Square, Ismail Pasha’s twenty-a
cre folly, where one could buy anything from a live tiger in a cage to the services of an Italian whore. They found a stone bench and sat beneath an Australian gum tree, imported at great expense. Doves above them moaned to each other in gentle courtship and tame crested hoopoe birds speared insects in the lush, well-watered grass at their feet. The traffic around them belied the reality of national bankruptcy. Dandy fezzed beys rode by on prancing, well-groomed English stallions, fastidiously avoiding the street hackneys carrying Mr Cook’s tourists eager to spend their inflated sovereigns. Arabs of the Nejd mingled with fellaheens astride donkeys and locals in caftans, sheikhs in green turbans and Bashibazouks idling in their tall hats and swathed cummerbunds, daggers peeping from the folds. Cairo seemed a fecund crossroads, where there was money to be made and spent.
‘Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?’ asked Jenkins.
Simon nodded. ‘We have exactly nine pounds, twelve and sixpence between us. How the hell are we going to get to Durban and then ’Maritzburg?’
Jenkins broke the silence again. ‘I don’t like suggestin’ it, see, but you could mail your folks again . . .’
‘No.’
‘Well, I understand, bach sir. They’d only say “Come’ome, then”, wouldn’t they? An’ I suppose you still don’t want that, eh?’