Last Stand At Majuba Hill (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  Simon felt his voice begin to rise but made an effort to remain rational. He was arguing for his life and that of Jenkins. He regarded the faces opposite. Von Bethman’s, of course, was flushed and exuded hate, but those of the Boers, behind their long beards, seemed dispassionate, almost disinterested. They had reason to bear malice towards the British, but they were fervent Christians too, professing a high moral code - although Christians who took delight in potting soldiers as though they were running bucks. Which way would they vote this morning: like cruel Old Testament priests, or modern benevolent victors? He must appeal to their brains. He must stay rational. He gulped and continued.

  ‘It is customary for British officers to continue to be addressed by their rank once they have left the army. So there is no deceit there. We did not operate behind enemy lines because there are no lines. After war was declared by the attack of your countrymen, General, on British troops at Bronkhurstspruit, General Colley ordered my sergeant and me to ride into the Transvaal to scout routes for him to advance and relieve the British garrisons there. But we were not operating behind your lines because - and this is important - Her Majesty the Queen maintains sovereignty over the Transvaal, despite your declaration of independence. So we do not consider that the border between the Transvaal and Natal constitutes an enemy line. That is what this war is all about, of course.’

  He paused, but the stern faces opposite gave no indication that these debating points were striking home. He went on. ‘We were captured by a Boer patrol but escaped. Later, we were overtaken and had to fight for our lives to cross the Natal border. In that skirmish I had the opportunity of taking the life of that gentleman there,’ he indicated ter Haar, ‘but did not take it.’

  General Smit raised an eyebrow. ‘Kornet ter Haar?’

  Ter Haar nodded. ‘Ja. That is true, General. I was injured and he bound my wounds.’

  Simon shot a quick glance at von Bethman. The German’s former expression of arrogant superiority, of certainty that his closeness to his allies and the force of his charges would prevail, had now been replaced by a suppressed fury. His elegant thin moustache had been sucked beneath his lower lip and his face wore a look of angry frustration. Simon felt a brief moment of exhilaration. He sensed that this cool, logical answering of the German’s points was winning the argument. How now to confront his relationship with Anna and the charge that they were lovers? Anna . . . He saw again the waxen image of her dead face as she lay in his arms. Immediately his caution vanished and he pointed a trembling finger at the German.

  ‘I am no spy,’ he shouted.

  ‘Steady, bach,’ whispered Jenkins. ‘Don’t lose it.’

  But it was too late. The tiredness resulting from their night march and the strain of fighting for their lives on the kopje now descended on him and removed all restraint.

  ‘I am no spy,’ he repeated, his voice high and unregulated, ‘but this man is a murderer. A coward who shoots women. It is he who should be executed. He is nothing more than an assassin.’

  The silence that followed the accusation was broken by von Bethman. A slow smile had spread across his face, as though he had won a battle, and he turned to General Smit. ‘Herr General,’ he said softly, ‘I think I can solve this problem for you. I am a gentleman, and no doubt this man here,’ he nodded towards Simon, ‘considers himself of the same class. He accuses me of the worst kind of crime in civilisation. As a gentleman, I have the right to demand satisfaction, and I therefore challenge him to a duel - but in this case, given the grave nature of that accusation, it must be a duel to the death . . . and I assure Mr Fonthill that my sword arm has fully recovered. I will therefore carry out myself this justified execution.’

  ‘Oh no,’ breathed Jenkins. ‘Now you’ve done it.’

  Simon felt the blood drain from his face, but he set his jaw. ‘I am at your service, Baron,’ he said.

  Slowly Nicholas Smit nodded his head. ‘I do not know about this duelling,’ he said. ‘I fear it is not the way of the Lord. But we are not lawyers and I do not know how we could have resolved the truth of these charges. If you both wish to fight to the death on this matter, then so be it. In the end, the good Lord will decide. Now, how do you wish to conduct this matter? I want no part of it, although I suppose I must delegate someone to see fair play.’

  ‘Excuse me, my lord and General bach.’ Jenkins had stepped forward, incongruously still holding their bedrolls.

