The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  Fonthill sighed. ‘There are no crocs in this racing water,’ he said, ‘and you are not going to drown, I will see to that. I will be right behind you. Just hold on to the rope. The horse will do the swimming. Give him a kick to keep him going. Here we go. Come on.’

  Led by Borrow, a slim man but a good horseman, the little party entered the water. The lead horse, its eyes showing as much yellow as the river itself, tossed its head and baulked, but Borrow skilfully urged it into the water and set the beast swimming. In single file, the patrol followed him, and immediately the weaker horses were swept downstream, but were held by the rope and kept roughly in line - although it was a line that bowed and sagged. It was some two hundred yards further downriver before Borrow was able to reach the far side of the Shangani, but all of his men were able to climb up the bank and reassemble, including a trembling Jenkins.

  ‘Nothin’ to it really,’ he confided to Mzingeli. ‘You see, the ’orses do the swimmin’, like. You just sit. It’s easy, see.’

  One of the messengers from Wilson had volunteered to make the return journey, and he led the party as it picked its way between the trees and bushes in the semi-darkness, for the moon had now disappeared behind the clouds. Every member rode with his heart in his mouth, expecting a shower of assegais to rain in from the darkness on either side, but all was tranquil as the horses trod quietly through the bush. In fact, it was only twenty minutes after leaving the riverbank that a cry of ‘Who goes there?’ told them they had reached the patrol.

  The men were lying behind their prostrate horses in a rough circle in a clearing. Wilson rose and shook hands warmly with Borrow and Fonthill. ‘How many have you brought?’ he asked.

  Barrow smiled. ‘Only twenty, I’m afraid.’

  For a brief moment Wilson looked dismayed. Then he grinned. ‘Oh well. More than enough, I expect.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘We’ve found the king’s camp. It’s about half a mile up there. Couldn’t attack in the dusk, so we will move in tomorrow at first light.’

  Fonthill frowned. ‘You won’t wait until Forbes arrives with the main party?’

  ‘Good lord, no. We can do the job.’

  ‘How many warriors has the king, then?’

  ‘Oh,’ Wilson looked nonchalant, ‘not all that many, I think. Couple of hundred perhaps. Maybe more. Fellow we captured thought something like that, but we’re not sure, to be honest.’

  ‘And you plan to attack the camp with thirty-odd men?’ Fonthill tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

  ‘Of course. Get at ’em first thing and take them by surprise. The fact that you got through shows that they have not surrounded us, so they are not anxious for a fight, in my estimation. I know natives, Fonthill. Punch ’em hard and they will fold. Believe me.’

  Borrow coughed. ‘Fonthill was at Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, sir,’ he murmured. ‘He may know natives too.’

  ‘Ah yes. Sorry, Fonthill, no condescension intended, old boy. But the Matabele are not the Zulus, you know.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Fonthill regarded the great moustache, which somehow looked lugubrious on such a narrow, young face. ‘Yet the Matabele showed great courage, don’t you think, in attacking us twice on our way to Bulawayo. And this time, we will not be safely laagered.’

  Wilson waved a hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve got the firepower. We will move in early, grab the old boy and take him back across the river. They won’t have the guts to follow us.’

  ‘Well, it’s your decision.’ Fonthill tried to sound uncritical. ‘I think, however, that Forbes was rather expecting you back last night.’

  ‘Yes, well, I felt that once I had made contact with the enemy, it was my duty not to let go.’ He took Fonthill by the elbow and walked him away from Borrow. ‘To tell you the truth, Fonthill, Forbes can be a little . . . what shall I say? Cautious, I think is the word. Natural, I suppose, given his age and all that Sandhurst stuff he imbibed when he was young. But I know Africa, y’see, and how to behave here. These Kaffirs don’t follow the rules laid down at training college. We have to fight ’em the same way.’

