by John Wilcox
‘Very well. Now, 352, as our best shot, you will have the key role. Here, take one of the Sniders as well as your rifle. The blaze will raise the alarm, of course, and then my shots. There are Arabs sleeping in those tents there, I don’t know how many. The openings are on your side. They will turn out, of course, when the alarm is given. Kill them - or as many as you can. Mzingeli, you shoot as many of the natives as possible, but of course avoid the slaves, as we will on this side.’
He looked at them in turn. ‘I am banking on the fact that the fire will cause initial alarm; then, when the shooting sets in from different sections of the forest, panic should ensue. Key to this, of course, is the killing of the Arabs. I want the natives to be leaderless. I will try and pick off any that you miss . . .’
‘I’ll not miss, bach sir.’
‘Of course you won’t. If you are attacked, duck and run and try and make it back to Alice and me here. Understood? Any questions?’
Alice cleared her throat. ‘Where are the mules?’
‘Good point. I have to confess that I don’t know. Did you see them, Mzingeli?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose they will be somewhere in the compound. If they get excited, they might break their tethers and run about; that should help us. Cause a bit of panic. Just be sure we don’t kill any of them. We will need ’em. Anything else? Good. Now go to your posts, and good luck.’
Jenkins and the tracker slipped away. Fonthill looked at his wife anxiously. ‘Would you rather use this Snider instead of your own rifle?’
‘No thank you. I am happier with this. It may not kill but it will cause a nasty wound. The Snider is too heavy for me.’
‘Very well. Alice, let me take the guards, then you shoot at the Kaffirs who are nearest as they rush out. Is that all right?’
She nodded. She seemed completely calm, yet Fonthill knew that within she would be apprehensive at the prospect of having to kill. Oh, she had shot men before, but not like this, in cold blood. Nevertheless, he wished he had her composure. He licked his lips. The waiting was the worst part. He raised his Martini-Henry and sighted it on the guard furthest away. Then he realised that the muzzle was beginning to sway and he lowered it. Mustn’t get tired. He frowned and wished - not for the first time - that he was a better shot.
Then, at last, about a hundred and fifty yards away down the trail, a thin flicker of light appeared in the bush. It danced tantalisingly in the darkness for a moment and almost went out, then it took hold, and suddenly that area of the forest was illuminated as a sheet of flame licked upwards.
Fonthill waited for a moment, and then, slowly, he raised his rifle. ‘Now,’ he muttered, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet took the sleeping warrior fully in the chest, and he sighed and then toppled over. Quickly Simon jerked down the extractor handle behind the trigger guard, inserted another round into the breech and aimed again. Almost inevitably, he missed the second guard as the man rose to his feet quickly, too quickly.
‘Damn!’ he cursed under his breath. Then Alice’s Westley Richards barked at his right elbow, and the man staggered and fell. ‘Good girl,’ said Fonthill as he inserted a third cartridge and fired it into the figure of the guard, who, wounded, was now trying to totter to his feet. The man went down again immediately.
The sleeping camp suddenly became a scene of hectic activity. The Kaffirs appeared as if from nowhere - in reality, from their sleeping mats on the far side of the camp - and stood waving their spears and pointing, first to the fire and then to where Fonthill and Alice were now shooting at them systematically. To their shouts were now added screams as two, three and then four of them fell to the ground, clutching at gunshot wounds that sent blood gushing from between their fingers. The confusion was heightened as Mzingeli’s rifle opened fire from the south.
‘Why doesn’t Jenkins fire?’ hissed Fonthill.
‘He’s probably waiting to get a shot at the Arabs but the Kaffirs are in the way,’ muttered Alice as she methodically loaded and fired, loaded and fired.
This seemed to be proven as two of the white-robed Muslims now came running into view from the side of their tents, bent low and carrying their jezhails.
‘They’re coming towards us,’ cried Alice.
‘Pick ’em off before they get near enough to use their muskets.’
