The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  None of them carried weapons ideal for big-game hunting. They had set out originally armed mainly with light rifles, like the small-calibre Westley Richards that Alice now cradled. Ideal for bringing down antelope and buck but capable only of wounding a charging lion. Mzingeli’s Snider was an old rifle that had been replaced as British Army issue long before the Zulu War ten years ago, and although the man had already proved himself to be a good shot with it, it too seemed inadequate for today’s purpose. The bearers had their assegais, razor sharp but best used for skinning and cutting up a carcass rather than killing. That left the Martini-Henry rifles carried by Fonthill and Jenkins. These had been used by the pair at the end of the abortive Sudan campaign four years ago, and thrown into the back of their wagon almost as an afterthought when they had set out from the Cape, merely a precaution in case danger should ensue from hostile natives. They packed a heavy .45 cartridge that, as Mzingeli had reminded them, could be effective against a charging Zulu. But a lion . . . ? Fonthill looked down and checked that he had inserted a round ‘up the snout’.

  Simon himself, at thirty-four, was no longer the apprehensive young subaltern who had first landed in South Africa exactly ten years ago. The decade spent as a highly irregular army scout in Zululand, Afghanistan, the Transvaal (twice) and Egypt had lined his face a little and brought a light dusting of grey to his temples. Some five feet nine inches tall, his figure had filled out a little but his waist was slim enough, his shoulders broad and he carried himself lightly. He certainly looked the part of a hunter, in his light khaki shirt and trousers. The brown eyes, narrowed now under his wide-brimmed Boer hat as they peered into the bush, still, however, carried a trace of uncertainty, although the Pathan musket that had broken his nose had left it hooked and given his face a predatory air.

  He turned his head to look at his wife stepping behind him. Exactly the same age as Simon, Alice Fonthill had matured into a fine-looking woman: erect, slim, with long fair hair tied into a serviceable bun behind the brim of her bush hat, her grey eyes steady and meeting those of her husband with a ready smile, although they too displayed a hint of something - sadness? - that gave her face a haunting, perhaps melancholy element. Alice’s chin was perhaps a little too strong and square to bestow conventional beauty, but she carried herself with an air of charismatic attractiveness that had served her well in the masculine world of journalism, especially during her time covering the campaigns of Queen Victoria’s army over the last ten years.

  Behind them both, Jenkins carried his rifle at the slope over his shoulder, as befitted an ex-soldier of Her Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot. It was at the regiment’s hospital on the Welsh borders that he had met Fonthill, becoming the young subaltern’s servant-batman, mentor and friend. Always known as 352 - the last three figures of his army number, and used to distinguish him from the many other Jenkinses in this most Welsh of regiments - he was some four years older than Simon, although no flecks of grey had yet dared to fight their way through the thicket of black hair that stood out vertically on his head, or into the great moustache that swept across his face. Seemingly as broad as he was tall (he stood at about five feet four inches), Jenkins exuded strength. He was as muscled and broad-chested as a pit bull terrier - Welsh, of course.

  Now the three walked in self-absorbed silence, slowing a little in pace with Mzingeli, who had changed direction to the right and begun pushing through the thorns into a little clearing. As he did so, two hyenas squealed and ran away in their hangdog way and, in an indignant beating of wings, a brace of vultures rose into the air. Underneath them, the bones of an impala were picked almost clean.

  Mzingeli held up his hand to keep them away from the carcass. Then he bent his knees and began examining the sandy floor near the bones, squatting and peering carefully at the earth, occasionally poking at it with one long black finger.

  He stood and beckoned Simon. ‘The three killed here,’ he said. ‘Maybe three hours ago.’

  ‘Are they nearby still?’

  ‘No. They go to find somewhere in shade to sleep. Look.’ He pointed to the ground. ‘Big lion - probably more than four hundred thirty pounds. See here, where he lies down. Big mane.’ Fonthill bent to examine the scuffed sand but could see nothing distinctive.

  ‘Were the two lionesses with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. They kill impala. Old lion just come up and do eating when hunting is done. Good life for him.’

