The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  Back inside the laager he met Jenkins, smelling of gunpowder. ‘Brush those trousers, for God’s sake,’ he said. ‘If you get a misfire on your rifle, you’ll go up in smoke.’

  ‘Blimey, yes. Very good, sir.’ Jenkins shielded his eyes from the sun and looked northward. ‘Can’t see a bleedin’ thing,’ he said. ‘Nothin’ movin’ up there, as far as I can tell.’ He turned back to Fonthill, brushing his breeches with a soiled handkerchief. ‘Maybe old Jelly was mistaken, eh? You said yourself that these blokes wouldn’t come at us until we were in Mattabellyland. Perhaps that tree just fell down because these bloody ants that creep under my blanket ’ad a go at it. What d’you think, bach sir?’

  Fonthill shook his head. ‘Mzingeli has a sixth sense for these things. I think they have come to get us here - if they are de Sousa’s men, that is, and I think they are. He’s crossed the river because we are in that disputed area of no-man’s-land where nobody is going to worry about a fight. If he attacked us in Matabeleland, he could well upset the king, given the nature of our cargo. No. They are out there all right.’

  He looked around. The formation of the laager was almost complete. Inside the ring, it was ridiculously crowded. The cattle and horses were pressed together into an almost solid mass. How would they react when the shooting began? He had read somewhere that oxen never stampeded, and the sensitive horses had been put in the middle of these placid beasts. But fire? Smoke and flames?

  An additional thought struck him. ‘Where the hell is Alice?’ he cried.

  Jenkins pointed. ‘In that wagon. Writin’ somethin’, look you. Dunno what, though.’

  Frowning, Fonthill pushed his way between the milling oxen and climbed into the wagon. ‘What on earth are you doing, darling?’

  She looked up, her pencil between her teeth, her fair hair straggling down from under her wide-brimmed hat. ‘What the hell do you think I’m doing?’ She glowered. ‘I’m writing my story, of course.’

  ‘Oh, lord!’ Then he grinned, a touch soulfully. ‘I wish I shared your confidence that we shall come through this so that you can write a piece about it all.’

  She knocked back her hat so that it hung down her back, held only by the thong around her throat. Then she smiled and leaned across to plant a kiss on his chin. ‘Of course we shall come through this, my love,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘We are led by those two Great Indestructibles, Fonthill and Jenkins, Soldiers of the Queen and Heroes of the Empire. And if we don’t, I personally shall be very annoyed, because I have the germ of a great story here. What’s more, it is exclusive and I am setting the scene for it now.’

  He stayed silent for a moment, looking at her. Then he cupped her chin within his hands. ‘Oh, Alice,’ he said. ‘I am so sorry to put you in this danger.’

  She thrust his hands away. ‘Rubbish. Simon, you really must stop treating me like a china doll. It’s true that I haven’t gone through as many scrapes as you and 352, but there have been a few now and I have every confidence in you, my love. Now, kindly leave me to finish the first part of this masterpiece. But rest assured that I shall not be scribbling when these people attack.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I have my rifle here and, look, a pile of cartridges. I shall play my part in the defence.’

  He seized her hand, kissed it and jumped down from the wagon. Some of the boys were tying the last boom and others were milling about among the oxen, pushing their way through, talking softly to each beast and scratching their ears as if to reassure them. Fonthill called Mzingeli.

  ‘Do the boys without rifles have assegais?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Nkosi. But they frightened of Matabele.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so. Please tell them that if we are attacked, it will not be by the Matabele. These will be Bantu from the Mozambique border, slaves of the Portuguese who are being pushed into this by their master. They are not warriors. The boys must fight with us. Spread them out to stand with their spears by the thorn bushes between the wagons. Those that fight well will be given an ox each when we reach Bulawayo. I promise that.’

  Mzingeli nodded his head slowly. ‘A good thing—’ he began. But he was interrupted by a shout from Jenkins.

  ‘’Ere they come at last, bach sir.’

  Simon jumped on to a wagon boom and looked northwards along the trail. At this distance they appeared merely as a black blob, but as he focused his field glasses, he realised that - whatever he had told his own Kaffirs - these were indeed warriors. Each man carried a large shield, and he could see plumes nodding above them. They were too indistinct to count and he could catch no glimpse of any European amongst them, nor whether they carried rifles. But as he watched, they began to fan out on either side of the trail, trotting Zulu style, quite quickly. There were clearly enough of them to surround the ring of wagons.

  He turned to shout to Mzingeli, but the tracker was already walking among the Kaffirs, quietly talking to them and dispatching little groups in turn to gather their assegais and man the gaps between the wagons where the thorn bushes, mattresses and boxes had been wedged to form very insubstantial barriers. He let the man be and turned to Jenkins, now at his side.

