The Horns of the Buffalo (41 page)

Bradshaw, who had obviously rehearsed everything with great care, extracted from Jones all that he wished: the vagabond stranger riding out of the plain, being questioned by the Colonel and then suddenly striking down the senior man, before riding away quickly towards the Buffalo River, shouting vague instructions after him as he went. Glyn made several notes before turning to Simon, his eyebrows raised interrogatively above the spectacles.

Simon stood and cleared his throat. He must be cool, unprovocative, but firm. ‘Now, Sergeant,' he said. ‘Tell us what condition I seemed to be in to you, when I rode up.'

‘Well, with respect, sir, you seemed to be a bit of a mess.' Smiles appeared on the faces of several of the officers at the table.

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Well, you were a bit wild, like. You was agitated, see, and very badly dressed for an officer, like. You 'adn't shaved properly and your coat didn't fit and you looked a bit thin an' wasted, though that didn't stop you punchin' the Colonel very'ard indeed.'

Simon frowned. This was not going the way he wanted it. ‘Did it look like I'd been in a battle, then?'

The sergeant shrugged. ‘Don't know, sir. You wasn't in proper uniform, that is certain.'

Simon tried another tack. ‘Did you hear Colonel Covington put me under arrest?'

‘Oh yes, sir.'

‘Did you hear me tell him that the General's column was in danger of being ambushed and ask him to hurry back to tell the General that, while I rode off to Rorke's Drift to warn the garrison there?'

For the first time the sergeant looked shifty. ‘Well, I don't know about that, see. I couldn't quite 'ear what the two of you was sayin'.'

‘Very well.' The little swine had obviously been got at by Covington. ‘Did you see Colonel Covington grab me by the shoulder - my wounded shoulder - and swing me round when he tried to put me under arrest?'

‘I saw the Colonel put 'is 'and on your shoulder but I don't know about any swingin'.'

Simon let the man go. He had obviously been well coached by Covington and was not going to let slip anything which might put his CO under pressure.

Covington was the next witness. Once again Bradshaw rather ponderously set the scene, eliciting that Covington had been given the task of finding a trail back to the Buffalo and a crossing downstream of Rorke's Drift, should the column have to retreat. His questioning was so laboured, in fact, that Glyn interrupted testily. ‘Yes, yes,' he said, ‘this is all irrelevant. Where and when it happened is not in dispute. Please get on with it.'

Damn, thought Simon. They
are
trying to rush this through. Where and when may not be in dispute, but how and why almost certainly are. So it proved when Simon began to question the Colonel.

The tall man's blue eyes hardened as Simon rose. ‘Tell me, Colonel,' he asked, ‘what did I look like when I rode up to you on that plain?'

‘Humph!' Covington let the exclamation hang in the courtroom for a moment, as if to underline his contempt for the questioner. He was, as Simon knew he would be, arrogantly confident, in no way fazed by the ritual of the court martial. ‘You looked scruffy in the extreme, as though you had been sleeping rough in the bush for some considerable time.'

‘But Colonel, I had fought at the battle of Isandlwana. Did I not look as though I had been through a battle - had been engaged in hand-to-hand conflict and seen my comrades massacred?'

‘No. You looked as though you had been sleeping rough in the bush.' Covington repeated each word with emphasis.

‘Did you not see evidence of a spear wound in my shoulder?'

‘Certainly not.'

Simon looked at the completely blank piece of paper in his hand to hide his mounting anger. He must not appear provocative. ‘When I told you that there had been a battle and that the column at Isandlwana had been wiped out, what was your reaction?'

‘I didn't believe you.' Covington turned to the tribunal. ‘I knew that Pulleine had been left at the camp with some eighteen hundred men and I could not accept that he had been overrun. If I may say so, the Commander-in-Chief had exactly the same reaction when he first heard the news.'

‘Quite so,' murmured Glyn sympathetically.

‘But you were wrong, Colonel, weren't you?' Simon pressed. ‘I was bringing you accurate news straight from the battlefield, was I not?'

Covington gave a cynical smile. ‘Oh yes. You'd seen the battle all right, but you hadn't fought in it. You had run away from it and we intercepted you.'

