Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  ‘Now.’ He leaned his chair back. ‘I am grateful for all that you have done and for the advice that you have given me. I was told that you were shrewd m-m-militarily far beyond your age and rank, and you seem to have lived up to that commendation. Your brush with that Boer party is indicative of that. So . . .’ he let the chair fall forwards with a crash, ‘I have another rather difficult and delicate job for you.’

  ‘Sir?

  ‘More of that tomorrow. I have much on my hands at the moment and I have a very important letter to draft. Please come and see me at eight a.m. tomorrow and I can brief you fully. Oh, and this work can involve not only the famous 352 but this Buffalo Bill chappie, if you wish. Now, Fonthill, please excuse me.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Ah. Fonthill . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Good lord. What date is it?’

  ‘December the twenty-third. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. After I have seen you, I leave for ’Maritzburg to gather what men I can - and to see my wife. Are you married, my boy?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Simon’s reply was quick and emphatic. For a moment it nonplussed the general.

  ‘Well, I recommend it. Good morning.’

  Simon was a trifle early for his appointment the next day and so he was kept waiting. He noticed now that both hotels had hung coloured bunting around their public rooms and had put sprigs of evergreen behind the pictures on the walls. He also realised that the military presence he had observed on riding in was, in fact, quite modest. Indeed, a quick strike by the Boers down through the pass in the Drakensbergs now would probably meet with little resistance. Nevertheless, he felt that that would be unlikely. The general was right: the Afrikaners were not offensive fighters and they would not easily give up the chance of tackling Colley from a defensive position at Laing’s Nek.

  At 8.20 he was ushered in to see the general, who was signing a document. He was waved to a seat as Colley carefully put the letter into an envelope, deposited a little sealing wax made pliable by a candle and then stamped it heavily with his seal.

  He held up the envelope. ‘Now, Fonthill, I want you to take this yourself to Jan Hendrik Brand, the p-p-president of the Orange Free State, at his capital in Bloemfontein. I am very sorry to have to ask this of you, but I believe it important that he receives it as soon as possible, so I must ask you to set out immediately.’ He pulled at his beard and gave his sad smile. ‘It means you missing whatever Christmas f-f-festivities Newcastle can offer, I’m afraid. You will need to prepare for the journey, of course. Can you start this afternoon?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Simon had been dreading the thought of a synthetic Christmas in the hotel next door: the drinking, the toasting, the inevitable singing of carols, the false jollity - while back home in England, Alice would be spending her first Christmas with her new husband . . . Hell! The need to ride somewhere, anywhere, urgently would be a welcome diversion.

  ‘Do sit down, Fonthill.’ As Simon perched on the edge of the button-backed chair facing the desk, Colley stood and began walking round the room as he spoke, so that Simon was forced to turn his head to follow him.

  ‘Now, you may wonder why I am not sending this letter through the normal channels. The reason is that it is an important message, of some sophistication, and I want to send it to Brand via special messenger to underline its importance. I am writing to the president, you see, in my c-c-capacity not only as Commander-in-Chief of South-East Africa but also as High Commissioner. This letter, then, concerns diplomatic matters as well as military. Do you follow?’

  ‘So far so good, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Colley carefully adjusted the Ashanti War painting behind his desk. ‘I am requesting the president to send an answer back to me with you, so you w-w-will wait there until it is prepared and given to you. Then make all haste to return here to give it to me. I may be here or further to the north. But find me with it. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I need not burden you with the full content of the letter, but I think you should be aware of the main thrust of it. The p-p-position is this.’ The general, dressed for his journey south in light khaki drill devoid of badges of rank but wearing puttees and large boots, perched somewhat incongruously on the corner of the desk and leaned down to speak earnestly to the young man facing him.

