by John Wilcox
The young man’s jaw sagged. ‘Camp, ma’am? Camp? I, ah, don’t think that will be in order. This is a military establishment, you see.’
‘Yes, I know that. That is why I am here. But you are quite wrong. Even if I were not accredited to General Chelmsford’s army - which I am - Helpmakaar remains a civilian settlement, despite the presence of the army. And so I should have every right to stay here.’ Alice smiled again. ‘Now, who should I see about pitching my tent? I know the General is not here because I saw him the other day at ’Maritzburg.’
The cool, assured tone as much as the reference to Chelmsford daunted the captain. He saluted again. ‘Continue about two hundred yards down the road, ma’am, and on the right you will see the battalion headquarters of Lieutenant Colonel Covington. It is a large tent with a standard outside. He is the senior officer in the absence of the General and Colonel Glynn and Colonel Lamb. Good day, ma’am.’
‘Thank you so much. Good morning.’
Alice smiled to herself. What luck! Covington was one of the officers to whom her father had written when she had finally overcome her parents’ objections to her appointment. Those objections had proved to be stronger than she had anticipated but, as she had hoped, her father’s underlying admiration for her guts in applying for and getting the post had finally tipped the scales, and, with pen and paper, he had settled down to call in his old contacts to help her. Brigadier Griffith hardly knew Covington, he had grumpily explained, but their paths had briefly crossed some years ago when Griffith had rejoined the regiment after a brief spell as an observer with Lee in the American Civil War. He had heard that the man had taken his battalion to Zululand and, therefore, could certainly be of use to his daughter. Alice rummaged in her saddlebag for a copy of the letter, as well as her accreditation from the Post.
She found the tent easily enough, dismounted, left her horse in her servant’s care and presented her card to the sentry at the entrance.
‘Please ask the Colonel if he can spare me a moment,’ she said, smiling into the young soldier’s flushed face.
Alice was kept waiting for perhaps two minutes and she sighed as she pictured the scene within the tent: the frown as the card was studied, the ‘what-the-hell-can-she-want-here’ and then the hunt in the files to find any reference to her. She felt sure that her father’s letter would be forgotten. But she was wrong.
Covington rose from behind a trestle table and ushered her to a folding camp chair facing the table. He sat again and gave her a welcoming smile that, she noted, did not quite reach as far as his icy-blue eyes, which remained watchful. For a moment, her memory stirred. Wasn’t this the man with whom Simon had had trouble? But she could not remember the details, even if she had known them in the first place. Simon had never been very communicative, either in speech or letters.
‘I am so glad to meet you, Miss Griffith,’ said Covington. ‘Your father wrote to me about you, and alas, I never did get around to replying to him, what with the move to Natal and so on. Tell me, how is the Colonel?’
‘Brigadier,’ corrected Alice sweetly. ‘He is very well indeed, Colonel, and sends his regards to you. I did wish to call upon you at the Cape when I first came out but somehow this was not possible. I know that you were posted to Natal quite quickly.’
‘Quite so, dear lady. Quite so. Now,’ he gestured to an orderly who had entered, ‘I don’t think it is too early to offer you a glass of sherry, even though I fear it will not be cool.’
‘I would like that very much, thank you. And may I beg a cigarette? I am afraid that my own supply is exhausted.’
Covington’s eyebrows rose for a moment. ‘What? Ah, yes. Of course. Of course.’ He opened a silver box on the table, seized a box of matches, rose and walked round the table to Alice. As he bent to light her cigarette, he took in the elegance of her booted leg and the slight cleavage revealed by the cream shirt. He lingered for a moment with the match, bending over her. ‘I am so sorry that we missed each other in Cape Town,’ he murmured. ‘Such a pity.’
‘Yes indeed,’ replied Alice, allowing a stream of blue smoke to drift up into the Colonel’s face.
Covington took two glasses from the orderly and nodded for him to leave. He handed one glass to Alice, took the other and, perching himself on the edge of the trestle table, looked down at her. He brushed back the sweep of his moustaches with forefinger and thumb and said smoothly, ‘Now, what exactly can I do for you in this godforsaken land?’
