The Horns of the Buffalo (2 page)

Later, after the bath had worked its gentle, reviving magic, the old rationality came to his help. The bath test had really been torture, hadn't it? And good, brave soldiers often succumbed under torture. This was well known. You could be brave and give in when tortured. He had overheard his father relate how sepoys had done terrible things to captured English officers during the Mutiny. His spirits lifted further as he thought of his father. In India, Papa had won the Queen's new medal for the bravest of the brave, the Victoria Cross. But he now refused to hunt, which meant that Mama rode out alone. Papa certainly could not be a coward, so it wasn't the jumps that frightened him, although he didn't like certain things. For instance, he hated thunder. Simon felt much better.

A murmur of voices from below indicated that the guests had arrived, and he tiptoed to the edge of the stairs to see. Beneath, the wide hall shone in the early evening spring sunlight. Indian rugs were scattered across the tiled floor, and the subcontinent's influence was further marked by the tiger head mounted on the wall. Under it, tall shoots of pampas grass emerged erect as sentinels from matching terracotta urns. Opposite, two aspidistras squatted stoutly in porcelain vases, resting on twin tables whose mahogany had been polished until it gleamed.

Mrs Fonthill was at the door welcoming her guests. She looked handsome rather than pretty in her dinner gown, the black velvet showing off well her white skin and the pearls at her throat. Anyone who did not know her better would say that she was gently flirting with the two captains of the second regiment of the 24th Foot who smiled stiffly before her.

‘How very good of you to come,' she said. ‘And how kind of the Colonel to spare you both from the depot. Who on earth will be left there to protect us from the Russians?'

The taller of the two took her hand and brushed it with his long moustaches. ‘Covington, B Company, ma'am. Have no fear. I think the Rooskies are too busy planning to take India from us to attack us at home right now.'

The sally brought polite laughter from them all and Simon, looking down, marvelled at how handsome the officers looked in their white and scarlet mess jackets and extravagantly tight blue trousers looped under their insteps. Mrs Fonthill gave her hand to the other captain and then walked them along the hallway.

‘It's a pleasant evening, so do come through to the conservatory,' she said. ‘Sarah will bring you sherry or whisky and George will be with you in a moment. He's just gone to the wine cellar. Forgive me if I also leave you for just one minute. I need a word with Cook.'

They bowed as she turned away at the conservatory door. ‘Oh.' She came back. ‘I hope you don't mind, but our son will be joining us for dinner. I know it is slightly unusual - he's only ten - but George, er, wants to bring him along a little. He won't stay for coffee, of course.'

The officers bowed again and disappeared into the conservatory, followed by Sarah, blushing and anxious to please.

Simon crept quietly down the stairs, through the side door and out into the garden. He approached the conservatory treading softly, using all the training acquired during his years as a British spy on the North West Frontier, and was relieved to find a tall window open. The two Russian emissaries were speaking in low, guarded voices, but he could hear every word.

‘Fine woman, that,' said the captain with the long moustaches.

His companion wore a monocle and ginger sideburns, which he had brushed forward in the approved style of the day. ‘I should say.' He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘To be frank, can't quite see what she sees in a major on half-pay.'

‘Yes, particularly one who's got a bit of a yeller streak.'

‘Oh I say, that's goin' a bit far, ain't it? The feller did get a VC in the Mutiny.'

Covington tasted his sherry through the sieve of his moustaches. ‘But weren't the circumstances a bit peculiar? I mean, he was knocked off his horse and, as far as I hear, flailed about him with his sabre like a madman in a blue funk. It was just a coincidence that his colonel was lyin' nearby and a section came back to get 'em both. Everyone thought at first he had gone back for the CO, but he confessed later that he'd been knocked down. They gave him the medal almost straight away. But there were second thoughts afterwards. Couldn't exactly take it off him, though, could they? Strange business.'

‘Ah. Is this why he's known as Wobbly Fonthill?'

