by John Wilcox
In rough, heavily accented English, van der Wath explained ‘the rules of this game’. It was clear that he immediately regretted using the phrase, but ploughed on nevertheless. ‘The two seconds will examine the guns and the cartridges and then you will take your guns and stand back to back. At the command “Walk” you will walk away from each other in a straight line for twelve paces. The seconds will count the paces. At “twelve” you will turn, remaining upright, and fire. You have one shot only. Is this understood?’
Simon nodded. Obviously the Boer had been briefed by Jenkins on ‘the rules of the game’, although God knows where the Welshman had got them from. In fact, the little man’s enthusiasm - there was no other word for it - for the pistol duel still puzzled him. Still, it was no use conjecturing about that, not when he was about to fight for his life. A series of images flashed through his mind: his mother, in tight brocade, looking at him in disapproval; his father, sad and puzzled, sitting at his bedside in the regimental hospital at Brecon after he had missed the battalion’s sailing for Zululand; Alice, gently kissing him in a mud-walled room in Kabul; Anna, Anna . . .
‘The seconds will inspect the revolvers.’ The pedantic tones of the Boer interrupted his reverie. With care, both guns were examined by van der Wath and Jenkins, the chambers rotated to ensure that no other rounds had been inserted and the barrels held to the sky to test their cleanliness. ‘The cartridges.’ These were taken from the Boer’s pockets and the first given a cursory examination by him before it was handed to Jenkins. ‘This is for your man.’ The Welshman looked at it carefully before inserting it into Simon’s Colt, rotating the chambers so that the round was level with the barrel, and retaining the revolver. ‘Now for my man,’ and he handed a second round to Jenkins.
Here, for the first time, Jenkins betrayed a sign of nervousness. He dropped the cartridge, quickly retrieving it and brushing away a strand of grass, before inspecting it solemnly and then handing it back to van der Wath with an apology. The Boer wiped it carefully before inserting it into the baron’s revolver, rotating the chamber to ensure that the gun was ready to fire.
‘Now, take your guns and cock them, stand back to back and walk when the order is given.’ For the first time, the tone of the Boer’s voiced softened a little. ‘I would remind you, gentlemen, that you do not have to fire to kill. I think that the Lord may have seen enough killing at this place.’
‘No.’ Von Bethman’s voice was clear. ‘I shall kill him.’
‘Very well. Walk! One, two, three . . .’
Simon’s legs were now quite steady and he concentrated hard as he paced. Turn to the right quickly. Raise your arm quickly. Then aim slowly, slowly. And kill the bastard.
‘Twelve!’
Simon whirled in a flash, raising his arm and pistol hand as he did so. But he was aware that von Bethman had turned even more quickly, and as he levelled his revolver at the German, aiming just below his gun arm, he sensed rather than saw the other’s revolver spit flame and heard the bark. A micro-second later, he pulled his own trigger and closed his eyes waiting for the bullet to crash into him.
He was not sure how long he stood, but his eyes were still closed when he heard the cry of ‘Doctor!’ Slowly he opened them and saw the figure of von Bethman sprawled on the ground, a neat black hole in the centre of his forehead, just above his eyes.
‘I knew the bloody thing would fire high.’ It was Jenkins, of course, by his side, but a white-faced Jenkins, with perspiration standing out on his brow. The Welshman reached out and took the revolver from Simon’s hand and then grasped his palm. Simon became aware that Jenkins’s hand was trembling as he took it. ‘Bloody well done, bach sir. Bloody well done.’ The Welshman’s lower lip was quivering under his huge moustache.
‘Oh God,’ breathed Simon. ‘Oh God.’
‘Give me the revolver.’ Van der Wath had bustled over. Behind him, the doctor was bending over von Bethman, but his bag was unopened.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Simon.
‘People who take a forty-five-calibre bullet in their brain usually die. Now, Joseph here,’ he indicated the fourteen-year-old, who was looking up at Simon with wide eyes, ‘will escort you back to the compound. No more shooting today, I think, Mr Fonthill. We will clear up here.’
The three walked back in silence and were met by Colonel Stewart at the compound gate. ‘Where have you two been, eh? Bad news here, I can tell you.’
