by John Wilcox
Fonthill stifled a smile. The race against the Imperials was never far from the doctor’s mind.
‘Quite so. We will make camp and push on in the morning.’
The morning, however, was almost as unpromising for riding through thick woodland as the night would have been, for a thick fog descended on the forest, leaving tendrils of it, like a spider’s web, hanging from the tallest of the thorn trees and making the temperature drop by nearly twenty degrees.
‘Rains will be here soon,’ growled Jameson, wiping his glasses. ‘Come on, Forbes. We don’t have time to wait about. Let’s get on.’
They set off again, their horses stepping delicately through the dripping, shadowy glades and every sound beyond the gloomy greyness of the tree trunks making the outriders twitch their rifles and lick their already moist lips. Fonthill, who rode with Jenkins in the van - Mzingeli had been sent back to stay close to Alice - had no idea how long it took the two columns to pass through the forest, but every minute spent in that fog made him curse the more that his wife was back there in the gloom. If the Matabele came at them here in force, emerging from the undergrowth without warning, dodging and screaming, hurling their throwing spears, then he knew that the little army would be overwhelmed. There would be no time to form a square or create a laager. The warriors would be on them before an order could be given. It would have been much wiser to take another three days, or whatever, and skirt this wet, dripping labyrinth. Damn this childish, dangerous race against the Imperials!
At last they were out of the wood. The country was now more open, although still carrying sufficient timber to provide cover for an attacking force. In the distance could be seen the bulge of the banks bordering the Shangani river. Of the Matabele there was still no sign.
‘I don’t think they were ever in there waiting,’ said Wilson.
‘Probably not,’ agreed Fonthill. He caught Mzingeli’s eye and saw the faint negative shake of the head. He rode over. ‘Do you think they were there?’ he asked.
‘They there,’ said the tracker, his face expressionless as usual. ‘I heard them and see some. But they go.’
‘Why didn’t they attack, for goodness’ sake? They had us at their mercy.’
Mzingeli sniffed. ‘That fog. They think it white man’s magic, brought down to stop attack. They frightened in wood - like us. But they go.’
‘What? Do you mean they have given in and run back to Bulawayo?’
‘No. They attack. Soon, I think.’
Simon rode back and shared Mzingeli’s view with Forbes. The big man nodded. ‘Probably right,’ he said. ‘Feel it in me water.’ He jerked his head towards the Shangani. ‘River will probably be low and the banks high, so we’ll have to cut a defile down to get to the water and then lay down brushwood and what-have-you to stop us sinking into the mud. Just as well we haven’t got too many wagons. Won’t be able to get across today, so . . .’
Wilson had moved away a little to chide a man who had dismounted. Now he returned. ‘What’s the plan, then, Forbes?’ he asked. ‘Straight across, eh?’
‘No. We’ll laager on this bank while we cut a path down and up the other side. Safest. Cross tomorrow.’
The younger man tugged at his moustache and shot a questioning look at Fonthill. ‘I would have thought we could easily get across today. There’s no sign of the Matabele. We need to press on, you know. What do you say, Fonthill?’
Simon sighed. He had no wish to intervene in what seemed to be incipient rivalry between the two officers. ‘I rather think Major Forbes is right, Wilson,’ he said carefully. ‘There’s still plenty of cover for an attack, and we would be more or less defenceless if they came at us as we were trying to get across in the mud. One more day shouldn’t make much difference, I would have thought.’
Wilson gave his cocky grin and indicated where Jameson was spurring his horse on to get a first glimpse of the river. ‘I know someone who thinks that a day would make a hell of a difference,’ he chortled. ‘But you’re in command, Forbes, though you may have trouble in convincing the medical department.’ He raised a forefinger to the rim of his hat and rode away, to hurry along the last remnants of the columns emerging from the forest.
Jenkins had observed the conversation, although he was just out of earshot. ‘What was all that about, then?’
‘It was all about whether we should cross the river today. Forbes has decided better not, and I agree.’ Fonthill raised himself from the saddle and looked about him. ‘I must confess that I don’t like this place. Mzingeli feels that the Matabele are out there near us now and are poised to attack.’
‘Well,’ sighed Jenkins, flicking the moisture from the end of his moustache, ‘I wish they would bloody well get on with it. I’m catching pneuman . . . newinia . . .’
‘Pneumonia?’
‘No. No. Influenza. I can feel it in me bones.’
The two columns redeployed and a rough laager was made from the wagons, carts and cut thorn bushes, curling out in a semicircle from the northern bank of the Shangani. The river itself was wide, sixty yards or more, but not deep, and mud banks thrust up from the water in the centre to glisten in the sunlight, now burning away the last of the morning mist. From within the protection of the laager, men worked to level down the high banks of the river and then to cut branches and strew them to provide a firmer base for wagons and horses in making the crossing. Forbes sent out patrols on the other side of the river, while work began on the further bank.
The task was completed just before dusk and the camp settled down for the night. Extra guards were mounted at dawn but still the Matabele did not attack.
