by Peter Rimmer
Then by mistake in his excitement, he dropped his .410 shotgun on its butt and the gun went off with a shattering noise as Harry had forgotten to put back the hammer after sighting a bird. The shot went up in the air, much to Harry’s relief. Expecting his father to come running through the door to find him dead or give him a cuff around the ear, he was surprised to see the reaction in the room. The reverend shut his trap and leapt to his feet and the baby stopped crying and for a terrible moment, Harry thought he had killed the little thing. Uncle Gregory fell flat on his face on the floor pulling Aunty Fran with him. Uncle Tinus leapt for his gun, which was leaning against the wall next to the table with the food, and in his hurry knocked everything on the floor. Sister Madge, who had seen what had happened, was laughing with tears pouring down her face which didn’t help Harry’s mother who thought Madge was crying. Only then did Harry find himself looking into the clear blue eyes of his father with the thin pane of glass his only protection. With the gun on the floor, Harry decided to make a run for it back into the bush and ran full speed into the arms of his grandfather. Five minutes later Harry was sent to bed without any food and thought it all unfair. By the time he was allowed out into the calm of the morning, his Uncle Nat had gone on his way and Harry was quite happy at the way it had all turned out. Going back to the window, he looked, but there was no sign of his gun.
A week later, on the 24th March, the Matabele went on the rampage, slaughtering isolated policemen and families scattered across mines and farms in Matabeleland. Zwide was furious. The attack had been planned for the 29th, the night of the Big Dance when the moon was full. At first, the reports were satisfactory and the whites that had not been slaughtered fled into Bulawayo. Soon the regiments would attack Bulawayo and Zwide would be king. The only blight on his euphoria was the Shona. The cowards had not joined the uprising.
On the 25th March, Frederick Selous, the greatest hunter of them all, rode into Bulawayo to organise the defence. He had brought the Pioneer Column, including Henry Manderville and Gregory Shaw, to safety at Fort Salisbury in 1890 and he was not going to lose the country in 1896. Commanding horsemen armed with Martini-Henry rifles, most of whom had handled guns in the bush for years, he led the counterattack against the Matabele regiments. The mounted cavalry was outnumbered fifteen to one, but they were mobile and their shooting was deadly accurate. They also had unlimited ammunition. By the time Cecil Rhodes came in with a relief column from Salisbury, the Matabele had lost the initiative.
With the Charter Company shares plunging in London due to expectation of a costly war, Rhodes, unarmed and alone, met the indunas in a cave in the Matopos mountains that overlooked Bulawayo. Zwide was not among them. Once again he had gone north and, while the end of the rebellion was being negotiated, he sat in the cave with the bones of Lobengula and the remnants of the black ox hide. Only on the second day of his exile did he begin to move the gold and ivory out of the cave. Alone, it was to take him weeks to move the treasure to its new hiding place. The guns, given out to the regiments for the rebellion, were surrendered to the whites as part of the amnesty. The Kingdom of Matabeleland had ceased to exist except in Zwide’s bitter heart. There would be another time. Leaving his headdress and leopard skin with the treasure, he went back to Bulawayo and found himself a job chopping meat in a butcher’s shop.
By the time Zwide was cutting up his first white man’s cow, the witch was ready. Everything had gone according to plan: the last of Lobengula’s regiments had been defeated, Jameson was still in England facing trial, and Rhodes himself had gone to Bulawayo with a relief column. The land of the Shona was ready for the war of liberation. The witch, a wrinkled old hag to those who chose to see her, smiled to herself. Never once had they trusted the Matabele emissaries.
The witch had collected the mushrooms over many years, dried them and ground them to powder. The orange-topped mushroom with the white underbelly was rare and precious, used only once in each generation to retain its power of mystery. Smoked from clay pipes, the powered mushrooms would stop the rust of the assegai and turn the white man’s bullets to water. Across Mashonaland, the witch doctors were preparing their medicine for the Chimurenga.
