The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  The tracker gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. ‘I come,’ he said. ‘You want Ntini and Joshua?’

  ‘Oh yes please,’ interjected Alice. ‘I would like them to come and run my cables back for me.’

  ‘Yes. Then they come.’

  Simon gave a weary grin and rose to his feet. ‘It seems,’ he said, ‘as though Fonthill’s private army stays in being, then. Thank you both. Well done. Now, I suppose I ought to go and see the bloody king.’

  ‘Not before you have shaved,’ said Alice. ‘And you, 352. You look like a pair of pirates. But you, Mzingeli, have managed to preserve your essential elegance and dignity. I am proud of you.’

  She received the tracker’s slightly embarrassed half-smile in return.

  Later, Fonthill and Mzingeli walked down the hill to the king’s house. Simon’s anger at Lobengula’s abduction of Alice had abated somewhat, not least because he had sensed a change in mood by the Matabele towards him and his party. The men who had met him out on the high veldt had been surly and had not engaged in conversation with Mzingeli, merely stating that they had come to fetch the white man back to his wife. In Bulawayo, there was now an undoubted air of hostility. Warriors were sitting outside their huts, ostentatiously sharpening their assegais and bending new hides around the framework of their shields. If Simon caught their eye, he received a scowl. It was not a good time to attempt to rebuke a king whose people were itching to go to war, to wash their spears in the blood of white men.

  He found Lobengula standing, for once, and talking to his inDunas. The king whirled round and indicated that Fonthill and Mzingeli should sit, and then walked slowly to his couch.

  Simon inclined his head. ‘Tell the king,’ he said to Mzingeli, ‘that I hope I find him in good health and that his foot is causing him no pain.’

  Lobengula ignored the pleasantries. ‘I take back your wife because my foot bad,’ he said, through the tracker. ‘If you there when my men found her, they would explain that we borrow her. But you gone. We not harm her. Treat her well. And then send my people to tell you we have her safe here and bring you back.’

  ‘I have to say, your majesty, that in my country it is a criminal offence to abduct someone’s wife.’

  At this, Lobengula stood and advanced on the seated pair, so that he loomed over them, his face like thunder. ‘You not in your country,’ he shouted, ‘you in mine. I do what I want here. But I no harm your wife. I ask her to do service for me. If white men respect king, she should do that service.’

  Fonthill kept his voice level and looked the king in the eye. ‘You will know that my wife is not a doctor, and that in England, as in Matabeleland, her duty is to her husband. But she believes in trying to reduce pain with the drugs at her disposal. How is your foot now?’

  The directness of the question and the refusal of Fonthill to be bullied slightly disconcerted Lobengula. He raised his eyebrows and then lifted his right foot and replaced it again. ‘Foot better,’ he said. ‘King is grateful to Nkosana. What you do now?’

  ‘Er . . . I understand that the prospectors that your majesty has kindly allowed to enter your country have arrived on the southern border. We intend to join them.’

  ‘Ah!’ The king pointed his assegai blade towards Fonthill. ‘I agreed for men to come and make road and dig. Now I have foreign impi at my border. Guns and big witchcraft light. It is too much. There is a wall around the word of a chief. But white men always lie.’ There was a murmur of approval from the inDunas.

  ‘Well . . .’ Fonthill began, hesitantly. But the king was speaking again, quickly and with vehemence.

  ‘Look,’ he said, putting aside his spear and using his hands to illustrate his words. ‘England is like chameleon stalking a fly. Chameleon changes colour to go into background. It rocks to and fro on feet,’ he cupped his hand, palm down, and imitated the actions, ‘and advances so nobody notices. Then flashes out tongue and eats fly.’ The fingers of his hand leapt forward. The king’s eyes stared into Simon’s. ‘I am fly. England is chameleon.’

  As if exhausted, Lobengula sank down on to his couch. ‘When you go?’ he asked.

  ‘As soon as we are able to buy provisions for the journey.’

