The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  ‘Will you please keep still,’ commanded Alice.

  ‘I am as still as I can be when you’re pulling that damned bandage so tight.’

  ‘It has to be tight to keep the dressing on.’ She pulled a face. ‘Is it still painful?’

  ‘Only when I laugh.’

  ‘Don’t laugh, then.’

  ‘I can’t help it. The sight of you on your knees before me is very, very funny. It should happen more often.’

  ‘Oh do be—’

  A ridiculously loud cough outside the flap of the tent announced the arrival of Jenkins. ‘Come in,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Don’t knock.’

  The Welshman put his head through the opening. ‘I did knock, see, but you don’t ’ear nothin’ on canvas, now do you? Good morning, Miss Alice.’

  ‘Good morning, 352. You would be better at this than me. Do you want to take over?’

  ‘No thank you, miss. I ’ad enough of treatin’ the captain up in the north, look you. He ain’t a good patient, is ’e?’

  ‘No he is not. What can we do for you?’

  Jenkins’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ve brought some news. Just come in, it ’as. The old king ’as died - up in the bush there somewhere, miles from anywhere, near that river up north, the Lumpini . . . Lapono . . .’

  Fontill sat upright. ‘The Limpopo.’

  ‘That’s what I said. It seems that no-one knows ’ow he died. Could ’ave been poison, or sickness. ’E wasn’t a well man at the end, they say. Oh, an’ Mr Rhodes is back in town, I ’ear.’

  ‘Who told you all this, 352?’

  ‘One of the blokes in Dr Jameson’s office. One of the Mattabellies ’as come in from north of that river where we ’ad our little swim, like, and says that the king bolted, o’ course, when the fightin’ started.’ His voice dropped as he continued. ‘This man was at the fightin’ and ’as told ’ow everyone in Captain Wilson’s party died. Very tragic it was.’

  Fonthill frowned. ‘Do you know the details?’

  ‘Nothin’ more than that, bach sir.’

  Alice and Simon exchanged glances. When Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli had staggered ashore, almost half a mile downriver from where they had first plunged into the water, they had lain exhausted for a while. They could hear gunfire coming from across the river and, full of anxiety for the fate of Wilson and his men, had pushed on, with Simon and Mzingeli on the horse and Jenkins leading it. Eventually, towards dusk, they had come upon Forbes and his command, entrenched behind a laager. There, they learned that Forbes had approached the river early that morning but had been attacked by a force of Matabele. Having lost several men and seven horses, he had decided that the river was too high to cross and had taken his men back.

  ‘I can’t risk losing my whole command by having another go,’ he told Fonthill. ‘Anyway, from what you’ve told me, we would never get across, and it’s too late now in any case.’

  Simon had been forced to see the painful logic of Forbes’s argument, and eventually the three had accompanied Forbes and his men on their disconsolate march back to Bulawayo. The Shangani Patrol had ended in failure.

  ‘Jenkins,’ said Alice, finishing the dressing with a neat bow, ‘would you like to make us all coffee while we digest this news.’ She looked up at Simon. ‘So, now the war is really over . . . or is it?’

  Fonthill sighed. ‘Oh yes, it must be. Presumably what was left of the impis is still out there, somewhere in the bush. But without Lobengula as a figurehead they will be leaderless, and despite their victory over Wilson and his men, they will have lost so many warriors that I don’t see them going to war again. They will just break up and go back to their individual kraals.’

  ‘Will there be any reprisals by Rhodes for the Shangani disaster?’

  ‘I doubt it, but I want to go and see Jameson and Rhodes, now that he is back in Bulawayo.’

  ‘So do I. I will come with you. I have a story to write.’

  The rest of the press corps in Bulawayo had returned to the Cape after the flight of the king and the virtual fizzling out of the war. Alice had stayed, of course, because both Simon and Mzingeli were unable to travel. The tracker, in fact, had recovered faster than Fonthill and had now jettisoned the awkward shoulder bandage and sling and was moving freely. The fact that Lobengula’s death had been confirmed and that details had emerged of the end of Wilson and his men meant that she could now wrap up her coverage of ‘this sordid war’ and write her final report.

  Sordid or not, the war had given Alice the chance of reestablishing herself as an intrepid and, as it ensued, lucky war correspondent. Her closeness to Fonthill, of course, had given her a succession of exclusive stories, the latest of which had been his account of the Shangani Patrol. Now she would be in a position to scoop her rivals once again with the details of the last battle of Wilson and his men.

  They sent a message across to Jameson, asking if he and Rhodes would see them. Normally, Alice suspected, Rhodes would have declined to be interviewed by her, but he could hardly resist meeting and thanking Simon, the hero of the patrol’s last days. And he could surely not refuse to see one without the other. She was not above using every trick at her disposal to complete her story.

  Acceptance came by return, and as Simon limped across to Jameson’s office, established in a rebuilt hut on the site of the king’s inner kraal, he could not forbear to warn Alice not to be antagonistic to Rhodes. ‘Press him by all means, darling,’ he said, ‘but you must not thrust your own views on him.’

