by John Wilcox
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ exclaimed Forbes. He held up his hand to halt the column. The wagons are slowing us down terribly in this mud and we shall never catch the old devil at this rate. In any case, I am not at all sure that many of these chaps have got the stomach for a fight. Even if we catch Lobengula, I doubt if we have the spirit to bring him in.’
‘What do you intend?’
Forbes stiffened his back so that he sat erect in the saddle, despite the rain lashing directly now into his face. ‘I shall send the wagons back to Inyati to form a laager there with about half the men,’ he said. ‘They will be a fallback base for me and they can have the extra rations that should arrive from Bulawayo. Wilson and I will take the rest of the men - the best of ’em on the freshest horses - ahead in a flying column up to the Shangani to make contact with the Matabele. We will take whatever rations can be spared and it should be easier to hunt with this smaller number. Are you comin’ with us, Fonthill?’
‘Of course.’
The orders were transmitted, an overnight laager laboriously constructed, and early the next morning the column was split, with the wagons turning round heading south and one hundred and sixty mounted men riding north - heading straight into the steady rain.
Jenkins wiped the water from his moustache. ‘I ’ope you don’t mind me askin’, bach sir, but ’ow are we goin’ to bed down at night?’
‘No, 352, I don’t mind you asking.’
The Welshman let the subsequent silence hang for a moment, as the two rode on with the advance picket. ‘Yes,’ he said, eventually, ‘well now that we’ve established that you don’t mind me askin’, like, can you tell me ’ow we’re goin’ to bed down for the night.’
‘On the ground,’ Fonthill growled, ‘in the wet, in a square, in front of the horses to protect them.’
‘Ah, I see. There’s cosy then, isn’t it? Snugglin’ up to the ’orses in the rain. Glad I joined, I am.’
And so the patrol continued heading north, towards the Shangani river. Occasionally, spears were flung anonymously from the bush at the outriders, but no attack was made. The men were particularly vulnerable crossing the river beds, formerly just dried-up dongas but now bubbling with water as brown as cocoa, but Forbes banked on the Matabele sticking to their established tactics of only attacking from the bush. He was also unsure that he was near enough to the king’s party to provoke an attack.
‘Are we close to ’em yet, Fonthill, do yer think?’ he asked one evening, after Simon, Jenkins and Mzingeli had spent the day ranging ahead.
Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. I doubt it very much. Mzingeli here is following a faint spoor - faint because of course the damned rain is washing the tracks away. If we were near, the signs would be much clearer. And such a large body of men would leave a swathe of marks in the bush. We will know if we are near the king’s rearguard.’
‘Humph.’
Once again the men ate cold meat and fruit that night, for no fires could be lit under the continual downpour. Then, after posting guards, they all pulled their horses down, tied their groundsheets up to their own necks and lay down on the soaking ground on the outside of their mounts, facing the bush from which an attack would come, if it came. And once more it did not.
Next morning, however, was marked by a disturbance. Just after the patrol had begun its weary march forward, four men came galloping up from the rear. Fonthill was riding in the van again with Forbes and Wilson, and he saw that the little group was being led by a young officer, and that the man in the rear was covering the two in the middle with his revolver.
‘What the hell’s this?’ growled Forbes.
‘Look at this, sir,’ said the officer. He handed the major a damp hessian bag, the contents of which were clearly heavy, for the sack hung nearly to the ground. Forbes put his hand in and produced a gold sovereign, then another, and another.
‘What on earth . . . ?’
The officer nodded to the two men, whose heads were bent under their sodden hats. ‘These two are at the rear looking after the baggage ponies, sir. I went back to check on the rations for the day and found them with this sack. I reckon there could be as much as a thousand gold sovereigns in there. They were dividing them.’
‘Sovereigns?’ cried Wilson. ‘Out here - in a damned sack? Were they just lying about, or what?’
‘These two said, of course, exactly that. That they found them lying there. But I caught a glimpse of two Matabele slipping away back into the bush, and by the look of them, they were inDunas. More to the point, however, I found this note, scrunched up into a ball and obviously thrown away by these two troopers. I think it had been left by the inDunas, with the gold.’
Frowning, Forbes smoothed out the paper and read aloud: ‘“White men, I am conquered. Take this and go back.” He looked up. ‘It’s signed with a cross and a seal.’
‘May I see?’ Fonthill stretched out a hand. ‘Yes, that’s Lobengula’s seal. I recognise it.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘He is trying to buy us off. The poor devil is obviously at his wits’ end.’
Wilson face was a study in puzzlement. ‘But how would he have such a large amount of gold with him, out here in the bush?’
‘It must be part of the gold that Rhodes paid him,’ said Fonthill. ‘I brought it up to Bulawayo myself, many months ago.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘He never really had a use for it, you know. This must have been his last throw of the dice.’
Forbes turned to the two men. ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourselves, eh?’
