The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  ‘Now.’ Lamb leaned across his desk. ‘You’ve been in Lobengula’s kraal, I hear.’

  Fonthill lifted his eyebrows. ‘How did you know that? We only returned yesterday.’

  ‘It’s my business to know these things. Seen Rhodes yet?’

  ‘How did you know I was going to see him?’

  ‘I didn’t, but I know that he wants to see you.’

  ‘Why should he want to see me?’

  Lamb pushed his chair back and let a spiral of blue smoke curl towards the ceiling. ‘Several reasons. Firstly, you have become almost famous, my dear fellow, with your exploits in various parts of the Empire, and Rhodes would admire that. He is, as you must know, first and foremost an Empire man.’

  ‘Yes, I do know that. I met him in Kimberley some years ago.’

  ‘Did you now? Secondly, Rhodes is always trying to recruit bright young men into his own empire - and my word, that empire has become almost as large as the Queen’s. He owns all the diamond mines in Kimberley now, of course, and most of the gold strands too.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘But the third reason is the most important. I think he has a job for you.’

  ‘For me? Well, I’m not at all sure that I would want to work for him, thank you very much.’

  ‘Ah!’ Lamb let the silence hang after the word for at least twenty seconds. Then he waved his cigar and looked up at the ceiling. ‘But my dear Fonthill, both Wolseley in London and I here rather hoped that you would, you see.’

  ‘What, work for Rhodes? Why should you want that?’

  ‘Well, here’s the background.’ The general let his chair crash to the floor. ‘You know that Rhodes believes he has done a deal with the King of the Matabele . . . what’s his name again?’

  ‘Lobengula.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the feller. Rhodes’s agreement gives him permission to dig for mineral rights in Matabeleland and Mashonaland. Now, young Cecil John - dammit, the man can’t be much older than you - would certainly want to pick out all the gold and silver that those two territories have, but he is really after settlement. He wants to open up the route to the north, beyond Mashonaland, and the best way to do that, he knows, is to settle the land. Let pioneers in. Of British stock, of course.’

  ‘But that’s not part of the contract with Lobengula, is it?’

  ‘It certainly isn’t, and from what I hear of the king up there, the old blighter would never agree to it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fonthill put his hand to his mouth pensively. ‘In fact, Rhodes is in some danger of losing the contract he has anyway.’

  ‘What? Why is that?’

  Fonthill proceeded to explain the mission he had been given by the king, and also the presence in Bulawayo of de Sousa and his own brushes with the Portuguese agent. ‘I gather,’ he went on, ‘that the Germans, the Boers and other, independent British companies are all sniffing around the king’s kraal, trying to persuade him to drop Rhodes and let them in. Bit of a mess really. But what’s the British government’s view of all this?’

  Lamb smiled. ‘Where Her Majesty’s Government is involved, my dear boy, nothing is straightforward, but I will try and explain. The Government does not wish to venture into any further expensive acquisition of territory in Africa. It has enough on its plate as it is down here and with the Russians across the border on India’s North-West Frontier. It certainly would not wish to become involved in another war with the natives - another Zululand, if you like.’

  ‘Would it try and stop Rhodes, then?’

  ‘On the contrary. Despite what I have just said, the idea of settling the country north of the Transvaal - at no cost to the Government . . .’ Lamb emphasised the phrase heavily, ‘is quite attractive, because it could open up the north and even facilitate Rhodes’s dream of a transcontinental railway from Cairo to the Cape, which, again, HMG would rather fancy if someone else pays for it and it doesn’t involve another bloody great war. You talked about the hangers-on in Bulawayo. We would rather have the king locked into a firm and legal agreement with Rhodes than with anyone else.’

  Fonthill wrinkled his brow. ‘So what is the problem, then?’

  ‘Ah. It is the character of young Rhodes, d’yer see? He is damned impulsive and even more damned ambitious. His riches give him great resources, and the Government and Wolseley - the AG because the army will almost certainly become involved if Rhodes gets into trouble - are worried that the bloody man will use force if necessary to take Matabeleland and Mashonaland. All those wet knickers on the Opposition bench in Westminster will raise hell if he invades the territory willy-nilly and causes Lobengula to unleash his army and let his men wash their spears. It could be another Isandlwana all over again - and we’ve only just got over paying for that lot.’

  ‘I see. Well, I think I see. But what I don’t see is how I fit into all of this.’

  Lamb stubbed out his cigar, as though he was trying to push it through the bottom of the ash tray. ‘Wolseley knows you well and he has huge respect for your capabilities. I had picked up the rumour that Rhodes wants you on his team, and reported this to the AG. As a result, Wolseley has asked me to beg you to accept whatever Rhodes is about to offer you - if this can possibly be made to work into whatever your own plans are down here - and see if you can exert a calming influence on the man. Don’t let him antagonise Lobengula. You know the king and Rhodes does not. You will have influence as a result of this if nothing else.’

