The Guns of El Kebir (Simon Fonthill Series) Read online

  ‘Sorry, there is one more thing, your worships. The Major showed by writin’ that ’e didn’t want the ’unt on ’is land and the Colonel knew that. So it was a clear case of trespassin’, so it was.’ He stopped, rather like a steam locomotive coming to the station buffers, and looked around as if in desperation. ‘That’s it, then. I rest my whatsit . . . I rest my case, see.’ And he sat down.

  A soft sigh, as if in relief, seemed to rise from the public gallery. The chairman of the magistrates raised a questioning eyebrow at the prosecuting solicitor, but the latter merely polished his spectacles and stared back blankly. He made no attempt to rise. Simon realised that the man was clearly out of his depth. A solicitor, not a barrister, he did not possess the skill to cross-examine. Jenkins’s skilled unravelling of the Colonel’s story in the witness box had left him with no ground on which to make a counterattack. He had carefully prepared his case, as a good solicitor should, and given the standing of his client, had expected to win. The wind had turned against him, but he lacked the expertise to trim his sails. He was defeated!

  The chairman of the magistrates, the arm of his spectacle frame in his mouth, leaned to his right and consulted his colleague. The latter was frowning and arguing strongly but the chairman was shaking his head in disagreement.

  The other magistrate, however, was clearly in concord with his chairman, for their conversation lasted no more than half a minute. The chairman scribbled a note and then cleared his throat. He spoke with a distinctive Midlands accent.

  ‘We find that the defendant,’ he said, ‘acted in self-defence and is therefore not guilty of the charge of assault and of attempting to cause actual bodily harm.’ A hum of approval rose from the packed benches of the public gallery. Simon saw that the Colonel had risen to his feet, on his red face an expression of disbelief and then fury. Jenkins sat quite impassively, nodding his head slowly, as though in approval of the work of a young student.

  ‘However . . .’ The chairman had not finished and waved his hand to indicate that everyone should remain seated. He addressed Jenkins. ‘My colleagues and I feel, Mr Jenkins, that we should administer a warning to you as to your behaviour in future. It is clear that you have skills in combat that, if deployed in anger and, more to the point, perhaps under the influence of alcohol, could cause harm to anyone who opposes you. You are cleared of this charge and I very much hope that we shall not see you in this place in future. Now, clear the court.’

  Mrs Fonthill stood, her eyes blazing. ‘What an unfair thing to say! That rider was gratuitous.’

  ‘Never mind, Mother,’ said Simon. ‘We won – no, Jenkins won – and that’s all that matters. Come, let us return home.’

  The four of them rode back in the carriage, with the newly recovered Williams sitting outside, up ahead, holding the reins. Jenkins seemed to take their effusive congratulations imperturbably, even shyly.

  ‘How on earth did you know that Reeves had gone out hunting?’ asked Simon.

  Jenkins’s eyes sparkled. ‘Ah, I popped into the Black Dog durin’ the week, just to show that there was no ’ard feelin’s, like. Some of the regulars there work on Colonel Reeves’s estate an’ ’ave no love for ’im. They told me. They’re a good lot really, when they can ’old their liquor, see.’

  Simon shot a quick glance at Jenkins, but the Welshman’s face looked blandly innocent. His eyes dropped for a moment then they engaged Simon’s gaze once again. ‘I just felt,’ he said quietly, ‘that I wanted them people in the courtroom to know that workin’-class folk like me, who’ve never ’ad an education, see, are not stupid. That’s why I worked so ’ard at preparin’ what I was goin’ to say and ’ow I was goin’ to do it.’

  ‘Well, you certainly proved your point, old chap.’ Simon looked out of the window at the cold black hedgerows and realised that Jenkins was not just trying to impress the court. The house they were riding towards also contained his targets.

  Mrs Fonthill leaned towards her husband. ‘George, I hadn’t realised that you had been so marked by that infernal whip. Show me now. Ah yes, I see it. But it’s not much of a mark, is it? I’m amazed it stood out so clearly in the courtroom.’