The larger of the two men looked up. ‘Sure, it’s all a misunderstandin’, sir,’ he said in a strong Irish brogue. ‘We was just countin’ the money, your honour, to bring it forward to you, so we was.’
‘Here, wait a moment.’ Fonthill urged his horse forward. ‘Don’t we know each other?’ He reached forward and tilted back the hat brim of both men. ‘Well, well, well. Would you believe it.’
‘Do you know these two?’ demanded Forbes.
‘Oh indeed I do. As fine a pair of rogues as you will find in the whole of southern Africa, Major. Their names are Murphy and Laxer, and this is the second time they have tried to steal these sovereigns.’
‘Ah, your honour,’ Murphy adopted an ingratiating smile, ‘it’s good to see you again. No, sir, we was not stealin’ this time, I promise you. On me holy mother’s death bed I promise.’
‘They are thieves,’ repeated Fonthill. He related the story of the treachery of Murphy and Laxer on his journey to Bulawayo. ‘I suppose they joined up in the south in the hope of quick loot. Of all the men in this column, it is ironic that the inDunas should have picked out these two to give the money to. I suppose the messengers were frightened to come to the front of the column in case we shot them out of hand.’
‘Thank you, Baxter,’ said Forbes to the young officer. ‘Tie the hands of these two villains, then take two reliable men and ride with them - and the sovereigns - back to Inyati to await trial. You will be responsible for the money and the prisoners. Good work, man. Off you go.’
He turned back to Fonthill. ‘It’s infuriating that we didn’t capture the inDunas. They could have told us how near we were to the king and how many men he’s got with him. D’yer think it’s worth going after ’em now?’
Simon wrinkled his nose. ‘I doubt it. This rain is washing everything away, and looking for two men in the bush will be like trying to pick up eels in a riverbed. But we must be reasonably hot on Lobengula’s heels, otherwise he wouldn’t have thrown his money at us. My advice is to keep pressing on.’
That day proved unusually depressing. The rain had become no worse, but its unvarying intensity was eroding the spirit of the pursuers. None of the horsemen could find a way of sealing their bodies from the water that penetrated every nook and cranny of their oilskins, and moving in the saddle produced a chafing that grew worse with every mile. Many of the horses were now becoming blown, and Forbes was growing increasingly irritable at the pace of the advanc
e. Even worse was his fear that he might be riding into an ambush. Had Lobengula crossed the Shangani, now only a few miles ahead, or was he waiting to attack as the crossing was attempted?
He called Fonthill to him. ‘Will you scout on ahead to the river and see if the Matabele have crossed? Rotten job, I know, but I would rather you did it with your two chaps, who can slip through the bush easily, than have a troop go on and blunder and splash about. Come back as soon as you can and report on the state of the river, too.’
It took the three men less than an hour to ride up to the swollen river. Despite the rain, it was clear that a large group of men had made the crossing not so very long before. ‘How long, would you say, Mzingeli?’ asked Fonthill.
The tracker dismounted. Here the banks of the river were not high, and though they were wooded, the bush was not too thick. Broken branches showed where a wide crossing of the river had been made by many people, and wagon tracks could still be discerned in the mud. Mzingeli shrugged. ‘Only yesterday, I think. Many cross. Now on other side.’
‘Mount up,’ called Fonthill. ‘We may have to leave quickly.’
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins, squeezing the moisture from his moustache, ‘you’re not thinkin’ of goin’ across now, are you, bach sir? It looks a bit deep to me. Probably full of crocodiles an’ all.’
‘No. There won’t be any crocs in that fast-flowing water, but I don’t want the three of us to ride into an impi on the other side. Let’s get back while there’s plenty of daylight.’
They met the column only two miles or so from the river. Forbes immediately called a halt and held a council of war as Fonthill reported. ‘We are pretty certain that Lobengula has crossed, and only yesterday,’ he said. ‘If you want to go after him, you had better do it soon, because the river is rising all the time. It’s about two hundred yards wide. You can make the crossing all right now, but you may have only about twenty-four hours in which to do it.’
Forbes nodded, his face expressionless. ‘Any sign of Matabele on the other side?’
‘No. But they could be in the bush, of course.’
‘Umph. If we cross today and I find we’ve got about three thousand warriors facing us, I would have my retreat cut off.’
A silence fell on the little gathering, broken by Wilson, who leaned forward eagerly. ‘Let me go now with a small patrol,’ he said. ‘I should be able to make contact with the Matabele and have some idea of their strength and position. I can move quickly if I take the best horses.’
Fonthill looked at the faces of the two men. It was clear that Wilson, younger, less experienced but ambitious, was anxious to have the honour of finding Lobengula. Forbes, himself not without ambition, was obviously also anxious to claim the distinction of catching the king, but he knew that one false move now could jeopardise his whole command. Caution overcame ambition.
‘Very well, Wilson. It seems clear that the king’s camp is near, just across the Shangani. Take twenty men and establish exactly where it is. But be back by nightfall. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘We will come with you,’ said Fonthill.
