The Horns of the Buffalo (10 page)

‘I want you to know, Fonthill,' he said, ‘that I believe you behaved with gallantry and great presence of mind during this whole disaster. In fact, I would have recommended you for a decoration but, as you know, these can only be awarded for distinguished service in the face of the enemy.'

He smiled wryly. ‘In fact, I never want to face an enemy which could put the fear of God into me as that sea did. But the fact remains that I cannot commend you in this way. However, I have mentioned you in my dispatches - and I have done so also for your servant, who steered that first boat so admirably and showed the rest of us how to do it.'

‘That's very kind of you, Major,' said Simon.

‘Oh - there's one other thing. I would like to write directly to your CO to tell him how well you behaved. Please give me a note of his name and where I might contact him.'

A slow smile spread across Simon's face. ‘Thank you, sir, I will do that. He will be so gratified to hear from you.'

Those first four days in Cape Town were happy ones for Simon. The Commander-in-Chief and the whole staff were up-country, so he was left to his own devices and was able to relax and begin to explore the strange and beautiful terrain surrounding the small town. Most of all, however, he warmed at the thought that Baxter would be mentioning him in his dispatches. ‘Behaved with gallantry,' he had said.
Gallantry!
The word rolled off his tongue deliciously. What's more, it would stay on his record at Horse Guards and surely offset whatever calumny Covington would have entered. No cowardice. No more self-doubts. With a light heart, he requisitioned a horse and, with an eye to the future, set himself to regain some familiarity with the saddle. He intervened with the bored staff captain who was in charge of administration in Cape Town and secured the company of Jenkins for his rides of exploration.

His relationship with his servant had matured into one of easy familiarity-a relationship without embarrassment on either side but one that would have shocked any senior officer who witnessed it. For Simon, Jenkins had become an indispensable, warm part of his life, and although both would have died rather than openly acknowledge it, the association had deepened into one of mutual respect since the shipwreck. Drinking remained Jenkins's problem and, during the interminable months in the depot, only Simon's intervention with the Guard Commander had twice prevented the little Welshman from being put under arrest for drunk and disorderly behaviour. So far in Cape Town, however, Jenkins had remained surprisingly sober. A further surprise came when Simon realised that 352 was a more than competent horseman. The stocky infantryman mounted with the accomplished ease of a dragoon and sat erect, holding the reins with soft hands.

‘Where did you learn to ride, Jenkins, for goodness' sake?' Simon asked as the two set out early for Table Mountain.

‘It was the farm, see, when I was little. When he wasn't beatin' me, my da would let me sit on the horse when he was ploughin'. Then, later on, when I used to muck out the stables at the big farmhouse, they would let me ride the ponies sometimes.'

‘Why didn't you join the cavalry, then?'

‘I didn't fancy wearin' those tin shirts an' funny 'elmets. An' anyway,' he sucked his moustache reflectively, ‘I didn't really 'ave much choice, see.'

‘Why not?'

‘I was bricklayin' in Birmingham, look you, and I'd 'ad a drink or two and got into a small discussion with the foreman. He 'it me with a shovel so I 'it him back with my hod. I didn't get paid off, see . . .'

Simon gingerly pressed his heels into his horse's flanks and nodded. ‘That seems reasonable.'

‘No. But I only 'ad threepence left.'

‘So?'

‘So I 'ad another drink to think about what to do next. The 24th was recruitin' outside the pub.' Jenkins grinned at the recollection. ‘You'll never guess who was standin' there in 'is red tunic and polished buttons, shoutin' out the odds.'

‘Oh, I think I can. Colour Sergeant Cole?'

‘The very same. Except that 'e was only a sergeant then. Anyway, he says, “Come an' join the 24th Regiment of Foot and we'll make a man of you.” So I says, “I'm a man already an' a better one than you.” So 'e says, “I'm wearin' uniform, otherwise I'd knock the cockiness out of you, sonny.” So I says, “All right then, I'll put the bleedin' uniform on an' then you can try.” So that's 'ow I took the Queen's shillin'.'

‘What happened then?'

Jenkins grinned. ‘As soon as I'd signed, like, Cole put me on a charge straight away for impertinence. 'E always 'ad a sense of humour.'

