The Horns of the Buffalo (22 page)

Jenkins opened his mouth to remonstrate but Simon cut in quickly. ‘You are absolutely right, sir.' He turned to Jenkins. ‘We'd better see to that arm. You've got a big job to do in the next few days, although, after what I've seen tonight, I'm damned if I know if you're up to it.'

For the first time Jenkins looked concerned. ‘Well, I'm sorry, bach sir, if I stepped out of line for a minute there. I 'ad to defend myself, look you, though perhaps I did 'ave a tiddle too much liquor. I'll make sure it doesn't 'appen again on this postin', though. With great respect, though, sir, I don't think you would 'ave much of a chance with a court-martial charge. See, we
was
on active service and this black chap
was
the enemy, wasn't 'e? Queen's Regulations say—'

‘To hell with Queen's Regulations. We've got more to think about than that. Come on.'

But Catherine had now materialised with a bowl of water and a cloth, and with a crestfallen and ruefully silent Nandi in attendance. As Nandi held the bowl, her eyes downcast, Mrs Dunn began wiping the blood away from Jenkins's arm.

‘Very kind, I'm sure, ma'am,' said Jenkins. ‘It's only a scratch - but 'old on a minute, if you don't mind.'

He stepped to where a still shaky Nkumo was stooping to retrieve his assegai. ‘Hey, Oomkoomi, feelin' better then?' The Zulu half flinched as the Welshman extended his hand. ‘Come on. Let's shake on it. Like Englishmen do.' The little man's teeth flashed from beneath his moustache. ‘Though you're a Zulu and I'm Welsh.'

The Zulu stood puzzled and motionless, so Jenkins took his hand and shook it vigorously. Then he turned to stand side by side with Nkumo and raised their clasped hands high above his head. Facing the Zulus, who were now drifting back to the fire, he shouted: ‘Hey, fellers. Give a hand to the champion and the gallant loser then, hey?'

The crowd paused in surprise for a moment, then black faces began to crease into smiles at the sight of a bedraggled Jenkins, his face beaming, waving aloft the hand of a sheepishly grinning Nkumo. At the back of the dispersing ring, someone began to stamp his foot. The action spread and soon, it seemed, the whole camp was stamping their feet and crying, ‘Usuthu! Usuthu!'

Dunn shook his head in mock despair. ‘He's some man, your . . . associate, Mr Fonthill.'

‘I'm afraid so, sir. I'm sorry about all this. I just don't know what to think.' Simon called to Jenkins. ‘For God's sake man, come here. Who do you think you are, Tom Sayers?'

Jenkins hurried over. ‘Funny you should say that, bach sir,'cos I did see 'im fight once, in Hereford. O' course, 'e wasn't champion then, but, goodness, 'e was a rare fighter. Only ten stone nothin' he was, see, but 'e 'ad a left 'and like nothin' you've ever—'

Simon pushed the Welshman towards the women. ‘Get on with you and stop talking. Get the arm bandaged and get to bed straight away. And no more beer. We must talk tomorrow. I have to tell you about a most important journey you're about to start. Perhaps the most important of your life.'

Jenkins looked up with interest. ‘Oh yes, sir. What would that be, then?'

But Simon just shook his head and led the little champion towards the women.

Alice Griffith tapped her foot with impatience on the wet cobblestones outside Paddington station. It was always the same. When it rained, one could never get a hansom cab in London. Mind, she reflected, it was never easy for a woman alone to stop a cab at the best of times. Perhaps women didn't tip as well as men. Ah, well . . . ‘Cabby!'

The horse clattered to a standstill opposite her and the driver, perched high at the rear, the rim of his bowler hat just peeping out from under the glistening black cape that covered him, raised a mittened finger to his moustache in acknowledgement.

Alice paused, her umbrella aloft, one foot on the step of the cab. ‘Do you know the offices of the
Morning Post
newspaper in Fleet Street?' she enquired.

The cabby nodded glumly.

‘Then please take me there. I am a little late and would be greatly obliged if you could make whatever haste you can in this dreadful weather.'

