In fact, Simon was fingering the butt of his Webley revolver nestling in its holster, as he stood, feet wide apart, questioning his overseer among the neat rows of tea bushes.
‘Where did they go?’
The man was wide-eyed and obviously fearful. He gestured over his shoulder. ‘They disappear into the trees over there, sahib. About six of them. They have knives.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘Yes, one. They stab him in arm. He all right, though. We bandage him up. But they take the few rupees the men have. Everyone frightened.’
Fonthill frowned. The workers had downed tools and were huddled together in the middle of the plantation, surrounding the wounded man who sat on the ground holding his arm. The group was well away from the trees which swept down from the hills and marked the edge of the plantation in a geometric line. Simon could see the opening in the woods from which the attackers had debouched.
He cursed silently. The labourers had been imported from Southern India, for the Assamese were notoriously averse to working on the tea plantations. The immigrants were better workers than the locals but timid and terrified of the wild men of the hills. This was not the first time that the Nagas had visited and robbed. They would have to be followed and taught a lesson, otherwise they would come calling again … and again.
He looking at his overseer appraisingly. ‘Duleep,’ he said. ‘I left you with a rifle.’ He gestured to the old Lee Metford that the man was now using as a prop. ‘Why did you not use it?’
Duleep looked at the ground. ‘Ah, sahib. I was afraid that if I use it they would come at me with their knives. So I pretended to aim it at them and blew my whistle to fetch you, as you told me. When they heard it they run away.’
‘How long ago?’
‘About five minutes.’
‘Hmmm. Take the wounded man into the house and get Ahmed to look at the wound and treat it with antiseptic cream from the first-aid kit. But,’ he held out a restraining hand, ‘before you go, tell me if there is a good tracker amongst the men. Someone who could help me follow the Nagas’ trail. They can’t have gone far.’
The overseer thought for a moment, searching the huddled men with his yellow-balled eyes. ‘Yes, I think.’ He pointed. ‘That one, the young one, on the edge staring up the trail, his hands on his hips. He is young and strong and came originally from Tibet but he was brought up near Madras in the south, where there is much forest. I think he knows the ways of the woods, as well as mountains. And he is brave. He tried to attack the man who stabbed. Oh yes.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘Yes, he go to mission school, I think.’
‘Good. Call him over.’
Simon broke open his revolver and checked that six cartridges were still in their chambers. Then he emptied the cartridges from the cardboard box that he had brought with him from the bungalow and stuffed them into the pockets of his breeches.
Sunil now stood before him, a slim young man of sixteen or so, who held his head back and looked steadily into Fonthill’s eyes.
Simon held out his hand. At first the young Indian did not understand the gesture. Then, slowly – for he had never touched a white man before – he extended his hand and shook that of Fonthill limply, for he was, of course, unused to the custom.
‘Sunil, I understand that you tried to attack the Naga who stabbed your friend.’
The Indian switched his gaze to the floor and spoke softly. ‘Yes, sahib. Man, he stabbed my uncle. My uncle not harm him. I was angry.’
‘You had every right to be. It was a good action. Thank you.’
The boy looked embarrassed. ‘I did little, sahib.’
‘Now, I propose to go after the Nagas. But I need someone to come with me. Someone who is not afraid of them and who can follow their trail. Can you do that, do you think?’
Sunil’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘Oh yes, sahib. I see the way they go. They crash through trees. I can follow. And,’ he thrust his chest out, ‘I not afraid of them.’
‘Good man. Can you fire a rifle?’
A frown crossed the black face. ‘No sahib. But I learn.’
Simon grinned. ‘You certainly will. Duleep.’ He spoke drily now. ‘As you don’t seem to want to use your rifle, please give it to Sunil here. I will show him how to use it. Pass over your bandolier, too.’
Sullenly, the overseer did so.
‘Now,’ Fonthill spoke to him again. ‘Sunil and I will follow these Nagas, find them and teach them a lesson they will never forget. You will be in charge of the plantation while we are away. If there is any trouble, send a man to fetch Mr Jackson on the next plantation. Understand?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Now, Sunil. Go back to the bungalow quickly and ask the cook to make sandwiches from last night’s lamb – you are not vegetarian, are you?’
