The Horns of the Buffalo (13 page)

Mrs Fonthill pursed her lips and ignored her husband's almost imperceptible shake of the head. ‘My dear Alice,' she began, ‘we must help the Turks. Russia is up to her old tricks again and only we have the strength to intervene and face her down. If she conquers Turkey then she has an additional route to the North West Frontier of India and Afghanistan. Now, these are commonly held and common-sensical views. Does this make me - what d'yer call it-a jim-jam?'

‘Jingoist, dear,' corrected the Major diffidently.

Alice flushed. ‘Oh, I had no wish to give offence, Mrs Fonthill. But I do believe that we tend to rush into conflicts too quickly. Really, you know, we cannot have defensible interests in every confrontation between countries and I do think it rather arrogant, if I may say so, to consider ourselves the peacekeepers of the world.'

‘The Pax Britannia has served the world very well so far,' responded Mrs Fonthill, ‘and I hate to think what state the benighted people of inferior countries abroad would be in if it were not for the British Fleet. Take slavery, for instance . . .'

The Major gently interrupted his wife's flow by asking for some more of her excellent onion sauce with his mutton. The intervention, however, failed to divert the conversation.

‘Yes, take slavery,' said Mrs Fonthill. ‘That abominable traffic has virtually ground to a halt because of our naval patrols off the coast of West Africa. We were the first nation in the world to ban slavery in our own country and our own empire. Goodness knows how big the loathsome trade would have grown if we had not made a stand. No other country would have done it.'

Alice nodded. ‘I quite agree. But, if I may say so, it was only right and proper that on this issue we should take the lead. After all, it was the English who began the awful business in the first place. Bristol and Liverpool have grown fat on it over the years. And, while we may have reduced the international trade, the ex-slaves of the southern states of America are, I am told, still living in penury and, of course, are not recognised as citizens by their government. I presume that you would not wish to declare war upon the United States of America to remedy their lamentable position?'

‘Tosh, Alice. That is quite a different matter, as you know very well. Goodness, it would be intolerable if the vote was extended to
everyone
! Think of it - servants and manual workers who have had no education being allowed to decide the government of the country. Whatever next! No.' She shook her head. ‘My point is that Great Britain has a moral right to intervene when wrong is being done in the world. And when it comes to wrongdoing, Russia is behind most of it. Everyone knows that.'

Both Alice and the Major drew in their breath to speak but Mrs Fonthill continued remorselessly. ‘Well, I say everyone. But that's not true. The Liberals, of course, continue to seize every opportunity to undermine our position on foreign affairs, even though Gladstone, that awful old man, says he has retired to the back benches. I don't believe
that
for a moment, I can tell you.' She squared her shoulders and settled back in her chair. ‘His influence persists. Why, only the other morning the
Morning Post
, which is usually so sound on these matters, carried an article that suggested that the Russians might have a point in their attitude to Turkey. Can you imagine—'

‘Yes, I know,' interrupted Alice. ‘I wrote it.'

A sudden silence descended on the room. ‘What?' exclaimed Mrs Fonthill.

The Major beamed. ‘I say. How very interesting, Alice. Congratulations.'

Alice felt herself colour. ‘Yes, well, it was the first time that I have done this sort of thing, you know.' She looked at her lap and then smiled at them both. ‘I received ten guineas for it, which I thought was rather splendid.'

Mrs Fonthill blew out her cheeks. ‘I am surprised, Alice, that a well-founded institution such as the
Morning Post
takes offerings from, well, amateurs, on matters which are so, ah, complex.'

The Major frowned slightly. ‘Oh come now, my dear. That is rather condescending. The
Morning Post
has very high standards and obviously Alice has met them, or her article would not have been carried. I read it myself, without,' he smiled, ‘realising that its author was our neighbour. I thought it very well argued, although I did not quite agree with every point.'

Alice's pride was now retreating as she realised that her secret was out. ‘Oh, Major, you are very kind. And Mrs Fonthill, I do understand your position. I had no intention of telling you about this and it rather, er, slipped out. I am not sure whether Mama and Papa would approve of my writing, although I intend to tell them very soon. For the moment, however, I would be most grateful if you would be so kind as not to mention it to them. I would like to do so soon, but in my own way.' She regarded them both anxiously.

