by John Wilcox
The tracker nodded sympathetically. Then they both re-entered the tent. Alice was lying back, half unconscious, her head rolling from side to side.
Simon licked his lips. ‘Right. Might as well start. You hold her leg very tightly and make sure that it does not jerk. Press down. I expect it will start to bleed again when I fish for the bloody ball, so staunch the bleeding with this felt. I want to be able to see what I am doing.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh dear. My poor Alice.’
As Mzingeli crouched on one side, Fonthill settled on the other and began very slowly to peel back the skin surrounding the wound. ‘Forceps is what we want,’ he breathed, ‘not this damned butcher’s knife.’
At first Alice seemed to feel no pain, but then, as Simon began gently probing to locate the ball, she jerked and then moaned.
‘All right, darling,’ he mouthed, ‘won’t be long. Nearly there. Ah, found it!’
With as much care as he could muster, he pushed the tip of the knife around the side of the ball and then, very slowly, worked it underneath the lead. At this point, Alice opened her eyes and then screamed. ‘Hold her,’ breathed Fonthill, ‘nearly there. Now . . .’ He levered the ball upwards until, in a welter of blood, he could seize it with his thumb and forefinger and flick it away.
As he did so, Alice sat upright and, eyes staring, grabbed his shoulder. ‘Brave girl, brave girl,’ he soothed. ‘It’s out now. Clean as a whistle. Lie back, my darling.’ He pushed her gently back on to the bed. ‘Just got to clean it up now. Lie still, there’s a good girl.’
He seized the whisky bottle and emptied the last drops of the liquor directly on to the wound, before pouring a little water around the edges and wiping them gently. Then he opened the antiseptic cream and - all the finer points of hygiene lost in his anxiety - scooped a little out with the tip of the knife and spread it on the cotton pad. Handing the knife to Mzingeli, he pressed the pad down firmly on the wound and began winding a bandage around it to keep it in place. As he finished with a knot, he realised that Alice was watching him.
‘Oh my love,’ he whispered, ‘I am sorry to have hurt you.’
She shook her head slowly and summoned up the palest of smiles. ‘Don’t be silly. Couldn’t have done better myself. Do you know, I might take to whisky.’ Then she closed her eyes and her head sank back on to the folded sheet.
‘Can we find another blanket?’ Fonthill asked Mzingeli. ‘Shock is a danger now. We must keep her warm.’
The tracker nodded and stole out of the tent, to be replaced by Jenkins. ‘Oh blimey, bach.’ The Welshman’s face was as white as Alice’s. ‘I was outside listenin’. I couldn’t ’ave done what you just did. Do you think she will be all right?’
Fonthill wiped the perspiration from his brow and shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He looked around. ‘It was just so . . . so . . . bloody primitive. I only hope I did the right thing and that infection hasn’t got into the wound.’ He looked unspeaking into the Welshman’s eyes for a moment. ‘You know, 352, I don’t know what I would do if I lost her. Bringing her out here, exposing her to all this violence . . . She fought as coolly as a Guardsman and certainly saved my life by shooting one of those spearmen. And now, if I’ve botched this up . . . Oh lord!’ He put his hand over his eyes.
Jenkins patted his shoulder. ‘You’ve done all you could, bach,’ he said. ‘A bloody wonderful job, I’d say. Now it’s up to the man upstairs, see. I think you need a rest. Just you lie down on that bed thing there. Go on now. You’ll be near ’er if she wants anythin’. I’ll watch over the camp.’
Reluctantly Fonthill nodded and sprawled on to the other divan. Then he rose, pulled the bed so that it was next to Alice’s and lay down on it again, reaching across so that he could take her hand. He was already asleep when Mzingeli crept in with two blankets, one of which he added to Alice’s covering; the other he laid across Simon, before tiptoeing out.
