by John Wilcox
‘Darjeeling?’ she repeated. ‘Of course, your majesty. It is our favourite. It will not take a moment.’
A minute or so later, the three sat together on the ground, drinking their tea and discussing the weather, as though they were in a vicarage garden on a sunny morning in England. Then came the question that Fonthill had been fearing.
‘May I ask what it is you take across my land to the King of the Matabele?’
Simon drew in his breath. He had decided long ago that he would not lie to the man, but he knew that to reveal that his cargo contained rifles could well bring a refusal from Khama to allow him to continue his journey through Bechuanaland, so adding many days to the trip. What to say?
‘I hope your majesty will forgive me if I do not reveal the contents of my cargo,’ he said. ‘They are items agreed by Mr Rhodes and King Lobengula as part of the treaty recently signed between the two, and I must respect their confidentiality. However, I give you my word, sir, that these cases will not be broached during our passage through your land and that their contents will have no adverse effect on your relations with the King of the Matabele.’
He inwardly winced at the dissembling, but clutched to himself Rhodes’s assurance that the Matabele army would be unable to use the rifles effectively without the sort of training that would be unavailable in this part of Africa.
A frown settled on the king’s dignified features. Alice hurriedly stepped in. ‘May I refill your cup, your majesty?’ she asked.
‘Thank you. Yes. Excellent tea.’ A silence descended for a moment. Then: ‘Very well. I accept your word as an English gentleman that whatever is contained in those wagons will not be used against the Bechuana people.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘You know, Mr Fonthill, that we are a rather poor country, with few mineral resources, in that most of our land is a kind of desert. My people are not aggressive and, unlike the Matabele, do not take easily to fighting. We are pastoral, not warlike. I would not wish to have the uneasy balance between these two countries swing unfairly towards our militant neighbours.’ The smile deepened. ‘I am sure you understand me.’
Fonthill felt a wave of sympathy towards this urbane man. He also felt guilty. Could he relieve Khama’s fears, at least slightly, without compromising his position? ‘I quite understand, your majesty,’ he said, ‘and I echo your sentiments. As I understand it, if this cargo has any significance outside Matabeleland, it would lie mainly towards the Transvaal.’
‘Mmm.’ The king did not look exactly mollified. ‘Excellent tea,’ he said again to Alice. ‘Thank you very much.’ He stood. ‘You may proceed, and I wish you a safe journey.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘There is, however, one further point on which I fear I can offer no indulgence.’
‘Sir?’
Khama nodded, and his face was grave. ‘Yes. Alcohol. We make our own very good beer, Mr Fonthill, but one must drink a substantial amount before it affects the senses, and on the whole it does not produce drunkenness in my people. This is not true, however, with the white man’s spirits. It is against the law here to sell such substances to the native people of Bechuanaland. It corrupts their health and their behaviour. Do you follow?’
Fonthill inclined his head. ‘Of course, sir. We do carry some whisky and a little Cape brandy, but I will ensure that while we are in Bechuanaland it is consumed only by us - and then moderately.’
‘Good. Now tell me the route you expect to take.’
‘We shall follow the north road towards Tuli and cross there.’
‘Umph. Dangerous country. Keep a good watch.’
‘So I have been told.’
‘Come and say goodbye before you leave.’
‘We will, your majesty. Thank you for your visit.’
The tall man bent down and brushed a few strands of grass from his trousers, then he looked around, gave a cheery wave of his hand to the company and sauntered away.
‘Wow,’ said Alice. ‘What an interesting man. He would grace any drawing room in London.’
Fonthill nodded his head. ‘I feel a bit of a cad for misleading him - if I did, that is. I am sure he knew we were carrying rifles.’
‘Well, you didn’t tell him any lies and I think he respected you for that. We’d better be sure that Messrs Murphy and Laxer don’t slyly sell the odd bottle of whisky, though.’
‘Oh I think we can trust them now, but I will warn them of course.’
That evening, after sharing a customary dram, Fonthill told his overseers of the king’s request, and although the two exchanged glances, they seemed to accept the situation well enough.
The little party stayed for one more day in Palapye, resting the oxen and horses, replenishing their water containers and buying reserve stocks of biltong, the strips of dried meat that sustained natives and whites alike on long journeys throughout South Africa. Before leaving, Alice and Simon called on the king, but he was away from the capital. They left a scribbled note of farewell, together with their remaining bags of Darjeeling tea.
‘I’ve only met two African kings so far,’ mused Alice to Simon as they rode off to the north. ‘One likes the finest French wine and the other the best Indian tea. Strange. Do you think they’re all like that?’
‘Why not? Why shouldn’t they share the benefits of civilisation? Why should it be only English devils that sing the best tunes?’
As the little cavalcade journeyed further north, it became clear that the terrain was becoming drier, with the few watercourses they crossed completely bereft of any form of liquid. So on the second night after leaving Palapye, they made their camp early, near a small village that had settled around a waterhole. Here, Fonthill ordered Laxer to replenish a couple of their fatchies.
The little man had been gone more than half an hour before he returned, carrying the bulging water bags and, incongruously, a small elephant tusk under his arm.
