Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  The square was maintained that night, for they camped in the open, and guards were mounted. But it seemed that Mahmud was right. If the Bedawis were going to attack the caravan again it would not be at night.

  It was, in fact, at mid-morning.

  The caravan had been on the move for about two hours, the formation of the square slipping a little here and there as confidence set in and chatting took over. The outriders had been dispatched and four good men, armed with the Bedawis’ jerzails, had been put at the corner points of the square, with Mahmud, Simon and Jenkins riding in the centre. All seemed peaceful under the brazen, harsh sky when a signal shot came from over the dunes to the right, closely followed by one from the left.

  ‘Damn,’ said Simon. ‘They’ve split their force and are going to attack us from two sides. Clever bastards.’ He held up his hand as Jenkins went to move. ‘No, stay here until we see how many there are on each side, then we can take our positions accordingly. Mahmud, get those blasted camels kneeling and the men and families behind them. We can’t waste a second.’

  The Egyptians, however, whether from fear or recalling their instructions, had couched the camels quickly, the men levelling their muskets across the saddles, the women gathering the smallest of the children to safety and the biggest of the boys kneeling with spare jerzails and ramrods and powder horns, ready to reload the guns. The square, in fact, was perfectly formed and Simon felt a sudden surge of pride at the way this bunch of listless camel traders had been transformed, for the moment at least, into sturdy defenders. As he strode around the inside of the square, indicating by gesture where gaps should be filled, the four outriders came galloping sequentially down the dunes, waving their jerzails and kicking their mounts so that those old plodders moved at a pace that would have graced racing camels. Once inside the square, the rider from the right, who had fired first, vaulted from his saddle and shouted excitedly to Mahmud.

  ‘About twelve of them coming this way,’ Mahmud relayed.

  A moment later, the front and back outriders came in, and then the picket from the left, his eyes wide, either in fear or exhilaration - probably both, Simon decided - arrived and screamed at Mahmud. The big man gestured for him to dismount, patted him on the shoulder encouragingly and directed him to one of the sides of the square.

  ‘He says about ten that way,’ Mahmud said. ‘What do you want us to do? Just wait?’

  ‘Wait a moment,’ said Simon. ‘I want to see what they are going to do and whether there are any more of them.’ He looked round the square. There were perhaps thirteen or fourteen camels on each side, couched comfortably, chewing and quite unaware, of course, that they had suddenly become ramparts and the first line of defence against musket balls.

  Simon turned again to Mahmud. ‘How much time have we got?’

  ‘Perhaps three or four minutes. They were some distance away.’

  ‘Right. Tell everyone to push bundles and whatever they can in front of the camels to shield them from the gunfire. Those old jerzail balls won’t have too much penetration. They must be quick.’

  Mahmud raised his voice and suddenly the square was a mass of activity. Most, although not all, of the loads had been pushed to the outside of the square when, to the right, a line of black figures materialised over the top of the sand dune. Immediately all activity within the square ceased and a hush fell upon the little community. Slowly the Bedawis urged their camels forward until they were fully revealed and then they paused on the crest of the dune, the stocks of their jerzails resting on their thighs so that the barrels pointed to the sky as they looked down on the caravan, like ravens waiting before pouncing on worms. There were, indeed, about a dozen of them.

  Simon turned as he heard a murmur behind him. The second band had mounted the dune crest on the other side of the square, and they too sat waiting. Simon hurriedly counted. Nine. Were there any more?

  Mahmud turned an anxious and questioning face to the two Europeans.

  ‘How many men have we got with muskets?’ asked Simon.

  ‘About thirty. Another ten or so without.’

  ‘More than enough.’ Simon spoke with a confidence he did not feel. How many could shoot, and would they break and run when the Bedawis charged? And what would happen if the square was broken? He dared not think about that. The attackers were about two hundred and fifty yards away, out of the range of muskets but not of the Martini-Henrys.

  ‘Mahmud, we three will stay in the middle here as reserve and rush to help whichever side of the square is under the fiercest attack. But don’t move unless I tell you to. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, effendi.’

