The Horns of the Buffalo (6 page)

Simon sprang to attention and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir.'

The Colonel took a sip of cocoa. ‘You're late, Fonthill.'

‘With respect, sir, I think not.'

‘Really? Sergeant, tell me the time.'

‘Sir.' The Sergeant smacked his boots into a left turn and marched to the large clock that was fixed to the wall of the guardroom by the door. There, he executed a perfect halt, made a right turn, studied the clock, swung in an about-turn, marched to the Colonel, crashed into a halt and in the great sing-song of Wales cried, ‘Five fifty-nine exactly, Colonel sir.'

‘Ah,' said Covington, pulling a large gold watch from his pocket and examining it with exaggerated care. ‘My hunter must be a trifle in advance. Still, it does no harm to turn out the guard a little early. Carry on, Fonthill.'

‘Very good, sir.'

The Colonel leisurely walked to the door, still sipping his cocoa, but his eye travelled over the young officer, taking in every detail of his dress and his bearing as Simon, in turn, inspected the guard. Covington turned as he opened the door. ‘Oh, Fonthill.'

‘Sir.'

‘When you have finished your duties for the day, come and see me. I have some news for you. Now come along, General, there's a good dog.'

It was not until Simon had dismounted from his horse for a hurried meal two hours later that he remembered the letter in his pocket. Sitting close to the orderly room fire, he examined the envelope. It bore the familiar, precise hand of Alice Griffith and he opened it with a smile.

 

Simon's smile remained as he read the letter and then folded it and replaced it in his pocket. His correspondence with Alice had begun immediately after their tête-à-tête in the topiary two years before and had continued ever since - mainly, it must be admitted, at Alice's instigation. They had met only once in that time, when Alice had conducted a long and rather one-sided conversation on the problem of rural poverty in Wales. It would be good to see her again.

He stared into the bright coals. Life for the last twenty-two months had not been bad, despite Lieutenant Colonel Covington. Simon had rediscovered his joy in soldiering: the delicate interplay of relationships with the men, the elation of deploying his platoon on exercises, constant physical effort that had made his body lean and hard - even the cat-and-mouse games with the Colonel had their enjoyable side. Not once had he been caught, despite the laying of many traps by the CO. Once again Simon blessed the providence that had provided 352 Jenkins as his servant. Frequently, it was only the barrack-room caution and experience of the little Welshman that had saved him. The example of the cap was typical. Simon had been completely unaware of the last-minute change in the order of dress for the day. It would have been an awful solecism for the Orderly Officer to have appeared wearing the new Prussian-style helmet instead of the ordained field cap. It had obviously been another trap.

Immediately after the new guard had been mounted in the evening, Simon presented himself in the Colonel's office. There was no doubt about it, Covington was pleased. He oozed affability.

‘Do take a chair, Fonthill,' and he gestured to the large leather button-back to the side of the desk.

‘Thank you, sir. With respect, I prefer to stand. I am still on duty as Orderly Officer.'

‘As you wish.' The Colonel smiled again, so that his eyes seemed almost to disappear between the bushy brows and the luxuriant moustaches. ‘There's been no recurrence of your, ah, medical problem in the last year or so, eh?'

‘No, sir. Not at all.'

‘Capital. Capital. Just as well, then, because . . . Are you sure you wouldn't rather sit down?'

‘No thank you, Colonel.'

The smile now was even more expansive. In fact, Covington's hirsute face positively beamed. ‘Well, I've got a little job for you.' He stood up. Suddenly his manner changed completely. All affability gone, he rapped out the next sentence. ‘You are being posted abroad to South Africa immediately on active service.'

Simon immediately felt the blood rise to his face and experienced a sudden shortage of breath. From childhood came that sudden lurch of the heart and, just for one second, a moment of dizziness. From aeons away came the Colonel's voice in mock solicitousness: ‘Feel all right? Sure you don't want to sit down?'

Inconsequentially, Simon thought of Alice. Brave, stocky Alice, in her best dress, showing her wonderfully white skin, leaning forward and defiantly attacking the forward policy for Afghanistan. He recalled his father's description of Covington, ‘Not exactly subtle, I fear.' Alice would have this bully for breakfast. And he smiled and felt better.

‘No thank you, sir. Sounds good news. When can I go?'

Covington sat down again, a slightly puzzled look on his face. ‘Not so fast. I have to tell you more about the job. Oh, sit down, dammit!'

Awkwardly, Simon gathered up his sword and perched on the edge of the armchair, while Covington picked up a document from his desk, which Simon could see carried the blue seal of the Horse Guards at its head. The Colonel arranged a rather incongruous pair of spectacles on his nose and silently re-read the letter.

Eventually he regarded Simon from over the spectacles. ‘It seems you were quite a language scholar at Sandhurst, what?'

‘Not quite a scholar, sir, but I did fairly well in the French and German examinations.'

‘Hmm. Well, you did well enough to impress someone at the Horse Guards. Though what French and German has to do with the language of obscure African tribes I am dashed if I know.'

‘Sir?'

‘Look. The background is this. You will remember - yes, you
will
remember - that the 1st Battalion was posted to the Cape just under two years ago. Well, the brush with the Kaffirs did not quite materialise but it jolly well has now. In fact,' the Colonel's face took on an attitude of satisfied determination, ‘I have reason to believe that the 2nd will soon be leaving to help out our brothers. But that doesn't concern you.'

He leaned across the desk. ‘Ever heard of the Zulus?'

Simon frowned in concentration. ‘Yes, I think so. Very warlike, aren't they? Strong chief called Sheeka, or something.'

