The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  Simon winced but refused to cry out. ‘Where is my wife?’ he demanded.

  De Sousa indicated genuine puzzlement. ‘Don’t tell me you have lost her? Well I haven’t got her, nor do I want her. But you, my dear friend, I do want. Oh yes. I want you. You have a debt to pay, do you remember?’ And he dug the end of the knife into Fonthill’s pectoral muscle, this time bringing a cry.

  The Portuguese sat back. ‘It’s been quite a chase catching you, but I thought that getting the boy would bring you back. And here you are.’

  Fonthill gritted his teeth at the pain from his chest. He realised that the shirt had been torn from his body and blood was dripping down on to his breeches from the cuts that had been made. He looked around. They were in a clearing of sorts and it was still dark. But fires had been lit, and some dozen large natives, some with spears at their sides, others with rifles, were lounging on the ground near the flames, devouring meat. There was no sign of Mzingeli.

  ‘What the hell do you want with me?’

  ‘What do I want?’ Gouela revealed a gold tooth and, at very close observation, his pockmarked yellowish skin. ‘Well, firstly I want to cause you pain. Then I want to kill you, rather slowly. But given my responsibilities for this area—’

  ‘Neither you nor your government has any claim to this territory.’

  The Portuguese ignored the interruption. ‘Given my responsibilities for this area, I must make an example of you. I intend therefore to set off in the morning to take you back to Umtasa’s kraal, and there, before his inDunas and his people, I shall roast you slowly over a very large fire, but not until you are dead. No. When we have turned this ridiculously white skin of yours into a fine piece of pork crackling, I shall hang you, Fonthill.’

  Fonthill tried to summon up a dismissive grin. ‘You won’t do that. You know that I am a representative of Rhodes, and through him of the British Government. Your country and mine have a pact of non-aggression. The news would get back and you would have to answer to your government for my death.’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. This is a faraway, primitive country, Fonthill, and I have found that I can do more or less what I like here. I shall tell my friend King Lobengula that you tried to kill me and that I was forced to defend myself. But, of course, to Umtasa I shall demonstrate how the Portuguese crown treats those who attempt to persuade its subjects to defect to another colonial power. So you will roast for a while and then hang. Now,’ he raised the knife again, ‘where was I? Oh yes . . .’

  The pain began again, and Fonthill clenched his jaw to prevent himself from screaming. Then came oblivion.

  The fires were burning low and the darkness beyond the clearing seemed to have grown blacker when he regained consciousness. The pain was still burning his chest, but he forced himself to sit upright and look around. De Sousa seemed to have disappeared, but was probably sleeping in the small bivouac tent that had been erected in the centre of the clearing. Most of his men had wrapped themselves in blankets and were asleep, strewn around the ground. One guard, however, carrying a rifle of some make that Fonthill could not determine, was slowly, sleepily patrolling the perimeter of the camp, coming into and out of the light cast by the fires. Again Simon looked for Mzingeli, but there was no sign of the tracker.

  Fonthill’s mouth tasted as if it had been force-fed on ashes and it cried out for water, but he forced himself to check his bindings. They remained tight, and the effort nearly made him black out again, but he breathed deeply and sought to clear his head. He must consider his position rationally. The fact that Mzingeli had not been exhibited to him as a corpse surely meant that the tracker, with his innate sensibility in the bush, must have escaped, for there would be no particular kudos for de Sousa in taking him back to the king’s kraal. He would be just another native to the Portuguese. Escaped, though, to do what? He pondered. Mzingeli, superb tracker and resourceful man though he was, was no soldier. If he had got away, then surely he would have made his way back to Jenkins.

  Fonthill tried to roll over, and stifled a groan as the cuts burned into him and began to bleed again. Looking down at his blood-drenched torso, he rationalised that at least the wounds seemed to be only superficial, for if the knife had cut deeply, then surely he would have bled to death by now. He forced a grin. Small mercies!

