by John Wilcox
Simon felt uneasy as, flanked by Jenkins and Hardy, he rode along the familiar track towards Laing’s Nek, carrying a borrowed cavalryman’s lance to which was fixed a white pennant. He had insisted that the three of them should look their best as emissaries of the British Government, so they had all put on their best clothes. Somehow Al had scrubbed clean his buckskins and, with Stetson and goatee, looked the epitome of the Western frontiersman; Jenkins, his hair brushed flat as it ever could be, had found clean shirts for himself and Simon. Even so, none of the trio was comfortable as they approached the valley leading up to the Nek. They had left their weapons behind and it seemed incongruous to ride towards two thousand hostile rifles with only a scrap of white cotton as protection.
As they neared the brooding presence of Majuba, Simon examined it again with interest. It was known locally as a hill, but it was more of a small mountain, standing more than six thousand feet above sea level and climbing well over a thousand feet from the western end of the Nek. The summer’s wet weather had left a cap of white cloud clinging to its truncated peak, but below that the mountain’s slopes were clearly marked by parallel strata of sandstone and shale, breaking into giant stairways of terraces and cliffs. Simon mused that if troops could be placed on the summit - particularly with artillery - then the Boers’ positions on the Nek and the hills opposite would be made completely untenable. But could it be climbed?
His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a group of about half a dozen horsemen, riding towards them down the slope from the Nek. Their leader, a heavy man with a beard larger than those of the others (did the Boers use facial hair as a badge of rank? mused Simon), held up his hand and greeted them with a grin.
‘Good day, English,’ he said. ‘Have you come to surrender already?’
Simon grinned back. ‘No, but we are quite prepared to take your surrender if you wish. I have a letter from Major General Sir George Pomeroy-Colley to Vice President Kruger. I am instructed to hand it personally to General Nicholas Smit. Can you please take us to him?’
The big man rode around the trio and noted that they carried no weapons. ‘Is this the end of the war then, man?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I am only the messenger. But I don’t think we should delay.’
‘Ja. Follow us.’
He turned and the little party cantered up the rise towards the trenches on the Nek, which could now be clearly seen. Simon noted that the Boer fortifications had been extended further up the slopes of Majuba and that they now appeared to be more sophisticated, with walls of rock emplacements stretching to either side.
‘Durned sight more of the varmints now than when we last came,’ murmured Al.
‘Aye,’ agreed Jenkins. ‘I do ’ope the general ’as given up any idea of ’avin’ another go straight at ’em, like, up these slopes. We wouldn’t stand a chance.’
Simon nodded agreement, looking around him with interest. The network of sangars stretched back behind the crest, offering protection for support riflemen away from artillery shell bursts, and the whole camp was thronged with bandoliered burghers, smoking pipes, cleaning rifles, walking their ponies back to the horse lines behind, or simply lying down sleeping, their hats tipped over their faces. It was clear that the whole position had been strengthened since the engagement. The Boers, it seemed, were here to stay.
Then he stiffened in the saddle. To his right, high on a rock, watching him intently, stood a small, slim man carrying his right arm lightly in a sling. He stood out from the Boers in that he was dressed in smart riding breeches and a spotless white shirt. Baron Wilhelm von Bethman had lost none of his elegance since last they had met. Simon had not thought for a moment that the German would have accompanied the Boers on their ‘invasion’ of Natal and had presumed that he and Anna would have taken ship home to Germany by now. What was he doing in the Boer stronghold? And if he was here, would Anna be also? His heart quickened for a moment, then he frowned and dismissed the thought with a toss of his head. This was no place for a woman, and beside, she had gone from his life. He gave the baron no sign of recognition and received none in return.
Nevertheless, he looked around him with unusual care as they were taken to a cluster of tents at the rear of the Nek and gestured to dismount at one no more pretentious than the rest. ‘Please wait here,’ said their guide, who then disappeared inside the tent.