Chapter 12
When Fonthill awoke, sun was streaming in through the tent opening and the camp was clearly active, for he could hear the sound of mules braying, the clanging of cooking utensils and voices singing. He had cramp in his arm from where he lay awkwardly, still holding Alice’s hand. He looked across sharply at her. She lay peacefully asleep, her breast rising rhythmically to her breathing, colour now back in her cheeks. He smiled in relief, gently disengaged his fingers from hers and threw back his blanket.
Outside, fires had been lit and the wooden neck yokes were proving to be excellent fuel underneath two cooking pots. Some of the women, now chastely wearing brief garments that seemed to have been roughly fashioned from the Arabs’ white burnouses, were stirring the contents of the pots, and others were helping the men throw earth into pits that had been dug on the periphery of the camp. Away to his left, the mules grazed. It was a scene of pastoral activity.
‘Ah, good mornin’, bach sir.’ Jenkins hove into view, chains wrapped around his shoulders and arms. ‘You got a bit of sleep, then? ’Ow’s Miss Alice? I looked in about an hour ago an’ she was sleepin’ like a baby.’
Fonthill yawned. ‘Thank you, yes. She’s still asleep, thank goodness. Are you going to start an ironmongery business?’
‘Ah, this lot. Thought I’d throw ’em all in on top of the bodies I’ve ’ad the lads bury up there, see.’ He gave a theatrical shudder. ‘These irons - awful bloody things.’
‘Good idea. How are the boys?’
‘Joshua’s back is still a bit sore but ’e’s all right really - at least now. So are the others, although, as you know, we lost one of the slaves. I’ve ’ad ’im buried separately.’ He sniffed and then grinned. ‘Everybody’s very relieved to be free again. We would ’ave the freedom of Africa if they could give it to us.’
Fonthill returned the grin. ‘Where’s Mzingeli?’
‘’E went out early and shot us a bit of meat, an’ that’s what’s stewin’ now. Now ’e’s in the other tent, rubbin’ some leaf stuff into Joshua’s poor old back. It’ll probably kill ’im.’
‘Well I’m glad I’m not being asked to do it. I don’t think I’m much of a doctor.’
‘Don’t say that. Miss Alice is goin’ to be all right, look you. Right as rain, I tell you. You can see to my ’angovers any time.’
Fonthill yawned again and stretched. ‘Well, she will need rest. I think we had better stay here for at least two days. Can Mzingeli feed us all with his rifle, do you think?’
Jenkins munched his moustache. ‘Should think so. What are you goin’ to do with this slave lot?’
‘Give them the choice of coming back to the local village with us or making their own way back to where they were taken.’
‘An’ what about ’im?’ Jenkins jerked his head to the side of the tent. Fonthill turned and saw the slave master lying on the ground, shackled in his own chains.
Fonthill’s face seemed to be set in stone. ‘Oh, he will be no problem,’ he said.
‘Yes, but what will we do with ’im?’
‘We shall hang him.’
‘What! Just like that?’
‘Yes. The sooner the better.’ Fonthill spoke slowly and decisively. ‘The man is a slaver and a murderer. I saw him cut the throat of a defenceless slave. If any of the Arabs had survived, they would have met the same fate. Let us do it now, before Alice recovers. We will take him a little way into the bush, drape those bloody chains around him, string him up by his whip and leave him there. Anyone who comes this way - and it seems to be a slavers’ route - will see him and know him for what he was. He will be a warning to others. Fetch Mzingeli and Joshua and we will do it now.’
Jenkins’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure, bach sir? I mean, killin’ a bloke in cold blood - even if ’e is evil - isn’t like you, now is it? I mean, an officer an’ a gentleman?’
‘To hell with that.’ Fonthill’s expression had not changed. ‘The British made slavery illegal eighty-three years ago. One day, perhaps sooner than we think, this territory will be under British rule,
and I want these people here,’ he gestured to the ex-slaves, ‘to know that wherever we are, we will always strive to exterminate this filthy trade. It will be a lesson to them too. Come on. Let’s get on with it.’