The crossing began at once, and a very makeshift laager was created on the southern bank. It all took time and it was late afternoon before the two columns had squelched and slipped their way across the deep mud and re-formed on the far side.
‘If you think this is bad,’ Wilson confided cheerfully to Fonthill and Jenkins, ‘just wait a few weeks. This place will be impassable. Once the rains come - and I mean real rain, not this bit of damp - the river will be in full flood. Almost impossible to cross.’
‘Crocodiles?’ asked Jenkins, his eyes wide.
‘Not when the river’s in spate. They don’t like fast-flowing water and they’ll head for high ground. But always keep your eyes open for the beggars.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that all right, bach. I’ll do that.’
‘We’ll laager for the night on this side and set off again early in the morning,’ called Forbes. ‘Jameson is anxious to push on, of course.’
Fonthill nodded. The terrain on the south bank was very like that on the north - still suitable for a dawn attack. ‘You’ll be putting out patrols early tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
‘Mind if Jenkins, Mzingeli and I go with them?’
‘Of course not. But my feeling is that the Matabele have retreated to Bulawayo and are going to make a stand just north of there.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘You’re probably right.’ But he was unsure. He pulled Mzingeli to one side. ‘I thought you said they would attack on the north bank,’ he said, ‘once we were out of the forest.’
‘No, Nkosi. They frightened of wood and ghosts so rush across the river. Did you not see their marks in mud?’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘So they have retreated to Bulawayo after all?’
‘No. They come tomorrow. I think they out there.’ He indicated the bush with a broad sweep of his hand. ‘They come at dawn.’
Jenkins gave a histrionic gulp. ‘And you want us to go out early on patrol, bach sir?’
Simon shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t think too highly of these scouts that Forbes is sending out. They’re noisy and too sloppy riding in this bush. Not proper soldiers. Perhaps we can stiffen ’em up a bit. Show them how to do it. All right?’
‘Very good, sir.’
It was still dark when the three saddled up. The morning was overcast and dampish, with no stars to bid goo
d night to the darkness and no moon to pave the way for the sun. The patrol consisted of twelve troopers, all good farmers, fine horsemen and keen shots, under the command of a sergeant, who had been chairman of their local community outside Fort Salisbury. As they fanned out to pick their way between the trees, Fonthill hung back a little.
‘We will stay together,’ he said. ‘A bullet in your rifle breech but keep the safety catch on. We don’t want any accidents in this rotten light. We will stay in the centre and try and keep those two chaps ahead in sight.’
The dawn seemed to be taking its time coming, and very soon they had lost sight of the two troopers ahead of them. To their right, they could hear two of the troopers calling to each other, and to their left, the crackle of broken branches as horses were pushed through the undergrowth. Fonthill frowned. Did they have to advertise their presence so obviously? Ahead, however, there was silence. Riding on slowly, Simon felt the perspiration start to form on his upper lip.
Suddenly the bushes in front parted and a horse came crashing out, its eyes yellow and wide. On its back swayed one of the troopers, an assegai piercing his chest and its blade tip emerging from his back. At the same moment, Jenkins’s rifle rang out and a warrior fell on the right, in the act of hurling his spear. Two more came running fast and softly between the trees, and Fonthill aimed quickly and fired, seemingly without effect.
‘Back!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t let them get behind us. Back to the laager.’ He pulled on his bridle and his horse swung round as a spear hissed by over his right shoulder. ‘Ride low,’ he screamed.
He became aware that he was riding in the middle of two Matabele who had appeared as if by magic. One of them seized his bridle while the other jabbed at him with a stabbing assegai, catching the edge of his coat with the spearhead and becoming entangled with it. Lashing out wildly with his boot, he raked the spearman’s face with his spur and swung the barrel of his rifle into the head of the man holding his bridle, sending him crashing to his knees. His horse surged forward and he heard the crack of Mzingeli’s rifle off to his right. Where was Jenkins? ‘Three five two!’ he yelled.
‘Comin’.’ The cry came from his left, and Jenkins emerged from the trees, his head low along his mount’s neck and his heels raking its sides. Behind him came a group of natives, all seeming to run almost as fast as Jenkins’s horse and sending in its wake a hail of assegais, before they halted, panting. To the right, Mzingeli rode on a parallel course, blood streaming from a cut on his left thigh. Fonthill, clinging on for dear life as his horse took the bit between its teeth, stole a precarious glance over his shoulder. The Matabele had disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. But had they been able to get behind the patrol? He filled his lungs. ‘Troopers,’ he yelled. ‘Back to the laager. Ride for your lives.’
The three horsemen broke out of the brush at the same time and saw ahead of them, in the half-light, the rather pathetic attempt that had been made to form a laager. It was clearly less effective than that drawn up on the other bank the previous evening. A handful of wagons and carts had been pushed together in a rough semicircle, extending from the riverbank. Many gaps remained, however, and as a bugle sounded, Fonthill saw men doubling up to fill them in two ranks, the front kneeling, those behind standing.
‘Stand back, we’re coming through,’ he screamed and led the trio towards the nearest gap. It looked at first as though the line of troopers would not break, but they did so at the last minute, as though in reluctance, and the three galloped through, closely followed by the horse whose rider had been speared. He, alas, had long since fallen from the saddle.