  ‘Good. You take letter for me to chief of this impi, man called Jameson. I know him. Like you, I thought him friend. At one time.’ The last three words were heavily emphasised, and Mzingeli translated them faithfully.

  Fonthill chose to ignore the innuendo. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I will take the letter.’

  The king spoke to one of his inDunas, and an unsealed envelope was produced containing the letter. It was addressed, Simon noticed, to Dr L. S. Jameson. The king rose, indicating that the audience was over, and Fonthill and Mzingeli also stood, then bowed and left the hut.

  Outside, Fonthill wiped his brow. ‘Phew. That was not easy. Do you think they will go to war, Mzingeli?’

  The tracker shrugged his shoulders. ‘People and inDunas want to,’ he said. ‘But king knows power of white man and he afraid to throw assegai. He know you beat Zulu. Pot is boiling and he wants to keep lid on it. But maybe he don’t.’

  Back in their own hut, Alice and Jenkins had prepared a meal. Before eating, the four of them drank a little beer and Simon recounted what had happened at his meeting. As the envelope was not sealed, he took out its contents and read it. It was written in English, in a hand accustomed to writing bills, and Fonthill recognised the long loops and crossed Ts of Fairbairn. Its message was a simple repetition of the king’s complaints already expressed to Simon, but it ended on a note of diplomatic insolence that he could not resist reading out: ‘Has the king killed any white men that an impi is on the border,’ it ran, ‘or have the white men lost something they are looking for?’

  Alice slapped her thigh in delight. ‘Good for him,’ she said. ‘The old devil has guts and also a good sense of humour. I can’t help liking him, you know.’

  ‘So it seems.’ Fonthill sniffed. ‘But you seem to have forgotten that he lops off his subject’s hands and noses at the pop of a champagne cork. Speaking for myself, I shall be glad to get out of his kraal now. I must say I worry for Fairbairn if trouble breaks out.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jenkins, ‘I’d wager that that old Jock can look after ’imself. ’E’s well in with the king. Where else would the old boy get his grog, eh?’

  Alice nodded. ‘Quite. But Simon, I think you would be wise to go and see Fairbairn. He has his own source of contact with Rhodes, it seems, and he is well informed about the column and the politics involved there. I gather it is a bit of a witch’s brew.’

  ‘Good idea. He might be able to help me get this agreement document with King Umtasa safely back to Kimberley. You will need Ntini and perhaps Joshua for your dispatches. And we must get our horses back from him anyway. I will go after dinner.’

  The smell of stale tobacco and personal functions met Fonthill as he walked through the trader’s door (did his shop never close?). Fairbairn, his pipe in mouth, came from behind his counter and extended his hand.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard you had a few knocks down in that swamp country, but at least you didn’t get the fever.’ He gestured to a rickety cane chair and picked up a whisky bottle. ‘Rest your weary body. Care to join me in a wee dram?’

  ‘Ah, that would be very kind of you. Thank you very much.’

  ‘It’ll only cost you two shillings.’

  ‘What? Oh . . . er . . . yes, of course.’

  Fairbairn poured out two minuscule measures and set them down on a dusty table before pulling up another chair. ‘You’ll have heard that the column has arrived, down in Tuli?’

  ‘Yes, so I understand. We shall be setting off to join them once we’ve settled things up here. We will need some supplies from you and, of course, our horses.’

  ‘That will be no problem. Cheers. Here’s to the Queen, the poor lassie.’

  ‘Er . . . yes. The Queen.’ Fonthill tasted the whisky, coughe
d and replaced the glass. ‘Lobengula has asked me to take the letter you presumably wrote for him to a Dr Jameson. Who is he?’

  ‘Aye, I wrote it. I usually write the king’s letters now. He knows what he wants to say, so I just put it into English. Jameson, you say? Ah, quite a character. He’s become virtually Rhodes’s right-hand man - outside business, that is. He was the first doctor to set up practice in Kimberley, and Rhodes took a shine to him. He’s a little Scotsman and as tough as nails. Great horseman and traveller and even better talker; he’s been up here several times and the king likes him. Makes him laugh. Now he seems to handle all the dirty work that Rhodes can’t do himself.’