‘No, sahib.’
‘Good. Bring water bottles and fruit. We may be away overnight. Go quickly now. We have no time to lose. I will wait for you at the beginning of the trail over there.’
‘Yes, sahib.’
Simon nodded to Duleep. ‘Now, fetch the wounded man and get the rest back to work. Tell them I am going to follow the Nagas and punish them so that they will never attack the plantation again.’ Then he walked firmly past the men towards the opening where the narrow trail through the forest ended at the edge of the plantation.
He stood looking at it for a moment. He could see no sign of men having rushed down it. The trees stood thickly on either side of it – no broken twigs or anything of that kind. The earth of the trail itself was hard and bore no signs of footprints. God, he hoped that Sunil did indeed have tracking skills, for he doubted if he himself could detect the way the attackers had gone, if they moved off the trail. He looked upwards. The trees closed in on either side of the narrow path and seemed impenetrably dark. It would be so easy for an ambush to be launched from them.
The Nagas had knives, of course. He swallowed hard. The thought of cold steel involuntarily reminded him of Zulus and of Rorke’s Drift all those years ago, where the warriors kept attacking the barricades in wave after wave through the night, howling and brandishing their assegais. He had seen stomachs ripped open by those blades that night. Damn! He should have witnessed enough blood spilt since that time to have washed away all those old fears. He shook his head and licked his lips.
If only 352 Jenkins was here! For over twenty years the stocky, immensely strong Welshman had been by his side through all the adventures he had shared with Alice, and sometimes with just the two of them, miles behind enemy lines. Known affectionately only by the last three digits of his army number – to distinguish him from the many other Jenkinses in the old 24th Regiment of Foot, that most Welsh of all British units – Jenkins had been his batman and had stood by him when he had been falsely accused of cowardice during the Zulu War. Together they had gone on to wipe away all memories of that accusation. After serving as the regimental sergeant major to the column of Mounted Infantry that Simon had commanded against the Boers, Jenkins had married at the end of the conflict and settled down to farm in South Africa.
Fonthill suddenly realised that, by going after the Naga tribesmen, he would be going into action again for the first time since 1878 without his old comrade at his side. Then the sound of footsteps made him turn his head to see a grinning Sunil running towards him, carrying a knapsack and rifle, the sun glinting from the cartridges cases in his bandolier. Well, he reflected, he had a new comrade now. He swallowed hard. Into battle once more!
He returned Sunil’s grin. ‘Give me the rifle. Now, watch me carefully. Before firing, make sure that there is a round inserted from the magazine into the breach, like this.’ He worked the bolt.
The youth’s eyes widened as he watched.
‘The magazine takes ten bullets. You load it by taking cartridges from the bandolier …’ and he went through the process of loading, aiming and firing. ‘Do you think you can do that, Sunil?’
‘Oh yes, sahib. I kill the man who hurt my uncle.’
‘Good.’ Fonthill smiled. ‘Now, as I shall be walking ahead of you I don’t want you to fire the gun accidently up my arse …’
‘Arse, sahib?’
‘Ah, sorry. It’s a rude word for bottom. This little lever is the safety catch. Put that on until you want to fire the gun. On second thoughts, as you are tracking you must go ahead, but I shall be close behind you. We need to look particularly to see if and where they leave the trail. Understand?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Good. Give me the haversack. Now, off we go. Quietly now. I don’t think they will expect to be followed, but you never know. They could be waiting in ambush, so look very carefully about you.’
Fonthill shouldered the haversack, withdrew his revolver from its holster and gestured ahead. Together, they began the climb. The plantation was situated some 4,000 feet above sea level and, although he was long acclimatised to the altitude, the trail through the woods was steep and Simon was immediately forced to draw in his breath in short gasps. Sunil, however, despite coming from the southern lowlands, seemed to have no difficulty and his long stride began to pull him away, until Fonthill drew him back.
‘Stay close,’ he hissed.