Fonthill pulled his trigger, but the bullet only spurted dust from in front of the feet of the nearest Arab, who immediately knelt, levelled his jezhail and fired. The ball took Alice in the thigh, and she gasped, dropped her rifle and fell to the ground, clutching at the wound. Simon, quickly reloading, had time only to glance down and then fire at the first slaver, who was almost upon him. The bullet took the man in the chest, and he sprawled forward on to his face, his momentum taking him skidding along the ground until he lay still.
Fonthill knelt down quickly at Alice’s side. The action almost certainly saved his life, for a second musket ball sang over his head and buried itself into the trunk of the tree above him.
‘Behind you,’ hissed Alice, her face contorted with pain. Fonthill just had time to turn and avoid the butt of a musket as the second Arab swung it at his head. The momentum took the man around, and Simon clenched his right fist and hit him hard in the ribs, following it with a left hook to the face. But his half-kneeling posture meant that he could get no power into either blow, and the folds of the man’s unravelled turban softened much of the impact of the punch to the head. He staggered back, regained his balance and swung the jezhail again. Fonthill ducked under it but caught his foot on a tree root and sprawled forward, rolling on to his side to avoid the butt of the musket, which thudded into the earth beside his temple. He grabbed the stock to help him regain his feet, and for a matter of seconds he and the Arab fought for possession of the gun. The Muslim was taller than Fonthill, but he was also older, and years of being indulged by slaves had done nothing to toughen his body, whereas the last few months of trekking had left Simon with not an ounce of superfluous fat on his frame. He pulled the Arab towards him, then hooked his leg around that of the other man and pushed hard. The Arab twisted and then sprawled backwards on to the ground. Fonthill picked up the musket and brought it down on the slaver’s head. This time the unwound turban did nothing to protect him, and his skull cracked with a sickening sound.
‘Simon . . .’
Fonthill whirled and threw the jezhail at a native who, spear upraised, came at him from out of the forest. Then in one quick movement he bent, picked up the Snider, cocked it and fired from the hip at the native, who collapsed with a bullet in his stomach. Gasping, he picked up his Martini-Henry and looked about him quickly before crawling to Alice’s side.
‘Where are you hit, my love?’
‘In the leg.’ Perspiration was pouring down her face as she held out her hand. ‘Help me up. It’s only a flesh wound, but the rest of them will be on us in a moment. I must be standing.’
‘Yes, but can you?’
‘I can. Let me lean on this tree. Reload, for goodness’ sake, Simon. They know where we are.’
Fonthill picked up his rifle and thrust another round into the breech. He could now hear shots coming from both Mzingeli’s and Jenkins’s positions, and pandemonium seemed to reign within the slavers’ camp. One Arab was standing within a circle of Kaffirs, attempting to direct operations - were there others? Had Jenkins got them? The man was pointing towards the positions of the three rifles, obviously attempting to divide his force into three to launch separate attacks on the source of the fire. But the Kaffirs were clearly reluctant to move. The blaze that Mzingeli had created had taken hold and seemed to be threatening the camp; the rifle fire from three different points was now bringing down a man with each shot; and panic, as Fonthill had hoped, was beginning to set in.
First one man, and then two and three began to slip away from the edge of the group surrounding the Arab, and suddenly the rest threw away their spears and ran to the only point of the compass, the south, that o
ffered them escape. They ran as fast as their legs could take them and disappeared into the bush, leaving the slaver standing, waving a curved sword and cursing them. He stood, however, for only a few seconds more before Jenkins’s shot shattered his head.
Fonthill looked anxiously towards where the slaves lay. It looked as though none had been hit in the affray, for they all had remained as close to the earth as possible as the gunfire sounded all around. They were now lifting their heads cautiously to look around, and Simon could see that Joshua, at the end of the line, was attempting to stand, although the wooden yoke, attached to the next man, still lying, was preventing him.
