by John Wilcox
She slapped away a fly that had settled on her dusty riding boots. Boots . . . breeches, shirt, wide-brimmed slouch hat. When was the last time she had worn a dress, for God’s sake, or used cosmetics? She spent her time dressed as a man but she did not do a man’s work - not real work. What had she ever done to try and stop the wars she had reported on so diligently? Nothing, of course. Nothing. And here she was again, observing the beginnings of another conflict and reporting on it. Just damned reporting. Oh, she tried to describe in her dispatches the blunderings and stupidity of the politicians and generals who had created the conflicts she wrote about, but there was no real evidence that this affected the course of events. Now it was happening all over again, the relentless, unstoppable march towards war, while she watched, an impotent observer.
But was it unstoppable, and was she quite so impotent?
She stayed for another ten minutes considering several courses of action, her eyes watching the disposal of the bodies down below but her brain recording nothing of it. Then, her mind made up, she stood, brushed away the flies and strode back to the hut. She found herself trembling. Was she afraid of the prospect? Dammit, yes!
They set off that afternoon riding as quickly as they could in the heat, watching warily for any sign of remnants of Lobengula’s impi who might decide to take revenge on this vulnerable party. But they met no one, except one or two Mashona herdsmen, who waved cheerily at the white people who were freeing them from the Matabele yoke. Alice spoke little and Simon humoured her, realising her distress at the turn of events in this country where she had never really wished to be. But Alice’s mind was active. She knew what she had to do, but how, and when?
By the time they reached Salisbury, she had decided upon the answer to the first part of that question, and circumstances provided the answer to the second.
They found the town agog with news of the happenings at Victoria and preparations for war. Rhodes’s horses, rifles, machine guns and ammunition were being rushed up from the Cape, and the settlers were flocking to join units to march on the Matabele. They heard that a column was being formed at Victoria and placed under the command of a Captain Allan Wilson, who had earned a reputation for competence when serving in the Cape Mounted Rifles and the Basuto Mounted Police. Jameson himself had hurried off to Tuli in the south to arrange for more volunteers to be enrolled and led by Commandant Pieter Raaf, a Dutch Colonial who had served with distinction in the Zulu War and who was now a magistrate at Tuli. Rumours had it that the High Commissioner of Bechuanaland had moved a contingent of the Bechuanaland Police to the Matabele border in support of the Tuli column, and that King Khama himself had contributed a force of tribesmen to fight in the cause.
More to the point for Alice, however, was the fact that Jameson had left a message for Simon asking for his help in raising a column in Salisbury. Would he move out on to the veldt and ‘borrow’ as many horses as were suitable from the scattered farms? It would be at least a couple of months before Rhodes’s mounts would arrive from the south.
‘I shall be gone for at least two weeks, darling,’ said Fonthill. ‘I will take Jenkins with me, but Mzingeli will stay with you on the farm. There should be no danger there. We are away from things in the north, and in any case, I don’t think hostilities will really get moving yet. Some sort of last-minute peace moves are still being made towards Lobengula, I understand, although I doubt if they will come to anything. Anyway, you will be safe enough.’
If Simon was surprised at his wife’s ready acceptance of his departure without insisting that he take her with him, he showed no sign. They rode back to their little house on the veldt and parted there, Fonthill having readily agreed that Alice and Mzingeli should keep their horses for the time being.
As soon as Fonthill and Jenkins had disappeared over the swelling grassland, Alice made Mzingeli a cup of tea, strong and black, just as he liked it, sat him down and put to him her proposal.
He listened, his eyes growing larger by the second, then shook his head and said, ‘No, Nkosana. Too dangerous.’
Alice sighed, shifted her position on the stool and tried again, but the tracker was obdurate. ‘Nkosi don’t agree so I don’t agree. Sorry, Nkosana.’