‘No. No. Shaka. Shaka. And he's bin dead for years. But you are correct in that the tribe is warlike, and Shaka did a fine job for a heathen in knockin' 'em into shape. They're up in the north somewhere and they've bin giving the Boers trouble for years. The Horse Guards think it won't be long before we have to be involved and they want a bit of, well, spadework done in the intelligence field up there.'

The Colonel removed his spectacles and leaned back. ‘They seem to think that, because of your ability to pick up foreign lingos, you could be useful.' He smiled, the sarcasm coming back into his voice. ‘They have asked me to reassure them that your horsemanship is good enough, because the work will mean long hours in the saddle. I am quite prepared to do so, if you feel . . . ah . . . strong enough to undertake the posting.'

Simon gulped. ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, of course. I would like to go.'

‘Very well. You will have four days' leave before embarking on the second of February. You may take your servant with you, if you believe he can serve well in the field, for there will be no boot cleaning to do out there by the look of it. Here are your immediate orders. You will be more fully informed of your task once you have landed in Cape Town.' He proffered the Horse Guards' documents.

‘Oh, and Fonthill.'

‘Sir?'

The Colonel smiled in his familiar languid fashion. ‘Don't think we are parting company for ever. You remain gazetted to the 2nd Battalion. You are only seconded to the general staff in Cape Town for the time being, as a matter of convenience. And, as I say, I have every hope that I shall be seeing you very soon in the Cape myself.' He waved his dismissal.

Simon's main feeling as he left the Colonel's office was one of exhilaration that he had survived the shock of the confrontation. He had endured the last of Covington's tricks and he would now be free of him! There was no fear in his heart as he considered the task ahead - only puzzlement at his selection and at the vagueness of the commission. The question of how to stay in the saddle when pursued by spear-wielding savages would have to wait until he reached South Africa. Good horsemanship, eh? He would have to put glue on his breeches. His step lightened as he went to find Jenkins.

 

The little man took the news and the offer of accompanying his officer to South Africa with equanimity. ‘Aye, sir,' he said, his smile stretching his moustache almost to his ears. ‘I'll come. I'm thinkin' that you'll still be needin' me.'

‘Certainly not. I can look after myself very well. But you should get out of this place.'

‘That's true.' Jenkins rubbed his hands together slowly. ‘An' you know what, sir. Colour Sergeant Cole is out there somewhere with the 1st Battalion. It would be perfect, look, to see him again.'

Simon sighed. ‘Look, Jenkins. If you start drinking and hitting NCOs again, they'll put you away for life.'

Jenkins looked shocked. ‘I wouldn't 'it 'im again. But I might 'ave a word or two, see.'

Simon hurriedly sent a telegram to his parents informing them of his imminent arrival, settled his mess bills and gathered together his kit. There was no tropical issue: his scarlet and blue serge was considered quite suitable for the sun and plains of South Africa, and the only concession to the change in climate was a cork sun helmet, a ‘Wolseley topi', to complement his head gear. He set off home.

His welcome there was characteristically unemotional, but for all that, it was clear that Major and Mrs Fonthill were delighted, if just a little puzzled, at Simon's preferment. On his arrival, the Major hung on to his hand for a second or two longer than usual, and after the early questions, they accepted the imprecise nature of his orders with an equanimity born of many years of army service.

At luncheon his mother produced a gold-engraved invitation card. ‘This is for us all,' she said, ‘but as it will take place on the eve of your departure, it will be quite understood, my dear, if you choose not to go.'

‘It's Griffith,' said his father, half apologetically. ‘His daughter is out, so to speak, and he's so proud of her that he is throwing a ball for her at his house. Actually, she's a little old for it and it's short notice for everyone, but they are taking her to London and they want to launch her here first.'

‘So Alice is being launched,' mused Simon. ‘I'm not at all sure that she will like that.'

His mother smiled. ‘Such a strange girl. At one time I rather approved of her, you know, but I can't help feeling that she's become rather too forward. It doesn't suit her even though she is twenty-two or so. However, we must go to support the Brigadier. Whether you come, Simon, is for you to decide.'

Simon was intrigued. Alice coming out! How would she handle it? ‘Of course I shall go,' he said. ‘I shall have to send my trunks on earlier, anyway, so there will be no problems with packing.'

The drive to Chilwood Manor was very different from that of two years before. Now the snow beat in blustering eddies against the hood of the coach and the wheels crunched along ruts in the frozen mud. Despite the rugs tucked tightly around them, the cold penetrated their limbs and made them shuffle and stamp their feet. The Major was concerned about Owen, their coachman, and every few minutes would lean out of the window, letting in flurries of snow, to enquire of the man's well-being.

The Manor, when they reached it, looked a picture. The Brigadier had installed great copper torches, topped with flaming twists of tar-treated rushes, at intervals along the front of the house, so that it was dramatically lit with a flickering glow that turned the snow to pink. Carriages thronged the drive and the auxiliary footmen, who Mrs Griffith had recruited from the nearby village, were hard put to handle the traffic and the mountains of cloaks deposited with them in the entrance hall.

Alice was standing at the foot of the stairs with her parents to receive their guests. To Simon, she seemed taller somehow, until he realised that she had lost that illusion of sturdiness which had probably only been puppy fat. In other ways she had not changed. Her white skin was made to seem even more translucent by the contrast with the dark blue gown and the two rows of pearls she wore, and although her face still seemed devoid of obvious cosmetics, her long hair had been taken up and elegantly arranged. To his amazement, she kissed Simon warmly on both cheeks when she received him.