They had climbed for some forty minutes and pines were beginning to outnumber the bold birches which had fringed the trail earlier when the youth held up his hand and dropped onto his hands and knees.
Fonthill stood above him, revolver in hand, breathing heavily. ‘What?’ he mouthed.
Sunil held his finger up to his lips and beckoned Simon to kneel beside him. ‘Look,’ he whispered and pointed. At first, Fonthill could see nothing unusual in the dust and pine needles on the ground. Then, he noted that the needles had been disturbed and there, in the dust, was the impression, faint but clear, of the ball of a naked foot and of a big toe.
‘This point to right,’ whispered Sunil, ‘which mean they go off trail. Through there.’ He gestured to where the pine branches were no longer interlocked. A little further ahead, some had been snapped off to facilitate progress between the trees.
‘Well done,’ breathed Simon. ‘We’ll follow.’
Sunil held up his hand again and stood up. He put his head back and sniffed the air.
‘They not far away,’ he murmured. ‘I smell them.’
‘Smell them?’ Simon was incredulous.
‘Oh yes. They put oil on bodies and hair. I smell it when they hurt my uncle. They near. Perhaps they camp.’
‘Or wait for us.’ Fonthill swallowed hard. It was almost impossible to see beyond ten feet or so off the trail, where low bushes covered the ground between the trees. If the Nagas truly were near, then they could well be lying low there, hidden under the ground cover, waiting to pounce. Ah well, there was nothing for it but to advance.
He paused for a moment and then knelt to pick up a fist-sized piece of rock off the ground, which he retained in his left hand. Then he reached across to switch off the safety catch on Sunil’s rifle, gestured to say that he would now take the lead and began cautiously to thrust his way through the faintly marked opening between the bushes and trees.
After some thirty yards a low sound ahead made him pause. He was unsure what it was – little more than a faint rustle, perhaps a small animal. He turned his head and Sunil, close behind him, his eyes wide and his pink tongue protruded between his lips, nodded and pointed ahead with the rifle, a little to the right.
Fonthill drew back his hand and lobbed the stone hard towards where Sunil had pointed. It crashed through the undergrowth and landed on something soft, eliciting a shout of pain.
Immediately, the bush came alive with six figures who sprang to their feet on either side of the trail, brandishing long knives and crashing through the undergrowth towards the two men.
It was, in fact, that density of ground cover that probably saved their lives, because it impeded the charge of the natives.
Simon fired instinctively and cursed as the bullet missed the leading man. His second shot, however, took the Naga in the breast and felled him. Dropping to one knee, Fonthill heard the crack of the rifle behind him and saw a second man fall – thank God Sunil had learnt to shoot! Then the third was upon him. He caught a glimpse of a gleaming black face and a naked torso and he ducked as the long knife swung above his head. He fired, with the barrel of the revolver almost touching the belly of his assailant. The man howled and doubled over, so that Simon was forced to thrust him aside and, panting, present the revolver again – at nothing.
There was just time to see one naked back vanish through the trees before all was quiet again. Simon turned to Sunil. The boy had tears of frustration streaming down his cheeks as he struggled to work the bolt on the Lee Metford.
‘Sorry, sahib,’ he cried. ‘I do not do this well. Thing is … what you say … stick.’
‘Stuck. Here, let me.’
Fonthill took the rifle and eased the bolt back. He forced a smile and handed the gun back. ‘You did well. I could not have shot them all with this handgun, but we got three of the varmints, anyway. Now we must see if any of them are still alive.’
In fact, all three of their assailants had been killed, with the third – the man whom Simon had shot through the stomach at close range – dying as they knelt by him. Fonthill realised that the boy was shaking and he patted him on the shoulder.
‘It is not good to kill,’ he said. ‘I had hoped that this would not be necessary. But we had no alternative, for they attacked us and would surely have killed us if we had not brought half of them down. Sometimes, killing is the only way to survive.’ He shook his head and realised that perspiration was pouring down his own cheeks. ‘God knows,’ he added quietly, ‘I’ve done enough of it in my time.’
