The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

Jenkins, with the experience of a dozen or more barroom fights behind him, sensed that this was his moment. Taking advantage of the Swede’s confrontation with this unexpected stranger, he leapt forward and smashed the bottom of his pint glass on to the man’s head, then, swaying to his right, swept a left hook into his stomach. In doing so, however, he left his back unprotected, and the Lascar swung back his arm to bury his knife into it.

  Instinctively, Fonthill launched himself into a low rugby tackle and caught the Lascar behind the knees, crumpling him so that the man collapsed on top and then away from him, his knife spinning into the crowd. For a moment the two lay winded on the floor, and Simon felt the taste of sawdust in his mouth. Then he threw himself on to the Lascar’s back, fighting to thread his arms beneath the man’s shoulders to lock him into a half-nelson, dimly remembered from his wrestling days in the school gym. But the stoker was a quarter as big again as Fonthill, and with one convulsive heave he threw him off his back, as though he was tipping a sack of coal into the hold of his ship.

  Simon cracked his face on the planking of the floor, sniffing the sawdust again and landing at the feet of the onlookers. Immediately many hands raised him, and with a cheer, he was pushed back to meet the giant Lascar, who advanced on him now, both hands outstretched, seemingly to embrace and then crush him. Involuntarily, Fonthill grabbed the shirt of the man in the crowd nearest to him, whirled him round and sent him crashing into his opponent. The stoker was huge but he was also ponderous, and clutching the onlooker to him, he fell backwards. Simon leapt forward and kicked his boot into the stoker’s face. It seemed to have little effect, however, for the man merely shook his head and rose to his feet.

  Fonthill advanced and put three successive jabs with his left hand into the face of the Lascar. Cheers rose from the crowd, but he might have been hitting the wall for all the damage he caused the big man; he was merely a mosquito stinging an elephant. The stoker lumbered forward, his arms outstretched once more, and Fonthill ducked under the attempted embrace and hit the man as hard as he could in the stomach. The wheeze that the blow produced showed that the man was not as invulnerable as he seemed, and Simon danced in again to repeat the blow, but the bloodstained sawdust was no place for fancy footwork and, inevitably, he slipped. Immediately his hair was seized and he was locked into a bear hug, his nose pressed to the dirty grey vest. His senses became overwhelmed by the smell of stale beer, perspiration, cold dust and then fear, as his chin was pushed back by the palm of the Lascar’s right hand, while the left arm held him tight and exerted pressure on his vertebrae. The bastard was trying to break his neck!

  Fonthill knew that it would be only a matter of seconds before the giant would relax his grip on his chin and then jerk it up and under, so snapping his neck. In desperation, he wriggled his left arm down the Lascar’s abdomen until he felt the softness of the man’s testicles. His fingers sank in, then, with almost his last breath, he squeezed and pulled. The big man shrieked and relaxed his hold, allowing Simon to slip out of his grasp.

  Sucking air into his lungs, Fonthill staggered away, gasping and holding his throat, as the Lascar doubled up in pain. He was dimly aware that one section of the crowd was screaming ‘Unfair!’ while the other was whistling and cheering. But they had not yet seen enough blood spilt, for someone threw back the Lascar’s dagger, which the coloured man caught in one giant fist before advancing on Fonthill again.

  ‘’Ere, mate,’ another shouted. ‘Let’s make it a fair fight.’ And a second knife curved through the air and quivered in the floor at Simon’s feet.

  He picked it up. It was a knife fight now. He dared not spare a moment to see how Jenkins was faring, but it seemed clear that he would have to see this through on his own. Kill or be killed.

  Fonthill realised that he was completely outranged by the Lascar’s reach and that his only hope would be to use his greater mobility. The big man was holding the knife blade down, as a dagger. That meant that he would have to bring it upwards before slashing down - perhaps there would be a fleeting moment of opportunity there, if Simon could get close enough to thrust himself. His brain raced. Close enough, yes, but how to get in under the man’s guard?