Alice smiled. ‘You can find me somewhere to pitch my tent, if you would be so kind.’
Covington’s eyebrows shot up again. ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Colonel,’ Alice leaned forward, ‘as you know, I am here professionally as the Morning Post’s correspondent in South Africa, and as such, I am accredited to General Chelmsford’s army. I am here to report on the coming war, beginning, of course, with your imminent crossing of the Buffalo into Zululand. You and I both know that King Cetswayo will not be able to meet the demands made upon him by Sir Bartle Frere. So you will invade, of course. And I must report upon the preparations for the invasion.’
Alice knocked her ash on to the earthen floor. ‘There is no hotel here, nor do I need one, for I am perfectly happy to live under canvas. But I quite appreciate that I cannot pitch my tent just anywhere. So I would be grateful if you could allocate a site for me where my servant and I can camp and be out of the way, so to speak, without being too far away.’ She gazed coolly into the Colonel’s eyes.
He looked away for a moment and then smiled. ‘May I ask if the General knows you are here?’
‘Oh yes.’ Alice smiled back. ‘I have had several interviews with Lord Chelmsford, as I have with Sir Bartle. I cannot say that the General, ah, altogether approves of my presence here, but he has been so far extremely courteous. And, of course, he cannot stop the British press from reporting upon events here. They are of extreme public interest.’
Covington returned to his chair, leaned back and crossed one long leg over the other. He looked down on it approvingly and flicked up the end of one moustache.
‘Oh come now, my dear young lady,’ he said. ‘The movements of the army in the field are matters of the utmost secrecy. We could not allow you to publish details which could be of assistance to the enemy.’
‘Oh come now, my dear Colonel,’ Alice mocked. ‘Are you really saying that the Zulus have spies in London who will immediately relay back to the mud huts of Ulundi my stories in the Morning Post? You are not exactly about to fight another great European power, are you? And in any case, I would not dream of reporting prospective movements, even if I knew them, the revelation of which might in any way compromise the army.’ She gestured with her cigarette in emphasis. ‘Although I must remove the case of the imminent invasion across the Buffalo from that promise. All the world knows about that, so Cetswayo must too.’
Covington’s frown had gradually lightened into a smile as Alice made her case and it lingered on her face as he looked at her now. He uncrossed his legs and allowed his chair to fall forward. ‘Very well. I will find you a camp site on one condition.’
It was Alice’s turn to frown. ‘What is that?’
The Colonel stood up and straightened his back so that his chest pushed at the buttons on his tunic. To Alice, looking up at him, he seemed huge. ‘That you have dinner with me tonight.’ The arctic-blue eyes smiled down at her.
Alice regarded him while her mind raced. His intentions could well be dishonourable, but in a crowded camp she could not see how she could come to harm. She had received many advances since she had come of age and, despite her general air of assurance in most matters, in this area she remained less than comfortable, not least because - and she was quite aware of this - of a latent sexual appetite that existed behind her calm grey eyes. But the Colonel could well be useful as a source of information - better probably than Chelmsford himself, who kept her at arm’s length and gave nothing away. The gamble was worth the risk - and Covington had
an undoubted air. She felt that familiar tingle of sexual awareness. Alice stood and extended her hand. ‘Very well, Colonel. But please let me establish my own quarters as soon as possible. I have much to do.’
A sergeant led Alice and her servant through the camp lines to a sheltered spot, behind a copse. He touched his glengarry cap to her and said, ‘There you are, miss. Send your man across the way for water. We’ve got a well there. Be careful with the fire, because it’s very dry around the camp. Shall I get a couple of men to put up your tent?’
Alice declined and the sergeant flicked his cap again and left. Alice looked across to where her Bantu servant was sitting impassively on her rolled tent.
‘Well now, George,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long morning. You make a fire while I sort out the tea. Then we shall have a cup together and you must put up my tent. Quickly now, there’s a good chap.’
The big man gave her his broad grin - the friendliness of this strange white woman still surprised and delighted him - then lazily stretched himself and loped off into the thornwood.