  ‘I did not want this war, but we have it now and it has to be fought. It would be disastrous, however - both politically back home and militarily here - if it escalated into a full-scale conflict between the Boers of South Africa and the imperial forces. The people of the Orange Free State are key to this and it is vital that they do not join with their brothers in the north to fight against us. This is therefore a personal plea from me to the president to stay out of the war. I am even asking for his advice on what I can do to assist him in this endeavour and, indeed, to mitigate the conflict in the Transvaal. At the same time, however, I am explaining to him the hopelessness of the Transvaalers’ cause. I have explained that, in addition to the forces I have here, there are two cavalry regiments, two infantry regiments and two batteries of artillery on their way to reinforce me, and twice that number more would reach me within a month if I telegraph home the wish.’ Colley smiled. ‘Just a touch - in the lightest possible way - of the heavy hand there, Fonthill, you understand.’

  Simon nodded, but his mind was full of questions.

  ‘In my letter I have introduced you as a young but important member of my civil staff in Natal, who, although he has now left the army, had a b-b-brilliant record in terms of fighting not only at Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift but also in Afghanistan and the recent Sekukuni campaign. I have informed the president that you know the territory in the north, that you are c-c-currently quite au fait with the situation in the Transvaal and that you have my complete confidence.’

  The general’s eyes were now almost a-twinkle. Was there some mischief afoot? Simon intervened before Colley could continue. ‘I am more than happy, of course, sir, to undertake this mission,’ he said, ‘and I realise its importance. In fact that is the point. I hope that you don’t think I am reflecting either self-doubt or impertinence in suggesting that perhaps you should have someone of - what shall I say? - more seniority undertaking it.’

  ‘Ah, Fonthill, the question does you c-c-credit!’ Colley was now positively beaming. ‘To be frank, the answer is no. Oh, I have senior officers here who are fine soldiers who would seem to fit the bill. But their role is fighting and I do not have complete confidence in their ability to be diplomatic.’ The general’s expression now softened and the brown eyes assumed an almost apologetic air. ‘What was it the great Duke of Wellington said - “There is n-n-nothing so stupid as a gallant British officer”? I am exaggerating, of course, to make the point, but anyway, I need every senior officer I have at the moment to train and drill this rather rag-tag army with which I shall have to confront these will-o’the-wisp marksmen of yours.’

  Simon frowned. ‘I see that, sir, but surely I shall be nothing more than a messenger?’

  ‘Not quite - and this is the point.’ The general eased himself off the corner of the desk and resumed his seat. He picked up his pen and tapped it idly against his thumbnail. ‘I don’t know Brand, but I am informed that he is a balanced individual, unlike some of his more volatile colleagues in the Transvaal, and that he is very shrewd. I can quite see, therefore, that he might think that my references to the strength of my army here are rather over-egged, to impress.’ The gentle smile returned. ‘As, indeed, they are.

  ‘In the circumstances, then, he might well subject you to a gentle inquisition about the real strength of my forces here.’ Colley leaned forward. ‘Such a questioning directed at a b-b-bluff colonel would elicit loyal support of my claims. You would not expect such an experienced soldier to express even a twinge of doubt about our strength here. However,’ the general leaned back, ‘Brand might well attempt to take advantage of your obv
ious youth and seeming lack of experience to elicit a truthful and ingenuous indiscretion which would reveal that we are not as strong as my letter claims. D’ you follow, Fonthill?’

  Simon blew out his cheeks. ‘Bit of a double bluff, eh?’

  ‘Exactly. Look, my boy, it may seem that I am playing games, but I promise you I am not. I have eighteen hundred British troops completely trapped and besieged in Transvaal garrisons. Whatever the ambivalence displayed by our Liberal government - and I expect p-p-plenty of that - I know that public opinion back home will demand that I march north as quickly as possible to raise those sieges. I probably have insufficient quality and quantity of men to do that with complete confidence, but I can’t afford to wait. Given my strength, I must play every c-c-card I can to ensure that this war does not escalate to include the Free Staters. I am sure you understand.’

