Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The Shangani Patrol (10 page)
As she summoned up their laughing faces, Alice’s eyes filled with tears. Sniffing, she blew her nose, gulped and then gently urged her horse forward until she rode side by side with her husband.
‘Our son would have been four just the other day,’ she said.
Simon nodded his head, looking straight ahead but gripping her hand tightly. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘The day we shot the lions.’
They rode hand in hand for a few minutes, lost in their own thoughts. Intuitively Jenkins had let his own mount fall back a little as soon as he saw their hands meet. His godson, their son - George Jenkins Mustapha Fonthill - had lived only a few minutes after his birth at their farm in Norfolk, back in 1885. The pregnancy had been difficult and Jenkins had always had his doubts about the survival of the babe. Perhaps its unconventional conception in the sands of the Sudanese desert, amidst the trauma after their escape from the Mahdi’s camp, might have had something to do with it. He sighed. It was rarely spoken of now and it was clear that their attempts to have another child since had failed. He knew that the two people he loved most in the world carried with them this constant sadness, and he in turn was sad for them. Time to cheer them up.
He kicked in his heels. ‘What about a nice cup of tea?’ he called. ‘My mouth feels like old Lobengolly’s armpit. But if you don’t want a
nice
cup of tea,
I
can make it.’
nice
cup of tea,
I
can make it.’
It did the trick. ‘Perish the thought,’ said Alice. ‘But let’s stop for a minute.’
They did so and stretched their legs, standing to drink from their tin mugs near a large kopje.
Mzingeli threw away the dregs and moved close to Fonthill. ‘We are followed,’ he said quietly.
‘How long?’
‘Last hour, perhaps. Now people ahead. Behind kopje. They watch us from top.’
‘How many?’
‘Do not know. Perhaps six, ten. Perhaps more.’
Fonthill nodded and took a last reflective drink from his mug. Thank goodness for your splendid eyesight, Mzingeli. Have you any idea who they might be?’
‘Just Kaffirs, I think.’
‘Very well.’ He paused for a moment and walked to his horse on the pretence of adjusting the saddle cinch. From under his hat he scanned the top of the kopje, which was perhaps a quarter of a mile away and some sixty feet tall. He could see nothing. His gaze swept around. They were still on the plateau, although its undulations would have made it easy for them to have been followed and then overtaken. There was no sign of any other living thing.
Softly, he called Jenkins to him. ‘Mzingeli tells me that we are being followed by natives who are armed,’ he said. ‘They have been observing us from that kopje up ahead - no, don’t look! I am surprised, because I thought that if we were going to be attacked it would be when we were in the bush. But these people obviously didn’t want us too near the security of the border, in case we made a break for it.’
‘Is it that Portuguese swine, bach sir?’
‘I can’t think of anyone else who might want us dead. De Sousa must have learned of our mission to meet Rhodes and wants to stop us. The Matabele wouldn’t attack the king’s friends - and particularly his doctor.’ He gave a grin to show a confidence that he did not feel. ‘Now, the trail takes us quite close to the kopje. It is my feeling that they will attack us from its cover. So we will not give them that chance. I don’t want them to know that they have been seen, so we will gently change course to take us away from the kopje, and then they will have to break cover to attack.’
‘Do they have horses?’ he asked the tracker.
‘Not seen any, Nkosi.’
‘Good. Tell Sando to climb into the wagon with Ntini. Alice, into the wagon too, please, with your rifle ready.’
Alice opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand. ‘Only one general here today, my love,’ he said. ‘You must obey his orders. Hitch your horse to the side of the wagon away from the kopje, so that it is protected. Mzingeli, stay leading us from the front on foot but drop back a little, and as soon as the attack comes, get into the wagon quickly and fire from there.’
Jenkins frowned. ‘What do we do then, bach sir?’
‘We will act as a sort of cavalry screen. Drop back a little on the kopje side and I will do the same. They will have to run across open ground to get anywhere near us - I am gambling that they don’t have horses and that’s why they wanted to attack from the kopje. As soon as they leave cover, we charge at them, halt, fire two rounds and then gallop back to the wagon. We throw our reins to Ntini and then we climb aboard the wagon and fire from there. It will be our fortress.’