‘Quite. And because he's given up 'untin'. They say he can't take the fences any more. But a damned nice chap for all that. Just not cut out to be a soldier, perhaps. Not really, well, gutsy enough - and the men sense it. That's why he's on half-pay, I suppose. They live on her money, I think. She's said to be quite ri—'

They were interrupted as Major Fonthill entered the room, apologetic and slightly flustered that his guests had arrived during his absence. Beneath the window outside, Simon lay down and silently buried his face in the long grass to hide the hot tears.

1876

 

Simon Fonthill slowly drifted out of sleep and opened one eye and then the other. The whiteness was strong and dazzled him at first, so he closed his eyes again for a moment. Then, cautiously, he lifted his head from the pillow and looked around. He was alone in the room. He widened his gaze to take in the details. White, very white walls, unrelieved by pictures or any other form of decoration. One window with, in the distance, a glimpse of a green hill. Under the window a wooden table, with bowl and jug, white again, placed precisely on the table top. Another bed, empty, but the blankets severely squared above the three piled ‘biscuit' mattresses. Beyond that a green painted wardrobe. Nothing else. He listened carefully. Not a sound.

He lowered his head back on to the pillow. The ache had gone now and so had that pervasive drowsiness that had slipped him in and out of sleep for . . . how long? He could not be sure. Blinking in the light - it must be midday or early afternoon - Simon looked on the table in vain for his timepiece. Perhaps it was in the wardrobe. He began to pull at the sheets and blankets which encased him, then thought better of it. Instead he called out.

‘Hello. Hello. Anyone there?'

The words came out little stronger than conversational in level, but they echoed through the emptiness of the room. Almost immediately, however, Simon heard the clump of army boots approaching along a corridor and then an orderly came through the door. He was crisp in white jacket above blue patrol trousers, and when he spoke his voice was redolent of Welsh valley and chapel.

‘Did you call, Mr Fonthill, sir? Good. You must be gettin' better.'

‘Where exactly am I?'

‘Hospital, sir. Depot hospital.'

‘Is the regiment here?'

‘Marched out yesterday and sailed this morning, sir. For the Cape of South Africa, see, to fight the black Kaffirs there.'

Simon raised a hand to his head. ‘Ah yes. I remember now. So how long have I been here, then?'

The orderly sucked in his thick black moustache. ‘Ohh, about three days, I think it is, sir. An' you lyin' there, 'ardly stirrin' so they didn't know what was wrong with you, see.' His voice rose gently at the end of each sentence, in that mellifluous Welsh intonation, as though every phrase conveyed soft indignation.

‘Yes. Yes. I think I had better see the doctor, if you can find him.'

The orderly munched his moustache. ‘I'll see if Surgeon Major Reynolds is about, sir.' He turned and crashed down the corridor.

Lying back on his pillow, Simon closed his eyes in reflection. So the regiment had sailed without him! Well, he supposed it was inevitable. It could hardly wait for a young subaltern to regain his health and composure. When he was fit, would they send him on to the Cape? A special posting? He turned his head impatiently. This begged the question, would the regiment value him enough to take that sort of trouble with a second lieutenant?

Unseeingly, his gaze wandered over the ceiling as he reviewed his brief career. Sandhurst Military College, graduation and then posting, some eleven months ago, to the 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment of Foot, his father's old regiment, here at its depot at Brecon on the Welsh Borders. How had he performed? Well . . . he still couldn't sit a horse with confidence, but he had enjoyed his regimental duties: leading his platoon on exercises in the hills, picket duty, firing on the range, evenings in the mess, the relationship with the men - everything but the damned riding. Now this. A setback, of course. How would it look on his record? The thought lay heavily on him as he drifted off again into a light sleep.

He was wakened by a firm hand lifting his wrist and the strong odour of tobacco. He opened his eyes and looked into the iron visage of Surgeon Major Reynolds a few inches away: a heavily bearded face with hard blue eyes and hair that swept back from the brow in firmly set grey waves.

The doctor stood silently for a moment, one hand taking Simon's pulse, the other holding a watch. Eventually he transferred his gaze to Simon's face. ‘Put your tongue out, boy.'

