The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  The boy grinned, not quite comprehending the conversation but glad to be included, and nodded his head.

  ‘Very well. But we won’t be away longer than two days. Joshua, you keep a good watch and look after the Nkosana.’

  Joshua’s grin widened and he nodded again.

  In truth, Fonthill was happy to accept Alice’s suggestion. Her leg was healing well, but she would need to rest for at least another three days or so, and he did not relish the prospect of kicking his heels idly in the scarum for that time. He was anxious to pull King Umtasa into his bag, prospect a little to the north for firmer terrain for a road, and return to Bulawayo as quickly as possible before going south to meet Rhodes’s column on the march. It would almost certainly be on its way now, and he was eager to march with it and look for possible farming land in Mashonaland. For Alice’s safety he had no fear. The Manican people were not warlike and would cause her no harm, and Mzingeli had assured him that no slavers would come through this way now for a year or more after the rebuff the last party had received.

  It was with a happy heart, then, that he, Jenkins, Mzingeli, the four boys and the chattering band of ex-slaves set off for the Manican village. Surprisingly, it seemed that two of the natives, a pair of brothers, were from the king’s kraal and were anxious to return there. They had been taken when they had strayed too far to the west on a hunting expedition. Bringing them back safely would surely cement Fonthill’s relationship with the king, and thus confirmed the good sense of pressing on to his kraal as soon as possible.

  And so it proved. The majority of the ex-slaves were left at the village, and Fonthill, Jenkins, Mzingeli and the two Manicans continued their journey, arriving at the kraal just before nightfall. They were met with cries of joy and dancing as the two brothers were welcomed back from the dead. Chattering children, singing adults and barking dogs formed an avenue through which they all marched to the king’s hut. It was, Simon reflected, rather like the return of the prodigal son.

  That evening they were once again the guests of King Umtasa at an outdoor feast. The king had insisted on interrogating the two brothers on their capture and learning how Fonthill and his party had rescued them. He nodded his head in particular approval at the hanging of the slave master. The man, it seemed, was known to the tribe, and although the king’s own kraal was too large and well defended to be a target for their depredations, the slavers had raided other villages in Umtasa’s territory and the big Nubian had earned a reputation for cruelty. It was good, said the king, that his new British protectors had already showed that they would and could keep their word.

  Fonthill swallowed hard at this. It would be some time, he knew, before a British presence could be extended directly to the Manican people - and what about the Portuguese claim to their land? Through Mzingeli, he gently probed Umtasa on this. Was the king forced to pay allegiance to the European power?

  The king shook his head. ‘No. They want money. They come sometimes and want me pay taxes. I give little grain but nothing more. Their man comes with his men from the south. He used to take slaves and particularly women from my villages. But I say I complain to Mozambique so he don’t no more.’

  ‘What man was that?’

  ‘His name de Sousa,’ Mzingeli allowed himself a ghost of a smile as he translated, ‘but everyone call him Gouela.’

  Fonthill nodded. ‘This man is known to me,’ he explained. ‘He is an agent for the Portuguese government in territories just over the border in Portuguese East Africa. But he has no claim on your country. He also makes claims on the land of the King of the Matabele, but King Lobengula does not accept them. You are right to reject him. He is no better than the Arab slavers who come from the north.’

  The king listened impassively. ‘Will your Rhodes protect me from him?’

  ‘If your majesty will sign the treaty of friendship between your country and the charter company of Mr Rhodes, as has King Lobengula, then the company will be able to extend protection. Mr Rhodes has now begun building a road through Matabeleland and Mashonaland to the west that will bring him and his influence close to you. I must first return, of course, with the treaty signed by you.’

  ‘And he will give me guns?’

  ‘I shall relay your request to him.’

  ‘This treaty don’t take my country from me?’

  ‘No. This is a treaty of friendship between your country and the British Government, as represented by the charter company. It will give the British the right to oppose the Portuguese claim to your land.

  ‘Ah.’ Umtasa pulled at his trim beard for a moment. Then he nodded his head. ‘Your words are good. You fight slavers already and bring back two of my people. You show you can fight. You bring me treaty. I sign it now.’

  Fonthill gave a quiet sight of relief. He was growing weary of the strain of picking his words carefully, and delicately balancing his answers. He was, he realised, tiptoeing between the truth and the near truth. It was a role he did not relish.

  Jenkins, who had been listening, immediately rose and retrieved the carefully rolled piece of parchment from Simon’s pack. He also brought a pen and a sealed bottle of ink. Umtasa called for a table to be provided, and then he spread out the document and, following Fonthill’s pointed finger, laboriously made his cross. Simon scrawled his own name, on behalf of the charter company, and a frowning Jenkins, his tongue poking out from under his moustache, scratched his signature as a witness. Sprinkling a little sand on the signatures, Fonthill extended his hand, and he and Jenkins shook the king’s hand as the last seal of goodwill.

  The inDunas sitting around the fire, not quite understanding what had just taken taken place but realising that it was a ceremony of some importance, set up a brief ululation in approval.