The two picked their way through wild garlic and strange silver trees, the witboom, up the slopes of Table Mountain. At a little plateau below the summit they tethered the horses and scrambled up several hundred feet more to the flat top. Both men were struck silent by the view. To the south, the coastline meandered through wisps of low coastal cloud to the tip of the Cape itself. Seaward and to the north, the dark blue of the South Atlantic was studded with white sails and smoke trails as ships made their way to the haven of the artificial harbour. Coaling was taking place at one end of a quay and small black clouds half hid the vessels berthed there. The harbour bristled with masts and the water within the moles was criss-crossed with white wakes as the small crafts plied their trade. To the north and to the east, the mountain fell away in gullies of red sandstone, made more crimson by the patches of red disa orchids growing within. The air was clear and crisp and the coastal plain, dotted with farms and white-painted houses, seemed to march for hundreds of miles before it gradually gave way to smoky blue hills. Simon thought that, if he concentrated hard, he could see to India.

‘Almost as good as Wales, bach sir,' said Jenkins.

Simon had hoped that his few days of leisure could be used to prepare for the task ahead. Apart from the horse riding, however, he found it depressingly difficult to discover anything about the Zulus and the threat they posed. Before sailing, he had ascertained that the 1st Battalion was not, in fact, in Cape Town, but had been posted some six hundred miles to the east to Kingwilliamstown, in British Kaffraria, at the very edge of the Cape Colony. There they were attempting to keep the peace in a border province that, although under direct British rule - as was the Cape Colony - was a polyglot pot of nationalities which now showed signs of boiling over. Natal, the British colony that bordered independent Zululand, seemed quiet. The glory, it seemed to Simon, lay with his old battalion in British Kaffraria and he had long since resolved to try and join them, if he could. There was a debt to be paid there.

Cape Town itself, in those first days after Simon's arrival, was not designed either to inform him or to advance his plans to join the 1st/24th. As the political, military and commercial hub of the Cape Colony - and virtually that of the rest of South Africa - it was temporarily leaderless and, it seemed to Simon, full of lassitude. The newly appointed Governor of the Colony, Sir Bartle Frere, had left for Kingwilliamstown and taken his staff with him, including the Army Commander, who, it was rumoured, was soon to be replaced anyway. However, the latter's chief of staff, Simon was informed, was on his way back to Cape Town and would give him his orders on his return.

On the fifth day after his arrival, Simon received a brief note ordering him to report to the office of Colonel George Lamb CB, late Indian Army.

The office, for all its white-painted walls, was dark and sparsely furnished but it seemed to light up with the Colonel's smile as he stood and advanced to welcome Simon. A diminutive man, with colonial campaigning etched on his nut-brown face, he held himself as erect as a colour standard and exuded authority and bonhomie. Nevertheless, Simon regarded him with apprehension. How much did he know about the reason he was serving with the 2nd Battalion, and would his horsemanship be tested? He would never survive that. He need not have worried. This was no Covington.

‘My dear Fonthill, a belated welcome to the Cape. I am sorry that you have had to kick your heels for a few days, but I had to travel with the C-in-C.'

‘Of course, sir. Thank you.'

The Colonel pushed forward a chair. ‘Do sit down. Cheroot? Sorry I can't offer you a decent cigar but we cleared out stocks to replenish the 1st/24th's mess at Kingbillystown.' His blue eyes sparkled. ‘I'm sure you'd approve of that, though.'

‘Very much so, sir.'

The little man bustled back to his desk, picked up matches and threw them to Simon.

‘I've just been going through Baxter's report. Sad business. We shouldn't use these old emigrant tubs to transport our men. But you did jolly well. I congratulate you.'

Simon murmured his thanks.

‘Right, now let's get down to business.' He pulled deeply on his cheroot and examined the papers on his desk. ‘I see that you're a fine horseman and that, although you don't speak Zulu, you have one of the Bantu dialects?'

Simon swallowed hard and shifted from one buttock to the other on the edge of the chair. ‘Er, not quite, sir.'

‘Eh? What?'

‘I can ride, of course, Colonel, but I've only got French and German and . . .' he tailed off, ‘my German's not too good.'