  ‘Where is Abdul?’

  ‘He is one of the corner men. He is a good shot.’

  ‘Splendid. Now, explain to your chaps that Jenkins and I are going to try and teach those devils a lesson for trying to frighten everyone by standing like bloody statues up there. So they will hear us shoot. But no one is to waste ammunition until I shout “Fire!” very loudly. Please interpret.’

  Mahmud nodded and began relaying the instructions.

  ‘Now, 352.’ Simon turned to Jenkins. ‘You look after this side where the greater numbers are. It doesn’t look as though they are going to split up and attack on more than two fronts - there aren’t enough of them anyway. So when I give the signal, pot as many of the bastards as you can before they either charge or slip away. I will do the same from the other side. Understood?’

  ‘Very good, bach sir.’

  As always when danger appeared, Jenkins was imperturbable. His eyes had narrowed and he was already singling out the target for his first shot. Simon wished his own heart would stop beating so loudly that he felt sure everyone within the square could hear it. The odds were stacked against the defenders, he knew that. There were more Egyptians than Bedawis, of course, but he doubted whether many of them could shoot straight, and the attackers had the advantage of looking down from the crests of the dunes, over the camels, to the traders crouched behind. If they chose to dismount, they could direct strong fire on the defenders. But they would have to move nearer first to get within range, and the alternative - charging straight in - meant that they could mount no sort of fire while they did so. Even the Bedawis would not be able to fire accurately from a moving camel. Yet could the Egyptians stand up against such a charge?

  As he watched, he heard a single command from up on the crest and each of the Bedawis drew their scimitars. Ah, the direct attack! Simon shouted to Jenkins: ‘Whenever you like now, 352,’ trying to keep his voice level.

  Immediately, Jenkins’s rifle fired. Simon directed his own Martini at a black-veiled figure in the centre of the row above him and saw dust spurt up near the camel’s front legs. Damn! Hurriedly he inserted another round, pushed the trigger guard forward to cock the mechanism, aimed a little higher and saw his target start back and then slump to the ground. Eight left. The startled camel veered to its right and pushed into its neighbour, so upsetting the geometric precision of the line that had now begun to advance slowly down the slope.

  ‘Now, effendi?’ cried Mahmud, anxiety cracking his voice.

  ‘No. Too far away. Tell them to wait until I shout.’

  Two more reports behind him showed that Jenkins was firing coolly. A shout from the advancing line gave the signal now for the Bedawis to charge. Eight scimitars were raised on high and the camels were galvanised into a lumbering trot and then a sliding, surging gallop as their pads plunged deep into the sand. It was not exactly a disciplined cavalry charge such as British lancers might have produced, but Simon could not help but suck in his breath in exhilaration at the sight of the eight tribesmen thundering down the slope, shouting some kind of battle cry, their swords held on high and their camels snarling.

  ‘Fire!’ he shouted.

  Perhaps a dozen jerzails coughed from Simon’s side of the square and he saw one of the attackers fall. Only one. Poor shooting, as he had feared. His own third shot brought down another camel,
sending its rider cart-wheeling down the slope - damn, still shooting low! - and he heard the wall behind him also open up. But he had no time to turn and assess the situation there. There were six of the riders still crashing down the dune towards him and all of the muskets along his wall were being reloaded. At least the attackers presented an easier target now, and he brought down another with a bullet squarely in the chest this time. A jerzail fired from the corner of the square - Abdul, for sure - and a fifth man toppled from his saddle.

  The remaining four were brave men, however, and they did not falter in their charge. Leaning low to present a smaller target, their scimitars whirling, they reached the line of the defenders’ camels, couched behind their baggage. And there they were forced to stop, for camels do not jump. Impotently, the Bedawis ranged along the line, their swords flashing in the sunlight, vainly trying to reach the defenders, who had all instinctively retreated a few paces as the riders met the barrier.