  George Fonthill coughed. ‘I must confess, my dear, that we used a touch of artistic licence there. I borrowed a little of your rouge to heighten the mark. Jenkins’s idea. I wiped it off a minute or so ago. Bit of a risk, I suppose, but we sensed that Reeves would lie about using the whip and we had to show the man’s depravity.’ He chuckled. ‘I don’t mind fighting dirty, if I have to. We old soldiers know a thing or two in that line, eh, 352?’

  The three men chuckled, while Mrs Fonthill shook her head in disbelief.

  The Major and Fonthill insisted that Jenkins join them in another glass of malt whisky before he retired to the servants’ quarters for dinner, and the mood of congratulation continued throughout the meal.

  As Simon was about to retire, Mrs Fonthill suddenly snapped her fingers in irritation. ‘Goodness, I forgot in all the excitement of the day.’ She pointed to the sideboard. ‘There, on the tray. A letter from Alice, Alice Griffith, although we must remember to call her Alice Covington now, of course. It arrived this morning. She didn’t know you were home but asked after you. Take it and read it. You were such good friends, and I know you will be interested to hear how she is getting on with helping Covington to run that estate of his in Norfolk.’

  Simon paused and then stood stock still. Alice! He realised that, consumed as they all had been with Jenkins’s problems, the last week had been the first time that a day had passed without him thinking of her. Alice, with her fair hair, her enquiring grey eyes, her soft skin – and her honourable but self-sacrificial marriage to Colonel Ralph Covington. She and Simon had finally declared their love for each other on the borders of Mozambique as Wolseley’s campaign against Chief Sekukuni’s bePedi tribe neared its apogee. But the injuries sustained by Covington in that final battle and the subsequent ending of his army career had resulted in Alice’s decision to honour her previous commitment to the Colonel. She and Simon had vowed never to meet again. The wedding had taken place more than a year ago now, here on the Borders, and had been the reason why Simon had stayed in South Africa, sublimating his anguish by fighting with the British against the Transvaal Boers. Now he forced himself to look unconcerned.

  ‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Ah, how is she?’

  Mrs Fonthill sniffed. ‘Well enough, it seems, though they’ve had no children yet. And she is getting on now, rather, you know. She’s about your age, isn’t she?’

  Simon nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He felt his father’s direct gaze on him.

  ‘Well, it’s jolly well time she was pregnant. These young girls think they can leave everything to the last minute. It’s not as easy as that, you know. Anyway, I shall write and tell her that you are here and invite her and Covington over for a weekend. You would like that, wouldn’t you, dear?’

  ‘Well – I’m not sure, Mother. Covington and I never got on, you know. He was behind the . . . er . . . court martial in Zululand. I don’t hold him in high regard, you know.’

  ‘Oh, stuff and nonsense. That was long ago, and you and Alice were so close. I don’t see why—’

  Major Fonthill cleared his throat. ‘I am not sure it would be a good idea, Charlotte. I don’t think you should push Simon on this.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, Mother.’ Simon gave his father a wan smile of gratitude. ‘Perhaps we could talk about it over the next few days? I’ll read Alice’s letter in the morning, if I may. I am rather tired now and I need to put my head down. Good night.’

  The softest of pillows, however, could do little to help Simon banish the vision of Alice that kept dancing before his closed eyes. This talk of her conceiving a child by Covington tortured him, and although part of him yearned to see her again, that, he knew, would only give the rack a couple of extra turns. He was doing his best to forget her, for God’s sake, and here was his mother dangling h
er before his eyes and talking of her as though she was a breeding mare! He must get away before his mother brought them together again. But away to where?

  He did not drift off into sleep until just before dawn, and almost immediately, it seemed, he was being shaken awake by Sarah, the housekeeper who had been his nurse as a child. ‘Telegram for you,’ she said, her voice showing that she was impressed. ‘Looks as though it’s from the army, so I thought it would be important and you must have it first thing.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarah.’ He tore open the brown envelope. The address at the top merely said, ‘Horse Guards, London’. The telegram ran:

  ARE YOU AND YOUR WELSHMAN FREE FOR IMPORTANT CONFIDENTIAL WORK IN EGYPT IMMEDIATELY STOP CAN YOU DISCUSS HERE AT THREE PM 11TH STOP REPLY BY RETURN STOP WOLSELEY

  Simon read it through again, then slowly let his head fall back on to the pillow. He smiled at the ceiling. A way out, at last?