‘Now,’ he looked about him. ‘They have clearly fled, presumably back to their village.’ He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘I don’t think they will try to attack us again, for they will have had the fright of their lives and seen three of their comrades killed. We have nothing to bury these chaps with, so I am afraid that we shall have to leave them here.’
Sunil leant down and plucked a leaf and used it to wipe his cheeks. ‘We go back now, sahib?’ he asked.
Fonthill shook his head. ‘Afraid not, Sunil.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Have you any idea what language these people speak?’
‘Yes sahib. It is like Hindustani but different. Also like Tibetan, which I speak. But I understand them. I hear what they say when they shout at us. “Give us your money …”’
‘Good. I want to go on to their village. Do you think you can find it?’
‘Think so. More difficult to follow only three but I think they hurry now, they are frightened, so easier to see the way they go.’
‘Good man. It will be a risk to enter the village when we find it, so I will still need you to come in with me, with the rifle. Then we must find the headman and talk, if you will translate for me. Pick up these chaps’ knives and take them with you, for they will serve a purpose. Come on, now. I don’t fancy staying out overnight.’
Sunil gathered up the three knives, cut a thong from the throat of one of the dead Nagas and tied them to his own belt, and the two began once more pushing their way through the undergrowth. Very shortly they struck another, clearly defined track through the trees and even Simon could see that it was well trammelled. After they had walked down the track for perhaps half an hour, Sunil tilted back his head and sniffed the air again.
‘Village near, sahib,’ he said. ‘I think there are many of them. We must be careful.’
‘Good.’ Simon breathed heavily. ‘Now,’ he gestured to the rifle, ‘work the bolt and enter a round into the chamber, as I showed you. Yes. Now take off the safety catch. Good. If you have to fire, for God’s sake miss me – and then slide the bolt again to put another bullet up the spout, as we say.’ He smiled, although he felt far from confident. ‘I do not wish to kill anyone else today, only to warn them. Now, give me the knives and follow me. No need to be quiet. I want them to know we are coming.’
The two men, with Fonthill leading, revolver in hand, now strode ahead until the trail broadened out into a clearing, containing primitive huts made of bamboo and straw. In the centre of the clearing the ashes of a large fire were glowing. Simon stood for a moment, surveying the scene. There was no sign of any inhabitants. He cleared his throat, jerked his head to ensure that Sunil was following and strode into the centre.
There, he stood for a moment and then fired a shot into the air. The noise resounded back from the surrounding trees as though an artillery shell had dropped into the ashes of the fire. He turned to Sunil. ‘Shout, and tell them we mean no harm. We have killed three of their people already, but we do not wish to kill more. We wish only to talk to the headman.’
The boy nodded and began talking. ‘Louder,’ commanded Fonthill, ‘so that they can all hear. They’re all out there somewhere.’
Sunil finished and silence fell on the clearing. There was no movement from the surrounding wood.
‘If the headman does not appear by the time I have counted five,’ said Simon, ‘tell them I shall burn all their huts and follow them and kill all their women and children. Count in Hindi. Translate the numbers as I call.’
Calmly, Fonthill selected a cartridge from his pocket, spun the chambers of the revolver and inserted it into the empty chamber, all as Sunil spoke. As silence fell again, Simon put the revolver back into its holster and called, ‘One.’
Sunil repeated it, loudly, in a voice that cracked slightly.
‘Two.’ Still no movement from the forest.
‘Three.’ At this, a man materialised slowly from amongst the trees. He was naked, except for a wisp of loincloth. His hair was grey and a wispy beard clung to his chin.
‘Ask if he is the headman.’
‘Yes, sahib, he says he is.’
‘Good. Tell him I mean him no harm and that is why I have put my revolver back into its holster. But it can be drawn quickly if we are attacked.’
Sunil translated. The chief’s eyes remained fixed on Simon’s.
‘Good. Now tell him I want all of the villagers to come back into the clearing. They should put their weapons on the ground when they do so.’
Simon could see that the boy was now perspiring and his hand shaking. But he spoke out loudly and with seeming confidence. The headman turned and shouted something.