  ‘Thank you, Simon, but I shall thrust on him anything I wish.’

  They found the two men in sombre mood. They both rose to welcome them, however, and shook hands warmly. ‘You did splendid work at the Shangani, Fonthill,’ said Rhodes, ‘and I am only sorry that Forbes couldn’t follow up.’

  ‘So am I. I have to say to you both that, frankly, I feel the effort should at least have been made.’

  ‘Well,’ Jameson broke in quickly, ‘I understand that the river was terribly high. There’s a difference between the three of you crossing and taking across more than a hundred men against a hostile far bank. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m afraid it’s all too late to argue now.’

  Alice opened her notebook. ‘I understand, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘that you have news of how Wilson and his men finally died.’

  ‘Yes, we do indeed, madam.’ Rhodes was sitting bolt upright and he looked Alice challengingly in the eye. ‘And it is a story that makes us all proud to be English. I hope that you will be able to report it fully.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ Alice replied coolly. ‘May I have the details, please and the source of your information?’

  ‘Certainly. Certainly. One of the Matabele who was a member of the king’s party - not an inDuna, you understand, but a minor chieftain from what we have been able to ascertain here in Bulawayo - came in this morning with his family. He wants to return to live here. He fought at the final Shangani battle and then went off with the king, who was trying to make for the Limpopo. He tells us that Lobengula is certainly dead, for he saw his corpse, but he does not know the cause. However, he gave us a graphic account of Wilson’s end.’

  He coughed. ‘Magnificent, if I may say so. He says that the troopers fought on throughout the day, their numbers gradually being reduced by the firing of the Matabele—’

  ‘Ah yes,’ interrupted Alice. ‘And do you know, Mr Rhodes, from where the Matabele obtained their rifles and ammunition?’

  Simon winced, but Rhodes did not flinch.

  ‘I expect, dear lady, that they were part of the consignment that your husband took to Bulawayo, to cement the treaty I had agreed with the king. I regret very much that they were used against British troops, which was, of course, breaking the terms of the treaty, but one must take risks sometimes in these regions if one wishes to progress.’

  ‘I see.’ Alice, her head down, was scribbling fast. ‘Pray continue. You were saying that Wilson’s patrol was reduced by the firing during the day?’
>
  ‘Indeed.’ Rhodes smoothed his moustache. ‘They fought off each attack with great bravery as the day progressed until they finally ran out of ammunition. Then . . .’ The great man’s voice broke. He took a large and none too clean handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose noisily. Then he wiped his moist eyes. ‘Yes, do excuse me. This Matabele said that Wilson - whom he identified because of his large moustaches - and his men shook hands all round, stood and sang one verse of “God Save the Queen”, then . . . then . . .’ he blew his nose again, ‘stood firm and waited for the inevitable as the final charge came. No one survived, of course. They were all speared and then disembowelled as a tribute to them as great warriors. Magnificent. Magnificent. Please do quote me, if you wish.’

  A silence fell in the tent as Alice continued to scribble.

  ‘A chapter of errors, I am afraid,’ said Fonthill, ‘which doesn’t detract from the bravery of them all at the end.’

  ‘What . . . er . . . yes, well, quite.’

  ‘What do you propose to do about the remnants of the king’s impi?’

  Rhodes made a dismissive gesture. ‘We shall send out messengers to say that they may all now return to their kraals without harassment, as long as they promise to forgo further hostile activities. There will be no pursuit of them in the bush. Jameson here will organise for a party to go up to the Shangani and bury the dead.’

  ‘And your plans to expand to the east?’

  ‘Ah, that reminds me. I wrote to you, Fonthill, of course, following the receipt of your treaty with Umtasa, to thank you for your work out there. But let me take this opportunity to thank you again. Jameson here has made contact with the king, but I have to confess that we have met with difficulties with the Portuguese, who of course control the coast. This was to be expected, but the road to the east has necessarily had to take a lower priority to the establishment of our settlements here. This has now been done and—’

  Alice looked up from her pad. ‘So you are saying, Mr Rhodes, that your aim in invading Matabeleland was always to establish settlements here and in Mashonaland?’

  ‘What?’ Rhodes blinked behind his spectacles. ‘But of course, madam.’

  Alice produced that special sweet smile that so often presaged the killing point. ‘But this was not what you told King Lobengula, was it? You only requested mining concessions, surely?’

  Rhodes seemed quite unfazed. ‘Certainly, and quite genuinely. Unfortunately, the land has proved to be comparatively unproductive so far. But I always also wished to establish good settlers here to spread the values of the English race in a territory that knew only barbarism and cruelty. If the land here seems not to have fulfilled its promise in terms of mineral deposits - and this still remains to be proven - then it is certainly, in the high veldt, good farming territory. It could never have reached its true potential under Lobengula, a feudal despot of the old order.’

  Alice put down her pencil. ‘I understand, Mr Rhodes, that there are many people in political and other circles back home who do not share your views.’