  ‘These five hundred “police”, or whatever they are - where do they come from and what’s their purpose?’

  ‘Well, Cecil John’s original idea was that the settlers would be able to protect themselves. They would be stiffened, so to speak, with a few regular officers, and Frank Johnson, who has organised the column and is in charge of the workmen and settlers, himself has the rank of major. Rhodes would provide weapons and ammunition. There would be no line of communication stretching back because these chaps would be self-sufficient, able to look after themselves along the way and in Mashonaland. You get the drift?’

  Fonthill nodded.

  Fairbairn grinned. ‘Well, the powers that be in Whitehall didn’t like the sound of a bunch of amateur soldiers heading into a country bristling with natives just itching to get their assegais into their bellies, and they insisted that Rhodes should organise proper protection for the column, otherwise they’d cancel his charter. So Rhodes gave in. He’s now got these police - so called so as not to upset his majesty here - with the column, armed to the teeth and under the command of a regular soldier from the Inniskilling Dragoons, a Colonel Pennefather. And they’ve got to leave a chain of forts behind them.’

  ‘Good lord, said Fonthill. ‘So who is in command of the whole column, then?’

  ‘Ah, that’s just the point. It was obvious that there would be trouble if the major who had organised the whole thing was out-ranked by a colonel. So Rhodes has sent his very canny Scots doctor along, with no obvious rank or position but with his power of attorney.’ Fairbairn giggled into his pipe stem. ‘That means that nobody can do anything without Jameson’s approval, because he’s the moneybags. Rhodes’s company, of course, is paying for everything, so Jameson is in effective control.’

  Fonthill frowned. ‘It sounds a ridiculous situation to me. Very complicated and tortuous.’

  Fairbairn leaned forward and slapped Fonthill on the knee. ‘Ah, you know what Rhodes is like. Everything is done on the run, on the back of an envelope sort of thing. But it seems to work in the end. And that’s true of this expedition. They’ve all worked harmoniously together through Bechuanaland, so I hear, and built a damned good road.’

  ‘Yes, but the difficult bit is about to start. What happens if Lobengula attacks? You know his people are looking for a fight.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there.’ The Scotsman looked rueful for the first time. ‘But Rhodes certainly doesn’t want a fight. That’s why the route for the road has been taken so far away from Bulawayo. The colonel will be looking to gain a medal or two by taking on the Matabele, but the civilians are in charge of the column, and Jameson and Johnson will be out to avoid bloodshed.’ Then his face lit up. ‘And it’s my view that dear old Lobengula wouldn’t want to unleash his warriors. He just wants a quiet life.’

  Fonthill nodded. ‘I hope you are right. But tell me, Mr Fairbairn, I believe you have a fairly regular means of communication with Rhodes.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ve got a reliable set of laddies who can travel safely up and down to Kimberley. In fact, your wife has used me to get one of her stories back down to the cable station. There’ll be a charge, o’ course.’

  ‘Of course. Let me know what it is. There is an important document that I wish to send back to Rhodes. I will bring it tomorrow. Now, can we talk about provisions for our trip to the Tuli . . .’

  They set off two days later. There was no opportunity to say goodbye to the king, for he had left Bulawayo to visit one of his villages to the north. However, it seemed that he had had a pang of conscience about his abduction of Alice, for he gave Fonthill a farewell gift of a wagon and six oxen to carry them on their journey. His contrition might also have extended to the letter of complaint addressed to Jameson, for he asked Simon to tell the doctor that he would be dispatching one hundred and fifty native labourers to expand the work force of the column - ‘Although,’ said Fairbairn, who had passed on the message, ‘whether he actually does so is entirely another matter, o’ course.’

  The party consisted of Simon, Alice, Jenkins, Mzingeli, Ntini and Joshua. The three boy bearers who had come with them on the long journey from Kimberley, out east to the forest and wetlands of Manica and back again to Bulawayo had been released, with a handful of gold sovereigns and a Snider rifle each.