  Ntini called from the edge of the clearing. Mzingeli nodded. ‘Good, we have spoor. We follow.’ He addressed them all now in a soft voice. ‘I do not know how far away they are. I think not far, maybe half a mile. So we go very quietly. Very dangerous now.’

  ‘Oh blimey,’ murmured Jenkins. ‘Let me come up front with you, bach sir.’

  Fonthill shook his head. He was under no illusion that Jenkins was concerned about his own safety. The Welshman had the heart of a lion himself, and Simon knew of only three things that daunted him: water (he couldn’t swim), heights and crocodiles. No, he would wish to be near Fonthill to protect him. A crack shot, he knew that Simon was still only a moderate marksman and that the opportunity of firing off a second round after a missed first shot was unlikely to present itself. By the time the second cartridge could be inserted into the breech of the single-shot Martini-Henry, the lion would have sprung. He wished to take up his post, familiar to him over the years, at Fonthill’s shoulder.

  Simon smiled. ‘No thanks, old chap. Stay just there. Behind Alice.’

  In single file again, they moved off. This time the two bearers, who previously had been conversing in very low voices so that Mzingeli could not hear up ahead, were silent, the whites of their eyes showing prominently and their assegais held firmly across their bodies. They had dropped back a little from the quartet ahead. They were undoubtedly apprehensive. Perhaps their fear had communicated itself to the others, for everyone was now stepping with great care and peering cautiously into the foliage that pressed in on them on either side - everyone, that is, but Mzingeli, whose eyes remained fixed on the sandy track ahead of him.

  Eventually, after half an hour, he raised his right hand slightly in a signal to halt. The bush had thinned noticeably, and ahead of them the track had widened until it admitted a rocky outcrop. The tracker, his eyes still fixed to the front, motioned over his shoulder for Fonthill to join him.

  He nodded to the ground ahead and then whispered, ‘See mark in front of lion’s paw, like brush mark.’ Simon squinted but could see nothing of the kind. ‘Lion tired,’ continued Mzingeli. ‘He drag front of his paw as he lift it up.’ The tracker gently nodded his head. ‘I think they found place to rest and digest meal, up there, behind rocks.’

  ‘What about our scent?’ asked Fonthill.

  ‘We are upwind. They do not smell us.’

  Fonthill felt a hand on his shoulder. Alice whispered in his ear, ‘They’re up there, aren’t they? Up in those rocks?’

  ‘Yes. Mzingeli believes so.’

  ‘Don’t go in alone. Take 352 with you.’

  Simon fought back a flash of irritation. ‘No. He must stay here with you. I can kill this damned lion. In any case, Mzingeli will probably come with me—’

  He was interrupted by the tracker, who turned, his finger to his lips. ‘We go together round to right,’ he whispered. ‘Stay very close. Be ready to shoot quickly if lion sees us. Very quiet now.’

  Gesturing to Jenkins to stay close to Alice, Fonthill gave a twisted smile to his wife - somehow the muscles on his face seemed to be set rictus-like, not allowing him to give her the reassuring beam he intended - and followed Mzingeli at a crouch, his rifle clutched across his breast. The two men stole away to the right of the rocks, the tracker gently pulling away branches and holding them until Simon could take them in turn and pass through. They climbed a little through the bush and moved in a semicircle until they began to edge around the end of the highest rock, some ten feet away from it. Mzingeli was ahead, his bare feet making no
sound as he placed each one carefully in front of the other on the now stony ground. Then he froze and, his eyes staring ahead of him, motioned for Simon to come alongside

  Ahead of them was the lion, stretched resplendent in the shade of the overhanging rock. His great head lay away from them, the tangled mass of the dark brown mane contrasting with the tawny colour of the body, and he seemed huge in that confined space, the end of his tail almost, it seemed, within reach. His head rested on one side; the one eye that could be seen was closed, and his chest rose and fell in gentle rhythm. There seemed to be a look of beatific satisfaction on the giant beast’s face in repose. It had been a good meal and he was sleeping it off. Of the lionesses there was no sign.