  For the first time Rhodes began to show signs of exasperation. It was clear that a background of buying off his competitors in commerce and a remarkably unchallenged rise to the top in South African politics had not prepared him for debate with a proponent of radical views - and a woman at that.

  He leaned forward. ‘Then, my dear lady, those people “back home”,’ he laid heavy emphasis on the words, ‘should have done something about what you have called my “invasion”.’ He took a strong pull of his cigar and waved away the smoke. ‘On the contrary, I had approval - unofficial, it is true, but approval all the same - of my actions from government circles and I was allowed to execute my policies at my own expense. In other words, these people back home that you referred to were, on the whole, quite prepared to let me carry on a programme of extension of the British Empire as long as it did not cost the British Government a single penny. It is others, madam, who are guilty of hypocrisy, not I.’

  Jameson entered the debate for the first time. ‘In dealing with savages, Mrs Fonthill,’ he said, ‘one cannot be perhaps quite as punctilious as, say, in Europe. One cannot say, “I wish to settle your land,” because the king would have said, “No, keep out.” That is obvious. So we had to use other means. But let me point out that Mr Rhodes has not been motivated by personal gain. It could well be that there are no minerals to be mined here or in Mashonaland, and as a result, the company of which he is chairman will gain no return on its investment. In addition, he has deployed a considerable portion of his personal fortune in financing this campaign and is unlikely to gain a return on that. His motives have been altruistic: the extension of the British Empire and the spreading of the British way of life.’

  Alice opened her mouth to speak, but Jameson held up his hand. ‘One more matter. Lobengula’s father took this land at spearpoint less than sixty years ago. He introduced slavery and execution on a whim. The king, then, has no more right to it than the good white farmers who are now beginning to work the land following Christian principles.’

  Alice wrote something on her pad, underlined it with a flourish and stood. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ she said, her face a little flushed. ‘I think I understand your position and I am grateful to you for explaining it to me. I should point out, however, that nothing you have said justifies to my mind the invasion of a land ruled by a man who has a constitutional right to it - you recognised this in your original treaty with Lobengula - and the massacre of his people by machine guns, cannon and modern rifles when they have the audacity to resist your incursion. I fear that this view must be expressed in my final report on this miserable campaign. Good morning.’

  She swept out of the hut, leaving behind her a silence as heavy as the blue smoke that hung in the air. Fonthill found himself grinning as he regarded the shocked faces of the others.

  ‘Well, my word.’ Rhodes’s voice had risen to a squeak. ‘You don’t share your wife’s views, surely, Fonthill?’

  ‘Well, do you know, sir, I rather fear that I do now.’ He shifted in his chair and thrust himself upright, wincing at the momentary shaft of pain the movement caused. ‘I am certain of one thing, and that is this: many brave men gave their lives for this land. I hope for your sakes that it will be worth it. Good day to you both.’

  He hobbled back to their tent to find that Jenkins and Mzingeli had gone hunting and Alice was, predictably, scribbling furiously on a cable pad. She hardly looked up as he entered.

  ‘Now, don’t chastise me,’ she said. ‘I have work to do. I know you don’t agree with me, but I had to say all that. I am only supposed to report news for the Post and my own opinions, as always, will only be implied. But,’ she looked up at him with a triumphant smile, ‘I got Rhodes to admit that he invaded to build the empire, not to prospect. That damns him from his own mouth and it’s a good story. Now, go away, you Imperialist, and let me write my piece.’

  Fonthill bent and kissed her. ‘As a matter of fact, I agree with you.’

  Alice looked up, her mouth open. ‘You do? Good lord!’

  ‘Yes, and I told them so.’

  A slow smiled began to spread across Alice’s face. ‘Simon, you continue to amaze me. I think I am beginning to love you all over again.’

  ‘I should think so. My leg aches. I need attention.’

  Then the smile was replaced by a frown. ‘But you own land in Mashonaland. You have taken Rhodes’s shilling.’

  ‘I know. Listen.’ He pulled up the other camp stool. ‘I still love the land up there, and I agree with Rhodes and Jameson to the extent that it should be developed and farmed creatively. The Mashonas - or the Matabele, for that matter - will never do that. They are not farmers and never will be. However, I have a proposal for you.’

  ‘Propose away.’

  ‘I would like to give the farm to Mzingeli. He has no roots in the Transvaal, nor a proper home, working for that Boer down there. He would like, I am sure, to be near his
father.’

  ‘But is he a farmer? Could he work the land?’

  ‘Actually, he was beginning to do very well, until we took him away to be a soldier, with the result that he got a bullet through his shoulder. No, he will cope, with a bit of help. We will give him a sum of money, which we will invest in the farm, and if he agrees, and I think he will, I will promise to keep an eye on the property for him, visiting him from time to time to help him develop it. Jenkins and I will like the game hunting anyway, and as you know, I love the country. It seems the ideal solution. The land will return to one of its native sons, in a way, and Ntini and Joshua can both work for him. What do you think?’