  ‘Right, old chap.’ He pointed to where a tall branch on either side of the laager marked the sites of the two bottles. ‘See those branches?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At the base of each bush I have hidden my fire bottles. When I give the word, I want you to fire at the base of the bushes - it will probably take a couple of shots or more - to hit the bottles and set them afire. I am gambling that they will fall on to the powder trail, spark if off and so set the bush alight. But it is important to wait until sufficient of the blacks are between us and the trail, so that the blaze will spring up behind them and put the fear of God into them.’

  Jenkins’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, now I see. But ’ang on. What if I can’t see the bleedin’ bottles for the black fellers in between?’

  ‘Then you must get into a high position on top of one of the wagons where you can see and fire downwards.’ He grinned. ‘You keep telling me that you were the best shot in the British Army. Hit the bottles and I will give you an ox for each one.’

  ‘Oh thank you very much. What would I do with a bleedin’ ox?’ But he was already clambering up on to the side board of one of the wagons. He called down. ‘It might just work.’

  ‘Good.’ Fonthill climbed up beside Jenkins and looked north along the trail. The approaching warriors were now running and spreading out further to encircle the wagons. He made a quick estimation: about fifty, perhaps fewer, but still no sign of rifles being carried. They had about four minutes.

  He jumped down. The boys were now carrying their spears and running to the thorn bush barriers. He called to Mzingeli: ‘Bring Ntini and Joshua here and interpret for me. Alice and Jenkins, join me here, quickly.’

  The little circle gathered around him. ‘Alice has already spread the rifles,’ he said. ‘Each of you take up position in one of the wagons, where you will find the rifles. Alice, I leave it to you whether you use Mzingeli’s Snider or your own hunting rifle.’

  ‘I will use my own,’ she said. ‘I will be more accurate with that.’

  ‘Very well. You will each have a wagon. Pile up whatever you can find to fire behind. They may have rifles. I will stay more or less in the centre to reinforce whichever wagon is under most pressure. Do not fire until I give the order, and then . . . shoot to kill. Oh, Mzingeli. Perhaps it might be a good idea to put two of the boys in among the animals to quieten them if things get . . . er . . . hot. Yes?’

  Mzengili, ever economical with words, nodded, interpreted for Ntini and Joshua and then ran off to find two herdsmen from the boys manning the gaps in the wagons. As the group broke up, Simon pulled Alice back. ‘I will be right behind you, my darling.’

  She gulped but regarded him steadily. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘I may just need that.’

  Fonthill thrust a box of matches into his breeches and then climbed up again on to one
of the booms and watched as the warriors halted, spread out across the track, some two hundred and fifty yards away. He could now see that they seemed to be wearing full warpaint, and that they had monkey’s or cow’s tails attached, garter-like, just below their knees and elbows and, from what he could see behind their shields, more across their chests, suspended from necklaces. They stood in silence, perhaps waiting for orders. Simon could see no European, nor any evidence that the warriors were armed with anything other than spears, although these were not black-bladed like those of the Matabele, but shone silver in the morning sun.

  ‘Who are they, Mzingeli?’ he called. ‘Where are they from?’

  The tracker climbed up beside him. He was silent for a while. Then: ‘Not sure. Not Matabele. Maybe Zulu.’

  Fonthill’s heart sank. Although they had been finally defeated by the British at Ulundi eleven years before, the Zulus remained among the finest fighting men in Africa. They were the bravest of the brave. ‘They can’t be, can they?’ he pleaded. ‘Their homeland is about eight hundred miles away.’

  ‘Yes. You right. Not Zulu. Perhaps Swazi.’

  Simon gulped. That was no improvement. The Swazis were fierce enough and he had seen how well they fought when they had joined forces with Wolseley to defeat the Sekukuni tribe some nine years before on the Transvaal border with Portuguese East Africa. But they too would have been forced to travel a vast distance to link up with - and be paid by - de Sousa. Unlikely.

  His supposition was interrupted by a great cry as the warriors lifted their spears and shields and stamped their feet.

  Mzingeli did not change his expression but spat. ‘Not Swazi cry,’ he said. ‘Minor tribe from east. Look good but not fight well.’

  It became clear that the cry was some form of salute, for Fonthill saw their front rank open for a moment and a pale figure in a familiar yellow uniform push through. He stood still for a moment as he surveyed the pathetic little laager before him, his outline reduced by the tall warriors flanking him.

  ‘Can you see him?’ Fonthill called softly to Jenkins.

  ‘Just about, bach sir. Shall I try?’

  ‘No.’ Then into Simon’s mind’s eye came the image of the puff adder, poised to strike. He did not hesitate. ‘Don’t try,’ he called. ‘Kill the bastard.’

  The shot rang out clearly and de Sousa staggered for a moment, clutching his shoulder, before the ranks closed around him once more. The warriors raised their shields and assegais again and shouted their war cry. Yet it seemed more a gesture of defiance than a signal to attack. They remained standing, waiting for something.

