The Horns of the Buffalo by John Wilcox

soon to be replaced anyway. However, the latter’s chief of staff, Simon was informed, was on his way back to Cape Town and would give him his orders on his return.
    On the fifth day after his arrival, Simon received a brief note ordering him to report to the office of Colonel George Lamb CB, late Indian Army.
    The office, for all its white-painted walls, was dark and sparsely furnished but it seemed to light up with the Colonel’s smile as he stood and advanced to welcome Simon. A diminutive man, with colonial campaigning etched on his nut-brown face, he held himself as erect as a colour standard and exuded authority and bonhomie. Nevertheless, Simon regarded him with apprehension. How much did he know about the reason he was serving with the 2nd Battalion, and would his horsemanship be tested? He would never survive that. He need not have worried. This was no Covington.
    â€˜My dear Fonthill, a belated welcome to the Cape. I am sorry that you have had to kick your heels for a few days, but I had to travel with the C-in-C.’
    â€˜Of course, sir. Thank you.’
    The Colonel pushed forward a chair. ‘Do sit down. Cheroot? Sorry I can’t offer you a decent cigar but we cleared out stocks to replenish the 1st/24th’s mess at Kingbillystown.’ His blue eyes sparkled. ‘I’m sure you’d approve of that, though.’
    â€˜Very much so, sir.’
    The little man bustled back to his desk, picked up matches and threw them to Simon.
    â€˜I’ve just been going through Baxter’s report. Sad business. We shouldn’t use these old emigrant tubs to transport our men. But you did jolly well. I congratulate you.’
    Simon murmured his thanks.
    â€˜Right, now let’s get down to business.’ He pulled deeply on his cheroot and examined the papers on his desk. ‘I see that you’re a fine horseman and that, although you don’t speak Zulu, you have one of the Bantu dialects?’
    Simon swallowed hard and shifted from one buttock to the other on the edge of the chair. ‘Er, not quite, sir.’
    â€˜Eh? What?’
    â€˜I can ride, of course, Colonel, but I’ve only got French and German and . . .’ he tailed off, ‘my German’s not too good.’
    â€˜What the blazes!’ The Colonel looked again at the document on his desk. ‘It distinctly says here, “Has aptitude for languages and knows native dialect.” ’
    Simon swallowed again. ‘I think, sir, they might be referring to Welsh. I did learn it while I was at school in the country before going on to Sandhurst, although it is very rusty now. It must somehow have got on to my record.’
    â€˜To hell with the confounded Horse Guards! They get everything wrong.’ Colonel Lamb frowned and looked hard at Simon. Then, gradually, his eyes softened and the brown face seamed into a half-smile. ‘Welsh, eh?’
    Simon nodded. ‘Half Welsh, anyway. Borders.’
    The smile broadened. ‘Welsh meself, although I never did master the deuced lingo. Dammit all, Fonthill, if you can speak Welsh you can learn Zulu, can’t you?’
    â€˜Well, yes. I suppose so, sir. But I was wondering if there was a chance that I could join my old battalion in Kingwilliamstown and serve as a line officer there?’
    â€˜Certainly not. The bloody place is full of Welshmen as it is. Now the Governor and the C-in-C are there, too. There’s not room to breathe in the godforsaken hole. Best you stay out of it.’ The Colonel tapped the ash from his cheroot and leaned forward. ‘No. Kaffir wars are dirty businesses. Chasing bunches of natives through head-high thorn scrub; not seeing more than a foot or two in front of you and not knowing when a spear is going to be thrust into your privates from out of the bush . . .’ He winced and shook his head again. ‘No. These are foot soldier policing actions. Not for a fine horseman like