  Simon slowly nodded his head. He understood all right, but the task ahead of him sounded delicate, if not downright awkward. Not exactly scouting for an army in the field. ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

  ‘Now,’ Colley continued, ‘Sir Garnet Wolseley tells me that you have ability and common sense and I am sure that is t-t-true. If Brand does question you along these lines, then convey that I am building a formidable force that is almost ready to march. He won’t expect you to give him chapter and verse, of course, but you might perhaps drop in the fact that you believe there is a naval contingent in Cape Town p-p-preparing to join the column.’ He chuckled. ‘The power of our navy always frightened foreigners. But above all, try to sound open and frank - and completely confident. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Quite clear, sir.’

  ‘Good. One more thing. The Free State is, of course, independent, but I have no reason to think that Brand will be unsympathetic. In fact, I understand that the Transvaalers accuse him of being too English. B-b-but he could well be under some sort of pressure from other European powers to throw in his lot with the Transvaal. I hear from London that Leon Gambetta, the president of the French Assembly, has said that the British are “ignoble” in fighting the Boers, and Bismarck has informed Viscount Goschen that we ought to have done anything rather than fight the white man in South Africa.’ The general’s mellifluous voice took on a note of gentle indignation. ‘You see, the Empire has c-c-critics everywhere. I imagine it is the price of success.’

  ‘But how might this affect my task in Bloemfontein?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Well, I hope it won’t. But you might find that there are representatives of, say, Germany, at Brand’s court, so to speak. If you do, tread with care. We do not, of course, want an international incident.’

  Simon gulped. ‘Tread with care. Yes, of course, sir.’

  ‘Now,’ Colley stood and his voice became stronger, ‘I am not sending an army escort with you, because I do not want r-r-redcoats being flaunted in the Orange Free State at this moment, for obvious reasons. I do not anticipate that your journey will be interrupted at all - I have today telegraphed the president, telling him to expect you. But you will need some sort of protection on the way and it seems to me that your m-m-man Jenkins and even this strange American, if he wishes to accompany you, will fulfil this task quite well.’ He offered Simon the letter and a small piece of paper with it. ‘This is a chit to the quartermaster. He will provide new Martini-Henrys and whatever other small arms you need, and also . . .’ he paused and smiled, ‘a suit of tails and white tie for you. Strangely enough, the QM tells me that he can manage this.’

  ‘Good lord.’ Simon’s jaw dropped for a moment.

  ‘You are entering diplomatic territory now, Fonthill, so you must look the part if called upon to do a little formal representation. Sorry we can’t give you the rank of ambassador. Now be on your way, and good luck.’

  Simon stood and shook the general’s hand, his head buzzing. ‘Thank you, Sir George,’ he said.

  Chapter 6

  Simon felt ridiculous asking Jenkins to pack white tie and tails into a special flat pack that would hang behind his saddle roll, and the Welshman put on his particularly lugubrious face at the request. ‘Where do I put the dancin’ shoes, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Damn,’ said Simon. ‘Good point. I can’t go to a reception - even in Bloemfontein - in riding boots.’ And he rushed to the only outfitters in Newcastle and bought a pair of black shoes, not exactly suitable for evening wear but, with a little elbow grease from Jenkins to bequeath polish, able to pass muster.

  The Welshman did not take easily to the news that they would set off that afternoon, in the light rain that was falling, and so miss the Christmas Eve festivities in the hotel and the feasting that was set to follow the next day. But Simon was adamant. He had promised Colley that they would be on their way as soon as possible, and anyway, he had no desire to celebrate Christmas.

  He approached Al Hardy with some reticence. The tall Texan had stayed strangely quiet since their arrival in Newcastle, spending the two days mainly engrossed in endless games of cards with Jenkins, to whom he taught poker. On their brief acquaintance, Simon had grown to like the man, and he and 352 seemed to have become bosom friends. Yet there was undoubtedly something bizarre about him - after all, what was an American frontiersman, clearly a gunman, doing wandering around South Africa? Was he, could he be on the run from the law? But if so, why run so far? Canada, for goodness’ sake, would be an equally secure refuge and a damn sight nearer.