‘What’s that, sir?’ Simon was glad that the bad news prevented him from answering the question. He did not want to talk about the duel. To Stewart, or anyone. Ever.
‘It looks as though young Robertson, the chap we left in charge on the spur lower down to look after the horses, dug in well and gave a good account of himself when the Boers attacked him. But he was not supported by the first redoubt the general set up on the advance.’ He snorted. ‘The feller in charge there packed up and went back to Prospect, leaving Robertson and the survivors to fight their way back under heavy Boer attack. At least, that’s what the Boers tell me.’ He looked quizzically at Simon. ‘I must say, you fellows did well up on Macdonald’s Kopje. You were the last to surrender, as far as I could see, and if I ever get a chance I will give you credit - and for getting us to the top of bloody Majuba. Funny thing’s just happened, by the way. Joubert, the Boers’ commandant-general, has just called in and given Macdonald’s sword back to him. He said that “a brave man and his sword should not be parted”. Nice touch that, eh? Boers are not bad chaps really.’
Simon nodded. He thought of them shooting down on the unarmed refugees fleeing from the battle, of their ready acceptance of von Bethman’s story, and of their smug faith that the Almighty was their God and only theirs. Then he remembered ter Haar keeping his pledge and Colley’s tribute to Smit. ‘Yes, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Perhaps not bad chaps really, but very strange people for all that.’
‘What’s goin to ’appen to us prisoners, then, Colonel?’ asked Jenkins.
‘No idea. It depends upon whether Sir Evelyn decides to attack once he gets to Prospect with reinforcements. If he does, I suppose we stay in the bag.’ Stewart frowned. ‘But I can’t see Gladstone letting the war continue after this mess. So maybe we’ll be let out soon. God knows.’ And he strode away.
The two friends sat together in companionable silence. ‘Do you know,’ said Simon after a while. ‘I don’t much care, really. But one thing’s for certain - I don’t want to see or experience any more killing for a long time. I think I have just about had enough.’
Jenkins nodded sympathetically. ‘Amen to that.’
In fact, the prisoners were kept in genial captivity - the Boers could not refrain from joshing them about their poor shooting - for another two weeks, while rumours spread that a truce had been agreed and peace talks were being held. Jenkins soon regained his customary joviality and resumed his role as officer’s servant, as well as exhibiting his old lag’s efficiency in scrounging and stealing food and other creature comforts. Among his prizes was a sheet of tarpaulin that he rigged against a rock to provide shelter from the rain that now punctuated their days. Simon, however, became withdrawn and introspective. He declined to join an informal officers’ mess that Stewart had created and spent his days making a crude wooden cross, upon which he carved ‘Albert Hardy Hardcastle. Texan soldier. Fell in action 27/2/81.’
Then, on an appropriately sunny day, they were told that an armistice had been signed and that they would be allowed to take whatever belongings they still possessed and march back to Mount Prospect. Before leaving, Simon received permission to climb Majuba and plant his cross. In fact, Al had been buried in a communal grave in the centre of the plateau at the top, but Simon and Jenkins hammered in the cross there anyway. The flat top looked barren and empty, only spent cartridge cases showing that a bloody battle had taken place there only days before. If there were ghosts there, they were too new to make their presence felt.
Waiting for them at the gates of the compound as th
e last of the prisoners filed out were Gideon ter Haar and Jan van der Wath. The latter carried Hardy’s great Colt revolvers.
‘You were taking these to your dead comrade’s parents,’ he said in his grave voice, ‘and you must complete your mission.’
Jenkins had the grace to look ashamed. The Boer turned to Simon. ‘That man was not representing the German government, you know,’ he said. ‘He was just selling us guns. We needed him. But we didn’t like him.’
There was no question about to whom he was referring. Simon summoned up a grateful smile and nodded. ‘Thank you.’ He thought for a moment and then added quietly, ‘The countess had a son, you know, living in Essen. Perhaps your people could inform Krupps, so that the family could be told. You will, of course, say what you please, but perhaps the details of her death could be . . .’ he faltered for a moment, ‘well, obscured, for the sake of the child. An accident, or something like that . . .?’