It seemed that all the slavers had fled, but then he saw the Nubian slave master. The man, distinguished by the long coiled whip hanging from his cummerbund, had emerged from the edge of one of the tents and was crawling towards the line of slaves. He had a knife in his hand.
Alice had seen him too. ‘My God, Simon. He’s going to kill the slaves!’
Fonthill raised his rifle to his shoulder and took careful aim. But the Martini-Henry, so terrible a man-stopper, was never happy at being fired consistently without being allowed to cool - as the defenders at Rorke’s Drift had found - and now it jammed.
‘Damn!’ Simon threw the rifle to the ground and ran forward, crashing through the undergrowth and leaping over the embers of the perimeter fires. He was too late to save the first man in the slave line, who succumbed with a slashed throat, but he threw himself on to the assassin, landing on his back as he crouched, preparing to continue his grisly work. The man lurched forward, arms outstretched and spreadeagled across the second slave, who screamed in terror. Fonthill recovered quickly, and straddling the two, he slipped his arms under the slave master’s shoulders and locked his hands together at the back of the neck in the classic half-nelson hold. The Nubian, big and strong, hunched his shoulders and flung Simon to and fro, but was unable to break the lock as Fonthill hung on like a terrier clinging to a fox.
Then the man went limp as Jenkins’s rifle butt thudded into his head.
‘Sorry, bach sir. Couldn’t shoot the bugger because you was ’uggin’ ’im so close. Didn’t know you fancied ’im, like.’
‘Thanks, 352,’ Fonthill gasped, scrambling to his feet. ‘Search him for a key to the chains and unlock these poor devils. I must get back to Alice.’
He found his wife now sitting at the base of the tree, her face completely white, hacking away the cloth of her breeches with a knife.
‘Here, let me do that.’ He took the knife from her and slit the seam of the breeches. She gave a little gasp and bit her lip. The musket ball had buried itself into her thigh, leaving a neat, plum-coloured hole from which blood was oozing.
‘Lucky it wasn’t a rifle cartridge,’ said Fonthill. ‘That would have gone through and done a lot of damage, but I think we shall be able to get it out without too much trouble.’ He looked up, his eyes moist. ‘You are a strong, brave girl.’
‘No I’m not.’ Alice’s voice seemed to come from far away. ‘I really want to have a good cry. At this moment, Norfolk seems a very nice place to be. I’ve had enough of bloody Africa . . .’ Then she slumped forward.
As Simon knelt and gathered her in his arms, he became aware that Mzingeli was at his side. He stood, lifting Alice, and adjusted her tenderly to avoid putting pressure on the wound. ‘Have they all gone, Mzingeli, do you think?’
The tracker nodded. ‘We kill many. Only maybe nine or ten left and they run. They don’t come back. All Arabs killed.’
‘Good. Pick up the rifles and please go on and find somewhere where I can lay Alice and build up one of the fires. We shall need to get this musket ball out of her leg.’
Carrying Alice into the clearing, he found Jenkins unlocking the big padlock that secured all the chains at the head of the line. He acknowledged the cries that came from the slaves as, one by one, the chains were threaded through and they were freed. Fonthill exchanged grins with Joshua and the other boys at the end of the line, and then the women began to sing again. This time it was no lament.
Alice had regained consciousness as Simon lowered her on to a divan of sorts within one of the tents. He tipped water from his bag on to his handkerchief and wiped her brow, and then gave her some to drink. Although beads of perspiration were beginning to fringe her hairline, he wrapped a blanket around her. Delayed shock and perhaps fever, he knew, would be a danger now.
‘Three five two,’ he hailed through the tent opening. ‘Did you get the rest of those Arabs?’
‘Yes, bach sir. I couldn’t get a bead on ’em to start with, because of the black fellers in between. Then I got the first one, you got two and I eventually put away the last. There was only four, see.’
‘Good. Now stand guard just in case any of the other bastards try to come back. Oh - and get Joshua to see if he can find clothes for the slaves. There must be some somewhere, and they should have their dignity back.’