  Jenkins carefully rolled up the document, put away the ink, pen and sand, wiped the back of his hand across his moustache and confided, ‘Well, as we’ve just got married, so to speak, shall we ’ave another little drop of beer to celebrate, eh, your worship?’ And he raised his empty cup in genial supplication.

  The king grasped the meaning, nodded and ordered more beer, and the drinking continued until the fires were guttering low.

  Fonthill rose the next morning with a throbbing head, although Jenkins and Mzingeli appeared to be completely unaffected by the night’s carousing. During the evening, the king had repeated his claim that the country to the north offered more open and firm going, right through to the Portuguese border, but Simon resisted the temptation to detour on the way back to the scarum to see for himself. He was already feeling guilty about leaving Alice, and he decided that they would make all haste back to her and explore to the north-east as soon as she was able to walk.

  They set off early, carrying with them a pair of medium-sized elephant’s tusks that Umtasa had presented to Fonthill for freeing the slaves, and which the four boys carried slung between them.

  It was, however, a long trek, and it was almost dark before they reached the scarum. The camp seemed quiet enough, with the mules grazing peacefully outside the stockade, and Fonthill raised a loud ‘hello’ as they approached. There was no reply, however, and Simon exchanged a puzzled glance with Jenkins. Then he broke into a run.

  Alice’s tent was empty, and there was no sign of Joshua either. Alice’s travelling pack, her few clothes and her medical bag had gone, yet there was no evidence of a struggle. The two Martini-Henry rifles and her Westley Richards stood leaning in a corner of the tent. Alice and Joshua had disappeared without a trace.

  Fonthill looked wide-eyed and despairingly at Jenkins and Mzingeli.

  ‘P’raps they’ve just gone to pick berries or somethin’,’ offered Jenkins.

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, man. She can’t walk.’

  ‘Ah yes. Sorry, bach.’

  In desperation, Fonthill looked around the interior of the tent once again. Something else was missing . . . Ah yes. ‘The divan has gone!’ he exclaimed. It was true. The bed from the Arabs’ tent tha
t had been converted into a rough litter to carry Alice had disappeared. So too had her blankets. ‘Why the hell should she want to take her bed with her? Or, for that matter, who else would want to take it?’

  Mzingeli had quietly walked outside. Now he re-entered the tent. ‘Nkosana taken,’ he said. ‘Many men.’

  Simon crashed his fist into an open palm. ‘Oh my God! Who? Where?’

  The tracker shrugged. ‘Don’t know. They go that way.’ And he pointed to the west.

  Chapter 13

  Fonthill noted the direction of Mzingeli’s pointed finger and ran outside the scarum and looked hard to the west. At first his unskilled eye could see little to help him. Then, on bending and examining the ground, he perceived the crushed grass and broken twigs that betrayed the passage of a considerable number of people. He turned to find Mzingeli and Jenkins at his elbow.

  ‘Can you see anything that would tell us who they were,’ he demanded of the tracker, ‘and how long ago they struck?’

  Mzingeli bent and put a long black finger into the disturbed grass. He wrinkled his nose. ‘No, Nkosi. Not sure. But I think yesterday. And they don’t wear shoes. Native men. Going fast. Look how . . . what is English? Yes, heel of foot don’t show. Only ball. They running.’

  Fonthill nodded, although he could detect nothing of the sort. ‘Running? Why on earth should they do that?’

  Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘I suppose they’d be worryin’ about us comin’ after them, like.’

  ‘Well they’ve got at least a day and a half’s advantage on us anyway.’ He bit the knuckles of his fist and tried to think rationally. He turned back to Mzingeli. ‘Is there any sign of anyone being hurt?’

  ‘No. No fight. No blood. Guns not moved. Bed gone. Blankets gone. They look after her. Take Joshua, too.’

  ‘So they definitely wanted Alice,’ mused Fonthill. ‘They saw that, obviously, she couldn’t walk, so they took her bed and probably carried her on that. Who would do that? Perhaps someone who wants to have a hold over us so has taken her as some sort of hostage. But who . . . ?’ Then his eyes lit up. ‘Of course, why didn’t I think? De Sousa!’

  He turned to the others, anguish showing in his face. ‘This is virtually his territory anyway, and he has a score or two to settle with us. He obviously saw the scarum and swept in. It was just his luck to find us gone but Alice remaining. Oh why did I leave her?’

  ‘Don’t think about that, bach sir.’ Jenkins was at his most pragmatic. ‘Just think about gettin’ ’er back, which we will, as surely as God made little apples. Now, look you, do we go after ’em right away, or wait until morning?’

  Fonthill deflected the question to Mzingeli. ‘Can you follow the spoor in the dark?’

  ‘Perhaps, but can’t go quick at night.’

  ‘Very well.’ Fonthill spoke quickly. ‘Let us have something to eat and drink. We will have to leave the mules because they will slow us down, and we take only what we need: dried biltong, water bags; no tents, just blankets. Leave the ivory tusks. But we take Alice’s Westley Richards and the other rifles. I want to be well armed and on the way before darkness falls.’

  They all bustled about, unhobbling the mules, stuffing their packs with essentials, filling extra water bottles and then, squatting briefly, eating a quick supper. Fonthill was careful to ensure that the document he had signed with King Umtasa was safely stowed in his pack. They were still chewing when a crashing in the undergrowth made them grab their rifles and brought them to their feet.