Half tumbling from his mount, Fonthill ran to Mzingeli. ‘Not much,’ said the tracker. ‘Scratch.’ Then, with satisfaction: ‘I kill him.’
Alice, medical bag in hand, had materialised. Her face was white in the dawn light. ‘Are you all right, Simon?’ she called, as she knelt down to examine Mzingeli’s wound.
‘Yes, fine. Look after Mzingeli. Are you all right, 352?’
The Welshman was reloading his Martini-Henry. ‘Right as rain, bach sir. But my God, them black fellers frightened the life out of me, comin’ out of the trees like that without a sound. Not a nice way to fight, look you. I almost ’ad a spear in me belly before I saw ’em. Like ghosts, they was.’
Fonthill was conscious that men in various stages of undress, all carrying rifles, were doubling up towards the ring of wagons and the line of defenders.
‘Here they come.’ The shout came from Forbes, revolver in hand, who was standing on a cart to the left of the line. His voice boomed out. ‘No one is to fire until I give the order. We will fire in volleys. Front rank first.’ A single shot rang out. ‘Blast your eyes, that man. I said hold your fire until I give the order. Wait.’
Fonthill and Jenkins ran to join the major. The sun was now beginning to peep over the top of the line of trees some two hundred yards away and the first of its rays shone directly into the eyes of the defenders. ‘To hell with that sun,’ swore Forbes. Then he shouted, ‘Pull your hat brims down. Select your target. Still wait . . .’
Simon shaded his eyes and saw that the line of the bush, some two hundred yards away, had suddenly erupted with a mass of Matabele, who now raised a triumphant yell and began running towards the defenders, their dappled shields seeming to form a phalanx that moved towards them at great speed. He gulped, thrust a cartridge into the breech of his rifle and looked behind him for Alice. She was kneeling just below him, carefully winding a bandage around Mzingeli’s thigh. He caught Jenkins’s eye; the Welshman winked before nestling his cheek into the stock of his rifle. This was Jenkins doing what he was born to do, with coolness and delight. No fuss. No fright. Lucky devil!
Then: ‘Front rank, FIRE!’ Simon heard the voice of Wilson, on the right of the half-circle, repeating the order, like an echo, and then he and Jenkins fired together. As the smoke cleared, he saw that the first line of Matabele seemed to have melted away and shields and black bodies were strewn across the earth. But the attack hardly paused in its stride.
‘Brave buggers,’ muttered Jenkins.
‘Front rank, reload.’ The voice of Forbes was stentorian and steady, echoed from the right by the higher note of Wilson’s. ‘Second rank, FIRE! Second rank, reload, Front rank, FIRE!’
Suddenly, a sound that Fonthill had never heard before on any battlefield joined in the awful cacophony. First one Maxim machine gun and then a second began their staccato chattering, causing spurts of dust to rise at the feet of the advancing warriors and then, as the barrels were raised, bringing them down in a great swathe.
‘About bloody time,’ grunted Forbes. ‘They were almost on us. What the hell were those gunners doing?’
But the attack was not finished. From the ranks of the front spearmen appeared a line of riflemen, who knelt and discharged their weapons at the defenders. Fonthill realised with a start of guilt that these were the brand new Martini-Henry rifles that he had struggled to bring up from Kimberley. Then he saw, through the blue smoke, that the sight of each gun was raised to its maximum height and that the bullets were singing past, high over the heads of the defenders.
Forbes turned and grinned. ‘They think that the higher they raise the sights, the faster the bullets will go,’ he said.
Some spearmen, however, braved the bullets of the defenders - and those of their compatriots behind them - and were able to run close enough to the line of the laager to hurl their assegais. Two troopers kneeling in the front rank in the central gap toppled backwards, trying to pluck the spears from their chests. But this was the high-water mark of the surge forward, and the Matabele turned and ran back out of range.
‘Will they come back again, do you think?’ The question came from Alice, who, rifle in hand, had joined them.
Fonthill pulled her to him for a quick moment, as much in relief that she was safe as in affection, then said, ‘I just don’t know. There are so many of them. If they get near enough they could overwhelm us. Sta
y close, my love.’
It took only some fifteen minutes before the Matabele came again. This time they were led by the riflemen, who ran forward, fired, fumbled to open the breech, inserted another round, fired again then repeated the exercise. This time not all of the bullets sang over the heads of the defenders in the line, but the firing was ragged and on the whole ineffectual, and soon the riflemen were replaced by the more familiar surging mass of spearmen, who swept across the open space, their assegais held aloft and their cowhide shields forward as though to deflect the volleys that crashed out against them again.
The bravery of the warriors was no match for the modern weapons of the defenders, of course, and faced with the terrible fire of the Maxims and rifles at such close range, the Matabele eventually turned and ran back to the cover of the bush. There, some of them stayed to hurl defiance before melting back into the shelter of the trees. They left behind them at least two hundred warriors strewn across the open ground, virtually all of them dead.