They stayed there for only a brief time but Simon was aware how conspicuous Hardy was in that encampment where every man dressed the same: dirty lace-up boots, shapeless jackets, corduroy trousers, unkempt beards under broad-brimmed hats. Here, the Texan looked like some showpiece in his yellow buckskins, finely worked riding boots, white hat and beautifully trimmed Vandyke beard. Yet he showed no sign of discomfort as Boers gathered round him and regarded him with open-mouthed astonishment. He merely stood, thumbs hooked into his belt from which hung the two empty holsters, and gazed into infinity, a faint smile on his face.
‘Blimey,’ confided Jenkins to Simon from the corner of his mouth, ‘ ’e’s lovin’ every minute of this. We could’ave taken an admission charge, look you.’
They were received inside the tent by a tall man in, unusually, a white jacket but sporting the conventional long beard. His forehead was large and his brown eyes smiled kindly as he extended his hand.
‘Welcome, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My name is Nicholas Smit. Please sit down and take some tea with us.’
‘Thank you, sir. I am Simon Fonthill, late captain in the 24th Regiment of Foot and the Queen’s Own Corps of Guards. This is ex-Sergeant Jenkins, of the same regiments, and Mr Al Hardy, formerly of the American army.’
‘Ah yes. I have heard of you and, indeed, saw you at our recent little brush on Schuin’s Hoogte.’ He gestured again for them to sit. ‘I understand that Mr Hardy, in particular, is renowed as a shootist with his pistols, but I cannot help wondering why an American should be fighting with the British Army . . .?’
He left the question hanging, rather like a gentle rebuke, and Hardy coloured slightly.
‘Waal, General,’ he said, shifting in his seat. ‘Ah was arrested by your people up in the north, though ah was only mindin’ mah own business. Ah was thrown into a waggon an’ kept a prisoner and didn’t take kindly to that. So I escaped with the captain and the sergeant heah and ah’ve bin helpin’ out with ’em. Scoutin’ and such.’
Smit nodded gravely. ‘I see. Well, I apologise to you if you felt that you were mistreated. These are strange times for us, as you can see.’ His face softened slightly. ‘But we seem to have suffered as a result of making an enemy of you. You shoot very well, I understand.’
Simon felt it time to intervene. Smit seemed genial enough, but the story of their fracas in south Transvaal seemed to have spread through the Boer ranks. It could be harmful to revive the details. ‘I have a letter for you, sir,’ he said. ‘At least, it is for Vice President Kruger, and Major General Colley would be grateful if you could convey it to him.’ He handed over the envelope.
The big man took it, removed a hunting knife from his belt and began slitting it open. ‘I will read it if you will allow,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it may need a rapid response, and the vice president, of course, is not here.’
He wound the endpieces of a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles around his ears, pursed his lips and, frowning, began reading aloud, slowly, as though the English words were difficult:
‘ “Sir, I have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the twelfth instant . . .”’
He paused, glanced at the date at the top of the letter and looked at Simon over the top of his spectacles. ‘But this letter is dated the twenty-first, and today, I believe, is the twenty-fourth. There seems to have been no urgency in replying to the vice president’s letter, nor, indeed, in conveying the reply to us here.’
Simon swallowed. ‘I am sorry, sir. I would imagine that the general had to confer with London. Certainly, I was handed this letter only today to bring to you.’<
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Smit nodded and continued reading aloud: ‘ “In reply, I am to inform you that on the Boers now in arms against Her Majesty’s authority ceasing armed opposition, Her Majesty’s Government will be ready to appoint a commission with large powers who may develop the scheme referred to in Lord Kimberley’s . . .”’
The Boer looked up at Simon again. ‘I think he is the minister for colonies, is he not?’
‘The Colonial Secretary, sir, yes.’
Smit continued reading: ‘ “. . . Lord Kimberley’s telegram of the eighth instant, communicated to you through His Honour, President Brand. I am to add that upon this proposal being accepted within forty-eight hours, I have the authority to agree a suspension of hostilities on our part.”’
Smit removed his spectacles but his frown had deepened. ‘I shall, of course, relay this letter immediately to Vice President Kruger in the north. But I must say that, given the distances involved, forty-eight hours leaves us very little time to reply. I am not sure of the exact whereabouts of Mr Kruger, but as I say, this important message will be sent to him without delay. I would be grateful if you would explain this to Major General Colley, Mr Fonthill.’
‘Of course I will, sir.’