  Just then his hands, foraging around in the dust of the clearing, found a stone-a sharp-edged stone. He grasped it in his fingers and tried to force it backwards to saw the edge of the vine that bound him, but he could not reach. He looked around. A few feet away was a small grouping of stones. Could he inch his way towards them and wedge the base of the sharp stone into the middle, firmly enough to use it as a saw? He jerked his knees upwards, and again the pain flooded through his body, but he gritted his teeth and persevered. Gradually, inch by agonising inch, he moved towards the stones. He swivelled his head. Was he being watched? No. He continued the movement, scraping his bottom along the ground. There! Now. He turned his back and thrust the base of the stone among the others. Yes - there was a hole. Would the base hold? Would it stay upright and firm enough to saw away? Somehow, clumsily, he inserted the bottom of the stone into the gap. Thank God, it stayed upright. He began sawing.

  Almost immediately the stone toppled over. Damn! Fonthill fumbled again, this time managing to move one of the base stones a little to enable more of his cutting stone to wedge into the resulting gap. Yes, firmer this time. Much firmer!

  He had been sawing away for perhaps three minutes with seemingly little effect, except to cause the blood to seep more strongly from the cuts in his chest, when a sound made his head jerk upright. It was a high-pitched scream, of a malevolence that Simon had never encountered in his life, and it seemed to emanate from the western side of the clearing. As he listened, it increased in intensity, and was joined by similar screams from the bush on the other three sides of the camp. The sleeping men in the centre of the clearing started awake and sat upright, their eyeballs showing white in the half-light, fear in their faces. The banshee cry was like that made by a handful of lost souls, bewailing their descent into hell, and Fonthill felt the hairs stand up at the base of his head. He saw a half-dressed Gouela scramble out of his tent and stand erect as his head swivelled round to detect the source of the sound.

  The consternation caused by the wailing, however, was as nothing compared to the next development. As Fonthill watched in wonderment, two fires, some fifteen feet apart, sprang into life a little way back in the bush, on the western side. They were small, but the light they shed was effective enough to illuminate two grotesque figures, each hanging above one of the fires, swinging gently from branches some twelve feet above the ground. The heads of the figures were twisted to one side, but they were unmistakably the two boys who had been killed and strung up further back in the forest.

  Fonthill’s jaw gaped as the bodies swung like pendulums, first into view as they moved into the yellow firelight and then back again into the darkness. And the screaming continued, now ululating, but still seemingly having no source.

  Now the noise was supplemented by a single, sharp cry that seemed to come from the solitary guard who had disappeared into the blackness of the forest. It was enough to send the Kaffirs rushing into a terrified group in the centre of the clearing, their mouths agape, their eyes like white marbles set into their dark faces. Their heads twisted, for they seemed not to know which way to run, because the banshees were all around them.

  De Sousa snarled and shouted an order, but he was ignored, for the fear that gripped the men was greater than that they held for their master.

  Then: ‘Lie flat, bach.’

  The words boomed from the western end of the clearing, from where the apparitions were still swinging, although the fires were now flickering low. Simon flung himself on to the dusty earth, just before a fusillade of shots came from scattered points on the perimeter of the bush. Much of the firing was inaccurate, either whining over the heads of the men bunched together in the cen
tre of the camp or burying itself into the ground at their feet. But that which came from two separate places was deadly, and within seconds, five of the Kaffirs had staggered, doubled up and lay prostrate. Immediately, the rest turned and fled towards the east, the only point of the compass that did not seem to belch flame. They ran, throwing aside spears and rifles, their legs pumping as they weaved in and out of the trees and bushes until they had disappeared from sight.

  De Sousa, however, turned towards where Fonthill lay and, crouching, ran towards him, knife in hand. A bullet took him in the upper arm, sending the knife spinning away and causing him to stagger and fall. He was struggling to rise when two of the fleeing Kaffirs, leaders of the group, or so it appeared from the traces of grey in their hair, doubled over to him, seized him under each armpit and dragged him away until he was able to regain his feet and stumble after the others, holding his arm.