‘I bought it orf the black fellers, missus, fer ’alf a crown,’ he explained to Alice. ‘Not bad tradin’, I fort, eh?’ And he grinned, showing blackened teeth.
‘Bloody good,’ agreed Jenkins. ‘Let’s ’ave a look, then.’ He took the tusk and scratched it with his thumbnail. ‘Seems genuine all right,’ he said, handing it back. ‘Worth about thirty quid back in the Cape, I’d say.’
Shortly afterwards, as Fonthill was attempting to light a fire under some carefully husbanded dried oxen dung, Jenkins squatted down beside him. ‘I thought so, bach sir,’ he said. ‘There’s a whisky bottle missin’ from the store.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
‘Oh, it’s gone, right enough. I counted this mornin’ an’ we’re one down since then an’ we ’aven’t pulled a cork today. That little bastard Laxer must ’ave pinched one and took it into the village to trade for that bit of ivory. ’E knows its value well enough. I thought ’is shirt was bulgin’ a bit as ’e walked off. ’E’s a sneaky piece of work, that one, look you.’
‘Right. Come with me.’
Together they strode to where Murphy was pegging out the tent he shared with Laxer. The little Cockney was inside, unrolling their bedding.
‘Laxer,’ called Fonthill. ‘Come out here.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘How much did you say you paid for that ivory?’
A hunted look came into Laxer’s face. ‘Two an’ six, guv.’
‘No it wasn’t. It was a bottle of whisky, wasn’t it?’
‘No, I promise yer. On me mother’s deathbed. It woren’t me.’
Fonthill sighed. ‘Don’t lie. Bring out that damned ivory. We will go together and take it back and recover what might be left of the whisky. I told you that on no account must we sell spirits to the natives.’
‘Well, your honour,’ Murphy interjected, ‘I ’spect old Jim ’ere thought that just one little bottle wouldn’t ’urt, so far out ’ere in the bush, bless you. We was goin’ to share the proceeds o’ the sale of the ivory with you all when we got back, sure we was.’
‘Of course you were. Don’t you bloody well lie to me as well. I’m not a fool. Now, Laxer, bring out that damned tusk and we will go to the village this minute, before the contents of that bottle has gone.’
They returned ten minutes later, a half-emptied bottle in Fonthill’s hand. He threw it to Jenkins. ‘Put it back in the store, 352.’ He turned to the two overseers. ‘I just hope the king doesn’t hear of this,’ he said, ‘otherwise we’ll be thrown out of Bechuanaland long before we reach the northern border. You have jeopardised this journey and I shall be taking ten pounds each off your wages at the end. Don’t step out of line again on this expedition. Do you understand?’
Sullenly, they both shook their heads.
That evening, as the flames from the fire flickered across their faces, Fonthill took counsel with Alice, Jenkins and Mzingeli.
‘With respect, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, ‘I don’t think we can trust these two to stand by us if we run into trouble, see.’
Alice frowned. ‘What do you mean by trouble?’
Jenkins squirmed on his buttocks and cast a quick apologetic look at Fonthill. ‘Well, not real trouble, like, just if old de Sousie tries ’is ’and again, when we get into Matabillie land. O’ course we can see ’im and ’is black fellers off quickly enough, but it might be a bit easier if we ’ad a couple more ’ands to back us up. Though, look you, there’s not much point in ’avin’ ’em if they’re goin’ to bunk off, is there now?’
‘But it wouldn’t be in their interests to flee if we are attacked, would it?’ Alice looked at Simon. ‘I mean, we are miles from anywhere. Where would they go?’
Fonthill sighed. ‘Well, although they say they’ve never been here before, they’ve knocked about this part of the world for years and I would say that they know how to look after themselves. Anyway, they might be rogues, but I doubt if they would desert us. This is the first time they have fallen out of line. What do you think, Mzingeli?’
The tracker looked up, his face quite impassive. ‘These white men no good,’ he said and lapsed into silence again.
‘Well,’ Jenkins broke the silence, ‘this Portuguese bloke - ’ow’s ’e goin’ to know that we’re comin’? It’s still bloomin’ miles till we get to the border. ’Ow would ’e know we’re on our way, like?’
Fonthill gave a sad grin. ‘I’m afraid everybody in Africa seems to know where we’re going and why, old chap. I think de Sousa will have picked up the vibrations by now. Anyway,’ he sighed, ‘I don’t think we have much of a choice. We must soldier on but keeping an eye on these fellows.’
The next two days passed uneventfully, but progress was slow, for the wagons were now being forced to cross more and more dongas, where everyone - even Alice - was needed to manhandle them up and down the steep sides of the dried-up watercourses, as the oxen strained and pulled up ahead. The party was quite defenceless at these times, but Fonthill believed that they were too far away from the border - even from the Tuli Block - to expect trouble. Even so, he instigated a night watch, with all the white men taking it in turns to stand to throughout the hours of darkness.
Shortly before dawn on the fifth morning after leaving Palapye, Fonthill was shaken awake by Jenkins. ‘They’ve ’opped it,’ said the Welshman.
‘What?’
‘Both of ’em, gone, an they’ve taken two ’orses an’ the mule with ’em.’