‘No.’ Forbes’s face was set in granite. ‘I may well need you here. We are vulnerable. Off you go, Wilson.’
The young major rode off with his party, which included several officers, and Forbes set about building a laager of thorn bushes to provide some protection for his main force. The rain at last had slackened and Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli settled down around a spluttering fire that the tracker had managed to light and ate their biltong.
‘I ain’t no general, like,’ observed Jenkins, ‘but I can’t ’elp feelin’ that things ain’t exactly as we would like’ em. What d’you think, bach sir?’
Fonthill nodded gloomily. ‘You are right, General Jenkins. Major Forbes has a real problem on his hands. He can’t really advance his main force - pathetically small as it is - across the river until he has established where the enemy is and how large it is, but if he leaves it much longer he won’t be able to cross and the king will get away again. And if he is caught on the other side without a chance to laager, he will be stuck with the river at his back and no way to retreat or manoeuvre. What do you think, General Mzingeli?’
The tracker munched his biltong. ‘Not good, any way.’
The three sat in silence under two clouds: the first, grey and swollen with rain; the second, one of foreboding and almost as real.
Like the rest of the camp they turned in early that night, despondent not only because of the cold and wet but also because Wilson and his men had not returned. Taking this as an indication that the little patrol had been wiped out and that he was about to be attacked, Forbes set extra guards.
But the camp was aroused well before midnight when two men from the advance party rode in, to be followed an hour later by three more. They reported that Wilson had indeed reached Lobengula’s camp but was in danger of being cut off by the Matabele guarding the king and had taken up a position in the bush, where he would wait until the main body joined him.
Fonthill and Jenkins arrived just as Forbes had finished questioning the arrivals, with the help of his next most senior officer, Captain Borrow. ‘Dammit it all, Fonthill,’ exploded the major, ‘I told the man to return here before dark. Now he has set himself up right on the enemy’s doorstep and as good as ordered me to come and rescue him! Bloody fool.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
Forbes looked at each of them in turn, his eyes wide. Simon could not help but sympathise with the man. Soldiering in the colonies, far from home and with no major outbreak of hostilities to offer the chance of distinction, was a dull and slow business, with little real chance of advancement. Forbes had not put a foot wrong so far in this strange campaign. Now he had been offered the seemingly easy but high-profile task of bringing in the recalcitrant rebel king, to put the final touches to his little war under the eyes of the generals back in Whitehall. Yet this small matter of ‘clearing up’ was proving to be a nightmare, thanks to a thrusting junior officer.
‘Well . . .’ The major gnawed at his moustache. ‘I can’t risk crossing the Shangani with my whole force in the dark. We would end up all over the place. I’ve got few enough men anyway, and we could be under attack here ourselves at any minute.’ His voice dropped. He was thinking aloud now. ‘But I will have to send what reinforcements I can to Wilson to help the damned fool get back.’ The silence descended again. Then: ‘Yes . . . right.’ His mind was made up.
‘Borrow,’ he barked, ‘take seventeen troopers right away, cross the Shangani and join Wilson. Tell him I will come to him when I can.’ He turned to Fonthill. ‘I’d be grateful if you and your two scouts would go with them. If it comes to a scrap, you will be of great help to Wilson, I know. And if you do get near the king, your knowledge of him will come in very handy.’
Simon gulped. It was more an invitation than an order, given Fonthill’s civilian status, but it was one that could hardly be refused. Sending just twenty-one men across the Shangani to reinforce the patrol seemed madness. It would mean that Wilson would have too many men to help him patrol, but not enough to reinforce him in fighting a major action. It was neither one thing nor the other. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.
‘Very good. We will come with you, Borrow.’ He doubled away to bring the glad news to Jenkins and Mzingeli.
‘’Ow many?’ Jenkins’s face registered indignation. ‘What’s ’e doin’, makin’ up a few ’ands of whist or somethin’?’
The Shangani when they reached it looked menacing by the light of a moon half hiding behind the clouds. Swirling and surging, it was now a dull yellow, and driftwood was being tossed along in the turbulence. The river hissed as it bounced over the wide and comparatively shallow drift. Captain Borrow regarded it with concern.
‘May I suggest, Borrow, that we link the horses together?’ suggested Fonthill. ‘That way the strongest swimmer will help the weakest. Do we have
rope?’
Borrow nodded. ‘Sergeant,’ he called, ‘fix a leading rope to my horse. Men, hold your rifles high. Keep the water out of your magazines. Grab the rope and follow me. First six men across, dismount quickly and form a semicircle, rifles at the ready, until we are all across.’
Jenkins, the bravest of the brave in facing an enemy, now showed a face the colour of the moonlight itself. ‘I don’t like this at all, not at all, bach sir,’ he gasped. ‘You know I can’t swim. An’ then there’s the crocs. P’raps, look you, I could be a sort of rearguard on this side an’ protect you all as you cross . . .’