Slowly, men, and then women and some children, began appearing from among the trees. Some of the men carried bows and arrows and these were reluctantly lowered to the ground, followed by the long knives that all seemed to carry. Eventually, the three men in the middle were completely surrounded.
Fonthill nodded approval and looked around him. He swallowed hard. If any archers remained in the woods unseen and released their arrows, then he and Sunil were dead men. It was a risk he had to take.
‘Very well.’ He addressed the chief. ‘Earlier today six of the men from your village attacked the men on my plantation. Then, they attacked us as we followed their trail.’ Slowly, he untied the three knives hanging from his belt and, dramatically, one by one, he hurled them into the ground, blades first, so that they stood quivering.
‘These,’ he continued when the translation had been made, ‘are the knives of three of those men. They are now all dead and their bodies lie back there in the forest, left for the wild dogs to eat them.’
He pointed back down the trail histrionically and a low murmur rose from the villagers. Some of the women began weeping.
The headman lifted his hand and spoke briefly.
‘He say that men not come from this village,’ said Sunil.
‘That is a lie, for we followed their track to this village.’ Fonthill let the words sink in then continued. ‘We did not wish to kill these three men but they attacked us so they had to die.’ Simon gestured to Sunil’s rifle and drew out his own revolver from its holster and held it aloft. ‘We have the weapons to kill all of you now, today, if we wished. But we do not wish.’
A sigh arose from the circle.
‘I have come here,’ he continued, ‘to warn you all that any further attacks on my plantation will mean that I shall call the troops from Darjeeling and we will crash through this forest and kill every one of you and destroy your village. The power of the White Queen in England is as strong as the heat of the sun and it spreads as wide.’
Another murmur arose from the villagers.
‘Now,’ continued Fonthill, addressing the headman. ‘I want two things from you. Firstly, I want an assurance that no more attacks will be made on my plantation. Secondly, I want the money that was taken from my workers returned and put at my feet now. The three men who survived the attack will not be punished, this time. If that happens, we will go in peace.’
The headman remained impassive, standing perfectly still, and Simon thought for a moment that his bluff had failed. What if this village was not the home of the thieves – and what if the chief gave a signal for a sudden attack to be launched on him and Sunil? They would be engulfed almost before they could fire a shot. He held his breath and willed himself not to withdraw the revolver that he had placed back in its holster. His thoughts flashed momentarily to Alice. Alice so far away. How would she know what had happened to him? What a way to be parted, after risking death together for so long!
Then the headman slowly turned, raised his hand and spoke a few words. Nothing happened for a moment, then three men broke out from the periphery and sullenly approached Fonthill, their heads down. They stood before him and fumbled in their breechcloths before throwing three bundles of rupee notes at his feet. Then they turned and resumed their places.
‘Pick these up, please Sunil,’ commanded Simon.
As the boy did so, awkwardly, for he still retained his rifle which he kept trained on the crowd, the sun peeped out from behind a cloud and the little clearing was illuminated with its rays, as though a signal had been given from the heavens.
‘Good,’ said Simon. ‘Now, Chief, I want your word and then we will shake hands on it, as white men do, so that the promise must be solemnly kept.’
Sunil translated and the headman spoke slowly and clearly.
‘He promise,’ said the boy.
‘Splendid. Now we shake.’ He extended his hand and the man frowned. ‘Explain what he must do to keep his oath,’ Fonthill called to Sunil.
The youth did so and the two men shook hands, Simon crushing that of the chief in his own. Then he drew out his revolver, raised it in the air, fired it as though to seal the bargain and replaced it in its holster. As the echoes died down, he nodded to Sunil to go first and walked, without a backward glance, out of the clearing.
‘Now, sahib, do we run?’ asked the boy, once they were well down the trail.
‘No. We walk a little way and then hide amongst the trees, just to make sure that we are not being followed.’ He grinned and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Then we go like hell back home – although I think I am too old to run, thank you very much.’
Suni gave a returning grin. ‘The sahib was very brave there, in village,’ he said. ‘I think they too frightened to follow.’