‘Good. Now - how do you take your tea?’
‘General Smit.’ The voice came from behind Simon’s head, from the entrance to the tent. Von Bethman stood outlined against the light of the entrance, dramatically pointing one finger at Simon. ‘This man is a British spy and should be arrested and hanged immediately.’
‘Baron.’ Smit rose slowly from his seat. ‘Ach, I think you are mistaken. Captain Fonthill is indeed from the British camp, but he comes here under a flag of truce to bring a message from the British commander-in-chief to Vice President Kruger. I do not see how he can be on a spying mission, for I have the letter here and it is in answer to one sent earlier. Now, do come in. Won’t you join us in a cup of tea?’
The general’s tone was mild, and if it was not for the fact that he spoke in the guttural tones of an Afrikaner, he could have been a British clergyman welcoming an unexpected parishioner.
Von Bethman strode forward. ‘Herr General, I know this man. He was arrested by your men as he was skulking behind your lines in the Transvaal, preparing for an invasion by the British, but he escaped, killing as he went. Then I met him in Bloemfontein, wheedling away at President Brand to persuade him not to support you and your brothers. There he insulted me and the Countess Scheel but fled before I could exact a proper price for his insolence.’ The German’s eyes were no longer cold but glowing with hatred, and he had withdrawn his right hand from its sling to emphasise his points. But he spoke evenly and clinically, like an attorney presenting a prosecution’s case. ‘He may well have brought a letter for you, but his real purpose will be to spy out your positions before the British attack again. I tell you, the man is dangerous and should be executed before he does further damage to your cause.’
Smit frowned. ‘There can be no question of that, Baron. Whether what you say is true or not, Captain Fonthill and his companions are protected by a flag of truce. I know nothing of the captain’s activities in the Free State, although I was aware that they had been apprehended by us earlier and had somehow ridden away. But these things happen in war.’
His voice softened and he turned to Simon. ‘War is a terrible thing, Mr Fonthill. Let us end it as soon as possible. Tell General Colley that I will convey his letter to Mr Kruger with all haste. Now, when you have finished your tea, I will ask you to return to your camp. However . . .’ He paused for a moment, his finger to his lips, his brow furrowed. ‘The baron is an honoured guest here and has already proved his friendship towards our cause. In view of what he has said, I fear I must have you all blindfolded as you ride through our lines. I will send an escort with you, and the blindfolds will be removed, of course, as soon as you are well clear of the Nek.’
Simon put down his cup. ‘Thank you, sir. We will leave immediately then.’ He directed a cool gaze at von Bethman. ‘I will merely say that we are not spies and have done nothing dishonourable. We are not members of the British Army, that is true, but we are scouts who ride ahead of the regular forces, as scouts have always done, in the service of our country. That is all. The baron hates the British and his views are unbalanced. Thank you for your courtesy, sir, and good morning.’
As he turned on his heel, Simon heard the baron speak quickly and loudly in German, but then he was through the tent opening, followed quickly by Jenkins and Hardy. There they were stopped and led to their horses and bandannas were tied around their eyes, though not before Simon had taken a last look around him.
They rode in silence and semi-darkness before, after about twenty minutes, the blindfolds were removed and they were sent on their way with a courteous salute from the large bearded man in charge of the escort.
‘It’s mah opinion,’ said Hardy after a while, ‘that you’ve upset that German chile just a touch. I guess he could be a real dangerous critter. Simon, you should watch your back.’ He spoke with a half-grin on his lips, but his eyes were serious.
Jenkins let out a snort. ‘ ’E’s a nasty piece of work, all right. But ’e’s only a little feller an’ everyone knows that little fellers are no danger to anyone.’ He grinned to underline the jest.
Simon reined in his horse and turned it to look back one more time at the Nek. ‘I’m not worried about him,’ he said. ‘But I would like to know quite what he’s doing with the Boers. It looks as though the German government is really putting some weight behind the Afrikaner wheel.’ He shielded his eyes to inspect more closely the hilltops they had just vacated. ‘I’m glad, though, that they didn’t put the blindfolds on until the return journey. I think I’ve seen enough to help the general.’
