The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  The king immediately picked up a rifle, weighed it in his hand, sighted along the barrel and spoke to Mzingeli.

  ‘He say good, but no good without bullets.’

  ‘’E’s no fool,’ breathed Jenkins, who turned back to the packs and produced three small boxes of cartridges and laid them on the ground with the other gifts.

  The king nodded and spoke again, flashing a sly glance at Alice. ‘He say we are welcome. We come a long way, so stay with him to recover from journey. Lady particularly welcome. He not seen white lady before. Eat with him tonight. Take beer now.’

  A signal was given, mats were brought for them to sit on, and after a slight delay, the inevitable gourds of beer were produced by smiling women. Fonthill noticed that the gifts were left lying on the ground, as though they were of no importance, although everyone was eyeing them. He liked that. It showed good manners.

  They were given one hut for them all to share, and then joined the king and some of his inDunas - no wives - at a meal around the fires. Seated on logs, they ate meat that had a strangely fishy taste and which was served with mealies. On asking, Simon was told that it was crocodile. He decided to keep the news from Jenkins, who was conversing merrily but one-sidedly with an inDuna. Jenkins did not like crocodiles.

  Through Mzingeli, whose proficiency in the language seemed to have improved considerably, he asked the king about the nature of the terrain throughout his kingdom. Did the semi-swampland continue to the north and south?

  The king shook his head. ‘Better land to the north. Firmer. Take wagons easily. That is best way to Mashonaland. But further. He take you there tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you. We must return to our camp first, but with the king’s permission, we will return immediately with our mules and people to look at that land.’

  ‘King want to know why you interested.’

  Fonthill cleared his throat and felt Alice’s gaze on him. ‘If the king is prepared to sign a treaty of friendship with the Queen’s company in South Africa, then one day it could be that a road will be built - with his permission, of course - through his country to link Mashonaland with the Indian Ocean.’

  ‘That Portuguese territory.’

  ‘Yes. An agreement would also need to be reached between the Queen of England and the King of Portugal.’

  ‘You know the Portuguese?’

  ‘Er . . . yes. I have met one of their agents.’

  ‘They say that they own my country. They do not. Would your Queen give me protection from Portuguese?’

  ‘If you reject the Portuguese claim to your land and sign a treaty with the South African charter company, which has powers under the British Government, then this can be done.’

  ‘Are you sure, Simon?’ The question came very quietly from Alice, but he was forced to ignore it because the king was speaking.

  ‘He say that he will sign it but he will need more guns.’

  ‘I will pass on his request to Mr Rhodes in the Cape, who is the chief of the company.’

  ‘Then he sign.’

  ‘Good. I have a copy of the treaty back at my camp and I will bring it to him for his signature tomorrow.’

  The evening ended early, for Simon was anxious to set off back to the camp at dawn the next day. Predictably, before turning in, Alice raised the question of the treaty.

  ‘Have you really brought a proper document with you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. In fact I brought three with me from Cape Town, duly signed by Rhodes. We didn’t know the tribes then, of course, because we didn’t know whom we would meet, but all I have to do is fill in their names and those of the kings and get them to sign.’

  She screwed up her features. ‘Gracious, this all sounds so . . . tawdry. And what on earth could Rhodes - let alone the British Government - do if the Portuguese came here and started to throw their weight around? Think of Gouela. A bit of paper isn’t going to stop him.’

  ‘One thing at a time, Alice. The process has to be started somewhere, and it starts with this bit of paper, as you call it. Once the charter company is established in Matabeleland - and that means the road - then Rhodes can extend his protection to outlying provinces like this.’

  Alice sniffed but said nothing more.

  The next morning they set off back to their scarum even before the king had risen, although the village headman and his two villagers kept their promise to accompany them. As always, the return journey seemed quicker than the outgoing one, and it felt like only a couple of hours before they reached, and passed through, the village, dropping off the natives there. In the early evening they caught sight of the tall tips of the scarum fence. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful as they approached. Perhaps too quiet.

  ‘Joshua should have been keeping a lookout,’ said Fonthill testily. Then he held up a hand to restrain the party. ‘Wait,’ he said.

  From the fringe of the bush cover they studied the makeshift stockade. Nothing could be seen through the opening and no sound came from within it. Their mule brayed, but no answering call came from the animals that should have been inside. Fonthill withdrew his rifle from its saddle holster and slipped off the safety catch. He signed for the others to do the same. Then, cautiously, they began to advance, only to be halted by Mzingeli’s hand on Simon’s arm.

  The tracker nodded to marks on the floor of the clearing. ‘Big party been here,’ he mouthed.

  ‘Damn! Do you think there are any still inside?’

  ‘Think no. They move out. See spoor.’ He pointed to where the marks went off through the bush to the south. Now the trail was there for all to see: broken branches and scuffed earth, winding away.

  ‘Inside, quickly,’ cried Fonthill and they moved into the scarum, their rifles at the ready. It was, however, a ghost camp. There was little sign of a struggle, except that their packs had been slashed away from the mules and left, unopened, on the ground. Of Joshua, the boys and the mules there was no trace.