  Fonthill looked at him hard. Wilson was confident, almost to the point of cockiness. There was nothing wrong with that in warfare. Better assuredness than hesitation in a commander. But was he being impetuous to the point of foolishness? He had no real idea how many men the king had with him, so better surely to retreat to the river and form a bridgehead on the bank, allowing Forbes and his troopers to cross in the morning and make the attack with a larger force.

  As though reading his thoughts, Wilson patted him on the shoulder, in what seemed a ridiculously avuncular gesture from a younger man. ‘We shall have the advantage of surprise tomorrow and should have some fun,’ he said. ‘Now why don’t you try and get some sleep? We shall move just before sun-up.’

  ‘Very well. Ah - just one last point, Wilson. When you approached the king’s camp, did you see or pick up any evidence that a Portuguese was with the king? A man they call Gouela?’

  Wilson lifted his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t see the chap because we didn’t get that close. But the native we picked up and questioned did say that there was a white man with Lobengula. A feller in some sort of uniform. I didn’t pay too much attention, I’m afraid. Obviously not one of us.’

  Fonthill smiled. ‘Thank you. Good night, Wilson. Good luck tomorrow.’

  So de Sousa was still with the king! Perhaps tomorrow would provide the chance for a final reckoning with his enemy. It was a sort of comfort as he faced the prospect of the dawn attack.

  In fact, hardly anyone in that small company slept that night. Fonthill’s momentary flash of euphoria at the thought of facing de Sousa again was soon replaced by a sense of foreboding. He had two main worries: Alice and Mzingeli. The tracker was a brave man and quite imperturbable in the face of danger, but he was not really a fighter. In addition, of course, this was not his war. Simon had offered him the chance of crossing back across the Shangani before it became virtually impassable, but he had rejected it. ‘I stay with you,’ he had said. And, knowing his man, that would be that. He must insist that Mzingeli stayed close to him and Jenkins when the attack started.

  Alice . . . ah! He stirred uncomfortably on the hard ground. If the battle in this dank semi-forest should prove to be his last, then he wished - oh how he wished! - that his farewell to his wife had been warmer. Her attitude towards Rhodes and Jameson had hardened since the battle at the Imbembesi river and what she called the massacre of the Matabele. She now regarded all of Rhodes’s dealings with Lobengula as exercises in dissimulation and deceit, a preface to the inevitable invasion by an army of mercenaries. Fonthill’s decision to join the Shangani Patrol to capture the king had been met by her with some ambivalence. She wished him to play no further part in the violence that surrounded the creation of Rhodesia, but his presence on the patrol she hoped would be a kind of guarantee that no harm would come to Lobengula. They had kissed good bye, of course, but her eyes had been cold. It seemed as though she had not forgiven him for his part in Rhodes’s negotiations with the king. He sighed and wished he had more confidence in the outcome of tomorrow’s assault on the king’s camp.

  No bugles roused the troopers in the morning. Dawn promised another, wet, miserable day and the men rose from their damp couches without a word. The rain prevented fires from being lit, so everyone chewed cold biltong, drank water, shook the rain from his coat and silently fell into line within minutes of waking.

  ‘Nice day for it, then,’ observed Jenkins, slipping a bayonet down next to the Martini-Henry in the rifle bucket hanging by his saddle. As cavalrymen carrying the shorter carbine, the troopers of the patrol had not been issued with bayonets. Somehow, however, Jenkins had procured in Bulawayo two of the long triangular blades issued to the infantry that, fitted to the end of their rifles, made a stabbing weapon just under six feet long. It had proved deadly in the Anglo-Zulu war ten years before, and indeed, the Zulus, so famed for their prowess in hand-to-ha
nd fighting, had come to fear it. Mzingeli had declined to take a bayonet, claiming that it made the Martini-Henry too heavy to use.

  ‘Look.’ Fonthill drew Jenkins to one side. ‘This is going to be a very tough fight, so we must stick together. In particular we must both keep an eye on Mzingeli. He’s a bit old for this sort of thing.’

  ‘Don’t feel so sprightly myself, bach sir. But I see what you mean.’

