by John Wilcox
‘My dear Alice,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say . . .’
‘I do,’ said Jenkins. ‘It was a very brave thing to do. I wouldn’t ’ave pushed my nose in there, with the old bastard in ’is ’and-choppin’ mood. You did very well, Miss Alice, if I may say so. But blimey. It just shows what these people are capable of, isn’t it?’
Fonthill stood and wrapped his arms around his wife. ‘Yes, it does. So don’t do anything like that again, my love. Will you promise?’
She pushed him away. ‘Certainly not. I had him over a barrel and he knew it. I wouldn’t have treated him if he had let the poor wretch be taken to the river. And that was that. I would do it again if necessary.’
Fonthill raised his eyebrows to Jenkins, shrugged his shoulders and resumed dressing. ‘What did he say when you mentioned the exploration trip to the east?’
‘He wanted to know why Rhodes wanted you to go, but I told him he had better ask you.’ She grinned, her grey eyes sparkling in the gloom. ‘I thought I had got into enough trouble for one day.’
‘Ah.’ Fonthill gave a histrionic sigh. ‘Acknowledgement at last! But thank you for telling me. I had better think of a good reason.’
As the sun dipped away and the brief African twilight began to disappear, revealing the first spray of stars in the blue-black sky, the three walked together down to the king’s hut. The heat had gone, taking the flies with it, and the evening was soft and delightful. After careful thought, Alice had decided to wear her only dress, having smoothed out the wrinkles with a sprinkling of water and the application of her hand. A touch of femininity, she had reasoned, would not be out of place after her show of masculine determination earlier.
Fonthill regarded her with approval as they strolled together, arm in arm. Alice had tied back her hair with her favourite apple-green silk scarf-a treasure of much importance in her tiny wardrobe - and donned open-toed sandals. A touch of face powder and a little rouge had smoothed her sunburned cheeks, and her eyes were sparkling.
‘How nice to go to an elegant dinner in the tropics,’ she said. ‘I wonder if the old boy will serve us champagne.’
‘Hmm. Equally, he might decide to cut our hands off. Which reminds me.’ He turned to Jenkins, walking amiably by their side. ‘I know you’ve had a touch of whisky, 352,’ he said, ‘so do please behave yourself tonight. If somebody stamps on your foot, take it as a compliment. Don’t punch him on the jaw, there’s a good fellow. The family has been in enough trouble for one day.’
‘I shall be ’ave with great property . . . propoty . . . prop . . .’
‘Propriety?’
‘That’s the word, Miss Alice. On the tip of me tongue. Not a finger out of place, see. Oh, incidentally, old Fairbairn ’as been invited.’
Fonthill’s eyebrows rose. ‘Ah, so it’s a kind of diplomatic party all round, probably to celebrate the fact that Lobengula’s got his guns and gold.’ A second thought struck him. ‘I wonder if de Sousa will be invited. We shall see.’
They entered the large hut to find that, thankfully, the fire had been allowed to die down, even though the evening had become cooler with the descent of the sun. Benches of differing heights and provenance had been arranged in a great circle around the fire, with Lobengula’s old wooden throne arranged on one side of the circle, facing the door. The king had not yet made his appearance, but all of the senior inDunas were there, including the man who had led them to the king on their first entrance to the country and who had been saved from punishment by Fonthill on their arrival at Bulawayo. He came forward with a grin, and made a great show of shaking hands, European style, with Simon, Alice and Jenkins, as though they were old friends. Fonthill took this as a good sign.
Nini, too, came bustling over, an ironmongery of copper charms and medallions cascading over her huge bosoms. ‘How is you?’ she enquired.
‘We is . . . ah . . . we are very well, thank you, Princess,’ said Simon, bowing over her hand.
The king’s sister made an impatient gesture, and beer was immediately produced for all three. Receiving his, Jenkins gave an extravagant bow and immediately caught the attention of Nini. ‘You not married?’ enquired the princess.
‘Ooh, yes,’ the Welshman hurriedly replied. ‘I ’ave three wives back ’ome.’
Nini immediately whirled round to Fonthill. ‘He say you only allowed one wife at a time.’
Jenkins thought quickly. ‘Ah well, you see, your majesty, two of ’em are dead an’ buried, like. I’ve got one that is very much alive, look you. An’ that’s all I’m allowed, see. Great pity it is.’
The princess looked puzzled, but let it pass. Now she put her face close to Jenkins’s and examined his great moustache, taking its end between plump finger and thumb and rubbing the hairs vigorously. ‘Why you grow this?’ she asked.
‘Er . . . to make me look pretty, see.’
At this, Nini threw back her head and roared with laughter, giving a lead to all of the wives and girl servers in the hut, who laughed along dutifully, although they could not have understood for a moment the meaning of the joke. Fairbairn now joined the party, bringing with him his distinctive aura of tobacco smoke and whisky, and he immediately engaged the princess in fluent Zulu, which relieved Jenkins of his duties as purveyor of pre-dinner small talk.