When the moon was full, the Shona would burst out of their caves and hiding places to kill every white man, woman and child that had stolen their land. The Kingdom of Monomotapa was to rise again, the power of a witch and chief once more unquestioned. The new god of the white man would be destroyed. Once again the people would hunt the sweet rivers and plains of their forefathers and there would be peace among men. The yoke of foreign domination would be gone forever.
Satisfied with her preparations, the witch went deep into the cave to feed her leopard. When alone with the satisfied animal she prayed to her ancestors to intercede with God to give them deliverance, the most ancient cry of man.
Tatenda had learnt to say nothing. Once, he had told Gumbo, the chief’s son, about the great ships in Table Bay with guns bigger than a buffalo. But when he talked about the telegraph that sent messages from Cape Town to Fort Salisbury as quickly as they spoke, Gumbo lost interest in a story that was obviously so stupid. The noise of Cape Town still rattled in Tatenda’s ears, a mocking echo. He thought of the steam trains pouring black smoke across the veld, the great snake clattering onwards and onwards along the white man’s rails. He thought of the pictures they had shown him of London, the capital of the world, of skyscrapers in New York across an ocean wider than the veld and great boats the mighty Zambezi could never float. There were pictures of the Queen and miles of soldiers all with guns, and he wanted to tell his people but he feared the witch and the voices from the trees. He feared the leopard would tear him limb from limb and he watched them go when the moon was full and clutching his puny gun he did what he was told and when he reached the Mazoe River, he crossed with the others and smoked the pipe and found the courage of a lion and they ran forward to attack the white man certain in their belief the white man’s bullets would turn to water.
Right across Mashonaland, the struggle had just begun, the first war of liberation.
By the end of June, the trees around the stockade had been cut and cleared leaving an unobstructed field of fire. Every one hundred yards in a circle around their stockade, Gregory Shaw had driven in stakes to give their guns the range. At night they took it in turns to patrol the perimeter and listen for the rattling of the stones in the tin cans he had strung between the white-painted posts. Stacks of tinder-dry wood had been placed within throwing distance of twenty yards from the stockade that could be lit as an extra deterrent if needs be. Each of the firing points had been tested to ensure they enfiladed with each other. There were no gaps they could see in their defence.
At the mission on the other side of Fort Salisbury, Nathanial went about God’s business ministering to his new flock. His three children played in front of the house on the dry dirt floor among the chickens and goats. His wife treated the sick and tried to teach the children English. Nathanial knew everything was a mess but denied the knowledge even to himself. Everything he had ever done in his life since he was seven years old was the will of God.
The morning Tatenda smoked his pipe, none of the children came to the school. The clinic was empty of sick. The reverend and his family were alone. Bringing them together in the improvised church that served as a classroom, he began to pray. Never once did he doubt the wisdom of God. To Nathanial, each life on earth was destined for a purpose as without a purpose there could be no point in life itself.
Jeremiah Shank had built his house on the Hunyani River of stone, each block cut square and mortared into place. The square windows filled the front of the house looking down the slope to the river, and the trees had grown tall from their roots deep in the damp earth below the flowing water. Atop the two storeys of the house rose a tower that was higher than the house itself. By turning the steel cogs, the dome of the roof came open and showed Jeremiah the great heavens he had watched in awe from the pitching deck
s of ships. The vastness of the heavens fascinated the man. When the dome was wound open, the telescope looked at the clear night sky, layer after layer, past the Milky Way to the universe beyond. Night after night in the sanctuary of his tower, Jeremiah looked up at the stars and his soul went out to the heavens.
On the wall behind the swivel seat of the telescope hung a naval cutlass that had been handed down to him by three generations of seamen none of whom had come to any good, all succumbing to whores and rum, and all, so far as the family could remember, dead of syphilis. At twenty-eight he had stopped the rot and, with the right woman, he would breed a new family of Shanks who would stand tall in the corridors of power.
Jeremiah had seen his dinner companion twice since the night they had met on the Meikles Hotel veranda, and still he bided his time. He had looked carefully at other prospects in the new colony and found nothing that would fit his bill. With three generations and the sustenance of his wealth, the Shanks would have bred out their bad blood and replaced it with the best in England.