Mzingeli had now joined him. ‘I’ve left my pack by the tree over there,’ said Fonthill. ‘Please fetch it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Then I shall need your help in getting this musket ball out. I’m no doctor, blast it.’
The tracker nodded and ran off. Simon returned to his wife and knelt by her side. ‘We will soon have this damned thing out,’ he murmured. ‘Did you bring your first-aid bits and pieces with you by any chance?’
She nodded. ‘I thrust a small bundle into the top of your pack before we left,’ she whispered, her eyes heavy. ‘Not much. Just a bandage or two, a little morphine, some antiseptic. Had to leave my bag hidden where we camped. Too heavy . . .’ Her voiced tailed away.
‘Splendid. Hold on. Won’t be long now.’ But he did not share the confidence his voice expressed. He held his wife’s hand tightly until Mzingeli returned carrying his pack. Fonthill foraged inside it and produced the little bundle, wrapped in oilskin, that Alice had prepared. He unrolled it and laid the contents carefully on a blanket at the side of the divan: three tightly rolled bandages, some lint and a cotton pad, a jar of antiseptic cream, a small bottle of painkilling pills - and a broken bottle of morphine, its precious liquid long since drained away.
Hurling the bottle away with a curse, he fumbled once more in the pack and produced a half-bottle of whisky, now containing only a little of the spirit. He beckoned Mzingeli outside. ‘Let me see your knife,’ he said. The tracker produced it. ‘Good. Better than mine. Thinner and sharper. Now, go and put the blade into a fire until it glows completely red. Let it cool - but don’t touch it or let the blade touch anything else. It’s got to be completely clean. Then bring it back here.’
Fonthill re-entered the tent, his wife’s anxious eyes following his every movement. He took the cork out of the whisky bottle, put his other hand behind Alice’s head and lifted it up. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘drink a little of this, my love, please.’
Her wide eyes on his, she took the bottle and swallowed, spluttered and handed it back. ‘I hate whisky,’ she coughed.
‘I know, my darling, but you must finish the bottle. Come along now. Do what Dr Fonthill says, there’s a good girl.’ He gave a mirthless smile and handed her the bottle again. ‘Do it in your own good time, but drink it all, please.’
Pulling a face, she raised the bottle to her lips again, and eventually drank all the amber liquid. Her head sank back on the sheet that Simon had folded for her as a pillow. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered, ‘I feel awful.’
‘Lie there for a moment, my darling. Sleep if you want to.’
He put down her hand and left the tent. All of the slaves were now unshackled and were standing or lying, rubbing their ankles and necks where the chains and yokes had chafed their skin. Jenkins, rifle cradled, was talking to Joshua, and Mzingeli was gingerly holding his knife blade in the flames of a rekindled fire.
‘Ready yet?’ called Fonthill.
The tracker held up his free hand to quell Simon’s impatience, and Jenkins came hurrying over. ‘I didn’t realise she
’d been ’it,’ he said, his face showing lugubrious concern. ‘’Ow bad?’
‘She has a musket ball in her thigh. I am going to try to dig it out as soon as Mzingeli gets that knife clean.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m not looking forward to it.’
‘Excuse me if I don’t come in. I’ll be sick if I do.’
‘No. Stand guard and make sure that none of the Kaffirs return. Oh.’ He nodded to the slave master. ‘Tie him up. We have unfinished business with him for the morning.’
Jenkins gave a puzzled look, then nodded. ‘Very good, bach sir.’
The tracker held the knife up into the night air to cool it. Behind him, the fire he had started in the bush began to flicker and die as it ran on to the stony ground of the clearing. He strode towards Fonthill and offered him the knife, handle first. ‘Still bit warm,’ he said.
‘Yes. Perhaps better to wait a minute anyway. I’ve given her some whisky. It’s the only anaesthetic I had. She’s not used to it, so I hope it does the job.’