‘Humph.’ The Welshman’s eyes lit up. ‘You will probably fall off.’
‘If I do, you will just have to pick me up.’
The tracker’s face carried a faint smile as he tried to follow the exchange, but Alice’s features were grim. ‘Surely it is best to stay in the wagon, Simon? Make it a fortress, as you say.’
‘No, my love. We can break them up at short range as they run towards us. Kaffirs can’t shoot well and they certainly won’t be able to do so on the run. They may not even have guns. No. We will do as I say. Make sure that your rifles are loaded, but do so surreptitiously. I don’t want them to know that we are on to their game.’
He swallowed hard. His brain worked smoothly in assessing the situation, as that of a soldier should, but he knew that they were outnumbered and in great danger. No one in the little party betrayed open fear, not even the native boys, but he could see that faces were drawn and chins set determinedly. Everyone realised that they would need calm nerves and straight shooting - or perhaps a miracle - to survive the coming attack.
They mounted and set off again. This time Mzingeli led them slightly off to the right. Leaving the track was no hardship, for it was only faintly defined and the grassland was dry and the going firm. Fonthill put a handful of cartridges from their ammunition box into both his pockets, and he and Jenkins drifted out to the left. He tried not to eye the kopje too suspiciously, but he caught a flash of light as the sun reflected off . . . what? It wouldn’t be an assegai head, for the natives this far north had blades of beaten black iron. A rifle barrel? Possibly.
They had drawn level with the kopje, although not far enough away from it to satisfy Fonthill, when the first shot rang out. It came from the base of the rock and was the signal for a stream of spearmen to emerge at a fast trot and fan out and run towards them. Simon was reminded briefly of that terrifying moment at Isandlwana when the Zulu impis had poured down from the escarpment and spread out to surround the British camp. Except that this time there were fewer attackers - but even fewer defenders.
He saw Mzingeli and Sando climb into the wagon. He nodded to Jenkins, and the two of them galloped towards the natives. Good, they were not carrying rifles! The charging men were dressed exactly like Matabeles - monkey-tail adornments, ostrich feathers and little else - and carrying, in their left hands, the long hide shields behind which, in Zulu style, would be clutched a handful of throwing spears, and in their right, the short, stabbing assegais. They looked formidable enough and seemed completely unfazed by the approaching horsemen.
Fonthill reined in, steadied his horse and raised his rifle at a range of about two hundred yards. Jenkins, however, was even quicker, and his shot brought down the leading native. Simon’s own missed. Cursing, he rammed another round into the breech and took careful aim, this time spinning round the third man in the line and bringing him down. Jenkins’s next shot tore through the shield of the second man, whirling it away and causing the native to stumble. Then a puff of smoke came from the base of the kopje and a bullet whistled between the two horsemen. As the smoke began to clear, Simon saw a small figure in yellow behind it.
‘Back to the wagon,’ yelled Fonthill, pulling round the head of his horse.
They galloped back, wheeling around to the far side of the vehicle, where Alice’s horse was already tied, and, throwing their reins to Ntini, scrambled aboard. Alice and Mzingeli had now lowered the white canvas canopy and were kneeling, their rifles levelled across the wooden side pieces of the wagon.
‘Don’t waste ammunition,’ cried Fonthill. ‘They will circle around us until we are surrounded and then run in. That’s when we will need every bullet. We shall have to reload very quickly. I don’t think they have realised yet that we have two Martini-Henrys. Old Gouela must have gambled that we only had light hunting rifles. But keep your heads down - he has a rifle himself and is taking shots from the kopje, although I think he’s too far away to be effective.’
The natives now formed a loose ring around the wagon and stood for a moment, raising their spears and chanting.
‘They not Matabele, not Zulus,’ grunted Mzingeli.