  A smile creased Mzingeli’s face. He gestured with both hands to Simon as if tracing a circle, and mouthed, ‘Big.’ Then he moved slightly to his right and nodded his head forward. The signal was clear: kill. Kill now.

  Fonthill licked his dry lips and inched forward, raising his rifle to the shoulder. Where was the target spot? Ah yes, just above and behind the front leg. Not easy to define from the rear, with the mane spreading so far down the body. He squinted through the foresight. Damn! It was set at one hundred yards. At point-blank range he would overshoot by miles. Feeling Mzingeli’s disapproval radiating towards him, he lowered the rifle and, with infinite care, pushed down the sight, then raised the rifle once more and focused on the sleeping animal. His finger tightened on the trigger . . . squeeze, don’t pull . . . and there it stayed, until the end of the long barrel began to sway a little with the weight of it.

  The lion was sleeping, sleeping. Fonthill had killed many men in the heat of battle or in one-to-one combat over the preceding years, but he had never killed anything that was not erect and facing him. This magnificent beast lay a few yards from him in perfect somnolence, completely unaware of the danger. It seemed somehow unfair, completely unfair, to kill him like this. It was not a killing, more an execution. He could not do it. Give the animal a fighting chance, at least.

  So Fonthill shouted, ‘Get up, you lazy bastard.’

  Immediately the sleeping thing became alive, very much alive. The lion was on its feet within a second, turning its great head towards the danger, its mouth open showing yellow incisor fangs and emitting a roar that boomed back from the rocks around. At that moment, Fonthill fired.

  The bullet tore through the muscles just behind the animal’s head, cutting a furrow through the mane and causing blood to spurt. Then, with one bound, the beast had gone, leaving behind the echo of the shot and a bloodstain on the rocky ground. From the other side of the rock came two responding roars and a scuffle as the lionesses, unseen, followed him.

  Fonthill and Mzingeli were left staring at each other. Neither spoke for a second or two, then Simon cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. I just couldn’t kill him while he was asleep. It seemed so . . . so . . . unfair somehow. I am sorry, Mzingeli.’

  Slowly, a smile spread across the tracker’s face. ‘I think I understand, Nkosi.’ Then the smile disappeared. ‘But now we have big problem. We cannot leave wounded animal. We must follow into bush and finish him. If he stay alive with wound, he cannot chase properly to hunt and he turn to eating men. Becomes man-killer. We must track him now into bush. Very dangerous.’

  ‘What happened?’ Alice and Jenkins had suddenly materialised, Alice’s eyes wide. Behind them - at some distance - appeared Ntini and Sando. ‘Oh, thank goodness you are all right.’ Alice clutched Simon’s arm. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, I . . . er . . . missed. That’s it really. No, it isn’t.’ Fonthill’s face was crestfallen. ‘The fact is, I just couldn’t kill the bloody thing at point-blank range when it was sleeping.’

  Mzingeli’s face was once again illuminated by his great grin. He interjected, ‘Nkosi shouted, “Wake up, lion” to make it fair. It is the English way, I think. I don’t see this before.’

  ‘Well,’ Jenkins’s expression was lugubrious, ‘it’s not the bloody Welsh way, I can tell you, Jelly. I would ’ave shot ’im up the arse if necessary, see.’

  Fonthill cleared his throat again. ‘Yes, well. I couldn’t do it and that’s that. Then I missed, although I wounded the beast. Now I must follow him and finish him off. It should be quite easy. I will have a blood spoor that will lead me to him, and this time I promise I won’t miss. You must all stay here because the lionesses are still about, but I would like Mzingeli to come with me, please.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, Simon.’ Alice’s voice was quite determined. ‘We will all come with you. This time it will be more dangerous because the animals will be alerted - and they will probably be in the bush, and not,’ her voice took on a gentler tone and her eyes were soft, ‘lying on a nice clean rock waiting for you to shoot. Don’t worry, my love, the odds will be much more equal this time.’