  The momentary impasse allowed Simon to steal a glance behind him and to either side, for it was possible that the dozen attackers from that side could have spread out to attack the north and south walls of the little square. But they had not, and the sight that met his eyes gladdened his heart. The dune on Jenkins’s side of the wall seemed to be strewn with inert black-swathed figures, their swords lying yards away from them, and riderless camels plodding away back up to the crest. Three riders were urging their beasts away from the square, their heads down and the flats of their swords slapping into their camels’ flanks in a desperate attempt to escape the fire of the jerzails. Jenkins was standing outside the square on what appeared to be a pile of carpets, aiming his rifle at the three departing Bedawis.

  A crash of musket fire behind him made Simon spin around again to see, as the smoke cleared, two Bedawis fleeing as fast as their camels could take them. It was a third, however, who caught his eye. Somehow, flailing his scimitar in his left hand, he had broken through the barrier and reined to a halt in the middle of the square, turning his head. The man’s eyes seemed to light up as they settled on Simon and immediately he urged his camel towards him, veering to Simon’s left to give himself room to swing his sword. Simon saw the bandage and splint on the rider’s right forearm and he immediately knew the identity of his adversary. He fumbled beneath his robe for a cartridge but realised that there was no time to load or even to run, so he crouched, both hands spaced out along the rifle to block the swing of the scimitar. Within seconds the man was upon him. Simon smelt the foul breath of the camel and looked up at the bared teeth of the rider as he began his back-handed swing. But the sword slash never materialised, for Jenkins’s bullet smashed into the Bedawi’s chest and sent him crashing to the ground.

  Suddenly all seemed silent within the little square. And then a great huzzah! arose from the defenders, as they realised that their attackers had now fled and that they had won the first battle of their lives. Small boys ran towards Simon, skipping and bouncing and waving their musket ramrods, women wept with relief, and thirty jerzails, their muzzles still smoking, were raised in the air in triumph.

  Simon looked for Jenkins, and the little man, his Arab head cloth now hanging by one cord down the side of his head, came walking to meet him, his face split by that huge grin. Silently the two shook hands. ‘Once again . . .’ Simon’s voice tailed away.

  ‘Ah, think nothin’ of it, bach sir. You’d ’ave bashed’im with your rifle barrel anyway. Couldn’t ’ave that, ’cos I told you the perisher was mine, so I ’ad to shoot an’ deny you the pleasure, see.’

  They were interrupted by Mahmud, his face smudged with black powder. Silently he offered his hand to each of them.

  ‘Have any of your people been hurt?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Just one man has a sword cut on his shoulder, but it is nothing much.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Who would have thought it? We beat more than twenty Bedawis. Well . . .’ he smiled, ‘you did.’ He gestured towards Jenkins. ‘Do you know, this man must have killed six of them on his own.’

  ‘The best soldier in the British army,’ grinned Simon. ‘Well, he used to be, before he took to the soft life.’ He looked around. ‘I would have thought that there was no chance of them coming back, Mahmud, is there?’

  ‘Allah be praised, no. We must have killed eighteen of them and that means virtually all of the men - certainly the young men - in their camp. No one that I know of my people has ever stood up to them before. It is not good to kill, but these were evil men and they have been taught a lesson that will be sung about throughout this desert. And they have lost many of their camels, which will hurt those who are left.’ He reached out and shook Simon’s hand again. ‘We owe you a great debt.’

  Simon coughed. ‘No. You did it yourselves. You must remember that. You did it yourselves. Congratulations.’

  The evening meal that night was a noisy affair, as were their arrivals at the villages at which they stopped on their continued journey to Suez. Somehow, as Mahmud had prophesied, the news of the Bedawis’ defeat had spread throughout these scattered communities, and Simon and Jenkins’s wooden plates were piled high with the choicest morsels at each feast. It was as if, Simon confided to Jenkins, they had slain some great dragon in mythological times.

  ‘Aren’t we supposed to get a virgin maiden as a reward each then?’ sniffed the Welshman. ‘I don’t see many of them about ’ere, look you.’