Later, Alice crept into her low tent and lay on her bedroll. She found she was perspiring. Damn the army! It was always the same wherever she went: incredulity, arrogance and then obstruction. Sometimes she was amazed that the Empire could function at all, with such reactionary dunderheads at its centre. She groped within her valise to find the cable that had arrived for her in Durban five days ago. It was from Fenby, the Post’s foreign editor. She read it again, gloomily:
Last piece used despite need for editg stop you are nt writg leaders stop reduce opinions and stay wi facts stop cable soonest 1,500 wrds on army’s preparations for invasion ends
Alice washed herself as best she could in the little canvas folding basin and began making notes before her dinner with the Colonel. It was important she should decide on and then commit to memory the kind of ‘facts’ (damn Fenby!) she wished to extract from Covington. Then she lay in the stuffy little tent and tried to sleep. She would need her wits about her that evening.
She awoke, if not exactly refreshed, then at least determined. Facts, facts, facts, she kept repeating to herself. After careful consideration she decided to dress down for dinner. She therefore retained her riding boots, merely dusting away the detritus of the journey, and exchanged her jodhpurs for a long, anonymous cotton skirt, pressing out the creases as best she could. She replaced her shirt with a slightly more feminine blouse and the green scarf with a band of black velvet. She wore neither cosmetics nor jewellery. The Colonel must accept that she was a working professional.
The preparations for dinner, however, implied otherwise. On reporting to the battalion HQ, Alice was escorted by a corporal to a small marquee. She noted that flysheets had been fitted all round (to prevent shadows being seen through the canvas?), and inside a table had been set for two, and it was obvious that the officers’ mess had been raided. The table glittered with silver plate and crystal glass and two candles guttered intimately from a handsome candelabra set on the starched white cloth. The neck of a champagne bottle protruded from an ice bucket balanced on a cane tripod and two folding chairs had been opened and set either side of it. The only element of incongruity within the careful setting was a distinctly moth-eaten red-plush chaise-longue placed at the rear of the marquee.
If Alice had dressed as simply as possible, then Lieutenant Colonel Covington had done his best to compensate. His white and scarlet mess jacket was cut to show his broad shoulders to best advantage and to reduce the slight paunch that now filled out his tall figure. The blue trousers, looped under his highly polished boots, could not have been tighter and he had affected a red cummerbund, giving him a jaunty and slightly oriental appearance. His cheeks, burnished by the South African sun, glowed behind the great moustaches and he bowed low over Alice’s hand as she entered.
‘Forgive the spartan nature of all this,’ he gestured with his left hand, while retaining Alice’s fingers in his other, ‘but we are on campaign, of course, and I fear that we must rough it as best we can.’
Alice withdrew her hand and walked to one of the chairs. ‘Not exactly spartan, surely, Colonel. Champagne? And goodness, even ice. On campaign?’
Covington withdrew the bottle and immediately began to remove the wrapper and twist the cork. ‘Ah, my dear Miss Griffith, the army - or, at least, my battalion of the 24th - always gets its priorities right, although I am afraid you are wrong about the ice. The bucket is full of water, cool water from the well we have bored, but not as cold as ice. The label on the bottle will shortly float away, I fear. As I say, we must rough it.’
He carefully poured two glasses, handed Alice one, sat on the other chair and raised his glass. ‘To the forthcoming campaign,’ he toasted.
Mutely, Alice raised her glass and sipped. For the first time, she set herself to examine the Colonel. There was no doubt about it, he was handsome. Not yet forty, the only sign of approaching middle age was that slight paunch which, because of his height, his bearing and good tailoring, he could carry well. His hair remained full and was only slightly flecked with grey above the ears. Beneath the moustaches - they seemed to span the whole width of his face and slightly beyond - his mouth was firm, and the strong jaw had a slight cleft in the centre. She looked at the hand holding the glass but could see no ring.
Coolly, but not offensively, Covington let his eye take in Alice also. They sat silently for a moment, each regarding the other with a slight smile.