  Then he remembered a technique he had seen Jenkins use many years before when the Welshman had been confronted by a giant Zulu. Simon took two quick steps forward and then pretended to slip, going down almost on one knee, except that the bent leg remained balanced on the ball of his foot. His left hand went to the floor, and as the Lascar stepped forward and raised his knife, he picked up a handful of sawdust and threw it in the coloured man’s face, causing him to blink and turn his head away for a second. Almost in the same movement, Fonthill brought his own knife hand upwards and thrust the blade into the other man’s forearm, twisting it and pulling it away as the blood spurted.

  The giant howled, dropped his own knife and grabbed his arm, sinking to one knee. At almost the same moment, Simon glimpsed the bloodstained face of Jenkins materialise behind that of the Lascar, as he lifted a chair leg and brought it down with a thud on the man’s head. For a moment the big man teetered, and then, like a forest giant felled by a woodman’s axe, he toppled to the floor and lay still.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins, ‘why did you choose the big one? You could ’ave ’ad my bloke, though come to think of it, ’e wasn’t so small either. Eh, you all right, bach sir?’ He threw away the chair leg and, frowning, inspected Fonthill. ‘Blimey, your nose is bleedin’ a bit . . .’

  His voice tailed away as he saw the look of fury in Simon’s eyes. ‘Yes, well, sorry, bach sir.’ His manner now was abjectly apologetic, and he fumbled to put a very grimy handkerchief to Fonthill’s nose. ‘I only slipped away for a minute, see, to ’ave one or two ’alves. Sorry if you’ve been . . . er . . . inconvenienced like.’

  ‘Inconvenienced!’ Fonthill staggered to his feet and looked around. There were three stokers on the barroom floor, two of them now stirring and the third, the Swede, sitting and holding his head. ‘You’ve broken up a bar, nearly killed three men, as far as I can see, and almost caused me to have my neck broken. And you call it inconvenience!’

  ‘Ah well, yes, I can see what you—’

  The Welshman was interrupted by a very large barman, who advanced on them carrying what seemed to be a Zulu knobkerrie. ‘Now, man,’ he addressed Jenkins in the guttural tones of an Afrikaner, ‘I want paying for two broken tables and three chairs. And you’re not going till I get my money.’

  A look of intense indignation alighted on Jenkins’s sweat-stained face. ‘Hey, bach, I didn’t start it, look you. It’s these three bastards you should get to put their ’ands in their pockets. I only . . .’

  Fonthill put his hand on the Welshman’s shoulder. He pressed a white five-pound note into the bartender’s hand and tossed the knife he was still holding on to the floor. ‘That should cover it,’ he said. ‘And if it doesn’t, you’ll just have to get the rest from these bruisers. Come on, Jenkins. I’ve had enough of this place.’

  If the barman had thoughts of arguing, they were dispelled by the looks on the faces of the two men, who were given a rousing cheer from the onlookers, now pushing furniture back and lifting the wreckage of broken chairs and tables, attempting the impossible task of fitting the shattered pieces together again.

  Outside, Fonthill pushed his own handkerchief to his nose to staunch the bleeding and seized Jenkins’s arm. ‘I know this sounds out of character,’ he said, ‘but I could use a drink. Is there a bar here that you haven’t wrecked and is not full of ruffians?’

  Jenkins’s face broke into a grin and he attempted to push the remnants of his torn shirt beneath his waistband. ‘What a good idea, bach sir. Yes. I think the first one I popped into might suit. Bit quiet it was. Down ’ere, sir.’

  Once seated, Simon placed a pint of ale and a whisky chaser in front of each of them, took a deep draught of the beer and then sat gazing at his comrade in silence. At first Jenkins grinned happily and half drained his gla
ss. Then he realised that the genial forgiveness that seemed to be linked to the drink was not, in fact, going to be on offer, and he began to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He sniffed and ran the back of his hand under his nose.

  ‘Look, bach sir,’ he began. ‘I really am sorry, honest.’