  Chapter 3

  Simon nodded to Admiral Nelson, looking down Whitehall from his column in Trafalgar Square, and turned under the white stone archway into the Horse Guards, the command centre of the Queen’s army. He was early but he was not kept waiting and was ushered immediately into the presence of Lieutenant General Sir Garnet Wolseley, the Adjutant General and virtual number two in the military chain of command.

  ‘Good of you to come, Fonthill.’ The General sprang from behind his desk and came forward, hand outstretched, almost bouncing rather than walking. Wolseley was just below middle height, perhaps five feet seven inches, and smartly suited in mufti, but he looked every inch a soldier: his back ramrod straight, his shoulders squared and a scar running from above his sightless left eye to his cheek, the result of a Russian shell exploding in a trench before the Redan during the Crimean War. His one good eye was bright and bulbous – the other was obviously made of glass – and he had a lofty forehead topped by wavy brown hair. His pleasant features were enhanced by a soft, full moustache and only marred, perhaps, by a receding chin. This, however, betrayed no lack of guts. Wolseley had proved himself time after time as a brave and astute commander of men in both peace and war, and had long ago been lauded as ‘the very model of a modern major general’ by those lions of British light opera, Gilbert and Sullivan.

  ‘Congratulations on your appointment as Adjutant General, sir.’

  ‘What? Yes, well, thank you.’ The General grunted. ‘It carries with it more frustration than satisfaction, I can tell you.’

  Simon tried to conceal a smile. The whole army – no, the whole country – knew of Wolseley’s ongoing battle with the Duke of Cambridge, the army’s commander-in-chief and the Queen’s cousin, whose views on military procedure, strategy and tactics had changed little since they were established by the Duke of Wellington after Waterloo, sixty-seven years ago. Sir Garnet’s reforming zeal was constantly running foul of the C-in-C’s conservatism. ‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’

  ‘Hmm. Rather be chasing Sekukuni out of his holes in those hills any day than sitting here counting beans.’ He gestured to a chair. ‘Sit down. Cigar?’

  ‘No thank you, sir.’

  ‘Right. To business. Of course you know a bit about Egypt because you were there in ’80, just before you went down to help out poor old Pommery-Colley in the Transvaal. Went across the desert from Cairo to Suez, I hear?’

  Simon shifted uncomfortably. Wolseley was always so damned well informed! Would he also know about the affray in the back streets of Cairo when he and Jenkins were attacked by thieves and were forced to leave one of their assailants with a stab wound to the heart? They had slipped away from the city before the anti-British authorities could find the body. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘decided to go by camel train. Rather more fun that way.’ Even to Simon, the reason sounded unconvincing.

  A slow smile spread across Wolseley’s face. ‘Hmm. And on the way, I gather that you were attacked by desert bandits and that you organised the traders to defend themselves and so brought off a victory previously unheard of in those sort of affairs. Right? Eh?’

  ‘Something like that, sir, although I wouldn’t go quite that far.’

  The General gave a grin that lit up his good eye. ‘I must say, Fonthill, one of the things that intrigues me about you and your man – 428, is it?’

  ‘Three five two, sir.’

  ‘Ah yes, 352. Yes, one of the things that intrigues me about you and your Welshman is your ability constantly to get into trouble and equally constantly to get out of it. You do seem to be a most resourceful pair.’ The General drew on his cigar and watched the blue smoke curl up into the air. Simon remained silent. Better not argue or intervene at this stage. There was more to be gained by listening. ‘And that was one of the reasons,’ Wolseley continued, ‘although only one of them, why I wanted to talk to you. I presume that the fact you are here indicates that you are currently not employed and that you have some interest, at least, in what I may have to offer you?’

  ‘That is so, sir, on both counts.’

  ‘Good. Now tell me what you know about the present state of affairs in Egypt.’

  Simon drew in a deep breath. ‘Well, I know that when the country went virtually bankrupt in the late seventies, just after we’d bought the Egyptian shares in the Suez Canal and so gained control of it, we gained permission from the Turkish overlords of the place to appoint commissioners, with the French, to oversee the country’s public and financial affairs.’

