The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  ‘It looks as though they are going to try something,’ said Simon. ‘Fix bayonets, I think. Mzingeli, fire and then keep low.’ He shouted to the troopers on either side: ‘I think we are about to be charged. When they come, it will be rapid fire as they advance across the open ground, then, if they still press, use your rifles as clubs—’

  He had no time to finish for, with a howl, the Matabele burst from the bush and ran towards them, shields held forward in the traditional offensive mode. It looked as though someone was testing the firepower of the troopers, for only about one hundred of the warriors were deployed in the charge, but they came very fast, their legs pumping and their plumes nodding.

  ‘Brave bastards,’ muttered Jenkins, as the defensive line crackled with rifle fire. The troopers fired as fast as they could work the cartridge ejection handles and thumb fresh rounds into the breeches of their rifles, and the .45-calibre slugs tore into the massed ranks of the charging warriors, sending them down in swathes. Yet with the courage that had been displayed in the other battles of the campaign, those behind pressed on, hurling defiance. Given the time taken to reload the single-shot Martini-Henrys, it was inevitable that some of the attackers would somehow escape the fusillade and reach the line of defenders, three of them materialising where Fonthill and Jenkins were kneeling, desperately feeling in their bandoliers for fresh cartridges.

  ‘Bayonets, now!’ screamed Fonthill.

  He stood, conscious of Jenkins at his side, and parried the thrust from the assegai of the man opposite, the steel of the clashing spearhead and bayonet clanging out over the din of the firing. The warrior pushed forward his shield, seeking to find a way of thrusting around it, and Fonthill caught a glimpse of intense black eyes gleaming at him from a perspiring ebony face. Remembering a technique painfully learned at Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, he dropped the butt of his rifle and caught it behind the spear pole that stood out at the bottom of the shield, twisting it so that the long shield was pulled round, exposing the warrior’s side. With a swift downward movement of the rifle head, he plunged his bayonet between the man’s ribs, and twisting it to withdraw it, he heard again the iklwa, the sucking noise. The Matabele sank to his knees and then to the ground, blood pouring from his side.

  Fonthill had time to look around. Predictably, Jenkins’s man was sprawled by the side of his comrade and the Welshman was wiping blood from his bayonet. ‘What about the other one?’ asked Simon. Jenkins nodded to the left. There, Mzingeli was calmly reloading his rifle, a tall and very dead warrior sprawled across the rock in front of him.

  The tracker nodded. ‘Don’t like Matabele,’ he said. ‘They make us slaves.’

  ‘Good man.’ The clearing was studded with Matabele bodies. Fonthill stopped counting at thirty. ‘I don’t think they’ll try that again for a while,’ he said.

  ‘But they’ll come again?’ Jenkins’s sweat-stained face was set.

  ‘I suppose so, but they will try and reduce our numbers with rifle fire first. That was just to test us. It’s going to be a long day.’

  As the morning wore on, Wilson wriggled his way towards Fonthill. ‘Sorry to get you into all this,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s too late now to think of breaking out en masse and trying to cross the river. We’ve lost horses and we have too many wounded and I am not going to leave them to be disembowelled. ’ He gave a weak smile. ‘God knows where Forbes is, but perhaps he has no idea of the sort of pickle we are in and is taking his time. Fonthill, your horses are still sound. Do you think you and your two chaps could make a break for it, get across the Shangani and tell Forbes to come on up as quickly as he can? You are scouts and you know the bush better than any of us. Can’t order you, of course, and you could well be cut down. But I think you have a fair chance. We will set up a bit of a barrage to make ’em keep their heads down while you mount and set off. What do you say, old chap?’

  Fonthill looked at the pinpricks of fire that marked the fact that the Matabele were now well established in the bush all around the clearing. He started as, for a brief second, he thought he saw the flash of a yellow garment. All thoughts of de Sousa had long since dissolved and he deliberately put the Portuguese from his mind now. It was just a question of survival. He looked into Wilson’s diffident face. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I will put it to the others, but I don’t see them refusing.’

  Nor did they. ‘I go where you go,’ said Jenkins, ‘but ’ang on to me in that water, please.’