  ‘For God’s sake shut up and stay out of this,’ hissed Simon. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  But Jenkins was already addressing the puzzled assembly. ‘I ’ad the honour,’ he explained, ‘of bein’ second to Colonel George Winterbottom when he fought the Earl of . . . er . . . Glamorgan on the beach at Rhyl, and I acted in the same capacity in Hyde Park when the colonel duelled with the Honourable Freddie Chumley. I therefore, gentlemen, ’ave ’ad some experience of these matters. Now,’ he turned to a frowning von Bethman, ‘you, my lord, ’ave delivered the challenge to the captain ’ere and therefore you will agree, I am sure, that the captain ’as choice of weapons? Yes?’

  The baron clearly disliked the way in which Jenkins had assumed an air of command, but had no alternative but to assent. ‘Ja,’ he scowled.

  ‘Very good, my lord. Then, as it will be difficult to find a pair of, whatchacallem, duellin’ sabres on this field of battle, like, the captain will choose pistols, won’t you, sir?’

  Simon nodded his head in glum despair.

  Jenkins gave the assembly one of his most magnificent face-splitting smiles. ‘Very well then, gentlemen, as the . . . er . . . offended party, we ’ave the right to fight under our national rules, which ’appen to be those of the London Duellin’ Society, which says the following.’ He drew in a breath. ‘Only one shot in each revolver, each cartridge to be inspected by both seconds before the shootin’, see. Back-to-back start, twelve paces away, called out by both seconds - in English, see, ’cos we’re the challenged party - then turn in own time and fire. All agreed? Good.’

  The baron was still scowling. ‘Wait a minute, man. Wait a minute. We don’t have duelling pistols out here. We can’t duel without them.’

  Jenkins gave a half-bow. ‘Good point, my lord. But I think I may ’ave the answer.’ He turned to Smit. ‘With the general’s permission?’

  Smit shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands in a bewildered fashion.

  Jenkins slowly unwrapped his bedroll. ‘I just ’appen to ’ave ’ere,’ he said, ‘a pair of antique American duellin’ Colts, the property of our late colleague, which we was takin’ ’ome to give to ’is grievin’ mother, see.’

  He unfolded the bedrolls and slowly produced the long pearl-handled revolvers, like an auctioneer exhibiting a prize lot.

  ‘Now don’t worry, gentlemen, because these are not loaded, but I think you will agree that they are fine pieces of work and will do as good a job as duellin’ pistols as anythin’ out of the . . . er . . . Royal Mint.’

  With great decorum he handed a revolver each to von Bethman and to Simon. Simon took his by the barrel, looked in amazement at Jenkins and shrugged his shoulders. Von Bethman, however, received his revolver with growing interest. He laid it in his hand, smoothed his fingers along the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel, inserted a finger in the trigger guard and swung the gun around by it before settling the butt in his hand. He studied the blue-grey metal and then looked up at Smit.

  ‘These are forty-five calibre and will easily kill a man at twenty-four paces,’ he said. ‘They will do the work and I am therefore happy to duel with them, if you, Herr General, will keep both of them overnight to make sure,’ he glared at Jenkins, ‘that there is no cheating with them.’

  ‘Oh perish the thought, my lord,’ assured Jenkins. ‘Perhaps the general will select just two cartridges from the belt to be used by the gentlemen tomorrow and keep them safe as well, like.’

  Smit received the revolvers, took two rounds from the belt and handed the lot to
one of his staff. ‘Do this fighting away from the camp,’ he said. ‘I do not want it to be an exhibition for our men. And tomorrow. You must not duel on the Sabbath. Otherwise, make your own arrangements.’

  Von Bethman inclined his head. ‘I have no German aides with me, Herr General. May I have one of your staff to act as my second?’ He paused for a moment and then nodded towards ter Haar. ‘Although not that man. He may be prejudiced.’

  Smit turned and addressed his companions in Afrikaans. He was obviously asking for a volunteer rather than issuing an order. No one, however, came forward. It was clear that this group of middle-aged burghers found the whole idea distasteful. Eventually one of them sighed and inclined his head. ‘Jan van der Wath will help you,’ said the general. ‘Let him discuss the arrangements with . . .’ he paused, and a half-smile came on to his face, ‘the sergeant here. Now, please excuse me, for I have much to do.’