And so it proved. The two stayed crouching in the undergrowth, just long enough to finish the sandwiches they had brought. Then, as swiftly as the trail permitted, they strode back down the hill towards the plantation and safety, reaching it just as twilight was turning the mountain tops to the east a soft pink. It had, reflected Simon, been a long and demanding day.
The next morning, Duleep reported that the wounded man had been treated and seemed no worse for the experience, although Fonthill ordered that he should do no work for the next two days. The men were all summoned to gather in the field and Simon, with a beaming Sunil at his side, addressed them.
He explained what had happened, praising Sunil for killing one of the Nagas, and then called forward all those who had lost their wages. He then solemnly reimbursed each man from the rupees they had recovered, insisting that each man count his money carefully. No man reported that he had been short-changed.
Grateful for this, for it reflected the honesty of each man, he then announced that Sunil henceforth would no longer work in the fields but would be promoted, with an increase in his wages, to stand guard and patrol the edge of the forest with the Lee Metford, with which he was now such an expert marksman, as a shield against further attacks. This brought expressions of approval from all of the workforce.
Back in the bungalow, Simon realised that he would have to write a report on the incident to the local magistrate. Men, even plantation owners, could not go around shooting natives without tendering a full explanation.
He was halfway through the task, when a runner appeared from the nearest settlement and telegraph point, carrying a telegram and a letter for him. The, telegram, of course, was from Alice. He tore it open and read:
He grinned and then frowned. News? What could that be? Well, clearly, he would have to wait and see. Then he turned to the letter. It was, he noted, posted in Johannesburg, South Africa, and addressed in green ink in an untutored but vaguely familiar hand. Someone, perhaps, he had fought with – or even against – in the war?
He tore it open and his eyes went to the signature at the bottom. What he saw made the grin return to his face but it disappeared as he began to read. It ran:
Nandi! His thoughts flew back twenty-six years and conjured up the picture of a small, oval face, the colour of café au lait, with black eyes that sparkled as they looked up at him as they sat beside a dam in Zululand. She had been the daughter of an Irishman, himself then a native induna or chief, and a Zulu woman of noble birth, living on King Cetshwayo’s land just before the madness that became the Anglo-Zulu war broke out. Nandi, with her small white teeth and pert little breasts – she had revealed them to him with shameless innocence – had given evidence at his court martial and been the main cause of him being found not guilty. Nandi, the unspoken love of Jenkins’s life, who had bought the Welshman happiness when they had found her again, as a hapless widow, and been forced to burn down her farm on the veldt. Now dead.
He fumbled, brought out a less-than-clean handkerchief and blew his nose roughly. It seemed hard to believe. He read 352’s letter again and sought the date. The Welshman, who had only learnt to read and write under army tuition when they served together in the 24th, had not dated it, of course. Simon slowly put down the paper. Jenkins was ‘missarable’. Well, the misery extended to his old comrade, for he too had been briefly in love with the little half-caste before Alice had come firmly into his life. But 352 had stayed unspokenly faithful to Nandi throughout the years, although they had not met again, except for a brief interlude near the Mozambique border, until the last war had brought them together. Fonthill shook his head. What rotten luck to have stayed true for so long and then have only less than two years together! He stirred himself. He must cable Jenkins immediately – and send him the money for the passage from Durban to Bombay, for the little man would have no idea how much a voyage like this would cost.
He dipped pen into ink and printed out a cable – luckily Jenkins had had the sense to put his address at the top of his letter. It said that a hundred guineas would be awaiting him post restante at the central post office in Durban, that he was to cable from there the date of his arrival at Bombay and that Simon would be waiting for him there to take him overland to Assam. (This was vital, for the Welshman, although brave as a buffalo, a fine horseman and an even better shot, had no sense of direction and could well have ended in Madras or, even worse, Kabul. Fonthill could only pray that Jenkins would be able to find his own way to Durban.) He then printed a second cable to his bank in Cape Town, instructing them to transfer the money, and sent a boy to fetch Duleep. The cables were too important to trust to anyone else.
Towards the end of the second day, just as the sinking sun was performing its magical trick of transforming the mountains to the east into an extravaganza of colour, Alice arrived back, dusty, tired but happy.
