The Horns of the Buffalo (39 page)

Simon blinked. ‘Sorry, Bromhead,' he said. ‘I must have dozed off.' He looked around. The barricades were still in place but were covered in spent cartridge cases and torn paper from the cartridge packets, some of it dancing and scurrying across the compound in the light breeze. Discarded, once-white helmets, some of them smashed, littered the ground, as did squashed and trodden spillings of mealies from the bags, many of which bore the bloodstains of both attackers and defenders. Stretching out before him everywhere beyond the walls were bodies of Zulus, stiffening into great heaps where the fighting had been hardest. Long battle shields lay in coloured profusion: the all white of the uThulwane regiment, the white splashed and black of the inDluyenge, the red and white of the uDloko - none of them proof against the bullets of the redcoats' rifles. Here and there small patrols of the 24th picked their way between the bodies.

Simon felt guilty. ‘Sorry,' he said again. ‘Let me do something.'

Bromhead gave his sad smile. ‘What? Oh, help. No. Chard said we are all tired because we have fought a long and hard battle. But you, he said, have fought two. He insists that you go and lie down. Come on, we've found a corner where you can rest for a while.'

He led Simon to one of the rooms of the storehouse, cleared a space among the spent cartridge cases with his boot, threw him a blanket and was gone. Without a word, Simon lay down and immediately went to sleep again. So it was that he missed the return of General Chelmsford's column.

It rode in at mid-morning to cheering from the defenders, standing on the barricades, and from the van of the column. It had seen no action but
had
seen the battlefield of Isandlwana. Lord Chelmsford was riding at the head of the column and his relief was apparent to all when he found the little mission station battered, partly burnt out but still undefeated. As he questioned Chard, Bromhead and the men who had fought in the hospital, the immensity of the struggle and the heroism of the defenders became apparent. No fool, he realised also that the story of the defence of Rorke's Drift was a victory that could ameliorate the defeat at Isandlwana when the news reached home.

It was not until late afternoon of the day before that Chelmsford had realised that not all was well at the camp he had left. Finding that the unit in the hills that he had come to relieve was not, after all, under attack, he had decided to press on to a new campsite, sending back a message to Pulleine to strike camp and follow him. Later, several messages had arrived from Isandlwana but they were imprecise. Covington's party, which was reconnoitring the southern part of the plain, had not returned, so the General decided to go back to see for himself. He had hardly set off when he met a civilian commandant who had returned to the camp for provisions and narrowly escaped with his life. Chelmsford's reaction had been the same as Covington's: ‘But I left a thousand men there,' he whispered in disbelief.

With his weary force, Chelmsford arrived at the site of the battle after nightfall. The stench of death told them what they could not see in the darkness and the flickering red glow to the south-west made them fear the worst for Rorke's Drift. Cetswayo's impis were probably storming through into Natal at that moment. But Chelmsford could do nothing but camp for the night, among the bodies and the carnage of the battle, and make an early start for the border in the morning. On the way, the British met the Undi corps of Prince Dabulamanzi limping back from its attack on the border post. The two columns passed only just out of rifle shot but Chelmsford's men had only seventy bullets apiece - their main ammunition had been left with Pulleine - and the General felt that he could not risk action. For their part, the Zulus had had enough fighting at Rorke's Drift to last them for months and had no wish that morning to tackle a fresh column of well-armed British troops. So the two groups trailed warily past each other, like neighbours after a row, each refusing to acknowledge the other when they met in the street.

Simon became aware of all this only much later. Now, while the returning column was passing cigarettes to the weary defenders and the General was questioning Corporal Allen, Privates Hitch, Hook, Williams and the other survivors of the hospital, Simon slept blissfully on. It was only after the General had departed for Pietermaritzburg and tents had been pitched round the post to house the returned column for the night that he was awakened by a foot kicking his. He opened one eye and met that of a sergeant bending over him.

‘That's the man,' said the unmistakable voice of Lieutenant Colonel Covington. ‘Arrest him, Sergeant, and put him under guard. Be careful. He can be violent.'