  The only man among the thirty-four who lined up that morning who did not seemed possessed by the prevailing air of melancholy was Major Wilson. Even his moustache appeared to bristle with happy expectation as he addressed his troop.

  ‘Now, men,’ he said, ‘this is our chance to write a glorious footnote to the creation of Rhodesia. It is we who will capture King Lobengula and bring this war formally to an end. We shall be outnumbered, of course, but we have the advantage of firepower, as has been proven over the last few months. So fire quickly and accurately on order and we shall find that the Kaffirs will run, as they always do.’

  He paused, as though expecting assent or even a faint cheer, but no sound came from the ranks. ‘Right,’ he went on. ‘Ride until the order comes to dismount. Horses will be taken to the rear. Then we will advance on foot in open order. When we come upon the camp, we will move forward and fire volleys. Myself with Captain Borrow and the sergeant here,’ he nodded, ‘will run forward and capture the king. There will be no pursuit of the fleeing natives. Any questions? No. Good. Mount.’

  ‘Ah,’ muttered Jenkins, ‘just like that, eh? No interference from the black fellers, look you. ’Ow very kind of ’em.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Fonthill. ‘Stay close.’

  Somewhere from behind the grey, overcast sky, the sun gave some backlight to the clouds and the patrol set off in the half-light, walking their horses slowly and deliberately through the bush. Jenkins, Mzingeli and Fonthill rode three abreast, with Mzingeli sandwiched in the middle. After approximately half an hour, as the little group approached a giant anthill, Wilson raised his hand and dismounted. A handful of men took the reins of the horses and tethered them at the rear of the hill, as the troopers doubled forward and joined Wilson to form a thin line some fifty yards across. Then, slowly, the line advanced.

  Wilson turned. ‘I can see the wagons,’ he called. ‘At the double. Charge!’

  Fonthill remembered thinking that a charge without bayonets was somehow toothless when from the bush immediately ahead emerged a row of Matabele riflemen, sweeping out from behind the trees and then being supplemented by others emerging from the side to outflank the charging troopers. The soldiers and the warriors fired at almost the same time, with, it seemed, almost the same results. Captain Borrow and a trooper fell, and three Matabele. The natives were obviously still firing on sights set too high, and the troopers, shooting on the run, could not take steady aim. Nevertheless, the spectacle of a solid line of warriors being reinforced every second as more and more Matabele emerged from the bush was too much for the attackers. The charge petered out, with Major Wilson firing his revolver some twenty yards in front of his men.

  The major turned and doubled back. ‘Fire in volleys,’ he cried. ‘Front rank . . .’ His voice died away. There were no front and second ranks; only one wavering line, in danger of being outflanked and gunned down from the side..

  Fonthill sensed disaster. ‘Quickly, 352,’ he said. ‘Run along the line and tap the shoulder of every other man.’ Then he raised his voice and shouted: ‘Every man touched on the shoulder will double back twenty paces and face the enemy. The remainder will fire a volley and then run back through the rear rank and cover it as it retreats.’

  Wilson was looking at him in consternation. Jenkins had completed his running and touching task. Fonthill screamed: ‘Men touched, run back NOW! Front rank, reload, aim, FIRE! NOW RUN BACK. Rear rank, hold your fire. Now, rear rank, aim, FIRE!’

  And so, walking back, Fonthill directed an orderly retreat, with the men running back in turns, covered by the line through which they ran.

  Simon had time to shout an apology to Wilson. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Infantry drill for an orderly retreat. Sandhurst stuff, you know. You wouldn’t have it in the cavalry. Needed here, though.’

  The major neither accepted nor rejected the apology but kept his eyes on the Matabele, who were now pouring out from the king’s camp and circling wide through the bush. ‘There must be a whole bloody impi here,’ he cried. ‘They’re going to surround us if we’re not careful. We need to get to the horses . . .’

  ‘Jenkins,’ Fonthill shouted to the Welshman, who was now directing the volley fire. ‘Double back with Mzingeli and get the men holding the horses to bring them up. Quickly now.’ He turned to Wilson. ‘If we can mount up, we may be able to break through them and get to the river.’