Nodding, Alice played her last card. ‘I need you very much for this, Mzingeli,’ she said. ‘I do not know the way and I do not speak the language. I need you also to protect me. But if you will not come with me, then I shall go alone. I am determined. I have to say, though, that I do not know what my husband will say to you when he finds that you have let me go.’ She sat back, her face flushed and feeling rather ahamed of herself. There was a long silence while Mzingeli stared at the floor. Then he looked up.
‘I go,’ he said.
By noon they had set off, each riding a horse - for Alice decided that to take a wagon would slow them down too much - and with spare water bags, one small bivouac tent, blankets and one change of clothing all carried on the back of the sprightliest of mules from the farm. This was one trip, Alice resolved grimly, where a dress would not be needed.
As they rode in silence, she felt more and more guilty at using blackmail on Mzingeli. After all, she was probably putting him in more danger than she would be in herself, for there was less chance of a white woman being killed than a member of the Malakala tribe, so despised by the Matabele. She reached across and touched his arm. ‘I am sorry, Mzingeli,’ she said. ‘I have been unfair. I am putting you in danger.’
His features relaxed for a quick second; it was hardly a smile. ‘Nkosana strong lady,’ he said. ‘I once married to strong lady.’
‘Ah.’ She gave him her best smile. ‘Then you know what hell it can be. You will feel sorry for my husband.’
This time he acknowledged her with a brief nod, but his eyes were dancing. Having re-established relations, Alice felt able to ask him: ‘How long will it take us to get to Bulawayo?’
‘Maybe bit more than two weeks. If we not killed on way.’
‘Oh lord, I do hope that things don’t get worse before then. If war is declared before we arrive, I will have no hope.’
‘Not much hope anyway, Nkosana.’ Then, rather surprisingly: ‘You leave message for Nkosi? He not like come back and find you gone. He very upset. Not know which way to turn.’
She nodded her head in appreciation. ‘It is kind of you to think of it. But yes, I did leave him a note. I have not told him where we have gone because I do not want him to come pounding after us, although,’ she pursed her lips, ‘I suppose he will guess.’
In fact, the message had been as non-committal as she could make it. It ran:
Dearest Simon,
I just could not sit back any longer without doing something to try and stop this senseless war. Don’t worry, I have blackmailed Mzingeli to come with me to look after me (don’t blame him). Please don’t search for me. We will be back within the month.
I love you.
Alice.
Would he guess that she had gone to Bulawayo to plead with the king? Probably, but she would have a two-week start on him if he decided to follow, which, she concluded glumly, he almost certainly would. By then, she might be on her way back - if, that is, they had not been disembowelled. Ah well. She set her jaw. At least she was at last doing something positive!
Considering that Alice and Mzingeli were riding into the heartland of the enemy, their journey was surprisingly uneventful, although the terrain did not make for easy going. It followed a ridge of high hills that was very heavily wooded, so reducing visibility and causing Alice to worry about sudden ambush. Towards Bulawayo, the ground levelled off somewhat, but it was cut by river valleys, with small kopjes all around. Underfoot, the soil was sandy and grey. Yet they made good progress and met no one until they neared the king’s kraal, when they glimpsed many groups of warriors, armed and painted, heading in the same direction. They received puzzled looks, for they had made no attempt at disguise, but they were not accosted nor questioned.
It was nea
rly dusk as they rode down the familiar hill and passed by the first ring of thorn zariba, but Alice decided against attempting to see the king that night. Instead, she pulled her mount round and urged him towards Fairbairn’s store, hoping desperately that the Scotsman had not upped and left for the border in the face of the coming hostilities.
She was, then, vastly relieved to see the familiar curl of blue smoke coming from his chimney, in complete disregard of the inflammable thatch all around it.
The Scotsman’s jaw sagged when she walked through his door. He took out his pipe. ‘Where on earth have you come from, woman? Don’t you know that everybody here’s talking about murderin’ all white folks?’
She smiled. ‘Yet you’re still here, Mr Fairbairn.’