  ‘I come,’ said Mzingeli.

  The three exchanged their rifles for revolvers - much easier to handle on horseback - spoke a few reassuring words into the ears of their patient mounts, who were lying well protected by stone outbreaks, and tightened their saddle girths. Fonthill crawled across to Wilson. ‘How long do you think you can hold out?’

  ‘Depends on the ammunition.’ The major forced a smile. ‘If it goes on at this rate, I should say that we will all be looking like porcupines with spears in our bellies by nightfall. Unless Forbes can get here, that is. It depends on you, old chap.’

  ‘Right. Good luck.’ The two shook hands and Fonthill crawled back to his horse, now scratching restively in the soil with its hooves. Simon took a deep breath, exchanged glances with his two comrades and gave a nod to Wilson, and as the troopers blazed away into the surrounding bush, the three men mounted, kicked in their heels and, heads down, made for the most southerly of the gaps in the trees, to the cheers of the remaining members of the Shangani Patrol.

  How they survived the breakout, Fonthill would never know. He was dimly conscious of black figures scattering as they thundered through between the trees. He heard Jenkins’s revolver crack to his left and he himself brought down a warrior who attempted to launch his spear at him at close quarters. A spear sped over his right shoulder and thudded into a tree trunk a little ahead of him, and a bullet tore through the sleeve of his jacket. Death, for those few seconds, was all around them. Then they broke through the bush into another clearing and sped across it into the dubious safety of the trees beyond.

  Fonthill turned his head. Jenkins was riding well at his side, but Mzingeli was a little way behind, and he saw that blood was trickling down the tracker’s arm. He reined in hard and caught the black man’s bridle. ‘Are you . . .’ He tailed off as Mzingeli slumped on to his shoulder.

  ‘’Ere.’ Jenkins was alongside. He leaned across and lifted the tracker as though he were a feather pillow and deposited him across his own saddle in front of him. ‘Take his reins, bach, and follow on,’ he yelled, digging in his heels and riding away, one arm holding Mzingeli upright as the tracker’s head lolled in time to the beat of the horse’s hooves.

  They rode this way until they reached the riverbank, where they dismounted and found Mzingeli completely unconscious. A bullet had gone clean through his left shoulder and another had grazed his head.

  Jenkins gave an anxious glance at the yellow water. ‘It’s much ’igher than yesterday,’ he said, ‘an’ I don’t think you’ll be able to get us both across, bach sir. Best thing to do, I think,’ he beamed confidently, ‘is for you to take the horses across and go and find Major Forbes. Me an’ old Jelly ’ere will creep into the bush and ’ide until you can come back for us with the rest. Makes sense, isn’t it?’

  ‘No it bloody well isn’t. The Matabele are probably hot on our heels now and they will find you in a second. I shall get you both across . . . somehow.’ He looked around desperately. ‘Mzingeli is the problem. Is it the shoulder wound, do you think?’

  ‘No. That bullet that grazed ’is ’ead is what’s knocked ’im out, I think. ’Ere, ’elp lift ’im down.’

  Carefully Jenkins handed the tracker down to Fonthill, who stretched him on the ground and chafed his hands, but the man remained unconscious.

  ‘We can’t wait here until he comes round,’ said Fonthill. ‘The Matabele will be here any minute now. I shall just have to carry him across on my horse and hope that the two of us are not too heavy to prevent
it swimming. Can you find something to lash him to me? Ah, unsaddle a horse and tear up the saddle blanket, that should do. I will stuff my shirt into this shoulder wound to try and staunch the bleeding. Quickly now, or they will be on us.’

  The two men went to work in feverish haste, but Jenkins had only just thrown off the saddle when a cry made them turn their heads. Two Matabele warriors, their faces fearsomely daubed in ochre and white, throwing spears in their hands, burst out of the bush. Behind them could be heard the distant thud of hoofbeats. For a brief moment the four men regarded each other in a tableau that seemed to be fixed in time. Then, in a blur of action, the first warrior threw a spear at Simon, who was kneeling on the ground. He had just time to roll away so that the shaft buried itself into the soil, but at the same moment Jenkins’s revolver barked and the thrower jerked backwards and slumped to the ground. The second man flung his spear at Jenkins, who ducked and fired in the same movement, the bullet penetrating the warrior’s shield and hitting him in the chest. The shaft, however, took Jenkins’s horse in the throat, so that the beast reared and slipped in the mud, bringing the Welshman down, pinning him under its weight and sending his revolver spinning away. At the same time, Fonthill’s horse, eyes wide, stampeded away.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ shouted the Welshman, ‘I can’t move. Can you pull me out from under this bloody ’orse?’