Van der Wath nodded gravely. ‘I think the matter has been overlooked but it should be done. I will talk to the commandant-general. As to the baron . . .?’ He left the question hanging.
‘Again, that is for you to decide. But he lived by the bullet, of course, in more ways than one, so perhaps the truth should be told here. He was a famous duellist, you know.’
‘Very well.’
The four shook hands. ‘No more killing now, English,’ grinned ter Haar.
‘No more killing, my friend. Goodbye.’
Three days later, Simon and Jenkins were sitting in the lee of their tent at Mount Prospect, sipping coffee and watching the evening sun bring out the details of the rock faces and terracing at the top of Mount Majuba. The soft light made it look quite unintimidating, even beautiful now - the ‘Hill of the Doves’ indeed. The mood of introspection that had settled on Simon since the duel had remained with him, and Jenkins, seeing the signs, had spent most of the afternoon tending to General Custer, his much-appreciated legacy, in the horse lines. Now he had returned, and the two sat together in silence, clutching their mugs and looking across at Majuba, the scene of so much slaughter so few days ago.
‘There is one thing I can’t understand,’ said Simon at last.
‘What’s that then?’
‘How did von Bethman miss me? He fired first - I saw him - and he was reputed to be a crack shot. I was only twenty yards or so away from him and even I didn’t miss. He certainly didn’t fire to one side deliberately. He swore that he would kill me. He wanted to kill me. How on earth did he miss?’
‘Well . . .’ Jenkins looked away. ‘Perhaps ’e was too’urried, see. Even the best shooters miss sometimes, look you.’
Simon shook his head. ‘I’ve been thinking about it and I can’t understand it.’ He looked at Jenkins sharply. ‘You didn’t distract him in some way, did you?’
Jenkins looked shocked. ‘Who, me, bach sir? Certainly not.’ He held up his hand. ‘On my mother’s deathbed, I didn’t distract ’im.’
There was something about his friend’s denial, however, that made Simon frown. It was too specific. All right - he hadn’t distracted the German. But had he done something else?
Simon put down his coffee and shifted to move closer to Jenkins. ‘I think it’s time, 352,’ he said slowly, ‘that I had the whole truth about this damned duel. Why did you jump in with all this bloody nonsense about the London Duelling Society - I know there’s no such thing - and insist on using pistols? Come on, now. I want the truth.’
A look of righteous indignation settled on Jenkins’s face but left it as soon as he saw the gleam in Simon’s eyes. ‘Oh all right, bach sir,’ he muttered. ‘But you’ve got to promise not to be annoyed.’
‘I’ll promise no such thing. What did you do? Come on.’
‘Well.’ Jenkins looked at the ground. ‘The little bugger was goin’ to kill you right enough, I could see that. I could also see that them Boers thought that this duel would be a nice let-out for them, see. As I told you, swords wouldn’t be any good for you this time, but . . .’ his voiced tailed away and he looked up with a great grin, ‘I ’ad an idea about pistols, see.’
‘Go on.’
‘While you was all talking, I slipped me ’and under the blanket and took out a cartridge that were left in old Ally’s guns an’ put it in me pocket. Then I showed ’em the guns an’ gambled that the baron bloke would fall in love with ’em and agree to use ’em.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t see where that gets us.’
‘That night, I got the cartridge out of me pocket, took off the lead bullet and shook out about two thirds of the powder inside the case, leaving the primer and enough powder to cause a bang and a flash, like, but not enough to send the bloody bullet on its way into your belly, see. Then I put the bullet back.’
‘So you switched the cartridge in von Bethman’s Colt? But how on earth did you do that? I saw van der Wath put the thing in the revolver with my own eyes.’
Despite himself, Simon was now thoroughly intrigued and Jenkins sensed this and warmed to his narrative. ‘Ah, well now, bach sir, that’s not what you saw at all, see. To explain, we ’ave to go back a bit. You remember ’ow old Ally was always so good at cards?’
Simon nodded.
