The Horns of the Buffalo (12 page)

The little man smiled again, so infectiously that Simon was impelled to smile back, as though they were sharing some secret joke.

‘And this,' said the Colonel, ‘is where you really do come in, my boy.'

‘You want me to go to him?'

‘More than that. We don't want you treated as another messenger. No.' Lamb rose and strode back to the wall map. He indicated an area within Zululand, a few miles north of the Lower Drift of the Tugela, in the south of the country. ‘This is where he has his kraal, although, of course, he could be anywhere in his territory. We want you to find him and live with him for a while - long enough, anyhow, for you to be able not only to win his confidence, but also to learn something of the Zulu tongue and see for yourself how things are there.'

‘I am to be a sort of spy?'

‘You will be a formally accredited agent of the British army. You will, of course, reveal your identity to Dunn. But if the Zulus discover who you are they could well kill you.' The Colonel regarded him keenly. ‘That won't be a simple assegai thrust either. It's more likely to be impalement through the anus.'

Simon gulped. One half of his mind considered rationally what was being said, but the other noticed, with relief, that his reaction was not extreme: some dryness of the mouth, perhaps, but nothing more. He concentrated. ‘Why should Dunn take me in, sir?' he asked. ‘What's to stop him turning me over to the Zulus for, er, a spot of impaling?'

‘Highly unlikely,' Lamb responded briskly. ‘Firstly, he is, after all, British and there are those who say that he would never betray a fellow countryman. Personally, I think that's all stuff. Your main protection will be a letter that you will carry from the Governor, Sir Bartle Frere-I have it here - explaining your mission and asking Dunn to assist you in every way. It is tantamount to an order from Her Majesty's Government and if Dunn rejects it, then he knows that he has burned his boats and bridges behind him. He may or may not do that. We shall have to see.

‘Of course,' Lamb went on, ‘the letter itself poses a danger for you. If you are captured by Zulus before you get to Dunn's kraal and they find the letter, then you could be in deep trouble. They probably won't be able to read it, of course, but they will know it is some form of official -
and secret
- document. They will either kill you on the spot or take you to the King. Once there, you would have to talk your way out of it. Using your Welsh, of course.' The Colonel smiled wryly.

‘So we must reduce the risk. The letter will be sewn into the lining of your jacket. It must not be found. Which reminds me. You will pose as a hunter and trader who is visiting Dunn to do business with him. That's why your horsemanship is important. Dunn is a fine shot and lives in the saddle. You must, too.'

Simon smiled weakly. ‘Quite so, sir. With whom and how do I communicate?'

‘With me and only me. Sir Bartle doesn't want Shepstone . . . at least, let's say that we want to avoid any danger of misunderstandings. Shame I can't read Welsh. We could have used it as a code. You'll just have to think of some way of getting messages out safely.'

Simon realised that he had been presented with a heaven-sent opportunity to make the case for Jenkins to accompany him. He did so carefully, against an obvious antipathy from Lamb, pointing out Jenkins's reliability and his conduct on the
Devonia
that had earned him a mention in dispatches. ‘And, sir,' Simon concluded with heartfelt sincerity, ‘he's a better horseman and shot than me.'

‘Very well.' The Colonel scribbled on a slip of paper. ‘Take this chit to the quartermaster and fit yourselves out with hunting clothes - they must be well worn, mind - and rifles, a pair of good horses and whatever else you need. The QM is experienced in bush conditions. There is a ship sailing for Durban tomorrow. From there, make for the Tugela at the Lower Drift and cross into Zululand there. Anyone should be able to tell you how to find Dunn's kraal. It lies about forty miles into the territory. Here is the Governor's letter. Get your man to sew it into the lining of your jacket.'

The Colonel stood up. ‘To repeat: what we need is information about the size of Cetswayo's army; how it is broken down into impis; where they are stationed; and how quickly they might be able to react. Pick up all you can about the King's attitude towards us and whether he will fight if he has to, knowing the force of our weaponry. A lot depends upon you, Fonthill. You could save lives.'