‘Miss Griffith,’ said the Colonel, ‘I make no apology for inviting you to dinner tonight, even though our acquaintance is so short. You see,’ he took a sip of the champagne and gently dabbed the bottom of his moustaches with the back of his forefinger, ‘a soldier must take advantage of good company wherever he may find it. And, if I may say so, you undoubtedly seem to be good company. I like spirit.’
Alice inclined her head. ‘Colonel, I could choose to regard that remark in two ways: as a compliment or as a mark of condescension. At the moment, I am inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt.’
Covington stretched out a long leg and threw back his head in a silent guffaw. ‘Capital, capital,’ he murmured. ‘I shall endeavour to stay the right side of the mark, don’t you know.’
The gentle sparring continued until the bottle was empty, and Alice realised that she was enjoying herself. The feeling was accompanied by a slight twinge of guilt, and for the first time for days, she thought of Simon. When she had arrived at the Cape she had enquired about him, off-handedly, for she did not wish to compromise her position, or his for that matter. No one seemed quite certain where he was - ‘up-country on special duties’ was the nearest she got - and she had not liked to push. She had written to him before leaving England but, of course, had received no reply. Perhaps Covington could help. Once they had sat to table and the first course was served, Alice broached the subject.
The soup spoon was touching Covington’s whiskers when she mentioned Simon’s name. It stayed there for a second, while the blue eyes flashed up at her in surprise. ‘Fonthill?’ He lowered his spoon. ‘What is he to you? How do you know him?’
Alice waved a languid hand. ‘Oh, he is more or less a childhood friend. Our fathers served together in the 24th and, as a result, we were rather thrown together years ago. But I have not seen him for some time. I heard he had been posted out here and I felt that I should pay my respects if he was nearby. But it is of no consequence.’
Somewhat mollified, Covington raised his napkin, wiped his lips and snorted. ‘Man’s a bounder. Worse than that. He’s a coward.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Alice. Whatever she had expected to hear, it was not this.
‘Complete coward. Feigned illness so that he would miss the draft out here with his battalion, the 1st. So he came under my command.’ A cold smile stole across his face.‘I made him jump for a few months, I can tell you. But to give him his due, he didn’t crack. Then the damned Horse Guards got it into their heads that he was a linguist and
could be of use out here. So they sent him on some sort of special mission into Zululand. As far as I know, nothing’s been heard of him since. The damned man’s probably deserted by now. I doubt if you’ll ever see him again.’
Alice attempted to maintain an air of cool indifference as Covington’s sentences shot across the table at her, like rifle volleys. But she could feel a flush mounting her cheeks and her heart sank. Simon a coward! Discredited! And lost in Zululand! She took a deep draught of the Moselle wine that had replaced the champagne and bent her head over the soup bowl.
‘How extraordinary,’ she said. ‘Has nothing at all come back from him, then?’
‘Oh, some sort of message, I understand, but I gather that it was garbled and virtually useless. If he does come back - which I very much doubt - he will probably face a court martial.’ He looked up. ‘Oh, I say. I hope that this is not distressing to you?’
Alice gave a small smile. ‘No, although I feel sorry for his parents. As I say, it is of no importance to me. Now, tell me. How long do you think that this campaign will last?’
She had expected reticence from the Colonel, but to her surprise and delight, he spoke freely of the task ahead. In Cape Town, Durban and Pietermaritzburg, every officer with whom she had discussed the Zulus had dismissed them as Kaffirs: braver, perhaps, than most but still likely to run away once they met British volley firing and the levelled bayonet. The biggest problem would be getting them to stand and fight. Covington, however, was more circumspect.
‘Damned fine fighters, from what I’ve heard,’ he said. ‘Somehow I don’t see them running all the time. More likely they will stand and fight on ground of their own choosing. We should be careful. Of course, we shall still knock ’em over, but they might just give us a bit of a shock. Can’t quite get anyone to agree with me, so maybe I’m wrong. Confess I’m no great strategist but I have fought a few black fellers in me time and one or two have been quite handy.’