He pulled his mount’s head round and they resumed their amble towards the British camp. But Simon was not thinking about the Boer defences. His mind was now consumed with thoughts of Anna Scheel. If von Bethman was embedded in the Boer headquarters, then he must have some official status representing the German government. And that must surely mean that Anna had acted as a spy, attempting to charm Simon - seduce him, even - sufficiently to learn the contents of Brand’s reply to Colley, to the point where she had gained entry to his room to steal or read the letter. He ran his tongue over dry lips. This meant, of course, that she had never cared for him at all . . . But if her mission was one of seduction, then surely the baron would have been a party to it and would not have intervened on that moonlit evening in Bloemfontein? Unless, perhaps, the German had become genuinely jealous and overstepped the mark. Simon shrugged his shoulders. It didn’t matter a damn now either way. And yet he could not erase from his mind the touch of his lips on her soft skin and the erotic fragrance of her perfume. Damn and blast the woman!
They had walked their horses for a further thirty minutes or so when they became aware that, far behind them, a horseman was galloping towards them from the direction of the Nek. Unarmed as they were, Simon felt vulnerable and immediately reinstated the white flag on the cavalry lance he still carried, as they urged their horses into a canter.
‘I think we should wait, bach sir,’ said Jenkins evenly. ‘It looks to me, see, as though it’s a woman ridin’ after us.’
‘What?’ Simon swung round and pulled out his field glasses. The lenses showed that their pursuer was, indeed, riding side-saddle, although she was maintaining her seat effortlessly, despite the speed at which she was moving. As Simon focused, the rider came into view more clearly. Anna Scheel was dressed as though for a morning’s canter on London’s Rotten Row: black riding boots, beautifully cut full skirt, and, despite the sun, matching jacket. He could just make out that a saucy top hat was pinned to her hair and a smart veil was tied under her chin. She was urging her steed on, although it was clear that she had been seen and the three were waiting for her.
‘Watch out, bach sir,’ said Jenkins. ‘It could be a trap.’
‘I don’t th
ink so,’ said Simon, ranging his field glasses slightly to left and right of the rider. ‘It seems that she is alone. We must wait for her.’ He found that his heart was pounding.
The countess reined in some two hundred yards from them and allowed her horse to walk towards them as she untied her veil for a moment, wiping her brow and cheeks with a small handkerchief before retying the veil beneath her chin. It was clear that she was perturbed and was anxious to regain her composure before facing the three men.
‘I am so glad to have caught you, gentlemen,’ she said as she joined them. ‘I only heard that you had been in the Boer camp after you had left, and I had to ride hard.’ She looked at Simon with an expression he had not seen on her face before - part anxiety, part supplication and completely alien to the air of self-possession she had worn in Bloemfontein. ‘Good afternoon, Simon,’ she said.
‘Good afternoon, Countess.’ His voice was cold and she half flinched at its tone.
She turned in the saddle quickly to look behind her before facing back to address Simon. ‘Would it be possible, Simon, for you to spare me a moment . . . er . . . in private. I am afraid that I am in some distress and I have no one else to turn to. I would be grateful for your help.’
Simon’s first instinct was to dismiss her with polite irony. After all, it seemed clear now that she was an agent of a foreign and unfriendly power - why else was she in the Boer camp? - and quite capable of enmeshing him in a web of further deceit. Yet there was something heartfelt in her appeal, a directness and air of ingenuousness in her voice that made him think again. And she was looking quite, quite beautiful, the gallop having brought colour to her cheeks and a glisten of moisture to her eyes - or was that an incipient tear? He made up his mind.
‘Careful, bach,’ he heard Jenkins murmur.
‘You two ride on back to the camp,’ he said. ‘It’s only about another four miles and I will follow directly.’
Jenkins gave a distinct hiss as he turned his horse’s head around but the two walked their animals away without further complaint. Simon took up Anna’s rein and led her to a cleft in a nearby sandstone rock, which remained open to the distant Nek but provided some cover. He slid from his horse and held up his arms to help her dismount. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth for a moment as he smelt the familiar fragrance, then he led the horses into the cleft and found a grassy mound for Anna and himself to sit on, half out of the cleft so that they could command its approach. They sat for a moment, side by side, in silence.