‘I don’t care who they are, bach,’ answered Jenkins grimly. ‘I’ve just counted twenty-five of ’em left, an’ if we let ’em close enough to come aboard, I’d say we’re done for.’
‘They’re out of range of anything but the Martinis,’ said Simon. ‘See if you can pick off a couple before they charge, 352, and I’ll do the same. When they come in, you fire over to the right, Alice. Jenkins, you go over the oxen to the front - it’s the most difficult shot. Mzingeli, you take the rear and I will fire to the left.’ He nodded to the tracker. ‘Tell the boys to stand ready to fight with their spears if anybody gets through.’
The last was a superfluous remark, because Ntini and Sando were crouching by the wagon side boards, their spears at the ready. Their faces, however, showed the fear they felt. But that seemed to disappear when Mzingeli spoke quickly to them.
Fonthill raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘I tell them that these just Hottentots from the east, not Matabele,’ grunted the tracker. ‘Make them feel better. They afraid of Matabele.’
Further discussion was halted by the crack of Jenkins’s rifle. Immediately, one of the natives crumpled. ‘Good,’ said the Welshman, reloading. ‘Just in range.’ He shuffled on to the driver’s seat and sighted again. ‘’Ere. ’Ave another one, lads.’ A second man in the ring staggered and fell, clutching his shoulder.
Fonthill now fired, and a spurt of dust sprang from just ahead of his target. ‘Elevate, elevate, for goodness’ sake,’ cried Jenkins.
‘Sorry, Sergeant,’ murmured Simon. He adjusted his sights and fired again, this time hitting his man. This seemed to be the signal for the attack, for the rest raised their spears, stamped their feet and then began running for the wagon.
‘Hold fire until I give the order,’ cried Fonthill, then, in a lower voice to his wife, ‘You all right, my love?’
Alice was nestling her cheek against the butt of her Westley Richards. She replied without looking up, ‘I’m all right. Good luck, Simon.’
‘Fire!’
The four guns spoke as one, and three of the attackers fell. Jenkins, closely followed by Fonthill, was the first to reload, and their second bullets also found their marks. Simon realised that Alice, firing from the right, was either out-ranged or her accuracy was wanting, so he added his firing to hers, but he could not leave his flank completely unprotected and it was difficult to switch position and fire accurately. Nevertheless, it was the Martini-Henrys, of course, that had the greatest firepower, and the warriors seemed to sense this, for they veered away from the guns of Jenkins and Fonthill and ran towards the weaker sides, those manned by Alice and Mzingeli.
It became clear to Fonthill that these ‘Hottentots from the east’, whoever they were, seemed to possess the courage and warlike skills of both the Zulus and the Matabele, and he took up his position at his wife’s side, firing as fast as he could inject the single cartridges and jerk down the cocking lever behind the trigger guard. The bravest and fastest of the attackers had now reached within range of the wagon to launch their throwing spears, and one buried itself into the breast of the already injured Sando, who sank to the floorboards, feebly clutching at the assegai. Ntini plucked it out and threw it back, all in one movement.
‘Nkosi!’ The cry came from Mzingeli, whose slow-loading Snider was now being used as a club as he tried to fight off two natives who were stabbing at his feet and trying to climb into the rear of the wagon. Fonthill shot one and then stabbed the muzzle of his rifle into the face of the other, pushing him to the ground, where the thrown spear of Ntini penetrated his breast.
‘Behind you, bach.’ Simon whirled and saw a tribesman climb over the side of the wagon behind Alice, who was now kneeling to tend to the prostrate figure of Sando. He swung the stock of his rifle towards the man’s chin, but this one was made of sterner stuff. He bowed his head to take the butt of the gun on his tightly curled hair, shook his head as though to get rid of a fly and then gave a short-arm stab in reply. The blade grazed Fonthill’s thigh and its point stuck for a moment in the side of the wagon, giving a slight advantage to Simon, who brought the barrel of the gun strongly down on his adversary’s neck. The crack could be heard above the firing and the screams of the attackers, and the man slumped to the floor of the wagon.
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