‘Of course, sir. I will do my best.'

The two men shook hands. ‘Oh, by the way. It's a pity you leave tomorrow. The
Edinburgh Castle
has just set sail from England with Covington and the 2nd/24ths on board. He will be sorry to have missed you, no doubt.'

‘No doubt, sir. Thank you and goodbye.'

Alice Griffith pulled back the curtains of her bedroom and looked out at the grey cloud torn on the high tops of the pines of Brecon Beacons a mile away. The dismal scene - rain was obviously lurking within that dirty cotton wool, probing to get through - did not depress her because she did not register what she saw. Like most mornings, she was preoccupied with the great question of what to do with her life.

She slumped into the little brocaded chair before the dressing table and began to brush her hair with long, rhythmical strokes. The features reflected in the mirror had now acquired a certain beauty: long, clean lines from the high cheekbones to that firm and slightly overlarge jaw; lips perhaps a little too full but well coloured; the grey eyes set beneath perfectly arched brows. The overall effect was undoubtedly pleasing. Yet it was not a happy face. The period since her coming-out ball had not been fulfilling. She had been able to tolerate only a couple of weeks of the London season. The balls she found boring, her love of dancing far outweighed by the banality of the young men who partnered her. And she disliked even more the studied, artificial informality of the set-piece events, although she had only survived two - Ascot, and the Eton-Harrow match at Lord's. She poured hot water from a jug into a bowl and then absent-mindedly rubbed her face, shoulders and neck with a square of soft flannel. Life in the country had its pleasures. She enjoyed riding and had joined the hunt, going out often with Charlotte Fonthill, whom she was now growing to respect. It was unusual to find a well-read, opinionated woman in the shires and particularly one who was not afraid to debate the issues of the day with men. For her part, Mrs Fonthill had gradually, if grudgingly, grown to accept the strength of Alice's mind and the lucidity of her expression. Their friendship had developed and had grown into an ill-formed, unspoken but real alliance against dominant males.

The hunt, of course, could not take all her time and there was only so much she could do in helping her mother on the estate, visiting sick tenants and packing baskets of groceries to take to the poor of the village. She would have liked to take an interest in the economics of farming but her father strongly discouraged this. What she wanted, she knew, was a career. But doing what? Universities were closed to women and she could see no way of acquiring formal training for any of the professions. Miss Nightingale offered some sort of career for young ladies in nursing but Alice disliked the thought of being a distaff attachment to the army. So demeaning!

She had taken to riding over to the Fonthills' about once a fortnight. Although, despite their new friendship, she still found Mrs Fonthill a little daunting, she was fond of the Major. His gentle uncertainty reminded her of Simon. Simon, ah yes! She smiled as she buttoned up her dress. Simon! She certainly did not love him, of that she was sure. And she had no intention of marrying him - or anyone else, for that matter. Nevertheless, she was aware of a certain ambivalence in her attitude to the Fonthills' son. The wanton, wilful side of her smiled (smirked?) at the way he had been captured. Then this thought made her feel contemptuous, both of herself and of Simon. Deep in her heart perhaps she was no better than the pretty little things who set out their stall during the Season and had no other thought than that of snaring a man. Simon was no better for falling. She had hoped for more from him. Yet he was thoughtful, quiet and paid no superficial compliments. He was also vulnerable and needed help from a supportive friend - the sort of role she could play. And . . . she
had
enjoyed kissing him. The carnality of the thought intruded and she shook her head in self-reproach. Alice had not come to terms with the stirrings of sensuality that had been a disturbing part of her life for several years now. She loved their thrill but resented their random persistence. She liked her life to be controlled. She frowned.

Should she visit the Fonthills that day? They might have news of Simon to add to the dutiful, rather dull contents of the two letters she had received from him. More to the point, talking to the Fonthills would give her a chance of discussing the present situation in the Middle East.