  Wolseley, his eye narrowed, squinted at him through the cigar smoke. ‘Right enough so far. Pray continue.’

  ‘Our presence there has not exactly pleased the Egyptian underclass, who are not enamoured anyway of what I suppose one could call the rather indolent suzerainty administered by the Turks from Constantinople. The fact that the French took possession of Tunis last spring hasn’t helped, in that it looks as though the French could have ambitions to take Egypt too and extend their North African empire, though we don’t believe this.’ Simon paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. It was typical of Wolseley to test him in this way, and he was damned if he would flounder. ‘Now, it seems to me from what I’ve read in the newspapers that things are beginning to get a bit out of hand: the Egyptian army is adopting nationalistic postures and a formerly obscure colonel named Arabi – a fellaheen or member of the peasant classes . . .’

  Wolseley nodded his head in approval. ‘Glad you know the terminology.’

  ‘. . . is putting pressure on the Khedive, the chap in charge, to change the Egyptian government to make it more, er, radical and representative of the peasants, and also to reduce the number of Circassian or Turkish officers and promote Egyptians. A few months ago, I think it was, he and some of his fellow colonels marched his troops on the Abdin Palace in Cairo and demanded a change of government, some sort of new national constitution and an increase in the army. I believe he has got his way more or less, and he is obviously a dangerous man, given our investment in Egypt. From what I know, though, he seems to be more or less well disposed to the two great powers, ourselves and France, who are still holding most of the purse strings. Frankly, it all sounds a bit of a mess, but I presume our government is keeping a close eye on things.’

  Wolseley nodded slowly and then smiled. ‘Not a bad résumé for an army scout. I can’t see that you could be expected to know more. However, there has been one other development that has muddied the waters further. We – that is the French and the British – recently put our foot in it by issuing some stupid joint note, stressing our determination to preserve the Khedive on his throne and to oppose together any movement that threatened the stability of Egypt. The idea was to cool things down a bit and show that the poor old Khedive has powerful backing, even if he doesn’t get much from the Turks, who put him on the throne. But that act has been interpreted by everybody in Egypt, from the Khedive downwards, as a threat to intervene militarily if this nationalistic movement grows stronger. The fires are being fanned, of course, by most of the other European powers, who are only too delighted t
o see the French and the British, with their fat fingers in the Egyptian pie, being thoroughly embarrassed. Now Arabi has been appointed Minister for War and is controlling the whole army, if not the country, and the Khedive is becoming a virtual prisoner in his own palace.’

  At this, Wolseley laughed so loudly that Simon was forced to grin, although he couldn’t quite see the joke. ‘So,’ he began, ‘is invasion on the cards, then?’

  The laughter died. ‘This country has huge investments in Egypt,’ said the General, stubbing out his cigar. His voice took on a mocking element as he continued: ‘From its lofty position on the high moral ground, Mr Gladstone’s government concerns itself very much with the plight of the poor fellaheen and wishes to retain influence in Egypt so that it can improve the lot of those poor devils – keep the lash off their backs, reduce the high burden of taxation they carry, perhaps even spread Christianity, that sort of thing. Of course, it wants to protect the capital that the City has put into the place, but far more important than any of these things is that ditch that links the Mediterranean and the Red Sea: the Suez Canal.’

  Wolseley sprang from his chair and began to pace the room, one hand thrust deep into the pocket of his jacket, the other gesturing to make his points. ‘That bit of water cost us nearly four million pounds seven years ago, but dammit, it was a bargain and we got it at that price because the Egyptians were bankrupt and had to sell. Now it’s our lifeline to India and to the colonies in Australia, New Zealand and the Pacific. Saves our merchant trade and the government millions in terms of time and fuel. If there were to be another mutiny in India, for instance, we would be able to ferry troops out in days rather than weeks and stamp it out in far less time than it took us thirty years ago. Same thing if the Russian threat in Afghanistan flares up again. So if this Egyptian nationalism got out of hand and the Egyptians took the Canal back by force – and it would be easy to do – we would be in real trouble. D’you follow, Fonthill?’