  ‘They couldn’t have deserted and gone back to Bulawayo, surely?’ asked Alice.

  ‘No.’ Mzingeli pointed to the ground to their left, by the exit from the scarum. ‘Look. Blood.’

  The stains were splattered in a strange, uneven sequence that led off into the bush. Everyone looked at the tracker in horror. He glanced up, his face expressionless as usual. ‘Slavers,’ he said. ‘They whip.’

  ‘Oh dear God,’ murmured Alice. ‘The boys. They’ve taken the boys.’

  ‘How long ago, Mzingeli?’ asked Fonthill.

  The tracker kneeled down and rubbed his finger in the marks. Then he walked to the broken foliage and examined it, fingering the broken twigs and branches with his thumb. ‘Maybe five hours ago. Maybe six.’

  ‘Blimey.’ Jenkins spat on to the ground. ‘They’ll be miles away by now.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Fonthill joined the tracker. ‘How many were there, do you think, and could they move fast in this bush?’

  Mzingeli squatted and examined the tracks carefully. Eventually he looked up. ‘They have captured slaves with them, walking in chains like this.’ He gestured with his fingers to show a single file. ‘Gun has been fired here. See marks of powder. Old gun. Like Arabs use.’ Simon’s brain immediately conjured up the picture of an old musket or jezhail that he remembered the Pathans using in the North-West Frontier of India - and he winced as he recalled a butt smashing into his nose.

  But Mzingeli was continuing. ‘No one killed. See, here they kneel to have chains fitted. Blood only from whip marks. Whips used to make them move.’

  ‘Yes, but how many?’

  The tracker shrugged. ‘Cannot say. Cannot tell difference between slaves and slavers. Say thirty or forty. But party on foot - no hoof marks except our mules at end of train. They many people for this bush and mules slow them. They don’t move quick.’

  Fonthill drew in his breath and looked around carefully. ‘Strange, they have left our packs. Why?’

  Mzingeli shrugged again. ‘They don’t want to car
ry. They would like to move quick, though they don’t.’ He looked up at Fonthill, his face showing concern for the first time. ‘Good spoor,’ he said. ‘We follow, yes? Get our boys back?’

  ‘Of course. But we must be careful. There are only four of us, and they are used to fighting.’

  ‘So are we, bach sir.’ Jenkins spoke quietly and looked around, his gaze lingering on Alice as he added, ‘All of us.’

  Alice smiled, although it did not hide her anxiety. ‘Couldn’t we get help from the village?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ Fonthill was emphatic. ‘That would slow us down, and even if some of them came, they would be useless. They are not fighters.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Mzingeli. ‘They all frightened of slavers.’

  ‘Then we will go as quickly as we can,’ said Simon. ‘Alice, please check on our rations and see if we need to supplement them from those packs over there . . . and,’ he forced a grin, ‘before you plead to be left behind, let me tell you now that you are very much part of this party. We need someone who can shoot.’

  ‘Yes,’ grunted Jenkins, ‘that will make two of us.’

  ‘Don’t be insubordinate. Check the ammunition, 352, and fill up the water bottles. Mzingeli, hide the packs. We leave in five minutes.’

  They set off in less time than that, in single file, with Mzingeli treading softly some way ahead, followed by Fonthill, then Alice and Jenkins bringing up the rear. Surprisingly, they had found two of the boys’ Sniders, buried under their blankets in a corner of the scarum. They took them, one each slung over the shoulders of Simon and Jenkins, to supplement their firepower.

  As they walked, Fonthill’s brain was busy. Once they caught up with the slavers, they would be heavily outnumbered. Mzingeli had estimated that as slaving parties went, this one was comparatively small, made up of perhaps only five Arabs, armed with their jezhails, plus maybe twenty warriors, carrying spears and whips. They were not accustomed to opposition, for they inspired terror from the natives wherever they went and deliberately did not plunder nations of warriors, like the Matabele. Nevertheless, they moved stealthily and fell upon a village before their presence was detected. They did not take all the villagers, for this would denude them of further pickings, only selecting the healthiest men and women. Joshua and the four boys, big and strong, would have been a welcome bonus. Fonthill’s jaw tightened. A small party - but still big enough! How to tackle it?

  The trail was, indeed, easy to follow. Even though the slaves were walking in single file, the column had pushed its way through the bush heedlessly, leaving broken stems and torn foliage. Footprints were easy to see, even in the fading light, and the mules, of course, had left their droppings.

  ‘Don’t they care about being followed?’ Fonthill asked Mzingeli.

  ‘They don’t care. People don’t follow them. Everyone afraid of slavers.’

  ‘Good. We shall be the exception.’

  The four were striding quickly, and they stopped only once, for just five minutes, to drink water and eat biltong and berries. Fonthill had not worked out his tactics, for they would depend upon the deposition of the slavers, but he was sure enough of his strategy. They would reach the slavers’ camp before dawn and attack at once, using surprise and the cover of darkness to reduce their enemy’s advantage in numbers.