  ‘No, he can’t.’

  The voice came from the edge of the bush, and de Sousa walked his horse forward, his revolver covering both men.

  ‘How convenient,’ he said. ‘One unconscious, the other pinned under his horse and you, Fonthill, without a weapon.’ Perspiration was streaming down de Sousa’s face from his gallop through the bush, and his uniform had lost its pristine smartness: stains marked his tunic, his boots were scuffed and he had not shaved for days. The dress sword that usually hung so decoratively by his thigh had now been thrust carelessly through his belt. Life in retreat with Lobengula had clearly not suited him, but his eyes were now gleaming with anticipation and he showed his tongue between his small white teeth.

  He dismounted, his revolver carefully covering Fonthill, who remained crouching beside Mzingeli. He made to get up, but de Sousa waved him down. Then the Portuguese slowly transferred the pistol from his right to his left hand and drew the sword from his belt.

  ‘I shall kill the three of you,’ he said, ‘and I shall take my time about it, I promise you that.’ He gestured behind him with his head. ‘My men will be here soon and they like a bit of entertainment, so I shall wait until they arrive. In the mean time . . .’ He walked towards Mzingeli.

  ‘Even you wouldn’t harm a wounded man,’ cried Fonthill. He shot a quick glance at Jenkins, but the Welshman, the veins standing out on his neck, was trying without success to push away the dead weight of the horse that lay across his legs.

  Simon thought quickly. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘your quarrel is not with these two. There’s half of the gold sovereigns that Lobengula left in that bag behind my saddle. Take it and let them go - then you can do what you like with me.’

  De Sousa sneered. ‘Oh, I’ll do what I like with you anyway. And if there are sovereigns there, which I doubt, I shall take them. Oh, I am so glad that I saw you ride away, Fonthill, because I could not be sure that you were with this pathetic little party. Now, I will let you watch a little blood-letting before my happy warriors arrive. This sword is not just for decoration, you know. I think we’ll begin by finishing off this Kaffir of yours . . .’

  Fonthill sprang at him from his crouching position, but his clawing fingers landed in the mud well short of the Portuguese’s boots. Instantly de Sousa skipped around and plunged his sword into Simon’s calf as he lay spreadeagled. The pain was hot and sharp and Fonthill cried out in agony, clutching his shin to his breast.

  ‘Bastard,’ cried Jenkins, panting from his exertions but still firmly wedged under the dead horse.

  ‘Your turn will come in a minute.’ De Sousa spoke calmly, then turned back to Fonthill. ‘That will stop you running away while I carve you up a little. You could call it unfinished business, I suppose. Yes, I don’t think I will wait, after all.’ He drew back the sword and Simon closed his eyes.

  As a result, he did not see a sweating Jenkins, just able to reach up to the far side of the horse that imprisoned him, fumble in his rifle bucket hanging by the saddle, withdraw his bayonet and hurl it with all his strength at de Sousa’s back. The weapon rotated through the air in a silver cartwheel. There was an equal chance of it hitting the Portuguese base or point first. If the former, then it would merely thump into him, causing him to start a pace or two forward, doing no real damage. If the latter . . . As it was, the point of the lunger hit de Sousa firmly in the middle of the back, penetrating tunic, shirt and flesh, not deeply enough to kill, but inflicting a painful wound.

  The Portuguese, his eyes staring wildly, staggered towards Fonthill. Instinctively, Simon reached up and pulled the man’s tunic so that the two fell back together, de Sousa crashing on to him and expelling the air from his body.