  The journey was uneventful and even enjoyable, for the weather was pleasant, the trail well defined and for once they all felt free from danger or the need to hurry. Alice’s wound had long since healed, leaving hardly a trace of a scar, which produced much ribaldry between them about Simon’s prowess with needle and thread. Good food and the healing powers of Mzingeli’s herbs had hastened Fonthill’s recovery from the effects of de Sousa’s knife-work, and all in all, the party was in good spirits as the oxen plodded over the low veldt towards the Sashe river. Simon had dispatched his document signed by King Umtasa back to Rhodes with a letter explaining all that had happened in that region and telling the millionaire that he was about to join the column of pioneers. His disillusionment with Rhodes’s expansionist ambitions and Alice’s return to hard-nosed journalism had diminished with the promise of exploring the fine farming land of Mashonaland.

  The further they rode south, the more they realised that this mopane woodland, which stretched throughout southern Matabeleland to the Macaloutsi and Shashe rivers at the border, was ideal country for an ambush. Although it was the height of the winter dry season and the thorn trees had lost their foliage and their bark had turned black, presenting a kind of charred, dead forest appearance, visibility was remarkably restricted. A man standing amidst it could only see for about one hundred yards. The impression of crossing burned-out country after a fire was heightened by the sun beating down day after day from a clear sky as the temperature soared, and heat seemed to bounce back from the dry soil, turning their nostrils into hot, acrid channels.

  ‘If the Mattabellies want to come at this column thing,’ sniffed Jenkins, ‘this is the place for it. The blokes cuttin’ trees and all wouldn’t see a thing until the black fellers were on ’em, see.’

  His view was more than confirmed when, at last, the party mounted a hill and saw below them the column at work. A party of pioneers - all white men - led the way, cutting down trees to the stumps with their axes, while a second group used horses and mules to pull the trunks away. Out ahead and on either side ranged horsemen, presumably of the ‘police’, acting as scouts to warn of potential attack. But as Fonthill watched from his high vantage point, he saw that some of these outriders were clearly lost, for they were slowly making their way in circles, often blundering back into the tree-cutters before turning and venturing back into the bush again. Behind the pioneers snaked a long column of wagons and oxen, stretching back for at least two miles. Halfway along the line, Simon picked out a large, low-slung trailer, carrying the searchlight, with its own steam engine, dynamo and battery. He shook his head. It was clear that it would take at least two hours for this clumsy line to form into a laager if it was attacked.

  ‘God, they’re vulnerable,’ he muttered. ‘If the Matabele attacked now, it would be a massacre.’

  Jenkins cocked a quizzical eye. ‘Best to tell ’em, then?’

  Fonthill frowned. ‘I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with this Jameson, or with the other two so-called commanders. But you are
right. They can’t go on like this.’

  The little party allowed their horses and oxen to pick their own way down the side of the hill until they drew level with the first of the wood-clearers. Dr Jameson, Fonthill was told, was back in the leading wagon, and there they found him, sitting on the driver’s seat, scribbling on a pad. Simon looked at him keenly. He was a little man, dressed for the trek in rough boots, old trousers and a flannel shirt, opened almost to the waist in the heat. His bush hat had been thrown aside to reveal a balding head and a moustached face that showed character: a fine forehead, full lips, a firm chin and eyes that were as bright as a monkey’s.

  Diffidently Fonthill introduced himself, with apologies for his intrusion. Immediately the doctor’s face lit up and he took in the members of the party in one swift, appraising glance: Simon, slim and weathered, with experience lining his face; Alice, her features tanned by the sun and dust-covered, but presenting a refreshingly feminine figure in her jodhpurs, cotton shirt and soft blue neckerchief; Jenkins with his immense moustache, width of shoulder and black button eyes; and Mzingeli, as dignified as a native chief with his erect posture and white hair, but holding back discreetly.