Early the next morning, Simon was taken under armed guard to Helpmakaar. There he was marched through the rain to the smallest of the three original wooden shacks that were all that the hamlet had boasted before the army arrived to transform it into a tented settlement capable of housing more than a thousand men. Small as it was, the interior of the shack had been roughly partitioned, and Simon was put into the largest section. Through the gloom, he detected a palliasse in the corner and a small table and camp stool. On a further table stood a collapsible washing bowl and a pitcher of water. One window let in what little grey light there was, but strands of wire had been stretched across the glass on the outside. It was the nearest that Helpmakaar had to a prison cell.

Only a few curious faces had watched his departure from Rorke's Drift before dawn. There was no sign of Covington, nor for that matter of Chard and Bromhead. Simon hoped that the latter were sleeping the sleep of the (heroic) just. The sergeant in whose charge he was placed was uncommunicative on the miserable ride through the rain to the little township, but once there, he was handed over to a sergeant major of the Buffs who was kindly.

‘There you are, Mr Fonthill sir,' he said as he ushered him into the room. ‘Not very comfortable, I'm afraid, but we're a bit pushed for comfort around here. By the look of it, not many of your things have come with you from the Drift, but I'll have them sent in to you. Williams here will be on guard on the other side of the partition.'

‘Thank you, Sergeant Major.'

The warrant officer paused by the door. ‘At Ishandwanee, I hear, sir. And at the Drift too, then?'

Simon nodded.

The sergeant major scratched his beard. ‘Not many fought at both, from what I hear, sir. In fact, after the first battle, a lot rode by the Drift. It seems to me, sir, beggin' your pardon like, that you should get a medal, not a court martial.'

Simon smiled. ‘Not much chance of that, I fear.'

‘Ah well, sir. I should try and get as much sleep as you can now. You look a bit washed out.'

Simon slumped on to the mattress. As the escort made to leave, he sat up. ‘Sar'nt Major?'

‘Sir.'

‘I don't suppose you have any definite news about the dead at Isandlwana, after the battle, have you? I'm fairly certain that my man went down there, but I'd like to know for sure. His name was - is - Jenkins, of the 24th; last three, 352.'

The sergeant major frowned. ‘I wasn't with the column that found 'em all, sir, but from what I've heard from them that was, there was nothing left alive there. Even the dogs had been speared. And all our chaps had been disembowelled - horrible business. But I will put the word about, sir.'

‘That's kind of you. Do let me know if you hear anything.'

The thin door was firmly shut and he heard a padlock snap into place. There was a scraping as the young sentry pulled up a chair and sat down on the other side of the partition. Simon lay back on the bed, put a hand behind his head and silently began to laugh. For God's sake! He had only been out of Cetswayo's prison for a couple of days and now the British - his own people - had put him in another one! Well, he had no regrets. Whatever was going to happen to him - and he had no idea what the punishment for striking a senior officer might be - it would be worth it for that one moment of sheer joy he had experienced after knocking Covington flat on his back. He rubbed his knuckles reminiscently and then, thoughtfully, brought them to his mouth, as the smile died away. Could the sentence be death? After all, they were on active service and Covington had just placed him under arrest. He would have to plead guilty to delivering the blow, for there were too many witnesses to evade the charge. Could he submit extenuating circumstances to justify his act - the long imprisonment, the fight with the Zulus in the gully, the horror of Isandlwana and then Jenkins's death? And Covington
had
grabbed him roughly. What the hell! He would not go down without a fight and the world would know what sort of bastard was commanding the 2nd Battalion of the 24th Regiment of Foot. Anyway, if he was to be shot, then it would be a kind of poetic justice after narrowly escaping death over the past three days, when so many good men had gone. Pity about his parents, though. He put a hand to his eyes and rolled over.

His reverie was interrupted by the sound of low voices on the other side of the partition, then the key in the padlock. ‘A visitor, sir,' said the sentry. And in walked Alice.