Simon did so, and half retched as a spatula rudely forced his tongue down. Then the doctor pulled down the lower lid of his right eye before the hand, rough to the skin, checked the temperature of his brow. Reynolds raised the spatula and held it before Simon's gaze. ‘Follow this with your right eye as I move it,' he commanded. Simon did so without difficulty.

‘Now the other eye.' The exercise was completed.

The doctor sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Well,' he said, ill-humouredly, his voice more distantly echoing the Welshness of the orderly, ‘I'm damned if I know what's wrong with you. As far as I can see, you've been unconscious for three days with only a slight temperature to show for it.' He scowled down at Simon. ‘Seemed like a slight fever. Ever been in the East?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Never had typhoid or typhus? No fits in your family - epilepsy?'

‘Good lord, no, sir.'

‘You've never turned yellow - been diabetic?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Can you sit up - swing your legs over the side of the bed?'

‘I think so.' Simon broke the restrictions of the tucked-in blankets and put his legs over the side of the bed. With the back of a penknife Reynolds tapped just below the kneecap of both legs in turn. Reactively, Simon's feet swung.

‘Reflexes are fully back, anyway,' murmured the doctor. ‘I've been sticking pins in you over the last three days and you've hardly moved, although . . .' Reynolds spoke as though to himself, ‘you did shift a
little
.' He looked at Simon. ‘How do you feel now?'

‘A bit weak. But all right, I think.'

‘Good.' The Surgeon Major walked a few paces to the door and noticed the orderly standing quietly in the corner. ‘Don't need you, soldier,' he said curtly. ‘Get out of here.'

‘Sir.' The orderly sprang to attention and marched out of the room. The doctor returned to the bed and pushed Simon back under the blankets.

‘Now,' he said. ‘Your parents have been very concerned about you, of course, and I promised your father that I would let them know as soon as you surfaced. Do you feel strong enough to see them?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Very well. I will send a telegram to Major Fonthill right away.' He looked down at his patient with a quick, puzzled frown. ‘You sure, boy, that you've never been in the East? India? The Malay States?'

Simon shook his head. ‘I've only been abroad twice. Both times to France.'

‘Um. Strange. Feel like food?'

‘Yes please, sir. In fact, I feel quite hungry.'

‘Do you now?' One grey eyebrow was raised. ‘I'm not surprised after three days. Right. I'll see to it.' He turned and strode to the door.

‘Sir.' Simon elbowed himself into a half-sitting position. ‘I'm sorry, but I don't really remember becoming ill. Could you tell me . . .' His voice trailed away.

Reynolds came back to the bed. His face bore no expression and his voice was cold. ‘Very well. What
do
you remember?'

‘Being in the mess when the Adjutant came in and called us to attention and told us something about being posted abroad without delay, and then . . . I'm sorry, but I don't remember anything else, except drifting in and out of sleep here. Sometimes I was half aware of people around me, but nothing else. It's very strange.'

The doctor's eyebrow rose again. ‘You're damned right it's strange.'

Simon sensed a pejorative note in Reynolds's voice. There was no solicitude in his attitude. Simon felt himself colouring.

‘What do you mean, sir?'

Reynolds was silent for a moment. ‘Well, when the Adjutant announced the news that the 1st Battalion was being shipped in three days' time, to handle an emergency with the black tribesmen of the Cape, you suddenly collapsed and became unconscious. Try as I might, I could neither revive you nor diagnose your illness. No sign of diabetes or poisoning - just a slight temperature, although you did not toss or turn. You just lay there, dammit, breathing steadily.'

He scratched fingers through a pepper-and-salt beard. ‘We asked your parents for help but they couldn't enlighten us from your past medical history. Apart from being what they called “a sensitive, rather imaginative boy”,' he emphasised the phrase heavily, ‘it seems you were fit enough, and certainly you've had no health problems while you've been with the battalion.' He turned and walked to the door once more. ‘Now you've regained consciousness just after your regiment has embarked. One thing's for sure, then, laddie - they've gone off without you.' Then he was gone.