The newspapers were full of talk of possible war again with Russia, with whom Turkey was now in conflict. It was rumoured that the Reserves would be called out and that the Fleet would be sent to the Dardenelles. What a pity if there should be opportunities for advancement there, while Simon kicked his heels in a colonial backwater in Africa! Yes, she would ride to the Fonthills' and debate the matter with them - if Mrs F would let her get a word in edgeways.

The rain held off, although the going was heavy and it took her almost an hour to reach the Fonthills' redbrick house. As always, the welcome was warm, although not effusive.

Charlotte was at home and the Major was expected back at any moment.

‘Do sit down, Alice,' said Mrs Fonthill, ushering her into the drawing room. ‘Have you heard from Simon, by any chance?'

‘Not for about two months, Mrs Fonthill. You may remember that I received two letters, one from Cape Town and the other from Durban in Natal, but he was in a hurry on both occasions and hardly even filled one page.'

‘Ah yes,' said the older woman. ‘He was equally noncommittal with us. It is a very strange business. Both battalions of the regiment are serving in the same overseas posting for the first time for many years and yet Simon is with neither. I do hope that that strange incident of his illness is not being held against him.'

‘I am sure not. I have the feeling that he has been selected for some special duty that he forbears to write about.'

Mrs Fonthill smiled. ‘If that is so, Alice my dear, then it would suit Simon perfectly. He has always been a romantic and rather a dreamer, you know. He imagines things, and when he was young, he always lived in his own world. Something to do with being an only child, I expect. We were a little surprised, although delighted, when he chose to go into the regiment. That is why . . .' She frowned. ‘But no matter. My main concern now is that he is managing to keep his seat on his horse. He is a dreadful horseman.'

They were interrupted by the arrival of the Major, who strode into the room and bent to brush his lips against his wife's cheek. He extended his hand to Alice and gave her a wide, embracing smile.

‘You will stay for luncheon, please?'

‘Oh, I do not wish to impose.'

‘Nonsense. There is no imposition. In any case, Charlotte and I want to hear your views on whether England should involve itself with the Turkish business.'

Alice was aware that her declared interest in foreign affairs was not always approved by older people and she looked at the Major sharply. But there was no sign of condescension in his kindly smile.

The luncheon was light: consommé and cold mutton. So too, at first, was the conversation. The Major confided that the gas lighting system that he had installed in the house only twelve years ago now seemed as though it would be out of date, since Mr Edison in America had now found a way of ‘subdividing' electricity so that it could be harnessed to provide domestic lighting. They also marvelled at the fact that the Queen herself had recently had a practical demonstration of the magic of the new telephone, when Miss Kate Field had sung ‘Kathleen Mavourneen' into an instrument in a cottage at Osborne while Her Majesty had listened through another in the main house. What times they lived in!

‘In fact,' said the Major, ‘as far as politics are concerned, anyway, there is now a word which, I understand, describes them.'

‘Really, my dear, what is that?'

‘Jingo, or to be more correct, I suppose, jingoistic.'

Mrs Fonthill frowned. ‘And what does that mean, pray?'

‘Well, as I say, it seems to be the latest term for describing the England of today - or, at least, what is supposed to be the popular mood of the times vis-à-vis our attitude towards Russia and whether or not we should intervene with their war with Turkey.' The Major looked a little sheepish and clearly wished that he had never embarked on this line of conversation. ‘I understand that it comes from a music hall song which is current.'

‘Oh really, Major?' said Alice mischievously. ‘Do sing it.'

‘I . . . ah . . . am not familiar with the tune but I believe that the words go something like this:

 

‘How vulgar!' said Mrs Fonthill.

‘Yes,' agreed Alice. ‘But it is rather a lovely word. Jingo. Jingo . . .' She repeated it ruminatively. ‘It sums up beautifully the attitude of those thoughtless people of whatever class who believe that Britain should involve herself in any and every war. They want blood and glory and see opportunities in other people's conflict to add to the Empire. I am not sure that I would not even exclude Lord Beaconsfield, as we must now call him, from their ranks. The jingoes. Yes. It's perfect for them.'