She stood for a moment and looked in the half-light at the figure lying on the mattress. Simon was still wearing the ill-fitting blue patrol jacket issued to him by the QM at Isandlwana, and from underneath it peeped the grimy bandage put round his shoulder by Jenkins. His breeches were threadbare and soiled and the right leg was bloodstained from where the assegai had administered the flesh wound on the barricade at Rorke's Drift - Reynolds had promised to patch him up as soon as he had seen to the more severely wounded, but Simon's arrest had intervened. It was Simon's face, however, which caused Alice the most concern. His eyes, which she had remembered as clear and alive, were now sunken and stared out of a gaunt face that carried three days of beard stubble.

To Simon, looking up in amazement at his visitor, Alice appeared as a vision from another, forgotten world. Still framed in the open doorway, she slowly took off her riding cape and threw it into a corner. Her hair had been pulled severely back and tied with that grass-green scarf, but it had been bleached in the sun over the months so that it shone now in the dust-rays from the window like a golden helmet. Her crisp white shirt was tucked into tight riding breeches and her long boots were still polished, so that they glistened under the raindrops. She stood looking down at him, a half-smile playing on her face. The door shut behind her and the padlock clunked into place.

Simon struggled to his feet. ‘Alice!' He gave a wan smile and wiped the back of his hand across his face. ‘You were just about the last person I expected to see come through that door. I'm sorry . . . I must look rather a mess.'

The girl walked towards him and, without ceremony or embarrassment, put her arms around his neck and brought his head down to her cheek. ‘My dear Simon,' she whispered. ‘My dear boy. What on earth has happened?'

Simon broke free awkwardly and pulled up the little camp stool. ‘Sorry again,' he said. ‘This is all I can offer you, but do sit down.'

She remained standing, looking steadily at him. ‘Very well,' she said. She pushed the stool towards the wall so that she could lean back on it. ‘They tell me that you knocked down Colonel Covington. That doesn't exactly sound like the Simon I remember, but I suppose tribulations change a man. Anyway: true or false?'

Simon sighed. ‘True, I fear.'

Alice put a hand to her brow. ‘My goodness, Simon. I presume that you had provocation?'

‘Oh yes, Alice.' Simon smiled. ‘Plenty of that.'

‘But what about the desertion charge?'

‘The what?' The smile dropped from Simon's face and he jumped to his feet. ‘Desertion? What do you mean?'

‘Simon, do sit down. I have been told that I am allowed only half an hour with you, so it won't do to get excited.' She waited until he was sitting once more on the edge of his bed before continuing. ‘Now, do you mean to tell me that the charges have not been read to you?'

‘No. Not yet.' He shook his head wearily. ‘The hitting of Covington, of course I know about. I thought that was bad enough. But what is this about desertion?'

Alice's face now betrayed no emotion. ‘In addition to the charge of violence, Colonel Covington is also accusing you of lying about your activities in Zululand and of deserting from the battlefield of Isandlwana.'

Simon gave a mirthless laugh. ‘But the bloody man was not there. How would he know what happened, for God's sake?'

‘I understand that he has witnesses whom he will bring against you at your court martial. Now, my dear,' she took out a small spiral-bound notebook and a pencil, ‘we have little time and I think you had better tell me
everything
that happened.'

For the next thirty minutes, the two sat together in the gloom while Simon recounted his experiences since his crossing into Zululand two - or was it three? - lifetimes ago. Alice occasionally interrupted with a question but mostly she sat silent, her face expressionless. When Simon began his account of the battle, she started scribbling quickly, overriding his objections with a wave of her hand.

‘I have already sent my dispatch back to London,' she said. ‘What you have told me confirms what I have already hinted at. No laager around the camp, you say? How far did the runners have to come for the ammunition?'

When they had finished, Alice sat quietly looking at her notes. ‘Hmmm,' she mused, then: ‘Simon, I fear that you are in trouble. The problem is, you see, that these charges are brought against you by your former commanding officer who, I happen to know, is regarded within the army as an up-and-coming man of honour and courage.' Simon thought he detected a quick flush come to her cheeks as she uttered these words. But she hurried on. ‘The fact that he was your commanding officer means that people will presume that he knows you and your character well, and that could be influential.