  For a moment, silence descended on the clearing, and then there was a whoop and Jenkins appeared, rifle in hand, and ran to where Fonthill lay.

  He knelt at the side of the still pinioned man and reeled at the sight of the blood on Simon’s chest. ‘Good God, we didn’t ’it you, did we? Our lads can’t shoot for toffee.’

  ‘No, and it’s not as bad as it looks. Can you cut away this damned binding? The bastards may return when they get their nerve back.’

  Jenkins produced a knife and sawed through the thick vine that bound his wrists and ankles. ‘No, I don’t think they’ll be back. We’ve killed ’alf of them, look you, an’ the others are frightened out of their nappies, see.’ He helped Fonthill to stand. ‘Bloody ’ell, man. What ’ave they done to you?’

  Simon staggered for a moment and put a hand on Jenkins’s shoulder. Then he summoned up a smile as the three boys, grinning and with their Martini-Henrys proudly shouldered, emerged from various sides of the clearing. ‘Gouela cut me up a bit, but not deeply. My, 352! Your show scared the life out of me. Was it your idea?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it was, bach sir. Not bad, was it?’ He gave a reciprocal grin to the boys. ‘They all enjoyed it, anyway, though I thought they’d shoot old Jelly and me before they ’it the black fellers. ’Ere, drink this.’ He held a water bag to Fonthill’s lips. ‘Now lean on me and we’ll get out of ’ere.’

  ‘No. Wait a moment.’ Fonthill nodded his head towards the two corpses, now clearly to be seen in the light of dawn, hanging inert, no longer swinging. ‘They’ve served us well and we must not leave them there for the hyenas.’ He looked over his shoulder to where de Sousa and the remnants of his band had disappeared, but there was no sign of them.

  They were joined by Mzingeli, now wearing the half-smile that was as near as he ever came to showing pleasure.

  Fonthill held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Mzingeli. I didn’t know you could sing so well. And you, lads.’ He shook hands with them all before turning back to the tracker. He nodded his head in the direction taken by the Portuguese and his men. ‘Do you think they will be back?’

  ‘No. These men very soppos . . . what is English word?’

  ‘Superstitious?’

  ‘That is it. They think this bush haunted. They no come back.’

  ‘Good. Then please ask the boys to take down our two old friends up there,’ he nodded to the hanging corpses, ‘and burn them. I’m afraid we have no time to bury them. Jenkins and I will wait here with our rifles just in case those men return.’

  ‘Yes, Nkosi.’

  While they waited, Fonthill learned of how Mzingeli had melted into the bush when Simon was attacked, and of how he had followed the two men who had taken him back to the Portuguese camp, which had been set up about half an hour’s march from the scarum. Then he had returned to an anxious Jenkins and together they had plotted the attack.

  ‘It was old Jelly who really gave me the idea,’ said Jenkins. ‘He told me that these Kaffir blokes don’t like being in the bush at night on their own - not just because of the animals, but because of the spirits of people killed in the place, y’see. I felt that an outright attack would ’ave been a bit chancy because only two of us could shoot - as you saw. I did think of your fire trick, but knowin’ me, I would get it wrong and ’ave us all burned to death.’

  Simon gave a weary smile. ‘I have to say that the shooting was a bit haphazard, but that was the boys, I guess.’

  ‘Ah yes. Sorry about that - an’ I was worried that we might ’it you an’ that’s why I shouted. Mind you,’ he sniffed, ‘my shootin’ wasn’t the best it’s ever been. I managed to pot quite a few of the black fellers, see, but I missed old Saucepot again, dammit. Only got ’im in the arm, so that’s two lives ’e owes me. I’ll get ’im next time, though.’

  ‘No. I think he’s reserved for me.’ Fonthill looked up as smoke once again drifted down across the clearing. ‘Right. It looks as though the lads have done that job. Let us go. We must find Alice.’