The old Jeremiah Shank had told him to run like hell at the first talk of rebellion back to Kimberley and the source of his wealth, but the house and all it meant was more powerful. Kimberley was a grubby mining town and only the elite were allowed membership of the Kimberley Club. Even Barnato with all his wealth was denied because he was a Jew. On the banks of the Hunyani, from the tower that looked out over the great plains of Mashonaland, Jeremiah saw his destiny. Only land was the mark of a dynasty, only land gave a man the true sense of power and privilege.
“The moon will be full tonight,” said Jack Slater in the Salisbury Club.
“The Matabele were going to attack on the full moon, the night of the Big Dance,” said Captain James Brigandshaw of the Queen’s Light Horse. “You think there might be some fun with the Shona? Surely not. Even they can see what happened to the Matabele facing disciplined cavalry.”
“Rumour has it the Mwari are telling their people our bullets will turn to water, that the spirits will guide them.”
“What nonsense.”
“We know that, Captain Brigandshaw, but a superstitious savage will believe his oracles. One of the many of man’s stupidities. Look at the Mahdi in Sudan. History is littered with people running to their deaths. The Muslim if he dies in battle in the name of God goes straight to heaven. A heaven with sweet rivers and lush green grass littered with sumptuous women. Half of the aristocracy of England ran off to the Crusades. Religion mixed with politics is a powder keg. You should tell that missionary brother of yours to get his family to safety.”
“He doesn’t know I am in Africa. I was only ordered back from India after the Matabele rebellion and then the regiment argued about my secondment to a colonial force run by a company.”
“India was the same with Clive and the East India Company.”
“My argument, Slater. My argument. There are three of us in Africa, you know? There’s the black sheep we don’t talk about.”
Jack Slater’s mind went straight to Fran, and he tried to change the subject by ordering another round of drinks.
“You ever met Sebastian, old chap?” asked James, knowing perfectly well. The fact his brothers were in Rhodesia had been a reason for his posting. His brief mentioned Slater’s involvement with his brother’s warrant of arrest.
“Once, I believe.”
“And you didn’t arrest him. Snotty little kid, I seem to remember. Fortunately, I was away at boarding school and then in the army. The only thing we all agreed was Nat being a crashing boor. Don’t you worry, Slater,” said James, going back to his original subject, “let them all rise up. No one ever defeats the British. Remember that.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“Who?”
“Sebastian Brigandshaw.”
“Of course not. He’s the black sheep of the family, didn’t I tell you? Father never mentions his name and mother does what father tells her to do… One of these days I am going to get married,” he said, going off at a tangent.
At the idea, Jack could only think of Fran naked in his bed and he hoped that no one would come to their table to make him stand up.
“You’ve gone a bit red in the face, old chap,” said James and thought for a moment. “We don’t have many troops if they do go wild. Most of the chaps were in that bungle with Dr Jim. If you’re going to steal something for Queen and country, do it properly. The man’s an imbecile. Made the British look a damn fool. That kind of bungle leads to war, you mark my word. A friend of mine in India fought with the Boers against the Zulus. The Boers don’t dress up for war like we do but they shoot damn straight. Glory be, there’s enough trouble keeping the natives under control without squabbling with each other. William of Orange came across from Holland so there’s no reason we can’t get along with the Dutch. Asked nicely, the Boers will want to join the empire. We can guarantee their safety. What’s a few rules and regulations when you don’t have to worry about a horde of savages going on the rampage? Joseph Chamberlain knows what he’s doing. The colonial secretary was a businessman before he went into politics.
“My father says everything comes down to money and money can only be made when everyone behaves themselves. Take the British out of India and the states would be at each other’s throats in a week, to say nothing of the Muslims hating the Hindus. The British administration provides law and order as it does here. Then people can trade without hindrance. Seems so damn simple yet everyone wants to face off at each other if the other chap’s a bit different. Dread to think what the world would be like without the Pax Britannica. You mark my words, the Boers will come into the empire if they want to do anything with their precious republics… You know any nice girls in this town, Slater?”