  From the direction in which they had come only a few minutes before, a figure emerged. He was a native, dressed only in loincloth and monkey-skin calf bands and carrying nothing except a water bag. Perspiration poured from his face and chest and he was gasping for breath. Fonthill raised his rifle but was restrained by Mzingeli.

  ‘He from Umtasa kraal,’ said the tracker, and he moved quickly towards the tribesman, who looked on the verge of exhaustion. Mzingeli seized the man’s water bag to slake his thirst, but it was empty. Instead he raised his own bag to the runner’s mouth and urged him to sit. They then engaged in conversation, conducted between the Manican’s gasps.

  ‘What does he say?’ interrupted Fonthill.

  Mzingeli lifted his hand for silence and continued to interrogate the runner. Eventually he rose. ‘He come from King Umtasa,’ he said. ‘After we leave kraal, de Sousa arrive with men. He tell king that he heard we in area and want him to produce us for him to kill. King say we left day before. De Sousa go off to find us. This man sent by king to warn us. He been running all day.’

  ‘Ah.’ Fonthill clenched his fist. ‘That settles it. The bastard arrived here before us and took . . . Wait.’ He frowned. ‘Ask him how long after we left the Portuguese set off.’

  Mzingeli translated. ‘He not sure but think about one hour. He run around Gouela and men and then come straight here. They not far behind him now.’

  Fonthill’s frown deepened. ‘That means that de Sousa could not have got here before us and taken Alice. I just don’t understand this, at all.’

  ‘Well,’ sniffed Jenkins. ‘Do we wait ’ere an’ give old Saucepot another bloody nose, or do we bugger off after Miss Alice? Not much time to decide, bach sir.’

  Fonthill raised his hand. ‘Let me think. Now, if Gouela had been able to overtake us in some way, by design or accident, and taken Alice, then he would have waited here to surprise us. That means that he hasn’t taken her and someone else has. Right. We go after Alice, and we start now before that greaser and his men arrive. Here.’ He delved into his pack and pressed two golden sovereigns into the messenger’s hand. ‘Mzingeli, please give him our thanks and ask him to pass our gratitude on to the king. Give the man one of our spare water skins and tell him that if he can hide them from de Sousa, the mules are his. We leave now.’

  Leaving the young man standing in the compound clutching his sovereigns, Fonthill and his party broke into a trot and set off into the bush, following a trail that was now only slightly discernible in the dusk. They alternately trotted and walked for about an hour, stringing out in single file with Mzingeli in the lead, followed by Simon, Jenkins and the four boys, before the tracker was forced to admit that he could not follow the spoor any longer in the growing darkness.

  ‘Right,’ grunted Fonthill, perspiration trickling down his face. ‘We get off this track and bed down in the bush. No fire. No light. No talking . . .’ He paused. ‘Wait a minute, we are missing a boy.’

  Indeed they were. Only three of the young men who had journeyed with them from Bulawayo had gathered around him. ‘Mzingeli - find out what’s happened.’

  A quick conversation ensued between the tracker and the three boys. Then Mzingeli reported: ‘Boy was last in line. Slow runner. Boy in front of him not realise he fall behind and disappear. Maybe he come soon.’

  Fonthill shook his head. ‘If you can’t find the track in the dark, then this lad can’t.’ He sighed. ‘All right. You and I had better go back and look for him. Jenkins, stay in charge here, and for goodness’ sake don’t let any of the boys stray.’

  Jenkins pulled a face. ‘Better I come with you, bach sir, with old Saucepot on our trail. Just in case you run into trouble.’

  ‘No. You stay here with the boys. We don’t want too many bodies wandering around in the bush in the dark. Keep a guard rota. We won’t be long. I only hope we can retrace our steps.’

  It was difficult, but they did so - at least for some forty minutes. Mzingeli was well in the lead and hardly visible in the darkness when a movement in the bush to his right caught Fonthill’s eye. Something was swinging from a branch. Rifle at the ready, he took a couple of paces into the thicket before he stopped, his mouth opening in horror. Hanging from the branch by his neck was the young man who had fallen behind. Swinging at his side and equally dead was Umtasa’s messenger. As Simon watched, the man’s hand twitched and the two gold sovereigns slipped to the ground.

  Fonthill was turning to shout to Mzingel
i when something crashed on to his head and blackness descended.

  Fonthill came round with excruciating pain consuming his mind and body. The throbbing in his head was as nothing compared to . . . what was it? He opened his eyes and realised that somebody, very close to him, was slowly cutting into the flesh of his chest with a knife. There was a strong smell of pomade, highly scented hair oil. He struggled but realised that his wrists were bound behind him and his ankles were similarly tied. The black eyes of de Sousa looked into his at a distance of some twelve inches, and then, realising that he had regained consciousness, the Portuguese held up a knife, from the end of which dripped blood.

  ‘Ah, Mr Fonthill,’ he said. ‘I thought that a little surgery without the benefit of anaesthetic might bring you round. I was just carving my initials in your chest to while away the time until I could talk to you.’