  Jenkins laid a hand on his arm. ‘’Ere, ’alf a mo. What if old Yellow Pants ’as taken ’er?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. If he had got her, he would surely have exhibited her to me in delight. And if he had . . .’ he gulped, ‘already killed her, he wouldn’t have taken her bed. Above all that, as I’ve said before, there is no way he could have overtaken us in the bush and arrived at the scarum before us. If he had, he would have waited and ambushed us on arrival. No.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Someone else has taken her. But they have left a good spoor and we must get on our way and catch them.’

  Jenkins sniffed. ‘That’s all very well, but you’ve been carved about a bit and ’ad a fair old bump on the ’ead, an’ with respect, bach sir, I don’t see you doin’ much forced marchin’ for long, see.’

  ‘Nonsense. I can march. Come on.’

  But Jenkins was right. They made what progress they could through the bush, yet everyone was tired, and when eventually Fonthill collapsed, there was almost an air of relief. They carried him into a glade and made him as comfortable as possible, and took turns to stand guard through the day. The next morning, Simon was clearly delirious and moving into a fever. Mzingeli carefully examined the cuts on his chest and declared that there would be no marching that day. Instead, he dug into the earth until he found what he wanted, some strange-looking, bulbous roots. He made a small fire, carefully disseminating the smoke, and boiled the roots in the only kettle they had. Then he mashed them into a paste with a rifle butt, spread them on to a couple of leaves from a baobab tree and tied them to his patient’s chest. Lastly, he took a couple of baobab buds, crushed them and forced Fonthill to drink the resulting liquid.

  The next morning, Simon awoke clear-eyed and with no sign of fever. ‘You’re a bloody marvel,’ said Jenkins, and patted the tracker on the back. Mzingeli just shrugged.

  During this enforced stop, Jenkins had posted guards on a rota back in the bush the way they had come, but there was no sign of pursuit. It looked indeed as though the Portuguese and his men had been forced to flee and lick their wounds. So they set off again, this time at a slightly reduced pace to allow Fonthill time to recover fully.

  However, they were soon confronted with what seemed a virtually impossible hurdle. The trail, so clearly marked and which they had been following so assiduously, now suddenly branched into three. ‘Clever bastards,’ cried Fonthill. ‘Mzingeli, can you tell which one would have been carrying the litter?’

  The tracker frowned. While the rest of the party waited impatiently, he carefully and slowly walked down each of the three spoors a little way, sometimes bending to inspect a piece of grass or the edge of a footprint in a patch of dust. Then he returned.

  ‘Cannot tell,’ he said. ‘I go a longer way now down each spoor. This will take time. You wait.’

  Fonthill shouted a curse. ‘We are already behind by about four bloody days,’ he cried. Then he regained his composure. ‘Yes, of course, Mzingeli. Do what you can and take your time. We will wait here.’

  But the tracker returned within ten minutes, holding
out his hand and indulging in his joyful half-smile. ‘Nkosana leave these,’ he said. ‘Very clever lady.’ And he handed three gout pills to Simon.

  ‘What . . . ?’ Fonthill examined the little white capsules. ‘Gout pills. What the hell could they . . . Ah!’ He slapped his thigh with delight. ‘Of course. Why didn’t I think of this before? It’s old Lobengula! He’s sent half a bloody impi or whatever to take her back to Bulawayo to treat his damned gout. It all fits - not caring about the rifles, the tents or the mules, but taking her bed and Joshua to look after her. The old devil!’

  Jenkins nodded. ‘His worship might have left us a note or somethin’. It would ’ave saved us a lot of worry an’ trouble, wouldn’t it?’

  Fonthill’s relief was etched into his face. ‘Well, Alice left us a note of sorts. It means that she’s being looked after and she will be safe with his men, even with Gouela on the rampage.’

  ‘Do we take it a bit easier, then?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Now that we know which way we’re goin’, like.’