  The remainder of the journey proved to be uneventful, although Simon insisted that the caravan should keep its moving square formation and Mahmud and his men happily humoured him. It seemed clear, however, that the danger of attack had been removed and Simon sensed that after their departure the caravan would fall back into its traditional single-line pattern for its long journeys. After all, that was the way it had always been done.

  The farewell from the traders in Suez was quite emotional. Mahmud presented each of his passengers with identical jewelled daggers and insisted on refunding the six sovereigns paid for their passage. Each man, woman and child lined up and moved by the two friends to shake their hands. ‘Good thing, good thing,’ said Abdul with tears in his eyes.

  To Simon’s relief, there was a ship at the quay with steam up waiting for permission to leave Suez for its onward passage to Durban in Natal, and its captain was happy to take on board two last-minute passengers for the journey, however dishevelled they appeared in their creased cotton suits. Better, felt Simon, to be away before news of their triumph over the Bedawis reached Cairo.

  As the SS Belvedere pulled away, Mahmud and Abdul stood waving on the dockside until they disappeared in the heat haze.

  Chapter 3

  The voyage down the stiflingly hot Red Sea and then along the seemingly endless east coast of Africa was uneventful and boring. During it, Jenkins reverted to his role of officer’s servant, washing and ironing Simon’s two shirts and pressing his one pair of duck trousers every evening (they were travelling third class, so there was no need to dress for dinner).

  With little to do, Simon had plenty of time to reflect on matters he had been trying to forget: the depth of his love for Alice Griffith and the agony of contemplating her marriage to Covington - was it happening this very day, or perhaps the day after? This, together with the awful, dreadful prospect of the consummation of that marriage, made him morose and monosyllabic. It had been just before the end of the Sekukuni campaign, which Alice had been reporting on for the Morning Post, that she had confessed her love for Simon and promised to break off her engagement to Covington as soon as the battle was over. But in that fierce attack on the bePedi tribe the Colonel had lost his hand and his eye, so ending his glittering army career - and prompting Alice to make the agonising decision that she could not now abandon the man she no longer loved. Simon, heartbroken, had accepted her choice, but could not face returning home while the nuptials were being celebrated. The novelty and then the danger of the journey across the desert had lifted his spirits for a time. But the heat and boredom of the voyag
e brought back his misery and made him a withdrawn, sad companion. When the familiar sight of the rollers crashing on to the beach at Durban eventually hove into sight, then, Jenkins was hugely relieved.

  Indeed, the excitement of the landing, with the rollercoaster longboat ride over the surf on to the open beach, and the sweet smell of the sugar-cane fields that met their nostrils as they walked through the little town, helped to bring a spring back into Simon’s step. Enquiries at Natal’s administrative centre met with the expected news that General Pomeroy-Colley was at his army headquarters inland at Pietermaritzburg. Simon sent off a brief telegram to indicate their arrival and then set about equipping the pair for the journey to the north and the renewal of their lives as army scouts.

  Sufficient of their haul of sovereigns remained for them to buy two good horses, a mule to carry their baggage, saddles and harness, ammunition for their Martini-Henrys, and appropriate dress for a life in the saddle - wide-brimmed slouch hats, Boer-type corduroy breeches and flannel shirts. Jenkins ventured into the Indian bazaar and received two pounds ten shillings for their Arab dress. He returned from this venture two days later, eyes rheumy, hair dishevelled, reeking of cheap whisky and beer. Simon decided to issue no rebuke. Better to let the little man get it out of his system before their excursion back into army territory.

  ‘Look well if this general doesn’t want us,’ said Jenkins, surveying their new gear. ‘What are we goin’ to do then, after comin’ all this way? Take up farmin’? I don’t want to go back to ploughin’, see. I was no good at it anyway.’

  ‘Oh, I think he’ll want us all right. From what I’ve heard, Colley has done what General Wolseley has suggested to him for much of his time as a senior officer.’