  ‘I’m not crossing that damned river.’ Wilson’s face was white under his tan but his eyes were determined. ‘We’ll get back to a clearing and make a stand there until Forbes comes across. We can still take the king’s camp.’

  ‘Don’t be stup—’ Fonthill bit back the words and took Jenkins’s place in directing the retreat. This time he set the wing men at the end of each line to firing at the warriors who were slipping through the trees on either side. ‘Stop them from getting behind us,’ he ordered.

  One more man had fallen from the Matabele fire, which was still, mercifully, ill-directed. Now, however, Fonthill realised that the main danger was about to come from the spearmen who were trotting out from the bush immediately ahead and threatening to mount a frontal attack. His eyes scanned them desperately. There must be at least a thousand warriors who had debouched from the camp and were intent on engulfing the little band of troopers facing them. So much for a couple of hundred! Yet, respecting the firepower of the white men, the spearmen held back, seemingly relying on their own riflemen to reduce the number of guns facing them.

  At that moment, there was a muffled thud of hooves and the mounts arrived, led by Jenkins and Mzingeli on the lead horses. Fonthill looked to Wilson. Would he resume command?

  He did. ‘A Troop, give covering fire,’ he shouted. ‘B Troop, mount.’ There was a howl from the Matabele as they saw their prey slipping away, and at last the spearmen ran forward, gaining ground rapidly on the troopers, whose horses were prancing and proving difficult to mount. ‘A Troop, mount,’ screamed Wilson. But it was too late for two troopers, who were speared as, one foot each in their stirrups, they tried to control their skittish mounts.

  Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli, riding flat to their horses’ necks, were the last to leave the little clearing, thrown spears falling behind them as the derisive cries of the Matabele died away.

  ‘What’s ’appenin?’ cried Jenkins as they weaved between the trees.

  ‘He’s going to make a stand in a clearing near the river. He ought to try and cross it while we have the chance.’

  A look of anguish returned to the Welshman’s face. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he shouted. ‘I don’t fancy bein’ drowned with a spear in me back, look you.’

  They caught up with the rest of the patrol in a wide clearing, studded with a few isolated trees and with boulders and large stones scattered about.

  Wilson had already dismounted. ‘This is our best chance of finding cover,’ he said, his breath coming in short gasps. ‘I marked it on the way up.’ He looked at Fonthill anxiously, as though seeking approval for showing some form of military expertise at last. ‘We should be able to hold out here until Forbes crosses over.’

  Fonthill looked around. There was little cover for the horses and not much more for the men. If Major Forbes was able to cross the Shangani, all might still not be lost, although he saw no possibility of mounting a realistic attack on Lobengula’s camp, given the number of warriors who had obviously accompanied the king on his desperate trek north and who were clearly determined to defend him to the end. A momentary vision of the corpulent old monarch, bouncing on his wagon, desperately trying to avoid his pursue
rs, flashed across his mind. He felt a pang of sympathy for this Lear-like figure. Was the old boy still riven with gout and wearing his carpet slipper?

  Then the first shot hissed across the clearing. ‘Put the horses down,’ yelled Wilson, ‘and get them behind as much cover as you can. Sergeant, give me an ammunition report.’ He turned to Fonthill. ‘God, they’ve come up fast.’

  ‘Yes.’ Simon gave him a unforgiving smile. ‘Just like Zulus.’

  It soon became clear that the patrol was surrounded, for bullets were now singing into the clearing from all sides of the bush and men were forced to shelter behind their horses, which became the first casualties. Cries rose as, inevitably, bullets found their mark in human flesh. The troopers, however, were returning fire and their accuracy remained sufficient of a deterrent to prevent that overwhelming charge by spearmen that could spell the end of the defence.

  An hour went by without any of the tribesmen in the bush breaking cover, but opposite where Fonthill and his two comrades were sheltering, it became clear that some sort of attack was being prepared. Many plumes could be seen nodding over the thorn bushes, and black figures were flitting between the trees.