‘What the blazes!' The Colonel looked again at the document on his desk. ‘It distinctly says here, “Has aptitude for languages and knows native dialect.” '

Simon swallowed again. ‘I think, sir, they might be referring to Welsh. I did learn it while I was at school in the country before going on to Sandhurst, although it is very rusty now. It must somehow have got on to my record.'

‘To hell with the confounded Horse Guards! They get everything wrong.' Colonel Lamb frowned and looked hard at Simon. Then, gradually, his eyes softened and the brown face seamed into a half-smile. ‘Welsh, eh?'

Simon nodded. ‘Half Welsh, anyway. Borders.'

The smile broadened. ‘Welsh meself, although I never did master the deuced lingo. Dammit all, Fonthill, if you can speak Welsh you can learn Zulu, can't you?'

‘Well, yes. I suppose so, sir. But I was wondering if there was a chance that I could join my old battalion in Kingwilliamstown and serve as a line officer there?'

‘Certainly not. The bloody place is full of Welshmen as it is. Now the Governor and the C-in-C are there, too. There's not room to breathe in the godforsaken hole. Best you stay out of it.' The Colonel tapped the ash from his cheroot and leaned forward. ‘No. Kaffir wars are dirty businesses. Chasing bunches of natives through head-high thorn scrub; not seeing more than a foot or two in front of you and not knowing when a spear is going to be thrust into your privates from out of the bush . . .' He winced and shook his head again. ‘No. These are foot soldier policing actions. Not for a fine horseman like you.'

Simon groaned inwardly.

‘Anyway, the damned war hasn't begun yet. And, of course, the Governor has gone down there to stop it starting.' The Colonel's teeth gleamed in the darkened room. ‘No, my boy. We have something rather more interesting for you to do.'

He pushed back his chair and strode to a map that dominated one wall. ‘Know much about South Africa?'

‘Very little, I'm afraid, sir. There wasn't much time to do research before I left England.'

‘Right. Perhaps best to start with a clean slate, anyway. You must first get the geography in your mind.' He picked up a pointer. ‘Here we are.' He tapped the Cape Colony at the bottom of the map, the largest territory shown. Then his pointer moved upwards and eastwards. ‘Here's British Kaffraria, where your Welsh boys are. You mustn't worry about Basutoland and Griqualand East and West, here. They're annexed and reasonably quiet. To the north of the Orange River here is a wilderness of desert, with a few bushmen and nothing else. No interest to anyone.'

He gripped his cheroot with his teeth so that it tipped up and the smoke curled clear of his eyes. The pointer swung in an arc from top right of the map to top centre. ‘Here,' he said, wrinkling his eyes, ‘here's where the trouble starts.'

The pointer jabbed at the middle of the map. ‘Orange Free State, where the Boers trekked to fifty years ago to get away from us. See?' The pointer moved north-east. ‘Here. The Transvaal. Huge territory. High plateau country. Both of 'em independent Boer republics. Got it?'

Simon nodded.

The pointer swung right and down. ‘Natal. British but independent of the Cape Colony. Usual mixed bag of settlers but mainly British and natives. Lush, good country. And here . . .' The pointer moved up the coast to a rectangular strip of seaboard, fringed on the north by Portuguese territory, by Natal to the south-west and the Transvaal to the north-west. ‘This,' said the Colonel, ‘is Zululand. A completely independent nation, ruled by King Cetswayo.'

Lamb walked back to his desk and stubbed out his cheroot. ‘The problems of this colony, Fonthill, are fundamentally those of every country in the world: people and land. We have European underpopulation and native overpopulation, of course, the same as throughout the Empire. But here the Europeans are an infernal mixture of anti-British, damned touchy Boers, British settlers and a poacher's bag of the sweepings of the rest of Europe.' He leaned forward. ‘And the natives are another hell's brew: servile coastal Kaffirs, various tribes of Bantu inland, and up there,' he gestured over his left shoulder, ‘the Zulu nation.'

Simon stood up and walked to the giant wall map. ‘I can understand that, sir,' he said. ‘But land? This is a huge country, and from the little I've seen of it, it is very fertile. Surely there is enough to go round?'