Alice stepped up and the cab sashayed backwards on its high springs as she settled into her seat. Then it was off. The young woman adjusted the hat pinned on to her piled hair and wiped the condensation from the little window so that she could see the crowded pavements. How she loved London, even in the rain! The city was always so alive. Everyone seemed to have a purpose, unlike the country, where the set rhythm of the seasons gave a sleepy certainty to everyone's movements so that there was never any need to bustle. The crops would still be there to cut down and take in, even if the harvest was poor and late. Her eyes sparkled as she observed a middle-aged man, elegantly spatted and top-hatted, running - yes running! - down Park Lane as if his life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. Perhaps he had news of some vital development in the Empire that had to reach the City before the markets closed. Alice looked at the watch on her fob. Fifteen minutes to three. He did right to hurry. She sat back and then remembered to be nervous again. She must try and look older, and she settled her hat at a slightly less rakish angle. The appointment that faced her was quite as important as any which impelled that gentleman.

The cab reached the
Morning Post
with just three minutes to spare and she composed herself before stepping down and paying her fare, making sure that she tipped adequately. The tall commissionaire, looking like a major general, saluted her, opened the door and ushered her to the reception desk. The clerk behind it, with his high collar and loosely knotted black tie, might have stepped from one of Mr Dickens's novels.

‘I have an appointment with the editor,' Alice said firmly.

‘Yes, madam. Which editor?'

‘What do you mean,
which
editor?'

The clerk sighed. ‘Well, we have an editor for the news, one for the letters page, one for what we call features, and indeed, madam, we even have an editor for ladies' affairs. No doubt it is he you would wish to see?'

Alice flushed. ‘My appointment is with
the
editor, the editor of the
Morning Post
. And if we are not careful, I shall be late for it.'

The clerk looked at her sharply, gave a half-bow, half-nod, and summoned a diminutive pageboy, whose brightly polished buttons ran from throat to midriff like illuminated vertebrae. Within a minute, Alice was sitting in the editor's anteroom. The door opened and a middle-aged man with cigarette ash down a badly buttoned waistcoat enquired politely, ‘Forgive me, madam, but you did say
Miss
Griffith?'

‘Yes.'

‘Miss A.C. Griffith?'

‘That is my name, yes, and I have a letter from Mr Cornford, the editor, agreeing to see me at three p.m. today.'

The man bowed and retreated. It was five minutes before he reappeared. ‘The editor will see you now, mad - miss.'

Alice was ushered through the door and announced: ‘Miss . . . ah . . . Griffith, sir.'

The room was large and wood-panelled. A table piled high with that morning's newspapers stood against one wall and a cheery coal fire burned from a grate in another. Opposite the door a large desk dominated, from behind which a portly man rose to greet her. She observed a well-cut morning coat, carrying a yellow carnation in the lapel, and two blue eyes smiling at her above a full beard and moustache. He looked, she thought, like an older version of the Prince of Wales.

‘Charles Cornford,' he introduced himself as he held out his hand. ‘Please do sit down, Miss, or is it Mrs Griffith?'

‘Miss,' said Alice firmly, arranging her dress and sitting.

‘You must forgive the slight delay in receiving you, Miss Griffith,' said Cornford, a faint smile playing behind his whiskers, ‘but, you see . . .' His voice trailed away.

‘You were expecting a man.'

Cornford bowed his head. ‘I fear that there has been some mistake, my dear young lady.'

‘No, sir, not at all.' She had rehearsed this confrontation so many times that it was almost a relief that it was going exactly as expected. ‘You see, I always sign my writings with my initials.' She smiled at him in turn. ‘As do most men, I believe - when they are fortunate enough to write above a by-line, that is. There has never been any attempt to deceive - as, one must admit, there has been with Miss George Eliot, for example.'

Cornford bowed his head courteously again. ‘Quite so. But my letters, I seem to recall, were addressed to A.C. Griffith
Esquire
. Our meeting was delayed a moment or two because I took the trouble to check.'

Alice felt her cheeks colouring annoyingly. ‘Really? I fear I did not notice.' She leaned forward and spoke quickly. ‘Mr Cornford, you have been good enough to print four of my articles on the Afghanistan situation and one on South Africa, and kind enough to write and congratulate me on their tone and accuracy. Surely the fact that the author of those articles is a woman makes not the slightest difference to their validity?'