  Certainly Hardy seemed to have no financial worries. Although he spent little on himself (he made no attempt to match Jenkins’s consumption of liquor), he was meticulous in his attention to Custer, turning down Simon’s offer of finding army stabling and putting the big chestnut in the most expensive livery stable in town. In terms of approaching the Texan to accompany them, Simon was rather ambivalent. On the one hand, the man was so damned conspicuous, with his buckskins and big Stetson (Simon had managed to persuade him to leave his gun belt in the bottom of the chest of drawers in their room during their stay in Newcastle); perhaps not the most ideal companion for a diplomatic mission. Yet he matched Jenkins in his courage and marksmanship and one couldn’t wish for a better man to have at one’s side in a tight corner. It was with some diffidence, then, that Simon asked if he wished to travel with them to Bloemfontein.

  ‘Waal, sonny,’ said the tall man, hitching up his tight trousers. ‘Ah don’t much fancy ridin’ out in this rain an’ all. But ah guess ah ain’t got much else to do in this one-horse town, so ah might as well come along to keep you outta trouble, if you want me, that is.’

  ‘Oh, very much so, although I’m afraid there will be no pay in it.’

  ‘Ah’ve got enough to get by.’

  ‘Good. We will ride out at four o’clock.’

  The rain, in fact, had stopped by the time they walked their horses out of Newcastle, leading a packhorse behind them. Simon had contemplated taking a Cape cart with them but had decided against it. Although the Free State was completely independent and he was not anticipating trouble on the way, he wanted to be able to move quickly if need be, and a cart would slow them down. As it was, they made slow enough progress, for the heavy overnight rain had turned the previously dusty track into muddy ruts, and the dongas that it seemed had carried no water for decades had turned momentarily into rushing torrents. They climbed high through a pass in the northern fringe of the Drakensbergs and descended again to flat, rolling veldt lands broken by ironstone kopjes. They camped by a small river bed just before dark, digging a channel around their tent to prevent themselves being swamped by another sudden storm.

  Eighteen days later, they reined in their tired horses on one of four low hills surrounding Bloemfontein and looked down on the little town. Their journey had been uneventful and, indeed, not uncomfortable. The summer, although hot, was not advanced, the rain had kept off and the three men had been able to find overnight lodgings at several Boer farms on the way, taking advantage of the old Roman Dutch law that ruled that folk should not b
e allowed to go hungry if there was food nearby and they had the means to pay. In other words, the Boers were under an obligation to sell food and offer shelter if they had it - and they did so, although their prices, felt Simon, were unreasonably high. The farmers were uncommunicative and often surly, and in many ways it was a relief to reach the small and unpretentious capital of the Free State.

  Shimmering now in the summer sun but fanned by a fresh breeze, it presented a fair picture, nestling in the hollow between the northern and southern hills. The three travellers gazed down on a succession of small houses with galvanised-iron roofs, interspersed with a delightful mixture of green trees: cypress, blue gums and, near a central lake retained by a dam, weeping willows. In the centre they could make out a large square where, it seemed, a market was being held. A citadel, composed of a loose stone wall with what looked like two old smooth-bore 24-pounder cannon on top, dominated the main east-to-west road that ran through the centre of the town, and by the lake, a fountain twinkled in the sunlight. Bloemfontein beckoned enticingly.

  The three rode down the slope and through to the centre of the town. ‘Looks just like Omaha, Texas,’ murmured Hardy.

  Simon thought for a moment. He had read the Lewis and Clarke diaries of their great expedition up the Missouri and knew a little about the West. ‘I thought Omaha was in Nebraska,’ he said.

  ‘What? Oh yeah. The one I had in mind is smaller, in Texas.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Simon felt that it would be right to deliver his letter the moment they reached the capital, so he was directed to the House of Assembly, a seemingly new, rather grand building erected next to the dam. While the others waited, he entered and handed the letter to a clerk, who seemed suitably impressed.