Mrs Fonthill looked down her nose and flicked a crumb away from her lap. ‘Well, I don't approve of children having secrets from their parents, Alice,' she said. ‘But,' and she looked up and suddenly smiled, ‘this one is safe with us.'

‘Oh, thank you both. You are really very kind to me, you know, and I am most grateful.'

‘We will say no more on the matter,' said Mrs Fonthill. ‘However, it would be nice, you know,
if
you submit another article, perhaps to include one or two points of view from . . .' her smile became a little fixed as she sought the right words, ‘the other side, so to speak.'

Alice exchanged a half-hidden smile with the Major. ‘Of course, Mrs Fonthill, I do take the point.'

They took a cup of fine China tea in the conservatory, although it was really too cold to sit there, and then Alice made her excuses. ‘I fear the weather may close in and Papa dislikes me riding when the light begins to fade.'

‘I shall ride with you,' said the Major.

Alice resisted his offer. She felt embarrassed at having to beg the Fonthills' indulgence on the matter of her writing - something that she had resolved to keep to herself. To ride with him would leave the matter hanging between them awkwardly and she wanted now to get away from her faux pas as quickly as possible. A compromise was reached by summoning Owen to drive Alice home in the carriage, with her horse tethered at the rear. This was just as well, because the heavens opened shortly after she had left and the rain beat heavily on the roof of the coach. By the time the Manor was reached, Alice's mood was one of annoyance at her indiscretion and frustration as, once again, she considered her future.

She remained subdued through dinner with her parents in the panelled dining room.

‘Have the Fonthills heard from Simon lately?' enquired Mrs Griffith brightly.

‘No, Mama.'

‘Strange,' said the Brigadier.

Alice frowned. ‘Really, Father,' she snapped, ‘it is not strange at all. He has only been in South Africa for three or four months. He is obviously very occupied, and anyway, the mail takes several weeks to travel the great distance involved.'

‘Quite so, my dear,' said the Brigadier.

The meal continued in silence until Alice took a deep breath and addressed her father again. ‘Papa, I really must have something to do.'

The Brigadier put down his knife and fork slowly. ‘Do? Do? What do you mean, Alice?'

‘I mean, Father, that I cannot remain here filling my days with trivialities. I cannot simply do good works. I must use my mind in
real
work - just as a man would.'

Mrs Griffith leaned forward comfortingly. ‘My dear, you must be patient. The right man
will
come along. Simon—'

Alice exploded. ‘Simon is
not
the right man. Nor is any man. I am not going to sit at home waiting for some young barbarian to propose to me. Papa,' she turned back to her father, ‘you know what I mean.'

Brigadier Griffith had the reputation among his neighbours of not being able to refuse his wilful daughter anything. Nevertheless, the officer had been renowned throughout his career for being a strict disciplinarian. His attitudes were those of his station and his time: he was illiberal and High Tory. His eyes narrowed now as he addressed his daughter.

‘How dare you speak to your mother in that intemperate manner. You will go to your room immediately. I shall think of something for you to
do
, in due course.'

Alice recognised the storm signals. ‘Very well, Papa. I am sorry, Mama.' She rose and left the room.

In her bedroom she walked to the window and looked out at the rain. She pursed her lips and reviewed her situation yet again. Her parents could say and do what they liked but they would
not
imprison her or present her as a slave on the country marriage market. To hell with that! If her determination to employ her brain in more demanding tasks than planning dinner menus led to conflict, then so be it. It was a confrontation she would win!

Slowly, Alice turned to her writing desk. She picked up a copy of that day's
Morning Post
and read once again the leader on the Russian-Turkish crisis. Rubbish of course. Impulsively, she reached for her pen, dipped it in the ink and began writing.

The two horsemen crested the hill with care, keeping a patch of high scrub behind them so that their silhouettes would not be exposed on the skyline.