Cornford rocked his chair back and nodded in affable agreement. ‘Quite so. Quite so. However,' his blue eyes sparkled as though he was enjoying the debate, ‘it does make every difference to your request that we should send you to north-west India as our correspondent there.'

‘But why should it?'

The editor shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. ‘Because, my dear young lady, the frontier is no place for a woman.' He leaned forward. ‘I know of no newspaper in the world which employs a woman on its staff to report from a war - no, I am wrong.
The Times
did it once, but that was most unusual. In the first place, you would cause embarrassment to the general staff there and they would never give you accreditation. In the second, during the course of your duties, you would have to live like a trooper and endure virtually the same privations on campaign as he does - rough living, rough riding and great danger. No,' he shook his head sorrowfully, ‘a war is no place for a woman, however well she can write and comprehend military strategy.'

Alice gripped her hands in her lap tightly. ‘Mr Cornford, I ride to hounds regularly over some of the roughest terrain in the Welsh Borders. I am told by the Master that I ride better than most men. When I was in Switzerland, I climbed six Alpine peaks over ten thousand feet in four months. I was accompanied only by a guide in each case and, because I rather anticipated your reservations, I have in my handbag a letter from him confirming this. Although this may not help me in Afghanistan, I speak fluent French and German, and, I can assure you, I am as fit as any man. I have not only lived rough in the mountains of Switzerland and Wales but I have positively enjoyed doing so.' Alice sat back, flushing a little. She disliked having to make claims for herself.

Mr Cornford sat forward and selected a cigar from a box on his desk and struck a match. ‘Ah,' he said, in some confusion. He offered the box. ‘Do you . . .? Would you care to . . .?'

Alice shook her head. ‘Not a cigar, thank you. But perhaps if you have a cigarette . . .?'

‘Of course.' The editor fumbled in a drawer and produced a silver box that he took to his guest, carefully lighting her cigarette for her. Alice puffed blue smoke towards the ceiling.

Cornford returned to his chair and to the attack. ‘I fear that I haven't made myself quite clear,' he said. ‘The rigours of campaigning are only part of the problem.' He sighed. ‘Our world is changing so much that I do not doubt that there are women who can compete with men in handling the more, what shall I say, physical side of reporting. Your achievements seem remarkable and do you credit. But there are other considerations I must take into account.'

He leaned back in his chair and pulled on his cigar. ‘You write very well on the issues. Why,' he waved his cigar in emphasis, ‘only the other day Hicks-Beach, the Colonial Secretary, stopped me in the House and complimented me on your piece on the dangers of moving too quickly towards confederation in South Africa. But - there is a great deal of difference between contemplatively penning an article on policy in the comfort of an office or living room and in reporting hard facts from a battlefield, usually in competition with other reporters on the spot. Eh? What? Do you take my point?'

Alice nodded. ‘Yes, I do, Mr Cornford.'

‘And there are other factors. Our man in the field must be accepted by the army. D'you know, the Horse Guards and our generals are the most conservative - some would say reactionary - bunch of people in the whole of the Empire. I have to acknowledge that Russell of
The Times
pioneered the way for us to report directly, and sometimes critically, when he was in the Crimea and in America for the Civil War. But the idea of the press being on the spot to report mistakes as they are being made, so to speak, is still not completely accepted. Our people in the field need to tread warily and they need contacts in the army to do their job. I fear a feminine presence in this hard male world would complicate things frightfully.

‘One last point.' Cornford spoke now with the air of a man who had made his case convincingly. ‘We already have a man out with General Browne in Afghanistan. We could certainly not afford two.' He settled back in his chair.

‘Why then, pray, did you agree to see me?' asked Alice.

‘Ah yes, well, I have to confess that I wished to meet this Mr Griffith who had been writing for us so perceptively from the far-flung borders of England.' He smiled, half apologetically. ‘It might have been possible to have offered him something abroad, as it happened, if he proved to be suitable. But, for the reasons I have already explained, I am afraid that it is out of the question, Miss Griffith.' He put a very faint emphasis on the word
Miss
.