Simon lifted her down from the buggy and the two embraced tenderly. As she looked up at him, Alice thought once again how lucky she was that she was married to a man who carried his forty-eight years so well. Only a few flicks of silver at his brow and a slight thickening at the waist betrayed his age, but his figure – at five foot nine he was a little over medium height – was trim and broad-shouldered and his body was firm from a lifetime of campaigning and farming. He shared with his wife high cheekbones and there was a reserve, or perhaps sadness, about his brown eyes that was unusual in an Englishman serving under a British Raj that usually bequeathed a certain arrogance to its white servants. Only a nose bent down and broken years ago by a Pathan musket reflected that Fonthill had lived on the edge of safety.
‘I hope you’ve missed me,’ said Alice.
‘Certainly not. I have been visiting the girls in the bazaar every night. In fact, I am rather tired.’
She punched his chest. ‘Not as tired as I am. You do realise, Simon, don’t you, that we live in one of the most remote bloody corners of the Empire. It feels as though I have walked here from Calcutta.’
‘Then come in and we’ll have some tea. Or would you like something stronger …?
‘No. Tea would be fine. Although I will have you know that the Viceroy served me Darjeeling. Not our rubbish.’
‘Oh, do be quiet. Come on. I have much to tell you.’
‘Ah, and I you.’
Hand in hand, they walked into the bungalow, where a grinning tea wallah had already laid out the cups and saucers. Alice quickly washed and then joined Simon. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Who goes first with the news, although I do suppose nothing has happened here?’
Fonthill nodded sadly. ‘Not quite.’ First he told of the attack by the Nagas and of the expedition up into the hills to the village.
Alice frowned. ‘Oh no. You had to kill three natives? Oh, for goodness’ sake, Simon, you’re not on campaign any more. You can’t go around shooting people, my love. We will never be able to live in peace around here if you do that.’
Sighing, Simon explained the circumstances. Alice listened and nodded with approval when he told of the discovery of Sunil and his transformation into a tracker and brave fighter and of the recovery of the money and its restoration to the labourers. She wrinkled her brow, though, at the fact that the bodies of the three Nagas had been left in the forest.
‘You should have told the chief where they were and led him to the spot,’ she said. ‘No doubt they have religious ceremonies for the burial of the dead which are important to them. You would have earned credit for that, my dear.’
‘Hell, darling,’ Simon snorted. ‘There were about a hundred of them surrounding us. We could have been overwhelmed at any time. I couldn’t act like some damned funeral director. Now,’ he frowned. ‘Speaking of funerals, we have had some news from South Africa. Bad news, I fear.’ And he handed over Jenkins’s letter.
She read it in silence but a tear slid down her cheek as she folded it and handed it back. ‘She was a lovely, brave girl,’ she said, sniffing. ‘I am just sorry that dear old 352 couldn’t have had longer with her. He must come here, of course – and he must bring the children with him.’ Her eyes lit up. Their only child had died in childbirth some years before and they were resigned to being childless now. ‘It would be wonderful—’ Then she stopped. ‘Ah, but not now. I don’t think we would be able …’ She tailed away again and she fumbled in her bag. ‘I have a letter, too, my love, which affects everything. Here.’
Fonthill sat back in the chair and read Curzon’s letter. Then he looked up, sipped his tea and reread it. He folded it absent-mindedly and looked steadily at his wife.
‘You won’t want me to go, will you?’ he asked.
‘I would rather you didn’t, for all kinds of reasons: your age, the terrain – darling, this expedition – no, this invasion – will be attempting to cross the Himalyas in winter, in midwinter, dammit, and of course the obvious danger. But if you do decide to go, there will be one good thing about it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am going anyway, to report on it for The Morning Post.’
‘What! Don’t be ridiculous.’
Calmly, she withdrew a cable from from her handbag and handed it to him. He read aloud:
Simon blew out his cheeks. ‘The bloody fool! How can you stay out of danger on an armed invasion! The Tibetans are bound to resist. Of course you cannot go.’