He waved his pipe stem dismissively through the smoke haze. ‘Och, they’ll never turf me out and I’m not going to leave. But where have you come from, and where’s your husband?’
She explained. ‘I decided to come here to try and talk the king out of going to war. I think he knows that it would be suicide for his people and his country. I am serious, Mr Fairbairn. Someone has got to stop this senseless slide towards more killing. There is just a chance that because I helped to ease the pain of his gout, he might listen to me.’ She gestured to Mzingeli, standing diffidently by the door. ‘There’s just the two of us and we’ve been riding hard all day. Do you think we might have a seat?’
‘What? Oh goodness yes, my dear.’ He pushed two old wooden chairs forward. ‘Would you like a wee dram? It’ll only cost yer two shillings.’
She gave a weary smile. ‘Why not? And one for Mzingeli, please. I believe I have four shillings here.’ She threw the coins on his counter. The trader poured three small measures and pulled up a chair to join them.
‘Lassie,’ he said. ‘You’ve got an awful lot of guts, and it’s just possible that if you’d arrived, say, a week ago you might have had some chance of success, for surely to God the old boy doesn’t want to fight. But something’s happened that has pushed peace right out of the window.’
‘Oh lord.’ Alice passed a weary hand across her brow. ‘What is it?’
‘You know that Mashonaland - or Rhodesia or whatever the damned place is called now - has got a new high commissioner, appointed by the government in London?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he wrote to Lobengula in one last plea for peace, inviting the king to send three of his most trusted inDunas to Cape Town to discuss peace terms down there. The old boy agreed, and dispatched one of his half-brothers and two inDunas immediately. James Dawson, one of the traders here - I don’t think you met him - went with them to interpret and make sure that they reached the Colony without trouble. I refused to go. Well,’ Fairbairn spat on the floor, ‘the idiot went off to have a drink when they reached Tuli, leaving the three black fellers in the care of a mine foreman.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said Alice.
‘Nor should you. It just happened that a feller called Gould-Adams had arrived in Tuli with a detachment of the Bechuanaland Police. Gould-Adams had heard that there had been trouble up north and shots had been exchanged, so on learning that Dawson had arrived in Tuli, he presumed that he had escaped from Bulawayo. I don’t know what he thought Dawson was doing with three Matabele inDunas, but he immediately treated ’em as prisoners of war. One thing led to another, with no one to interpret; the inDunas resisted, there was a scuffle and two of the chiefs were shot and killed. The king’s half-brother didn’t get involved, and when things were sorted out, he was allowed to return to Bulawayo with - you’ll never guess.’
‘What?’
‘A note of apology.’
‘Oh, how pathetic - and how typical!’
‘He has just returned and told his sad tale. This is the last straw for the king. He is convinced now that all white men are liars and cheats and has declared war. The impis are being called in from across the nation.’ He leaned forward. ‘Lass, it’s no time for you to be interfering, I assure you.’
Silence fell on the little room. Alice stole a glance at Mzingeli, but the tracker refused to catch her eye. He stared straight ahead, expressionless.
‘Not exactly propitious, I do agree,’ she said at last. Then she drew in a deep breath. ‘But I have ridden two hundred damned miles and I am not going back without seeing the king and making one last attempt to stop this killing.’
The trader shook his head sadly. ‘It’s taking a big risk, you know, for it’s not just the king you have to worry about. It’s all his inDunas, who have been spoiling for a fight for so long. You might not even get as far as his front door before they turn on you.’
‘I will just have to risk that I . . . er, I mean we will.’ She turned her head to the tracker, who was listening silently. ‘Will you come these last few yards with me, Mzingeli? You have heard it will be dangerous, but I shall need you to translate.’
The man’s face remained expressionless. ‘I come.’
Fairbairn nodded in approval. ‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘But, lassie, there’s one last thing you should know.’ He paused, as though for effect. ‘De Sousa is back.’