The Welshman caught a stir in the far corner of the room - was there another entrance? - and he immediately turned to Fonthill. ‘’E’s ’ere, bach sir.’ He jerked his head.
Simon followed the direction of the nod and caught a glimpse of the familiar yellow uniform. De Sousa was talking to a couple of inDunas, standing firmly and with his right hand nonchalantly tucked into his unbuttoned jacket, Napoleon style. No sling was evident. Fonthill grinned. ‘He’s not prepared to show us that he’s been wounded,’ he said. Well, well, well. I must go across and pay my respects and . . . ah . . . offer him the hand of friendship.’
He strode across and interrupted the conversation. ‘Ah, Mr de Sousa,’ he said, ‘how good to see you again. I hope you are well.’ He extended his hand, but the Portuguese ignored it.
‘Perfectly well, thank you.’
‘Good. I had heard that you had suffered an injury while . . . ah . . . out hunting.’
‘It was nothing. Just a slight mishap. The beast I was hunting, however, was wounded.’ He gave a faint smile, revealing a gold tooth. ‘He will die the next time. I always get the animal I am pursuing. Always.’
‘Quite so. Sentiments I echo. I am the same.’ And with exaggerated jocularity, he slapped de Sousa on the shoulder - the injured shoulder, of course - causing the Portuguese to wince and turn away in half-disguised agony. ‘Oh goodness,’ exclaimed Fonthill. ‘Was that your bad shoulder? I am so sorry.’
Further exchanges, however, were prevented by the arrival of the king, who entered accompanied by his chief wife, a lady of proportions very similar to those of Nini but who carried herself with far less confidence than the princess. The king was dressed in his best European apparel, the billycock hat tilted at an audacious angle and his round face wreathed in a grin that indicated, perhaps, that Alice’s new pills and potions, together with the morphine, were promising a pain-free evening.
Lobengula raised his fly whisk, which for social events seemed to have replaced his short assegai, and acknowledged his guests by pointing it to them all as he turned. Then he shouted an order, and everyone scuttled to take their places on the benches as more beer on wooden trays was brought in by the young girls. Significant gaps were left on either side of Lobengula’s chair, and the inDuna who had greeted Fonthill on arrival now hurried over to indicate that Alice should sit on the king’s right, with Fairbairn, rather surprisingly, at her side, and Simon, flanked by Jenkins, next to the trader. Disconcertingly, de Sousa was placed on the king’s left, with the chief wife on his other side.
Alice leaned across to the Scotsman. ‘We seem to be honoured, Mr Fairbairn,’ she said.
The trader gave a wry smile. ‘O
h, you may be, ma’am, but I’m just here to interpret, y’see.’
Alice gave him her best smile. ‘Well I am jolly glad that you are here, whatever your role.’
The king clapped his hands, and immediately great wooden platters were borne in containing mounds of beef, which steamed as they were placed on rough stools in front of all the guests. Alice sighed, as she could see no sign of vegetables or bread, but could not resist a smile when piles of berries were placed ostentatiously in front of herself and the king. Lobengula caught her eye and winked. She was, it seemed, forgiven for her intrusion of a few hours ago - at least for the moment.
The monarch leaned forward and grabbed a choice piece of meat, and fastidiously picking off the gristle, which he threw over his shoulder, he handed it to Alice. She nodded her acceptance and took it. It was the signal for everyone on the benches to bend to the task of selecting beef from the platters and begin wolfing down the prime cuts. Immediately a hum of conversation rose, and Alice could not but smile at the resemblance to a sophisticated dinner party in London, where the guests would wait for the host to begin before raising knife and fork and embarking on the tedious business of engaging in conversation with the person to left or right. The setting, though, could not have been more different. She looked around her with interest. The fire in the middle of the hut had been built up again, alas, and the flames cast a flickering glow across the half-naked figures that constituted most of the ring, their black skin glistening and the firelight reflected in the copper accoutrements of the women. White teeth and protuberant eyeballs shone in the half-light, and the murmur of conversation was low and guttural. There was no glitter of silver, no sparkle of diamonds, and the hum of voices certainly did not tinkle.
She could not resist grinning at the king. He leaned forward and spoke, his black eyes gleaming. ‘The king says, eat your berries,’ translated Fairbairn. ‘Now what’s that about?’
Alice nodded. ‘A private joke,’ she said. ‘Tell me, Mr Fairbairn, why is that man,’ she gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head, ‘sitting next to the king?’
‘Aye, the snake man. Well, Lobengula seems to like him, or to respect him at least. He knows that the Portuguese to the east have vast territories and wants to keep in with them. Gouela appears to have quite a personal bodyguard living here in the capital, and the king believes that the man is well regarded in Lisbon, which he ain’t, ma’am, he’s only an agent. But I shouldn’t worry too much about all that. Lobengula has sat him there just to balance things a bit with your husband - to let him know that even though he has brought a box or two of lollipops from Kimberley, it doesn’t mean that Rhodes can just walk into the place.’
‘Ah, so you know about the cargo we have brought.’
Fairbairn nodded his head as he munched. ‘Oh yes. Everybody does.’