  Fonthill held up his hand and the Welshman fell silent. But Simon kept looking at him, his face expressionless. In fact, he was attempting to weigh up how it was possible for someone only five feet four inches tall to take on three men, all much bigger than him, without the slightest trace of fear. How was Jenkins able to do it - particularly having consumed enough alcohol to sink a battleship? He had laid out two of the stokers, and although it was difficult to conceive that he would have survived without Simon’s arrival, it was quite possible. Fonthill shook his head, and Jenkins took the kind of tiny sip of whisky that would not been out of place in a rectory and looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the storm to break.

  But Fonthill was still trying to analyse the kind of fighting machine that had been at his side for the last decade. In idle moments in the past, watching the huge hands of his servant stitching back a button or ironing a shirt with dainty precision, he had wondered at the dual nature of the man. Not only patient batman/servant and disciplined infantryman, but also fierce barroom brawler, as good with his fists or a wrestling stranglehold as with a knife. Why did he always come out on top? Well, he was magnificently strong, of course, with the courage of a lion. Then he was light on his feet and always seemingly unaffected by the drink he had taken. He also possessed a very low centre of gravity, which enabled him to take on much taller men. Simon shook his head and gave up. Over the years, he had benefited hugely by his comrade’s ability to fight in any situation. Best to be thankful for it and regard it as a credit on the balance sheet of a very complex character.

  He leaned forward. Jenkins’s eyes now switched to the floor apprehensively. ‘I suppose I was able to help . . .’ Fonthill began.

  ‘Oh, you did, bach sir, you did.’ Jenkins jumped in thankfully. ‘And I’m very grateful, indeed I am. My word, I couldn’t see much of what was goin’ on because I ’ad me ’ands a bit full, like, but from what I could see you was fightin’ a lovely dirty fight. Not like an officer at all, see. I was very proud . . .’

  Fonthill held up his hand with a sigh. ‘But I would have lost out to that brute in the end, because he was too big for me. So thank you for knocking him over the head. Anyway.’ He raised his glass to his comrade. ‘If I did help a bit, then it came no way near to matching what you did in that tent with that damned snake. So, my dear old 352, thank you and cheers!’

  Jenkin’s jaw dropped for a moment, and then, with a relieved grin, he downed his whisky in one gulp. ‘Cheers, bach sir. Shall we ’ave just one more, then?’

  ‘No, we will not. And I want your word that you won’t go on another drinking rampage while we are in Cape Town.’ Fonthill shook his head and sighed. ‘You must stay out of trouble for the rest of our stay because by the look of it we may have some work to do again before long.’

  The Welshman’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh really? An’ what would that be, then, bach sir?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I shall soon. Now drink up - although God knows where you will put it all. We must get back because Alice will be concerned.’

  Chapter 6

  The expected invitation came from Rhodes the next day. It was amazingly informal: a page seemingly torn from a cheap notepad and covered with strong, forward-sloping handwriting. It read:

  My dear Fonthill,

  We met in Kimberley some time back. Could you spare me an hour or less tomorrow? Come to breakfast at my rooms. Best bacon and eggs in the Colony. Shall we say 8 a.m.?

  Yours, Cecil J. Rhodes.

  As an afterthought, Rhodes had scribbled the address of his apartment on the back of the page.

  Fonthill grinned and passed the note to Alice. She read it with a frown and passed it back. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least we can say that there are no frills about this particular millionaire. It seems he doesn’t employ a lady with the new typewriting machine. Will you go? How stupid of me. Of course you will go.’

  ‘Yes. Of course I will. I have a message to deliver to him, and in any case, I am bursting with curiosity to know what he wants of me.’

  ‘Very well, but Simon, do be careful. Don’t be bullied or blackmailed by Lamb and Wolseley. You have served your country well enough now not to owe it any more.’

  Fonthill bent and kissed her brow. ‘Have no fears, my love. The great ensnarer will not catch this rabbit - unless he wants to be caught, that is. In any case, I love bacon and eggs and this hotel does a miserable breakfast.’