  ‘Hold your fire,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Wait until I give the order.’ Then, quietly to Mzingeli, ‘Back to your post, old chap. Quickly.’ He gave a reassuring grin to the boys crouched under him behind the thorns, and remained standing on the boom. If there were rifles among the warriors he wished to draw their fire. No answering shot came, however, and he frowned as he looked at the ranks ahead of him, still bunched together. It was not an overwhelming force, but his worry remained that they would fan out completely, surround the wagons and then attack all at the same time. With one gun per wagon, and only three reasonable shots among them, it was highly unlikely that a concerted attack could be withstood. If, however, the natives attacked in a tight bunch on one side only, relying on overwhelming force concentrated on one target - which was a usual tactic - then he might be able to reinforce the attacked side.

  He shouted to Jenkins: ‘If they bunch and attack just one side, leave your post and join me in firing from that side.’

  ‘Very good, bach sir.’

  Then he heard a cry from among the line of warriors. It was not delivered in the normal guttural deep bass of the Bantu. More a high-pitched shriek - Portuguese? It was enough, and the warriors immediately broke into a loose run towards the north-facing wagon, in which crouched Alice. His heart in his mouth, Fonthill waited for a moment to see if the attacking line would deploy to spill around the little circle, but it did not. It came straight for Alice’s wagon.

  ‘On the north side, 352,’ shouted Simon. ‘FIRE!’

  A ragged volley ensued and Fonthill rushed to the side of Alice’s wagon. It brought down just two warriors, but that was enough to trip up another. ‘Reload,’ shouted Simon. ‘Wait . . . FIRE! This time three attackers fell, and then Fonthill realised that Mzingeli was at his side. ‘Reload,’ he ordered, and then, again, ‘FIRE!’ This time the range was considerably shortened and four warriors fell, showing that Alice, too, was causing damage.

  It was enough to halt the attack, and the line stopped at a distance of about one hundred yards as the warriors faltered and then stood, undecided, waving their spears and shouting. Fonthill tasted again that familiar acrid powder on his lips and smelled the cordite as it entered his nostrils. The old elation of battle, first savoured - albeit for only a tragically brief moment - at Isandlwana returned, and he grinned as he thumbed another cartridge into the breech. ‘Let’s give them another while they’re standing,’ he screamed. ‘FIRE!’

  It was impossible to miss at that range, and the line immediately broke, turned and fled, leaving ten bodies on the dusty ground, two of them slowly attempting to move. The boys at the thorn bushes raised their assegais and hurled derision at the retreating warriors.

  ‘Are you all right, Alice?’ Fonthill called.

  ‘All is right in this wagon, sir. Although I have to say that this gun smoke is ruining my hair . . .’

  ‘Good girl. Anyone hurt, Mzingeli?’

  ‘No, Nkosi. They not really near enough to throw spears. Next time perhaps.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Would they come again? They had lost about a fifth of their number, and if they had any sense, they would spread out and attack from all sides at once. It depended upon whether there was leadership in their ranks. Had Jenkins finished off de Sousa?’

  He called up to the Welshman. ‘Good shooting, 352. It looks as though you got the Portuguese.’

  ‘Oh yes, bach sir, I got ’im all right, but only in the bloody shoulder, see. It was a bit long range to be accurate an’ he was partly covered by the black fellers either side of ’im. I wish ’e would do somethin’ brave, like, an’ lead a charge.’

  ‘Fat chance of that.’

  ‘Will they ’ave another go, then?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think they will. But they might spread out the next time and come at us from all around. That will make it difficult.’

  ‘Do you want me to shoot the bottles?’

  ‘Not yet. Only if we’re hard pressed. I am worried about the cattle if we start a blaze. But we will if we have to. Can you see the bushes?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Good. Wait for the command. Mzingeli . . .’

  ‘Nkosi.’

  ‘If the attackers reach the spaces between the wagons, do you think the boys will stand up to them and fight?’

  The tracker’s face remained expressionless while he considered the question. Fonthill marvelled once more at the man’s imperturbability in the face of danger. He was, after all, not a fighting man, and this certainly was not his war. He had not even asked why they were being attacked.

  ‘They not warriors, Nkosi,’ he replied. ‘We will see. At least oxen behind them means they cannot run.’

  It was a point. Even if the attackers broke through, they would have precious little room in which to move. Unless . . .

  ‘But will these warriors kill the oxen?’

  Mzingeli allowed the nearest that he ever came to a smile to steal across his features for a moment. ‘No. Cattle are precious. Oxen not as good as breeding cows but still worth much. They want to take them when we are killed. They don’t kill them—’

  He was interrupted by a cry from Jenkins. ‘They’re doin’ what you said, bach sir. They’re spreadin’ out to encircle us.’

  ‘Right. Cross to the boys in the wagons on the other side. I’ll stay on this side to support Alice.’

  He saw the We
lshman make his way through the oxen and climb into the wagon of first Ntini and then Joshua. Each was crouching, his long Martini-Henry balanced on the edge of the wagon side boarding. Jenkins patted each boy on the shoulder and grinned at them. They both smiled back, albeit distinctly nervously. Fonthill was not sure how effective they could be, even with Jenkins to back them up, for they had not been subject to the first attack. They would be tested now, though. And he thought again of Alice.