‘Sorry, sir, but you're still not relaxin',' said Jenkins with exasperation. ‘You're grippin' too tightly with your calves an' ankles instead of your knees an' the poor beast doesn't know whether to walk or trot. If you go on like that, you'll ache like you've bin on a twenty-mile march, see, an' we'll never get to this kraal place.'

‘To hell with it, man,' snarled Simon. ‘Leave me to sit on the damned animal as I like. And don't call me sir. We're supposed to be traders.'

‘What am I supposed to call you then, sir?'

‘Call me bach. Or Fonthill.'

‘Very good, sir.'

‘Are you deliberately trying to annoy me, 352?'

‘No, sir. But you shouldn't call me 352, then, should you?'

‘Damn you, Jenkins.' Simon dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and cantered on, raising a small cloud of red dust. The Welshman urged his mount on and overtook Simon.

‘Seriously, though, sir. I don't think we should raise dust. It can be seen for miles on this plain.'

Simon sighed. ‘You're quite right,' he said, and the two riders slowed to a walk. Little remained to show that they were soldiers. They wore Afrikaan-type slouch hats and leather jackets worn smooth, particularly where their bandoliers of ammunition crossed their shoulders. The only hint of their military roles was their .44 calibre Martini-Henry rifles, which, after careful thought, Simon felt they should keep. These had been issued to the British army only four years before and, at eight pounds ten ounces, they were the lightest rifles ever produced for the military. More importantly, however, they were accurate up to 700 yards and deadly at 250 or less. Only one bullet at a time could be inserted into the breech but they were potent weapons and too good to leave behind, even if they were unlikely rifles for traders to carry.

The terrain through which they rode now was very different from that which they had left behind at the Lower Drift of the Tugela. Instead of sugar cane plantations and moist, wooded valleys, here the red-earthed plain was broken by jagged escarpments and conical, brown-grassed hills that rose haphazardly as though a giant had plucked them up at random, as a child pulls at a tablecloth. The track that they had followed from the river crossing had long since disappeared and they made their way now by compass, on a NNE bearing that they had been assured would eventually bring them to Dunn's kraal. It was not easy riding, for the plain was studded with thorn scrub and ant-bear heaps and crossed by dried riverbeds, or dongas, often forcing them to dismount and lead their horses. It also provided easy cover for a possible ambush.

They had been riding most of the day after crossing the river. At first they had met scattered groups of Zulus, some herding cattle, others regarding them stoically from their beehive-shaped huts. Simon was relieved to find that they seemed to take no interest in the two horsemen. As they penetrated further into Zululand, however, all signs of habitation disappeared. Occasionally they disturbed a small antelope but otherwise they seemed to be the only living things on the plain. Only the cries of raven-type birds wheeling high overhead disturbed the silence. The very quietness was discomforting.

The shock when they met the warriors, then, was all the greater.

Jenkins was leading and had wearily dismounted to lead his horse down the bank of yet another dried-up donga when, suddenly, they were no longer alone. From the riverbed appeared some thirty Zulus, who deployed to surround them with a speed that exuded military discipline. Simon observed them closely, for they were the first warriors he had seen. He had expected extravagant feathered headdresses and brightly coloured beads, but these men were unadorned, naked except for thongs around their waists from which hung flaps of animal skin front and back and tufts of what appeared to be grass tied above their calf muscles. Their black skins glistened in the evening sunlight. Most of them carried short stabbing spears - the famous assegai. These weapons looked quite as fearsome as their reputation. The blade was about ten inches from tip to shoulder and about three thick fingers wide at the broadest part, near where the tang, the slender point at its base, had been rammed into the hollowed haft and bound with what looked like resin over a tube of hide. The haft was some three feet long, broadened into a slight bulb at the bottom. The warriors carried long, dappled shields, probably made of cowhide, behind which Simon glimpsed other spears and clubs clutched in their left hands. Looking at them, he received an impression of great individual strength. Although the warriors were only of medium height, they all had thighs like young oaks and chests that were wide and deep. The Zulus he had met in Natal were nothing like this.