  The gathering broke up and von Bethman strode away without a glance at Simon and Jenkins, who immediately joined van der Wath and engaged him in animated conversation - with most of the animation being displayed by Jenkins. As he was escorted back to the compound by the fourteen-year-old, Simon took with him an image of the frowning Boer, his mouth half open, attempting to follow whatever it was that Jenkins was saying to him.

  Back with the other prisoners, Simon slumped to the ground and thumped one fist into the other in frustration. Why oh why had he lost his temper? He realised that he had played into the German’s hands. With little hope of extracting a sentence of death from the prudent Boers, whom he now realised would never have risked provoking world opinion by executing prisoners of war, the baron must have planned it all, provoking Simon to insult him before witnesses and so ensuring he had grounds to issue the challenge. He had known that Simon would accept - and so sign his own death warrant. For that was what it would be. His win in Bloemfontein had been a fluke, he knew that. There was no way that he could out-fence the master swordsman a second time, or out-shoot the seasoned duellist. And why oh why had Jenkins insisted on pistols? His untutored strength might, just might, have given him the advantage again with swords - and they surely could have used the Highlanders’ claymores. But he knew that the baron would be a far better marksman and it would take only one bullet to do the business.

  His head was in his hands when Jenkins joined him in the compound some twenty minutes later. The Welshman thumped to the ground next to him. Simon looked at him with bloodshot eyes, half expecting to find the jaunty chatterer of General Smit’s tent. But Jenkins’s face was set and his black eyes were steely in their intent.

  ‘Now, bach sir, we’ve got some preparin’ to do,’ he said.

  ‘What the hell do you mean, 352? And what was all that blathering about Colonel Whatshisname and the Earl of Something or Other? I’ve never heard of them.’

  ‘Neither have I, bach sir. You landed yourself in it right an’ proper, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. You was doin’ so well, arguin’ like a lawyer, till you lost your temper. You gave ’im just what he wanted. So I felt I ’ad to do a bit of takin’ charge, see. Just to make sure that we shortened the odds a bit, like.’

  ‘How on earth have you shortened the odds by opting for pistols? For God’s sake, man, you know I can’t hit a barn door with one of those Colts. I shall have a bullet through my head before I’ve lifted my arm.’

  Jenkins looked chastened for a brief moment, then his face cleared. ‘Now that’s not the way to look at it, not at all it isn’t.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘The truth is, see, that the little German bastard is much better with the sword than you, I could see that back in Blowfountain. The few moves you’ve got - mainly charging straight at ’im and throwing the kitchen wringer at ’im, as far as I could see - well, ’e knows them now and they wouldn’t work at all this time. An’ ’e would ’ave taken great pleasure in cuttin’ you to pieces slowly, like. An’ I wouldn’t want to stand by an’ let that’appen.’

  Simon sighed. ‘Oh, I see. You favour a quick death over a slow one. Is that it?’

  ‘Now, now, sir. Don’t be pestimist . . . passimiss . . .’

  ‘Pessimistic.’

  ‘That’s just what I was goin’ to say. Now, we need to put a bit of work in before tomorrer. Oh, by the way, we are ’avin’ this battle just after dawn, up at the top there at that place where we first climbed up and found ’em all waiting for us. You remember that ’ill?’

  ‘Yes, near the Nek. The British call it Deane’s Hill now, I think.’

  ‘Yes, well, up there. Over the top away from the trenches, I think.’ His voice fell slightly. ‘That Boer chap wants us out of the way a bit, so we’re goin’ to ’ave the duel by the little cemetery they’ve put up there, where the British chaps are buried.’ Jenkins’s face took on a wry grin. ‘I think ’e thinks it will save a bit of time after, see.’

  Simon smiled, despite his depression. ‘How very pragmatic. Now what’s this preparation talk? I have no pistol to practise with and I don’t see that it would help if I did. I’m just no good at it.’

  Jenkins got to his feet. ‘Come on. I’ll show you. Let’s go the other side of that rock, away from the crowd. Preparation is the thing. ’E’ll be too cocky to do any. But we’ll show ’im.’

  Together they went to where a large rock shouldered out from the hillside, revealing a small but level stretch of ground behind it containing only a few Boer ponies. Here the two men began playing a ghostly game unobserved by all but the ponies and two black eagles, wheeling high overhead. They stood back to back and then, at Jenkins’s command, strode twelve paces away from each other, with the Welshman calling out the numbers. There, they stopped.