  Fonthill heard Jenkins’s despairing cry: ‘The bayonet, bach. The bayonet, in ’is back.’ As the Portuguese put a hand to the ground to push himself away, Simon reached behind his back and his fingers locked on to the blade, now loose from de Sousa’s exertions and threatening to fall away. The heavy man’s other hand had now reached Fonthill’s throat and was beginning to tighten, so that stars floated before Simon’s eyes. ‘Damn you, English,’ croaked the Portuguese. Fonthill made one last effort and slid his left hand around his assailant’s back in a desperate embrace, pulling him closer and finding the blade. His two hands now joined together and jerked the bayonet down savagely. He felt the point go cleanly through de Sousa’s body and lightly prick his own chest before blackness closed in on him.

  He came round to hear Jenkins shouting and feel Mzingeli’s hand slapping his face. The tracker had crawled to his side and had somehow pushed the dead de Sousa away.

  ‘Ah, Nkosi,’ he gasped. ‘Good. You hurt but not dead. Get up. We must move horse off 352 bach and get across river. Matabele coming. I think I hear them.’

  ‘Oh hell, Jelly.’ Jenkins’s voice was hoarse. ‘See to the captain. I’ll be all right. Get across while you can.’

  ‘No.’ Simon was struggling on to one knee. ‘If you can move, Mzingeli, help me up and get me a spear to lean on, can you? Good. Now hand me that sword. Right. Let’s insert these under the belly of the horse. That’s it. While we try and lift it a little, 352, can you try and struggle out from underneath?’

  ‘Blimey, if you two cripples can do that, I can get out. Right. Try now.’

  The two men may have been injured, but the hard life they had led on the veldt had toughened their bodies and given them reserves of strength. Slowly, as they heaved, the dead weight of the horse began to rise. The shaft of the spear snapped, sending the beast crashing down again, but not before Jenkins had extricated both his legs.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Now, where’s that peashooter? I can ’ear the Mattabellies comin’. Bach sir, can the two of you get on that ’orse and into the river, while I ’old the devils off?’

  ‘Only if you get on that other—’

  His words were cut short as three panting Matabele broke out of the bush. They stood immobile for a second, partly to regain their breath and partly to take in the scene before them. Then they ran forward, stabbing spears held low. Their hesitation gave Jenkins just enough time to pick up his revolver, kneel and fire, bring back the hammer and fire again. The two leading warriors staggered and fell and the third paused, hurled his assegai, then turned and ran back to seek the cover of the bush. Jenkins’s third bullet took him squarely in the back.

  ‘Bugger, no more bullets,’ cried the Welshman. ‘An’ no more ’orses.’ De Sousa’s horse had bolted at the gunfire. Jenkins leapt forward and picked up the Portuguese’s revolver. Then he turned and saw a staggering Fonthill pushing Mzingeli up on to the saddle
of his horse. ‘Get up behind him, bach,’ he called. ‘I’ll cover you.’

  ‘No.’ Simon’s voice was a croak. ‘You’re pathetic, 352, being afraid of a bit of water. You get up behind him; you’re the only one that has the strength to hold him on. I will hang on to the horse’s tail and get across that way. Go on. Get on. That’s an order. Look, they’re coming through now. Get on, damn you, or it will be too late.’

  Jenkins gave a despairing look at the swirling water, then he turned, emptied de Sousa’s revolver at the Matabele who were appearing now through the trees and vaulted on to the rump of Mzingeli’s horse, clutching the swaying tracker to him to prevent him falling. Then he urged the mount into the water as a hopping Fonthill clutched at the beast’s tail.

  As the current swept them away, a despairing cry of ‘Oh bloody ’ell’ merged with the shouts of the Matabele as they rushed to the water’s edge, abortively throwing their spears after the disappearing trio.

  Chapter 20

  Two weeks later, Fonthill sat on the edge of a camp chair in their tent in a Bulawayo that was no longer smoking but still smelled of charred timber, while Alice replaced the dressing on his calf. The crossing of the turbulent Shangani had been perilous and had taken all of half an hour, but had been completed successfully in the end. The yellow water, however, had bequeathed an infection to the open wound in his leg that had delayed their departure from the king’s old capital and which was only now responding to treatment.