  Accordingly, after four hours, he sent Mzingeli much further ahead to ensure that they would not all blunder on the camp itself or a rearguard. The prizes at stake - and the danger involved - were too high to make a stupid mistake. Slave traders struck terror into the hearts of those upon whom they preyed, not just because of the disgusting nature of their predations, but because they could fight. They could defend themselves. Care was needed.

  The forest - for that was what the bush had become - was thick and the trail was becoming difficult to follow when Mzingeli could be seen approaching, running softly and weaving his way between the trees.

  ‘They about five minutes’ walk ahead,’ he said. ‘They make camp. Built fires.’

  ‘Good. Take me there now. You two stay here. I won’t be long.’

  The slavers had made their bivouac for the night in a little clearing, near a stream, and Fonthill followed Mzingeli, treading softly as they approached the edge of the bushes and trees. The Arabs had made no attempt to build a scarum, and seemed confident that an irregular ring of fires, now burning low, would keep out predators. Two small ‘Crusader’ tents had been erected, presumably to give the Arabs comfortable night quarters, and two spearmen, huddled in blankets, had squatted at either side of the circle and appeared to be dozing. Inside it, the slaves lay in an irregular line.

  It was they who caught the eye, presenting a sight of such misery that Simon felt a lump rise in his throat. There were perhaps thirty of them, men and women, linked together in single file by straight wooden yokes, the Y-shaped end of which encircled the throats and was closed at the back of the neck by chains. Their ankles were shackled, and links of chain attached them to the person behind. The chains and the yokes prevented them from finding comfortable postures for sleep, and they half sat, half sprawled. Bowls at their side, however, showed that at least they had been given food.

  ‘Can you see our boys?’ hissed Fonthill.

  Mzingeli indicated with a nod of his head. There, at the end of the line, were Joshua and the four bearers, all stripped naked like the rest. Joshua’s back carried four whip marks, from which the blood still oozed.

  Suddenly, some of the women in the line began singing softly. It was a song the like of which Fonthill had never heard before. It was clearly a lament, a slow ululation that bespoke desperation and the realisation of a great, consuming sadness. Tears were in every syllable, and as others joined in, the melancholy rose and settled above the little clearing like a thundercloud.

  Then an Arab, a trim figure with a pointed beard, emerged from one of the tents, shrugging on his white burnous. He barked a command, and from out of the shadows appeared a huge, very black man - probably a Nubian from the Sudan, speculated Fonthill - wielding a long whip of buffalo hide. Immediately the whip cracked and hissed through the air, singling out the women and lashing their backs and bowed heads. The song died and silence of a sort descended on the clearing. Fonthill winced. His mind flashed back for a moment to a whipping post in Omdurman and the beat of a drum.

  ‘If we can’t kill ’em all, I know which ones we will kill,’ he whispered. ‘Now, Mzingeli. Please go and bring the others up. No. Wait a second. Am I right that the wind is coming this way,’ he gestured, ‘from the north?’

  The tracker twisted his face to catch the breeze, and then nodded. ‘Not much, though.’

  ‘Good. Go now.’

  As the tracker glided away, Fonthill began to move with great care around the edge of the camp, to the south. One rash move now could lead to disaster and upset his plans. He found the spot he was looking for, fringed on the camp side with bushes and low trees, but behind this foliage was another small clearing, its edges strewn with dead wood and dry grass. He hurried back, treading carefully. All was quiet in the camp now that the women had been silenced. Only a distant growl and then a bark showed that they were not alone in the forest.

  A rustle presaged the appearance of Jenkins, Alice and Mzingeli out of the darkness. They gathered around Fonthill.

  ‘Right,’ he whispered, ‘the plan is simple. We will take up various vantage points around the camp under cover but close enough to open fire when I give the signal. Alice and I will stay here; 352, you will go directly opposite us on the other side; Mzingeli, you go down ahead there to the south. You will find a little clearing behind a fringe of bush. Once there, I want you to gather some brushwood - dry tinder wood, to make sure that it will burn. There is plenty about. I want it to be big enough to frighten the camp but not big enough to set the whole damned forest ablaze. The wind is coming from the north, so if the blaze does spread, it will go away from us and the camp. But I hope that in the panic, none of these ba
stards will realise that.’ He pressed a box of matches into the tracker’s hand.

  ‘When do I light?’

  ‘Once you are in position, give us a good ten minutes - 352 has the furthest to go - and then light it.’

  ‘Then what do we do, bach sir?’ Jenkins’s eyes were glowing in the semi-darkness.

  ‘Wait until I fire from this side. I will take out the two guards.’ He turned to Alice. ‘I am sorry, but this will be cold-blooded killing,’ he said. ‘We must take advantage of surprise. If we don’t kill quickly, they could overwhelm us. But I shall quite understand if you do not wish to fire.’

  Alice’s face showed white. ‘I will do whatever you want me to do,’ she said. ‘I quite understand the need. These men are depraved.’