‘Have they taken anything else?’
‘’Aven’t looked yet.’
‘Damn.’ Simon pulled his shirt over his head. ‘If they’ve taken the mule, it must mean that they have stolen part of our load. Oh hell. I shouldn’t have put them on watch on the same night. Stupid of me.’
Together they ran to the wagons. The full complement of boxes containing the rifles and the cartridges remained, but two were missing from the wagon containing the gold. A slow smile crept over Fonthill’s face.
‘The fools have taken boxes containing nothing more than stones,’ he said. ‘Oh, I would love to be there when they open those.’
Jenkins returned the grin. ‘Very clever of you to mix ’em up. But are you sure they’ve not taken the right one?’
‘No.’ Fonthill showed him a faint mark on the back of what seemed to be an identical box to the others. ‘This one carries the gold sovereigns. They obviously thought they were all full of coins - as they were supposed to - but couldn’t take the lot with just one mule. So they took just two to set themselves up for life. Well, well, well . . .’
‘They’ll be miles away by now, bach sir. Best to let ’em go an’ good riddance, eh?’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘They can keep their precious stones, but I’m damned if I’m going to let them get away with two horses, two rifles and old Mzingeli’s mule. I’m going after them. Wake the others up, I don’t want to waste a minute.’
‘Right, I’ll come with you.’
‘No. I want you to stay here to protect the camp. I will just take Mzingeli-I may need a tracker.’
‘Oh blimey . . .’
‘No arguments, Jenkins. There is precious cargo here of all kinds. I want you here to protect it. I think we are too far away from the border to be in danger, but you never know. Put the wagons into a laager and keep a good watch.’
Fonthill and Mzingeli stayed just long enough to fill their water bottles, stuff biltong into their pockets and drink one cup of coffee each before they kicked their heels into the flanks of their mounts. The sun tipped the flat horizon and sent their shadows long over the red earth as they rode away.
Chapter 8
It was not difficult to follow the trail, for the hoofprints were clear on the soft earth of the desert, and Mzingeli’s skills were needed only when patches of rock and the occasional spread of dry, wispy vegetation made the ground unreceptive.
‘How far ahead are they, do you think?’ asked Fonthill.
Mzingeli shrugged. ‘Maybe two, three hours. But they don’t go fast. Look.’ He pointed to the smaller spoor of the mule. ‘Mule heavy loaded. Sink into ground. Slows them. Maybe we catch up when sun is at highest. They stop then, I think, to eat.’ He shot a quick glance at Fonthill. ‘They know we come after them. Yes?’
Simon frowned. ‘I don’t know. It depends, I think, if they have been able to break open the boxes. If they do and they find just pebbles, then of course they will be furious, but they may well think we would not bother to track them, so they won’t be on their guard.’ He urged his horse on. ‘But I think they will have difficulty in opening the cases, so we must be careful on our approach when we do catch up. They both have good rifles and Murphy, at least, can shoot.’
They rode on during what Fonthill felt must surely be the hottest morning of the journey so far. The heat forced them to allow their horses to find their own, plodding pace and perspiration dripped down from the sweatband of Simon’s hat, making it difficult to see very far ahead. His head was down and his horse had almost collided with that of Mzingeli before he realised that his companion ahead had halted with raised hand. The tracker pointed to the ground. Small spots of blood, not yet dry, lay on the earth, melding in so well to the soil that they could only be discerned by a man with Mzingeli’s skill.
‘They worried,’ he said. ‘They want to go faster. They beat my mule. Near now, I think.’
‘If they are hurrying, that means that they are expecting to be followed.’ Fonthill stood high in his stirrups and concentrated on looking ahead. He could see nothing. ‘Can you see them yet?’
The slim man raised himself similarly and shaded his eyes. For a moment he did not speak, and then, ‘Ah yes. I think. Maybe half a mile or more. I think they stop.’
‘Good. In that case, let us dismount so that there is less of a profile of us on their horizon.’ Fonthill pulled out his compass and took a rough bearing. ‘I would like to get round them while they are eating, so that we can approach them from the south. They will not expect us to come that way.’ He looked hard at the black man. ‘Mzingeli, I do not want to harm t
hese men if I can help it. But if they do resort to violence, then we must both shoot to kill.’
The tracker nodded his head slowly but said nothing.
‘Right. Let’s go. I will rely on you to keep them in sight - but only just. I don’t want them to know that we have caught up.’
They dismounted, slipped a round each into their Martini-Henrys, and set off at a tangent, leading their horses. It took them nearly an hour before Mzingeli nodded and pointed back to their left. ‘They back there,’ he said. ‘I think they lie down under some sort of shade.’
‘Good. Perhaps we can take them while they sleep.’
The two mounted and urged their horses into a quiet trot. It soon became apparent to Fonthill that Murphy and Laxer had indeed used their tent awning to provide them with shade from the midday glare. His lip curled as he noticed that the poor mule had been left tethered in the sun with the two heavy boxes, still unopened, strapped to its back and hanging down on either flank. The horses stood close beside the mule. As they neared, Simon could see two pairs of boots sticking out from under the awning. The overseers appeared to be asleep.