  A silence hung heavily in the smoke-filled room. Fonthill shifted on his chair. ‘Well, I don’t exactly know what I—’

  The general interrupted him. ‘I don’t mind admitting it’s an appeal to your patriotic sensibilities, Fonthill. Look,’ he leaned forward across his desk, ‘this country - and I don’t just mean the Cape Colony - is on the verge of something rather extraordinary. Our colonies here are going to become some of the most influential in the whole of the Empire. Dominion status is just around the corner. We are rich in mineral, agricultural and labour resources, and as these are developed, we shall be able to provide leadership for and set an example to these cock-eyed little states that the great powers of Europe have set up in the middle of the continent.’ The blue eyes twinkled and then hardened. ‘We don’t want Rhodes going over the top, upsetting the apple cart and raising Europe against us.’

  Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Lamb raised his hand. ‘Rhodes loves to have able and promising young men around him, and we know that he listens to them, more, much more than to old warhorses like me, or, for that matter, to anyone in Whitehall - whom he calls, derisively, “the Imperials”. You, with your comparative youth and your magnificent record in various parts of the Empire, will be just the sort of fellow that Rhodes will take notice of - not least because you have never toed the party line, so to speak, in imperial circles. You have always been your own man. Rhodes will like that.’

  ‘I am not sure that doing what you and Wolseley ask is exactly being my own man, but . . .’ Fonthill thought for a moment. ‘Have you any idea what Rhodes wants of me?’

  ‘No. I heard in the club that he had been singing your praises and that he had heard of your return to Cape Town. Knowing his interest in Matabeleland, I cannot see him not wanting to contact you.’

  ‘Hmmm. From what I have read of Rhodes, and from what I remember of my meeting with him, I can’t see him being nursemaided by anyone.’

  Lamb rose to his feet, a touch of exasperation in the action. ‘Of course you can’t be his nursemaid. But if you feel that he is being impatient, for instance - and this is his abiding failing - then you can counsel caution. I rather fear that the fellows he has round him at the moment are caught under his spell and have become a bit sycophantic. He will respect someone who stands up to him. But you must judge for yourself how to act. Just stop the blasted man from charging in with guns blazing, if you possibly can. We can’t exactly offer you a salary, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t want money.’

  ‘Good. I
n any case, Rhodes has the reputation of rewarding his people well. Often in kind - land, for instance, in the new territory.’

  Fonthill raised his head. ‘Land?’

  ‘Yes. Could you be interested? This is fine country.’

  ‘Ah. I don’t know. I must consult Alice, my wife.’

  ‘Dammit! I knew there was something I had forgotten.’ The little man extended his hand to Simon. ‘You married that remarkable lady Alice Griffith. Congratulations, my dear fellow. Belated, I know, but sincere none the less.’

  Fonthill stood and the two shook hands. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well, of course you must consult your wife. Call me if you need anything while you are here. I am completely at your service. But let me know what you decide as soon as you can. I have a feeling that Rhodes is very much on the march, so time could be of the essence.’

  ‘Thank you. I certainly will.’

  Fonthill chose to walk back to their hotel, his brain working hard. What could Rhodes want with him? He was intrigued, despite his cautious reaction to Lamb. The chance to work with a man who within a decade had risen from comparatively humble beginnings as a sugar farmer in Natal to become the most influential figure in the whole of South Africa and, if rumours were to be believed, the next prime minister of the Cape Colony was intriguing, to say the least. It would be a new experience after four years of farming under the grey skies of Norfolk. And if it carried with it the possibility of acquiring new land of his own in this vibrant new colony - ah, now that could be of distinct interest!

  Treading with a jaunty new step, Fonthill realised how much he was relishing this visit to South Africa. The business in Matabeleland had been disturbing, to say the least, but also exciting. It was good to be in action again after the sad, fallow years since the death of his son. Good to be here with Jenkins, too, reviving that unique comradeship that had been forged in danger and tempered under attack from so many different enemies. A gentle smile crept across his face as he reflected that even Alice, whom he loved more than life itself and whom he would never consciously put in harm’s way, had subtly changed when the time had come to defend the wagon. He recalled her calmness in firing at the lion as it charged and the cool determination with which she had reloaded her rifle at speed and kept firing at the Portuguese Kaffirs. He gave a little shrug. Perhaps not so strange, though. She was a soldier’s daughter, after all. But this country, with its wild, indigenous people, its wide vistas and its changeable, challenging climate, could well suit her.

  He looked around him at the bustling streets. Cape Town was just his sort of place. In some ways it reminded him of Bombay: so many faces, so many characters and so many colours. The dark skin of the locals, with their bare feet and scraps of clothing; the scurrying Indians, wearing turbans and a determined air, as though anxious to get back to their stalls to make another couple of shillings; the patrician white men, aloof under their pith helmets - quite unnecessary headgear here, where the breeze from the Atlantic cooled the heat of the sun, and worn more as a sign of class; the mixed bag of sailors from the docks; and the black-bearded Boer Dutchmen from the high veldt, striding along on legs bowed by years in the saddle and looking as though they had just strayed from the pages of the Bible. Yes, this was a vibrant port, a city of empire and, undoubtedly, the gateway to a land of promise.