The Welshman, surprise still on his face, shrugged the chains to the ground and went to fetch Mzingeli and Joshua. Fonthill strode to the centre of the clearing, clapped his hands and waved everyone towards him. The singing stopped and he was soon surrounded. He waited until they were joined by the tracker and Joshua and then he asked Mzingeli to translate his intention.
The announcement, made hesitantly by the tracker, who seemed to share Jenkins’s surprise at Fonthill’s decision, was greeted by a low hiss and then, when the import of it sank in, by a fierce shout of approval. Immediately the men ran to the Nubian, picked him up, chains and all, on their shoulders and bore him out of the clearing.
Simon yelled to Jenkins, ‘Stay with Alice!’ and followed, with Mzingeli and a grinning Joshua. The execution was carried out with dispatch. A large baobab tree with a sturdy branch extending out some ten feet from the ground was found, and a man shinned up and secured the base of the slave master’s whip to the branch. Within seconds the end of the whip was tied securely around the Nubian’s neck and willing hands launched him to swing, weighed down by the chains that only hours before had marked their own captivity and passage into slavery.
Fonthill experienced a sudden, reactive surge of disgust as he saw the man’s frozen expression of terror before the drop broke his neck. Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly back into the camp.
During the two days that they remained in the clearing, Fonthill and the others learned of how Joshua and the boys had been taken. They had stood guard in turns through the night, as Simon had instructed, but the guard had stood down with the dawn and they were all taking breakfast within the scarum when, without warning, the slavers had struck. The spearman had come running quickly into the camp, and it took only seconds to herd the five boys together within a ring of steel. The slave line had followed and they were immediately shackled and yoked. Only Joshua had tried to escape, and he had been flogged for his audacity. The slavers, it seemed, had come from the north, from a port called Bagamayo (meaning in Kiswahili ‘lay down your heart’), and the slaves were destined to be exported from there. They had been captured from villages on the slavers’ march to the south. Some had been in chains for two weeks. Listening to the story, Fonthill felt exonerated for hanging the slave master. Killing wasn’t easy, but in some cases it was the only means of justice.
Alice continued to recover, and to Simon’s huge relief, it became clear that his rough and ready surgery had proved effective and that no infection had entered the wound. Nevertheless, she still found it difficult to walk. The unpleasant associations of the clearing - the grave pit and the swinging, enchained body in the forest, although Alice knew nothing of the execution - began to press in on them all, however, and Fonthill decided that they should set off on the third day and make their way back to the scarum, where they had left their tents, supplies and, most importantly, Alice’s medical bag. A litter was constructed for Alice from one of the divans, and they set off shortly after dawn.
It was an uneventful journey, made long by the necessity to put the litter down every hour to allow Alice some respite from the jarring, irregular movement she was forced to endure. They found their camp untouched, however, and were able to retrieve their possessions from where they had been hidden in the bush.
Once inside their tent, Simon examined Alice’s wound. The antiseptic ointment seemed to have done its job well, for there was no sign of infection, but the hole made by the musket ball remained gaping and there was some suppuration. Fonthill caught Alice’s eye.
‘I’m afraid it needs stitching,’ he said. ‘Mustn’t leave the hole like that in this climate.’
‘Hmm.’ Alice’s face was white under her tan. ‘Who is going to do that, then?’
‘I . . . er . . . don’t suppose that you . . . ?’
‘No. I couldn’t quite face that, and anyway, I am not as good a needlewoman as I claimed. I am afraid, my love, that it must be you. It isn’t saying much, I fear, but you are far and away the best surgeon in our little group. You have already proved that.’
Fonthill gulped. ‘Do we have a needle and some gut?’
‘Yes. In my bag.’
‘So I just . . . ?’
‘Yes, dear.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘You just pierce the skin and draw the edges together. Neatly and tidily. While I scream.’
‘Oh lord. Do you have any morphine in your bag?’
‘Yes. And a syringe. Might as well get on with it, darling, while I have faith in you. I don’t want people staring at a nasty hole in my leg while I bathe in the North Sea off the Norfolk coast, now do I? And if you do well, you can take on the task of mending your socks when we get home.’