‘Well, ’e was good because he cheated, bless ’im. Now, I knew this and I didn’t care too much because ’e never asked me for the money ’e won. But I reckon ’e made a fair bob or two from the blokes from the 58th and other regiments ’e played with - and I bet ’e made more money from cheatin’ at cards back ’ome than ’e ever did from that bloody shop. Trouble is, see, I couldn’t see ’ow he was doin’ it. So in the end I gave up and asked ’im. ’E didn’t mind and ’e did ’is best to show me, though I could never do it properly. An’ I’ll never try it in a proper card game. If I was found out, them Jocks would kill me, see.’
‘Well, how did he do it?’
‘ ’E was just quick with the cards, and most of the time ’e palmed ’em. You’ll remember ’e’d got big ’ands. The trick was in distractin’ attention so that whoever you wanted to fool was lookin’ the other way while you did it. Simple, really - but you’ve got to practise, look you.’
Simon spoke slowly. ‘You mean you palmed the good cartridge and replaced it with the one with little powder in it, so that it never left the barrel?’
A beaming Jenkins nodded. ‘That’s right. Now, do you remember that I dropped the good cartridge when it was ’anded to me?’
Simon nodded.
‘That’s when it was done. I picked up the good cartridge with me left ’and and, if you remember, put it into me right ’and to give it to that Boer chap who was the German’s second. Except that I didn’t. I just pretended to. I kept it back in me left ’and, because I already ’ad the’alf-empty round in me right, so I just passed that one over, pretendin’ to brush the grass off it an’ all. I ’ad ’alf turned me back so that it looked natural that I should pass the thing with the ’and which was nearest, you see.’
‘Show me.’
Jenkins scratched his head, then reached into his pocket and took out two well-worn pennies, seemingly identical. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘they’ve both got the Queen’s’ead on ’em, but one’s dated 1871 and the other 1873. So they’re different but look the same. Right?’
‘Right. Do get on with it.’
‘Well, I’m doin’ me best, but magic don’t come easy, look you. Now, watch. You give me the ’71 penny into my left ’and, see, and I’ve got the ’73 one concealed in me right. I drop the ’71 coin accidentally - or so it seems - and pick it up, covering it with the ends of me fingers, then pass it over into me right ’and. Except I don’t. I keep it behind me fingers and then present the ’73 coin in me right ’and to you. Look. I’ll do it again.’
He did so and Simon shook his head. ‘Damned clever. But what a bloody risk you took, 352. What if it had gone wrong - if you’d done it clumsily so that they saw, or something like that?’
Jenkins blew out his cheeks. ‘That was th
e thing. I knew I was taking an ’ell of a risk, but I couldn’t think of any other way. So while you was sleepin’ the night before, like, I was up all night practising. I was a bit buggered in the morning’, but I ’ad to put a bright face on it. You see, the other ’alf of the whole bloody thing was that you would be good enough to shoot ’im, so I’ad to encourage you. And you were, God bless yer, after a bit of trainin’ that is. But I was right relieved when it was over, I can tell you.’
Simon remembered the pallor of Jenkins’s face and the perspiration on his forehead. ‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘I didn’t kill von Bethman. You did.’
Jenkins’s eyebrows lifted and his face assumed an expression of great consternation. ‘No, bach sir. No. No. Now don’t you go thinkin’ that. I didn’t kill the bugger. You did. I just stopped ’im killin’ you, see.’
The two held each other’s gaze for a moment and then, slowly, Simon reached out his hand to Jenkins. ‘Three five two, this is the umpteenth time you have saved my life - and this time was by far the most ingenious method. Thank you. Thank you very much. Without you, that bastard would have shot me dead. There’s no doubt about it.’
Jenkins’s round countenance broke into a relieved smile. ‘Well that’s all right then. I thought you was annoyed for a minute, see. Anyway, you’ve done the same for me a few times, so we’d better stop countin’,’adn’t we? What’s next for us, then?’
Simon mused for a moment. ‘I think I’d like to go home. We have to go to Yorkshire anyway, don’t forget - although I think I’ll keep the Colts, for I am sure that Mrs Hardy - sorry, Mrs Hardcastle - won’t have need of them. You will come with me, of course. Then we can think about what to do next.’
Jenkins pulled a glum face. ‘Domesticity then, is it?’
‘Not for long. Just long enough to sort ourselves out, so to speak.’
‘What about . . . um . . . you know.’
‘Alice?’
‘Yes.’