Simon leaned across his wife to address the trader. ‘Would you ask the king if I can call and see him tomorrow, please? I have some keys I must hand over to him and other things to discuss.’
The king nodded equably. ‘Come before sun is highest.’
The evening meandered its way to a conclusion, with the pyramids of beef disappearing under the attacks from the ravenous guests. Nothing more was served - it seemed that the berries were only a gesture towards Alice - except flagon after flagon of beer. Fonthill was glad that Jenkins was sitting beside him, and the Welshman behaved impeccably, even talking endlessly to the friendly inDuna on his right, who had not the slightest idea what was being said, but kept nodding amiably.
‘Well,’ asked Alice, as the three wandered back to their hut, ‘what was all that about?’
‘Fairbairn seemed to think,’ said Fonthill, ‘that although the king pretends to be uninterested in the guns, ammunition and gold, he is pleased that Rhodes has kept his side of the bargain. He says that the Portuguese talk and promise a lot, but nothing happens. Now the British have shown that they keep their word . . .’
‘Even though we’ve only brought five hundred rifles?’
‘Well, he doesn’t know that yet, and, anyway, that’s still a hell of a lot of firearms. He could frighten even the Boers with them.’
‘And the British, eh?’ Jenkins chimed in.
‘No. We are not looking for confrontation.’
Alice gave a cynical smile. ‘We will just have to wait and see about that, my dear.’
The next morning Fonthill removed a parchment document from its oilskin covering and spread it out on his sleeping mat. He had had it prepared in Cape Town and it looked impressive enough, with Cecil John Rhodes’s signature at the bottom, beside the chartered company’s crest, and leaving space for Lobengula’s mark and his great elephant seal.
‘What’s it say?’ asked Jenkins.
‘Oh, the content is simple enough. It states that the king has given permission for surveyors and engineers from the company to enter the king’s domain and to build a road through Mashonaland to the north and prospect for minerals there.’
Alice sniffed. ‘Does it say anything about settling the land?’
‘No. That is not the purpose of the expedition.’
‘I don’t believe that. Anyway, I thought Lobengula had already signed a similar document.’
‘Yes, but the point of this is that now that the king has received his guns and cash, he will permit the column to enter his land now. There was only a rather vague reference to the future in the original treaty. Rhodes wants it all watertight before he invokes the great expense of getting his column together and moving north.’
‘Well, good luck.’
Fonthill took the precaution of asking Fairbairn to accompany him this time to act as interpreter, instead of Mzingeli. It would be sensible, he reasoned, to have another European present as witness.
The king welcomed them both with the inevitable beer, and accepted imperturbably the keys that Fonthill presented to him. He continued to give the impression that the cargo was of no importance to him. Then, with great care, Simon began the task of gaining the king’s acceptance of the need for a column to enter his country imminently to begin the road-building work.
‘Why we need this road?’ asked the king.
‘Because, your majesty, it is impossible to bring in the equipment needed to mine without having a road through to the north. There is a well-defined trail through Bechuanaland to your border, as you know, but not through Matabeleland.’
‘Humph. How many men come?’
‘I do not know, but it is likely to be several hundred.’
‘Sounds like an impi.’
‘No, sir. They will be pioneers, not soldiers.’
‘I give permission already for Rhodes to mine. Why I have to sign new paper?’
‘This will be more specific, giving him permission to enter your country very soon - as soon as he can form his column, that is.’
‘My inDunas don’t like me signing all this paper.’
‘It is merely confirming your word, your majesty. It is normal in dealings between European countries. There is nothing sinister in it.’
Lobengula looked around anxiously, as though looking for some escape. But there was no one else present. Eventually he clapped his hands to summon one of his wives and then gave orders to have his seal prepared. His face, however, remained heavy.
‘I sign,’ he said, ‘because I trust you. You are English gentleman and know the Queen of England. I take your word I am not giving away my country.’
Fonthill writhed internally. He could not take responsibility for something over which he had no control. Yet he could not be seen to dissemble. That would throw even more doubt into Lobengula’s mind. He cleared his throat. ‘Your majesty, there is nothing in this paper that gives away your country, I promise. You are only allowing these people in to build a road to the north and then start mining.’
The king grunted but still looked unhappy. A silence fell on the room, which was broken by an inDuna bringing in a blob of still smoking wax, together with the
great seal, fashioned from ivory. A quill and a small pot of ink was also produced.
Lobengula ignored them for a moment, and then directed his gaze at Fonthill. He did not speak, but looking into the man’s black eyes, Simon could see a bewilderment, an uncertainty - even a touch of fear - that plucked at his own heart. It was like confronting a caged animal, a beast that had great power and was used to striking fear into everyone with whom it came into contact, but which realised that it was now confronted by something intangibly more powerful. Lobengula had the innate intelligence that sent warning signals to his brain, yet he did not know how to evade this all-pervading pressure. His look now to Fonthill was almost an appeal. Then he shook his head and very slowly reached for the pen.
‘Just there, sir,’ said Fonthill, pointing to the space left for the king’s mark. He felt like a crooked solicitor, forging a will.