‘Oh no!’ Alice put her hand to her face and then withdrew it quickly, as though it was an admission of weakness. ‘How long has he been here?’
‘About two weeks. He’s been pouring poison into the king’s ear every day, trying to persuade him to attack and provoke the British. He wants Rhodes to invade, y’see, so that his government can protest to London, perhaps stop the invasion, and then he can take the credit with Lobengula and so take over the mining and other rights that Rhodes has negotiated. At the moment, he won’t know you’re here, but as he virtually lives at the king’s elbow, he will find out soon enough. And lassie, as soon as you leave the kraal, he’ll be after you, that’s for certain.’
Alice gulped. ‘Well, that’s one development I hadn’t foreseen, I must confess.’ Then she shrugged. ‘There’s not much I can do about it at the moment, so I will worry about him tomorrow.’
‘Where are you sleepin’ tonight? You won’t be gettin’ your little hut back, I’m thinking.’
‘No, nor will I ask for it. We will sleep as we have on the trek, out of doors - at least, I have a small bivouac tent.’
Fairbairn sucked in his breath. ‘No. That will never do. You will find a puff adder slipped under your tent flap just before dawn if you do. No. You must sleep here. I’m just at the back there,’ he indicated with his pipe stem, ‘and you two can bed down here, in the shop.’
Alice sniffed in a little of the tobacco smoke and coughed. ‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Fairbairn. Yes, perhaps it would be safer. Thank you very much.’
She slept little during the night and arose well before dawn to make notes about what she would say to the king. It was important, having risked so much to see him, that she should present her case as persuasively as possible. Then she remembered that de Sousa could well be there. Would he shout her down? And once she was out on the veldt, making her way back to Salisbury, having won or lost, would he pursue and kill them both? They would be virtually defenceless out there in the bush. She tried unsuccessfully to prevent a shiver. She would just have to deal with that if and when it occurred.
Alice waited until the sun was well up before setting off down the hill towards the king’s inner kraal. As she walked, medicine bag in hand, with Mzingeli at her side, she could not but help noticing an air of surprise and then hostility rising towards her on all sides. When she had made that same journey regularly only five months before, she had been greeted by smiles and waves from the Matabele. Now, the smiles were scowls and the waves were derisive gestures, with the sharp points of the assegais turned towards them.
‘Be careful what you say, Nkosana,’ growled Mzingeli. ‘Don’t be . . . ah . . . hard to king. He different man this time, I think.’
‘Thank you. I know what you mean. I will try and be careful.’
As they neared the inner kraa
l, a howl rose from within it. Their approach had been observed. Immediately, a crowd of natives - warriors in warpaint, women and small children - emerged from the entrance to the thorn fence and surrounded them, shouting and gesticulating. Alice continued to stride forward, however, her gaze fixed ahead, her head held up. She hated herself for feeling fear, yet she knew that the perspiration pouring down the small of her back and staining her shirt was not just caused by the heat of the sun. It was probably the presence of her medicine bag, which she carried like a symbol of authority, that prevented their progress being barred. Was she coming again, as once she had, to work her magic on the king’s foot, perhaps at his bidding? The crowd fell back and gave her passage.
Lobengula was holding court out of doors, under the shade of his indaba tree, and the usual smell of goat dung rose to Alice’s nostrils as she approached him. The king was sitting on his wooden chair, clutching his assegai. This time, however, there was no air of indolence about him. Stripped to his familiar midriff skirt of monkey tails, his glistening face and body were daubed in slashes of red and white paint and a tall ostrich feather had been thrust into the back of the isiCoco ring in his hair. By his side was a large white and black shield, almost as tall as himself. This was a king welcoming Armageddon, a monarch of war. Except that, endearingly, the sandal on his left foot was not matched by his right, which wore that familiar open-toed carpet slipper. This leader of great impis was still suffering from gout.