  Fonthill arrived a little early the next day for his appointment and found that ‘The Richest Man in Africa’ lived in second-floor rooms in one of the busiest streets in the middle of Cape Town, accommodation typical of a youngish bachelor of moderate means. The rooms were wood-panelled and cosy, those perhaps of a don at the University of Oxford. Rhodes himself answered the door and led him to a table of some polished dark African wood set for breakfast.

  ‘Sit down, my dear Fonthill,’ he said. ‘My man will have breakfast for us in five minutes or so. That gives me the chance to ask you about Gordon. I knew him well, you know. But you must have been the last white man to have seen him. Tell me about him.’

  Fonthill studied the great man with interest. Rhodes had put on considerable weight since last they had met. He must now weigh about fourteen stone, but he carried it well, for he was tall and broad-shouldered. He was dressed carelessly in an old tweed jacket and cream cricket flannels, and the air of an undergraduate was enhanced by the auburn hair, now touched with grey, but flung loosely over his forehead. His eyes were bluish grey, dreamy and kindly and rather bulbous. They seemed to be those of a country parson - Fonthill remembered that he was indeed the son of a clergyman - and they certainly betrayed no trace of ruthlessness or commercial avarice. The moustache had been allowed to droop either side of his full lips, and his voice was high-pitched and had risen to a squeak at the mention of General Gordon. His appearance and demeanour were far from those of a determined businessman and political schemer.

  ‘Ah, Gordon,’ said Simon. ‘I did not know you knew him, sir.’

  ‘Indeed. We were great friends. Worked together in the early eighties when we were both members of the Losses Commission set up to decide compensation for those Basutos who had remained loyal through the rebellion at that time. Big difference in our ages, but we got on well and Charlie asked me to join him in the Sudan. But I was about to come on to the Cape Cabinet and had to decline. Tell me what happened at the end.’

  Fonthill described the voyage of the two steamers sent up the Nile ahead of Wolseley’s expedition in a desperate attempt to relieve the general in a besieged Khartoum, and their arrival just two days too late. To his surprise, Simon saw tears well up into Rhodes’s eyes.

  The big man fished out a red handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. ‘Disgraceful,’ he said. ‘Disgraceful and tragic. I wish I had been with him. I do, you know.’

  The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of a beaming black man carrying two tureens on a tray, which he placed on the table. ‘This is Tony,’ said Rhodes. ‘Been with me for years. Couldn’t do without him. Tony, meet Mr Fonthill, a great man of the Empire.’

  To Simon’s surprise, the servant gave a half-bow then extended his hand. Rising, Fonthill took it and they exchanged hearty handshakes before the man retired.

  Rhodes took off the lids of both tureens. ‘You know, Fonthill,’ he said confidentially, ‘these Kaffirs are great people. I like and respect ’em. When I was farming in Natal years ago, I lent a great deal of money to them when it was hut tax time, and they always came and worked if off for me. Kaffirs are really safer than the Bank of England. Two eggs or three?’

  ‘Er . . . two, please.’

  Rhodes busied himself with adding bacon, t
omato, black pudding, mushrooms and sausages to Fonthill’s plate, and Simon realised why the man had put on so much weight since last they had met.

  ‘Now, Fonthill. You have just returned from Lobengula’s kraal, I hear. Tell me about him and conditions there.’

  ‘I have, and indeed I have a message for you from the king.’

  ‘Oh.’ Rhodes looked up sharply. ‘Pray tell me.’

  Fonthill put down his knife and fork and first described the situation in Bulawayo - the supplicants at the court of the king and in particular the pressure being applied by de Sousa on behalf of the Portuguese.

  ‘Ah, Gouela. I’ve heard about him. But what’s the king’s message?’

  ‘It seems that in return for the king’s signature on a concession allowing your company to develop the mineral rights in Matabeleland and Mashonaland, you would deliver to Lobengula a monthly retainer of a hundred pounds, a thousand Martini-Henry rifles with a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition and a steamboat with guns suitable for defensive purposes on the Zambezi river. But the king says that none of these promises have been met, and, to put it politely, he will consider the contract to be null and void unless he receives these payments soon.’