Alice smiled sweetly. ‘And you will go, my love …?’
Fonthill squirmed slightly in his chair. ‘I really think I must. This is a direct appeal to me to help. Reading between the lines, I think Curzon would like me, as his representative, to be some sort of smoothing influence between this chap Younghusband and the Brigadier, Macdonald, if things go a bit wrong between them. Bring my … er … experience to bear and so forth …’ he tailed away. ‘But look here, Alice, we have had this debate so many times. You are the best and bravest war correspondent, irrespective of gender, in all of the world, but, my darling, this campaign would be just one too far for you, I fear. Some of these passes are … what? … 14,000 feet up and, as you say, we would have to forge through them in midwinter, and probably in the face of quite fierce opposition. A woman has no place in that sort of territory. You would be, damn it all, you would be, well,’ he coughed, ‘an embarrassment.’
A silence fell on the room broken only by a shrill call in Hindi in the distance.
Alice spoke eventually, in icy tones. ‘An embarrassment, eh? How strange, but I don’t remember you using that word when I materialised out of that bloody desert in the Sudan to rescue you and Jenkins from the Mahdi. If I remember rightly, you were rather glad to see me.’
‘Ah yes, well. Now, don’t be silly, darling, that was different. You know. The temperature here is bound to drop below zero, I would think, and we will be under canvas. You would be … ahem … we would be the oldest people there. Even the senior officers will be younger. Think about it, darling. You were younger in the Sudan …’
Alice slapped the table and sent the tea cups rattling. ‘And so were you, Simon. I am damned if I am going to stay here growing bloody tea while you invade Tibet. I am going with you and that’s the end of it.’
The two sat scowling at each other until, eventually, Simon could no longer stop the smile from creeping across his face. He rose, bent down, kissed her and resumed his seat resignedly. ‘Why do I always lose these damned arguments?’ he asked of the ceiling. ‘I don’t know why I start arguing, I really don’t.’
Alice returned the smile and, leaning across, squeezed his knee. ‘A woman is always right, darling. Always. What about 352’s letter?’
Simon’s reluctant smile was replaced for a moment by a frown. ‘Terrible news about Nandi,’ he said. ‘I was very fond of her. Very fond.’ Then his face brightened. ‘But 352 must come with us. In fact, I wouldn’t dream of going without him. He’ll want to come, of course. Reading between the lines again, I reckon that he may well tire of farming on the veldt – particularly now that Nandi’s gone.’
‘And I have a feeling, my darling,’ Alice’s smile betrayed a little cynicism, ‘that you are just as tired of growing tea in these hills. Am I right?’
Simon shrugged. ‘I have to say, that I am even more certain than ever that I am not really cut out to be a farmer, whether it is pushing up wheat in dear old Norfolk or trying to persuade tea plants to poke their heads above the dust here.’
‘So what will you do?’
‘Jackson up the valley has had his eye on this plantation, ever since we bought it. We’ve made improvements here. I reckon I could persuade him to take it on, if I don’t ask the world for it. And, darling, as you know, we don’t need the money.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I have another thought.’
‘Yes?’
‘This young fellow I have discovered. The one who came up into the forest with me, chasing the Nagas …’
‘What about him?’
‘We could take him with us. We shall need a servant – dear old 352 is a bit long in the tooth to look after both of us now – and he would be ideal. I understand that, although he was brought up in the south, he is, in fact, Tibetan and speaks the language and knows the mountains. And he is as brave as a lion.’
‘Good idea. How much time do we have?’
Simon consulted Curzon’s letter. ‘No precise date fixed for the beginning of the march into Tibet but he speaks of mid December – only five weeks or so away.’ He read on silently. ‘But he makes the point that, as this is very short notice for me, I could join the expedition a little later, before it penetrates deeply into Tibet. Good. That will give us time to pack up here, for 352 to sail across the Indian Ocean and for me to meet him in Bombay and bring him back here.’
Alice beamed across at her husband. ‘The three of us off on campaign again, my love? What a refreshing thought. Do we have any champagne left in the cellar? I think we need – and deserve – a drink.’