‘You know that's a damned lie.'

Glyn's voice cut through the exchange like a sabre swing. ‘I will remind you, Mr Fonthill, that you are addressing a senior officer and you will treat him with respect. If I have any more behaviour from you of this nature, I shall stop the court martial and a verdict of guilty will be returned without any more ado. Do I make myself clear?'

Simon cursed inwardly. He must
not
lose control. ‘Yes, sir. I apologise.'

‘Very well. Continue, but in a respectful manner.'

Simon turned and looked once more into Covington's icy gaze. ‘But I was right about the battle and I urged you to tell the General immediately, while I rode on to Rorke's Drift to warn the defenders there. Why did you not do so?'

‘Because,' Covington pushed up the end of one moustache and turned to address the tribunal again, ‘I am not in the habit of accepting orders from junior officers - particularly those I believe to be deserters.'

Ah, thought Simon, a chance at last. ‘But,' he said, ‘you had no evidence
then
that I was a deserter, even if you have now - and I shall contend, of course, that you do not.'

Covington was quite unperturbed. ‘You are forgetting that I know you, Fonthill, and, from my previous experience when you served under my command, regard you as a malingerer.' He addressed the tribunal again. ‘I was attempting to detain the accused for further questioning when he suddenly assaulted me, without, I may say, giving me any chance to defend myself.'

Simon turned to Glyn in appeal. Surely the court would not let that charge of malingering lie unanswered? It did not. The Deputy Judge Advocate leaned back in his chair and, behind the backs of two of the tribunal, engaged in a whispered conversation with the chairman. Glyn nodded and addressed his colleagues. ‘I am advised,' he said, ‘that we should ignore Colonel Covington's accusation of malingering until some evidence is presented to substantiate that charge.'

‘Ah, with respect, sir,' said Covington smoothly, ‘I think that you will hear something more to that effect later in this hearing.'

So that old charge
was
to be resurrected! Simon's mind raced. Best ignore it for the moment and face it when it came. He returned to his questioning. ‘Let us get back to the facts concerning my alleged attack on you, Colonel,' he said. ‘Did you not seize my shoulder - my wounded shoulder - and swing me round quite sharply?'

‘Can't say I did, actually. I merely put a hand on your arm to detain you from running away once again.'

Simon pressed on. ‘And did I not say to you that it was imperative to tell the General about Isandlwana and that I must complete my task of riding to the Border to warn the garrison that the Zulus were on their way to invade Natal?'

‘You were gabbling away somewhat incoherently as though you were in a blue funk, and I can't remember what you said.'

‘And wasn't it clear to everyone that by detaining me you were preventing me from giving that warning - and that that was the reason I hit you?'

Covington smiled. ‘Certainly not. You hit me to avoid arrest for desertion.'

Simon shook his head but turned to Glyn. ‘I have no further questions for the Colonel, sir,' he said.

Captain Bradshaw also stood. ‘I have no further witnesses to call on this first charge, that of assault, sir,' he said.

‘Very well,' intoned Glyn, adjusting his spectacles and studying a paper in his hand. ‘As I see that Mr Fonthill has no witnesses to be called, then I suggest that we now consider the case against him on the second charge, that of desertion from the field of battle at Isandlwana. Captain Bradshaw, please present your case . . . oh, and, ah . . .' He looked across at Covington, who was about to leave. ‘I see no reason, Colonel Covington, why you need to leave the court and hang about outside, so to speak, until you are called as a witness on this charge. You will be needed in just a few moments, I expect.'

Simon jumped to his feet. ‘With respect, sir, I do feel that it would be unfair for the Colonel, who I understand is the main protagonist in this case against me, to remain to hear what the other prosecution witnesses may have to say. It could have a bearing on the evidence he will give.'

Glyn's eyebrows rose. ‘I don't agree, young man. This is a court martial, not some civilian court of law where, I understand, such frivolous objections may be heard. I shall conduct these hearings in the way
I
think fit, not you. I do not believe for one moment that someone of Lieutenant Colonel Covington's rank or stature would give prejudiced evidence and it does not reflect well on you that you should suggest it.' He nodded to Covington. ‘Please stay, Colonel, if you wish.'