  Alice was standing by the reception desk in the modest hotel into which they had booked. ‘Ah, my dear,’ she said. ‘I am so glad you have come.’ Her face was clouded.

  ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Her voice trailed away. ‘It’s 352. I asked him if he would go to the post office to see if we had mail. It is only ten minutes away and he went off quite happily, but he has been gone about three hours now. I called at the post office to see if he was there, but he was not. I picked up several letters. It looks as though Jenkins has not been there at all.’

  Fonthill sighed. ‘Oh dammit all. He’s gone drinking.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’

  Fonthill kicked himself for not realising that the Welshman would be building up for a thirst-quenching run ashore as soon as they had booked into their hotel. The problem was that one or two drinks would not be sufficient to wash away the dust in Jenkins’s throat. Once the familiar taste and tingle had entered his system, he would continue until he was completely drunk - or left for dead in an alley with a knife in his back.

  Simon turned to the Indian receptionist. ‘Where would I go if I wanted to drink myself senseless?’ he asked.

  The man’s jaw dropped. ‘You would not wish to do that, sir, surely?’

  ‘Yes, I would. I want a street with rough bars in it.’

  ‘Ah, goodness. Well. Let me think. The docks, I think, sir. Turn left at the door here and walk—’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I will find them. Alice, you stay here. I might be some time.’

  His wife opened her mouth to argue, but Fonthill was gone before she could do so, whirling on his heel and heading towards the clouds of black dust billowing into the air from where several freighters were re-coaling. Between the black columns he caught a glimpse of the blue Atlantic.

  The harbour, when he reached it, seemed vast and he realised that his search would be more difficult than envisioned. The first bars he met seemed comparatively respectable, with white traders in creased cotton suits, merchant navy officers, their peaked caps tipped to the back of their heads, and port officials drinking whisky. Jenkins would not feel at home here. He would want beer and the company of off-duty soldiers and sailors.

  Eventually Fonthill reached a narrow street off one of the quays where every second doorway seemed to be the entrance to a bar. He turned into the first, where the atmosphere reeked of tobacco smoke, beer and cheap gin. It was crowded but there was no sign of the familiar black moustache and stubbled hair. In the second, he approached two British soldiers of a line regiment and, describing Jenkins, asked if they had seen him.

  ‘Yes, mate. It was ’im all right. Drank about three pints, bought us one and then said that’e was on ’is way to the post office. Welsh bloke, old 24th, wasn’t ’e?’

  Fonthill nodded his thanks and continued his way up the alley. He doubted if the post office would have seen Jenkins that day, although he had certainly left his mark in six bars, where he was warmly remembered by the clientele. Simon gritted his teeth and continued the search. He knew the pattern. Jenkins would be affable to begin with, and then, on the slightest provocation, the Mr Hyde in his nature would surface, fuelled by the pints he had put away, until he would become argumentative, truculent and then violent - and violence in this quarter almost certainly meant the use of knives.

  Leaving the seventh bar, he paused. This was proving pointless. The man could be anywhere in this thriving but seedy port. Perhaps he really had put down the last glass and made for the post office. Then he heard a crash and shouting from an open door under a swinging inn sign. He ran to it and turned inside.

  If Landseer had painted the scene, he might have entitled it Jenkins At Bay. The Welshman, his shirt torn and perspiration pouring down his face, was holding a broken, jagged-ended pint glass and backing away to a corner of the bar. Facing him and moving irrevocably towards him were two large men in dungaree trousers and vests. Both were coal-stained, and under the black smudges it appeared that one was white and the other coloured, perhaps a Lascar. It was clear that they were stokers from the coaling freighters, and it was also clear that they were intent on causing serious harm to Jenkins, for they both had knives in their hands. Around the sides of the bar pressed a bedraggled crowd of onlookers, loose grins on their faces in anticipation of seeing blood shed. Two smashed tables were strewn on the sawdust floor, and beside them lay a third stoker, blood streaming from his nose and a cut above his eye. He appeared to be unconscious.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Fonthill’s voice cut through the anticipatory buzz and he strode forward. ‘The police will be here in a minut
e. Give me those knives.’

  ‘Ah, good to see you, bach.’ Jenkins nodded in greeting. His eyes were rheumy but alert. ‘Now don’t you worry about this,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to get involved, see. I can’ andle these gentlemen all right on me own, thank you very much.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Put down that glass. You men, give me your knives before someone gets hurt.’

  At first his strong, upper-class voice and his air of command made the two men pause, glaring over their shoulders at him. Then the white stoker spoke, slowly and with a strong Scandinavian accent. ‘Stay avay, out of dis. We cut oop this man. We cut oop you as vell if you interfere.’ He gestured with his knife.