At the mention of girls, the face of the acting administrator went bright red and James Brigandshaw had to look away to stop himself from laughing. He idly wondered who the girl was who brought on the hot flush… At least there was one woman in Rhodesia who could cause a stir. For a while, they lapsed into silence, thinking their separate thoughts. James idly stirred his coffee before carrying on speaking his thoughts out loud.
“There’s always some fanatic or politician who sees the chance for power. They always say they do it in the name of the people, but you mark my words, they do it for themselves. Throughout history wicked men, dressed in the clothes of saints, have searched for a popular cause to give themselves power. To a few men power is so addictive they will kill millions to get what they want. The joke, old chap, is they always kill in the name of the cause, in the name of God, in the name of the people. That’s why the world needs the British Army. To stop all that nonsense.”
“You don’t think it’s us seeking power?”
“Maybe. But it works. We make sure law and order prevail in the empire. Now, a last toast.” James Brigandshaw raised his glass of port. “To the Queen, God bless her.”
“The Queen,” said Jack Slater with a wry smile, raising his glass. “The Queen, God bless her.”
“You know, Slater, it’s wonderful to be an Englishman.”
With the glass tipped back, Jack Slater’s eyes came on a line with the open door and the round worried face of Billy Witherspoon and he recognised trouble. He immediately excused himself from the table and walked across the dining room to his aide. Everyone in the room followed his path, some turning in their seats to do so. There were only men, as women were not allowed in the Salisbury Club. Witherspoon’s face could just as well have shouted the news and Jack signalled the man to turn his back on the lunchtime trenchermen. To counteract the horrified look in the eyes, Jack smiled and maintained his measured step. It was quarter past two in the afternoon and outside the club the sun was shining. He took Witherspoon by the elbow into the street and marched him past three of Dr Jameson’s jacaranda trees before he would let him speak. Then he listened.
“Three accounts almost simultaneously of massacres on the mines and outlying farms. They struck with t
he full moon. The blacks are openly calling it the Chimurenga.”
“What’s the Chimurenga, Billy? Speak English!”
“The war of liberation. One of the police posts was attacked and two men hacked to death. The other man rode in with the story.”
“Right. I want everyone into the capital. Easier to protect them. They can rebuild a home but can’t come back from the dead. Get the message on the wires, Billy.”
“And those without telegraph, the farmers and miners?”
“Will have to be told personally. Those are my instructions. Now go, Billy. But don’t run. Englishmen never panic, so my lunch companion would have me believe.”
“Where are you going, sir?”
“Back to the club to finish my coffee.”
James Brigandshaw watched the acting administrator with approval as the man made his way back to the table. Everyone in the room had stopped talking.
“Bring me some more coffee, steward, and a glass of port. Captain Brigandshaw will have the same. Now, Brigandshaw, where were we before I was rudely interrupted?”
By the time the coffee and port arrived, the members and their guests had gone back to their conversations and Jack could answer the quizzical look on the other man’s face.
“Finish your coffee slowly and then ride like hell to your brother’s mission,” said Jack quietly. “The natives are calling it a war of liberation. They are on the rampage.”
“What fun. Largely, India was dull.”
“It’s in the other direction but when you have brought your reverend brother to safety, I’d be obliged you warn Sebastian Brigandshaw.”
“Listen, don’t worry about him. Nat, yes, he’ll probably be on his knees telling God how good he’s been. Seb might be our black sheep, old chap, but he always knew how to look after himself. Anyway, father said under no circumstances was I to make contact or he’d stop my allowance. I’ll go alone but I’ll take an extra gun on the rump of my horse. Watch your askaris, Slater, or whatever you call your native troops in this part of Africa. If it was me I’d take the guns away from them in case they are tempted. People are inclined to obey whoever holds the gun. Sort of fundamental situation, old chap. Nat will be surprised to see me.”