Gloomily Fonthill opened up her precious medical bag, laid out a towel on a collapsible stool and placed upon it the necessary implements. He stuck his head out of the tent and called Joshua to bring soap and hot water and to summon Mzingeli.
‘What’s up?’ enquired Jenkins.
Simon explained. ‘Ah yes.’ The Welshman’s face looked drawn, then he nodded his head in appreciation of the task ahead. ‘I’ll just see to the lightin’ of the fires for the night, then,’ he said. ‘Important, this fire-layin’ business, see. Got to be done right. You won’t need me in there.’ And he strode away very quickly.
Alice, her jaw set squarely, supervised the injection of the morphine and then threaded the needle before lying back, waiting for the drug to take effect. ‘Remember,’ she said, her head on the pillow, ‘you must make the edges of the flesh meet. No gaping gaps, please.’ Then she nodded. ‘I think the morphine has taken effect now. Stitch away.’ And she took a deep breath and looked the other way.
Once again Mzingeli took on the task of holding down Alice’s leg, and staunched the bleeding while Simon made the incisions. It took about fifteen minutes before he was able to draw the needle through for the last time, snip off the end of the gut and tie it in a knot to prevent it slipping back.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Not a bad job.’ He looked up at his wife, who had made no sound during the operation, but her face was wet with perspiration and blood was flowing from where she had bitten her lip. She was quite unconscious. It was clear that the anaesthetic, clumsily applied, had not been as effective as had been hoped. Cursing, Fonthill bandaged the wound, gently tucked Alice’s leg beneath the blanket and, kneeling, began to wipe her brow with a cloth dipped in cold water.
Within a minute she had come round. She gazed at him dreamily. ‘I don’t suppose there is any whisky in the camp, is there?’ she enquired.
‘There is just one bottle left,’ Simon breathed, ‘and you can have all of its contents, my love. You have been a brave, brave girl.’
‘Oh good.’ And she went back to sleep.
Mzingeli allowed himself one of his rare smiles. ‘Nkosana like a warrior,’ he said.
They all stayed within the scarum for the next three days while Alice recovered, but the problem of what to do with the ex-slaves began to be pressing. They were becoming fractious, and yet were timorous of leaving the camp on their own. They still feared that the slavers, in some form or other, might return, although Mzingeli tried to assure them that this was most unlikely. The question was: where should they be taken? Most of them seemed to have come from outside the Manican territory. Could they find their own way back to their villages?
Fonthill called a meeting, and he, Jenkins, Mzingeli and Joshua, whose English had now improved to the point where he could understand most of what was said to him, sat around Alice’s bed. It was Mzingeli who stated the obvious.
‘We no nursemaids,’ he grunted. ‘Take them to nearest village. Then they decide what to do.’
Simon looked at his wife. ‘I don’t think you will be able to walk for a time,’ he said. ‘And I don�
�t want to leave you here.’
Alice waved her hand. ‘Don’t worry about me. I want to start writing the story of the fight with the slavers anyway, and will need a bit of peace and quiet to concentrate. You must take Mzingeli with you to interpret and Jenkins to help you keep them all moving. I have a feeling that you will have to herd them like cattle, so you will also need some herdsmen.’ She smiled. ‘Just leave Joshua with me, with a couple of Martini-Henrys and that whisky you promised, and we will be as right as rain.’
‘Well I don’t know about that.’ Fonthill looked at Jenkins, who shrugged his shoulders, and then Mzingeli, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of assent.
He sighed. ‘All right. We will go tomorrow. If we make an early start, we should be back well before nightfall—’
Alice interrupted. ‘No. It’s pointless rushing. When you get to the village, you are virtually halfway to the king’s kraal. Why don’t you push on to see him and get him to sign your treaty? He will be so happy that you have sent the slavers packing that he will give you anything you want. Probably make you deputy king or Prince of Wales. Strike while the iron is hot. Joshua and I will be right as rain here for two days if you leave us food and drink. Eh, Joshua?’