  ‘Now,’ cried Jenkins, ‘I want you to turn round to your right, not your left, so’s you present a smaller target as you turn if ’e’s quicker ’n you, which I expect ’e will be. You’ve got to turn as quick as you can. Go on, do it. Yes, that’s good. Do it again and raise your pistol ’and as though you’ve got the Colt in it. Hmm . . .’

  He strode towards Simon. ‘The thing to remember is this: on ’earin’ “twelve”, turn to the right and stop when you’re side on. Don’t fire chest on. That’ll give ’im too big a target. But turn quick and raise your Colt quick. That’s all you do that’s quick. The rest is slow, see. Real slow. You take aim slowly. Don’t worry about ’im shootin’ at you. You’ve got to make sure that you ’it him, so take your time with your aim. Now,’ he sniffed, ‘I don’t mean that you’ve got to ’ang about all day, because your arm will sag if you hold it up too long, so: turn quick, arm up quick, make sure of your aim and then squeeze the trigger and don’t snatch at it - just like with a rifle, see. Now, let’s do all that again, imaginin’ you’ve got one of old Ally’s big shooters in your ’and.

  ‘Yes, that’s good. Now, one more important thing. We don’t know how the Colts will shoot, but I think I remember old Ally tellin’ me that they shoot a bit ’igh. So don’t aim at ’is head. If you do, you’ll probably kill a bird. Aim just below the arm that’s pointin’ at you. It’s a short distance so there shouldn’t be too much of a . . . what d’you call it? Yes, deviation, that’s it. So if it kicks’igh, you’ll get ’is ’ead. If it shoots low, you’ll ruin ’is prospects of marriage. If it’s straight, you’ve got ’im through the ’eart. And we want ’im dead, don’t we? Now, let’s try again - aimin’ this time.’

  For well over an hour the two men practised the routine, like small boys pretending to be duellists; Jenkins calling out the steps, and then both men turning, right arms extended and thumbs and forefingers making imaginary pistols. At the end, with darkness beginning to descend and rain falling again, Jenkins declared himself satisfied. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘with a good night’s sleep and old Ally watchin’ over ’is pistols, like, I reckon you can take this little bugger to the graveyard in every way, bach sir. I am very confident.’

  Simon regarded him closely. Was dear old 352 just talking to keep up his pupil’s courage?
Yet the great grin that curved up his servant’s now bedraggled moustache seemed sincere enough, and the black eyes that sparkled at him carried no trace of dissembling. Something of the Welshman’s confidence began to transmit itself to Simon. After all, those great Colts of Albert Hardcastle’s never seemed to miss - ah yes, but there were two of them, and von Bethman had the other! What the hell. Simon crawled into his bedroll, his head spinning, and tried to sleep as the thin rain began its task of completely soaking him and his bedding.

  It was a relief to get up before dawn. Van der Wath and the young boy came to escort them up to the top of Deane’s Hill in the half-light. The rain had lifted and the first rays of a watery sun were probing the dark clouds to the east, but the prospect on the top of that plateau was sombre, to say the least. They walked past the line of trenches from which those rifle barrels had protruded so devastatingly a few weeks before and trudged on down a declivity towards where rows of rough wooden crosses could be seen. Simon felt his legs trembling. The right sort of morning and the right sort of setting in which to die, he thought. Yet Jenkins strode on, head high, a half-smile crinkling his face.

  Von Bethman was waiting for them near the cemetery. He had dressed with care: polished riding boots, riding breeches and white shirt opened to the waist, revealing a tanned, well-muscled but surprisingly hairless chest. Simon wished he had been able to wear something a little more respectable than his sodden flannel shirt and worn corduroy trousers tucked into mud-stained boots. He felt at a disadvantage, as though his dishevelled appearance was letting his country down. He became aware that a third man was present at the scene, carrying a leather bag. At least the Boers had found a doctor!

  The fourteen-year-old trotting at his side looked up and said: ‘Good luck, English.’

  The Boer second divested Simon of his jacket and opened his shirt to the waist to ensure that no padding or shield had been inserted to divert a bullet. The sudden cold made Simon suck air in through his teeth, and Jenkins looked at him quickly, but Simon nodded reassuringly. Then the two opponents were called together.