‘Very kind of you, sir, I'm sure,' murmured Covington, taking a seat on the bench behind Bradshaw.

Simon turned his head to commune with Alice in his misery but she had left the court. He felt suddenly very alone and vulnerable.

Bradshaw now began his presentation of the second charge. He made no reference to the circumstances in which Simon had arrived at Isandlwana; they, he said, were a matter for conjecture and had no place in a court martial whose task was to ascertain the facts and to balance them. (The prosecutor, perhaps gaining in confidence from the performance of his two previous witnesses, was undoubtedly beginning to enjoy himself. As he gestured to Simon with one hand, he hooked the thumb of the other in his tunic, rather as a barrister would clutch the lapel of his gown. If he had a wig, reflected Simon, he would surely tilt it over his ear.) What mattered, emphasised Bradshaw, was that Simon Fonthill had been seen to leave the firing line and, via the ammunition wagon, double back up the neck of the mountain. Many others had done so, he conceded, but no officer had left the line
before
it broke. Such an act was tantamount to desertion in the face of the enemy and could well have contributed to the panic that ensued amongst the native levies and to the general collapse of the organised defence on the day.

It was, admitted Simon to himself, a competent and potentially damning indictment. But who could be produced as a witness to support it? - and Bradshaw (or rather Covington) had
two
witnesses to call on this charge. Who the hell could they be?

The first question was answered when Quartermaster Sergeant Morgan of the 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment was called. Simon immediately recognised the smug features of the man he had last seen in a wagon at Isandlwana, refusing to provide ammunition for Durnford's native cavalry.

The questioning began. Morgan, it seemed, had escaped in his shirtsleeves from the battlefield by cutting across country and crossing the Buffalo further south of Fugitive's Drift, the name poignantly given to the main crossing point of the men who had escaped from the battle and been pursued to it by the Zulus. He had ended up, more dead than alive, at Umsinger on the road to Pietermaritzburg. He described how he had seen Simon and Jenkins ordered into the line by an officer and then, later, how they had both doubled back from the line and appeared at his wagon demanding cartridges.

‘Then what happened?'

‘Well,' said Morgan, ‘the private soldier this officer was with, see, tells 'im to fix 'is bayonet, and they jumps down from the wagon and legs it up towards the road back to the crossin' place.'

Bradshaw's eyebrows shot up in surprise, making the most, Simon surmised, of this little
coup de théâtre
. ‘What?' asked Bradshaw, turning to the tribunal. ‘This private soldier ordered the officer to fix his bayonet?'

‘Yes, sir. Then they jumped out of the wagon and left me to it. Soon after, the Zulus were all around me and I 'ad to fight for me life. I think I got away because I wasn't wearin' me tunic, see.' He turned to Colonel Glyn. ‘I'd stripped down to me braces, see, sir, because it was so damned 'ot in that wagon. That's what saved me life, I think, because the Kaffirs seemed to be only after our chaps in the red regimentals.'

Glyn nodded sympathetically.

‘Now, Quartermaster Sergeant,' said Bradshaw, ‘let me get this right. You first observed Lieutenant Fonthill watching the fighting, without taking part. Then he is ordered into the line to fight. Shortly afterwards, he runs from the line and appears in your wagon, and then - on the instruction of a private soldier, it appears - he runs back up to the neck of Isandlwana. Is that correct?'

‘Yessir. That's about the size of it.'

Simon, aware that the eyes of the tribunal officers were fixed upon him, stared at Morgan while his mind worked fast. It could be said that the QMS had told the fundamental truth. But oh, what a pejorative slant he had put on it. If only Jenkins had survived - but he had not, and Simon knew that he would have to fight this battle alone. He must redress the balance somehow. Clutching his blank sheet of paper, he rose to question the witness.

‘Q, do you remember how we first met?'

The question was met with an unmistakable ‘Pshew!' from Covington.

‘Pay no attention,' ordered Simon. ‘Please answer the question.'