  ‘Oh bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins.

  Mzingeli gestured to the two bearers and spoke to them in their own tongue. Then he turned to the others. ‘I think we take cup of tea and something to eat before we follow. There will be time.’

  They set off again within the half-hour, moving more quickly this time. The trail was easy to follow and it led in a straight line, deeper into the bush. Then, after a while, the drops of blood became more irregular until finally they disappeared and Mzingeli was forced to deploy his arcane tracking skills again. Not that this was too difficult, because the three animals seemed now to be moving abreast through the bush, flattening the long grasses that had become a feature of the terrain.

  As they progressed, a new and deeper air of tension began to pervade the little group. The bush seemed very, very quiet now, as though all of its occupants were standing off, silently waiting for the denouement that was surely to come. Somewhere a jackal barked, and high above an eagle wheeled, but otherwise the eerie stillness seemed to grow as they trudged along, watching carefully to ensure that they did not tread on a puff adder that might lurk in the sandy hollows that were becoming more prevalent and whose bite could be fatal. On either side of them the grasses seemed to have become longer and more impenetrable.

  They reached a little clearing and Mzingeli held up his hand. He nodded at the ground. ‘He stop bleeding,’ he said. ‘Not hit bad, then, and maybe close. He very dangerous now. I think he very angry.’ As he spoke, the others were aware of a strange, musky smell.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenkins, ‘well I would be if I’d ’ad a bullet through me—’

  He was silenced by the most frightening sound Simon, Alice or Jenkins had heard since they had first landed in South Africa. From somewhere nearby, out in the bush but beyond their vision, came a low, rumbling growl. Its source was hard to place, but it was immediately followed by another from a different direction and then a third, again with a different origin. The sound was other-worldly - malicious and menacing, as though Satan himself was watching them from the surrounding bush and giving a warning of intent. The three Europeans all immediately felt a prickling at the nape of their necks.

  ‘The buggers ’ave surrounded us,’ breathed Jenkins.

  Fonthill pulled Alice to his side and looked at Mzingeli. The tracker’s eyes were wide and he was turning slowly, examining each section of the undergrowth in turn, his rifle at the ready. The six had instinctively moved together now, so that they stood in a tight circle, almost back to back, except for Sando, who for some reason had stayed slightly apart, his eyes fixed on some long grass underneath a thorn tree.

  In a flash of tawny flesh, the lioness broke out of the grass, ran towards the bearer and then sprang on him. Sando just had time to sink on to his haunches and dig the butt of his long spear in to the earth, its blade pointing at an angle of about forty-five degrees straight at the lioness. It seemed that the animal hit Sando and the blade of the assegai at exactly the same time. The spear head penetrated its throat, snapping the shaft, but the lioness seemed to engulf the bearer, knocking him backwards, its jaws seeking his throat, despite the tip of the blade pro
truding from the back of its neck.

  With speed matching that of the lioness, Ntini plunged his own assegai into the side of the beast, at the top of and just behind its foreleg. He withdrew it quickly and then thrust it into the stomach, this time twisting it as he pulled it out with that familiar sucking sound, iklwa, that Fonthill had first heard on the battlefield of Isandlwana a decade before. The lioness became suddenly still. From underneath its body, a bloodstained Sando began the struggle to free himself.

  The others, however, had no time to help him, because the little clearing now erupted into a maelstrom of action. From the right, the lion broke cover with ferocious speed and sprang at Fonthill, as though recognising him as his earlier tormentor. Instinctively Simon leapt aside, firing as he did so. At such short range, the force of the bullet had the effect of making the beast twist in mid-air, although it had only entered that mass of muscle under the chin, not quite penetrating it. As the lion hit the ground, however, Alice’s much lighter cartridge took him at the side of the head. The second shot had the effect of stunning the beast for a moment, and fumbling a second round into the breech of his Martini-Henry, Fonthill had time to leap forward and deliver the coup de grâce at point-blank range into the lion’s heart. The beast’s head sank forward with a sigh and he lay still.