The Shangani Patrol (14 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
But Fonthill was still trying to analyse the kind of fighting machine that had been at his side for the last decade. In idle moments in the past, watching the huge hands of his servant stitching back a button or ironing a shirt with dainty precision, he had wondered at the dual nature of the man. Not only patient batman/servant and disciplined infantryman, but also fierce barroom brawler, as good with his fists or a wrestling stranglehold as with a knife. Why did he always come out on top? Well, he was magnificently strong, of course, with the courage of a lion. Then he was light on his feet and always seemingly unaffected by the drink he had taken. He also possessed a very low centre of gravity, which enabled him to take on much taller men. Simon shook his head and gave up. Over the years, he had benefited hugely by his comrade’s ability to fight in any situation. Best to be thankful for it and regard it as a credit on the balance sheet of a very complex character.
He leaned forward. Jenkins’s eyes now switched to the floor apprehensively. ‘I suppose I was able to help . . .’ Fonthill began.
‘Oh, you did, bach sir, you did.’ Jenkins jumped in thankfully. ‘And I’m very grateful, indeed I am. My word, I couldn’t see much of what was goin’ on because I ’ad me ’ands a bit full, like, but from what I could see you was fightin’ a lovely dirty fight. Not like an officer at all, see. I was very proud . . .’
Fonthill held up his hand with a sigh. ‘But I would have lost out to that brute in the end, because he was too big for me. So thank you for knocking him over the head. Anyway.’ He raised his glass to his comrade. ‘If I did help a bit, then it came no way near to matching what you did in that tent with that damned snake. So, my dear old 352, thank you and cheers!’
Jenkin’s jaw dropped for a moment, and then, with a relieved grin, he downed his whisky in one gulp. ‘Cheers, bach sir. Shall we ’ave just one more, then?’
‘No, we will not. And I want your word that you won’t go on another drinking rampage while we are in Cape Town.’ Fonthill shook his head and sighed. ‘You must stay out of trouble for the rest of our stay because by the look of it we may have some work to do again before long.’
The Welshman’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh really? An’ what would that be, then, bach sir?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I shall soon. Now drink up - although God knows where you will put it all. We must get back because Alice will be concerned.’
Chapter 6
The expected invitation came from Rhodes the next day. It was amazingly informal: a page seemingly torn from a cheap notepad and covered with strong, forward-sloping handwriting. It read:
My dear Fonthill,We met in Kimberley some time back. Could you spare me an hour or less tomorrow? Come to breakfast at my rooms. Best bacon and eggs in the Colony. Shall we say 8 a.m.?Yours, Cecil J. Rhodes.
As an afterthought, Rhodes had scribbled the address of his apartment on the back of the page.
Fonthill grinned and passed the note to Alice. She read it with a frown and passed it back. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least we can say that there are no frills about this particular millionaire. It seems he doesn’t employ a lady with the new typewriting machine. Will you go? How stupid of me. Of course you will go.’
‘Yes. Of course I will. I have a message to deliver to him, and in any case, I am bursting with curiosity to know what he wants of me.’
‘Very well, but Simon, do be careful. Don’t be bullied or blackmailed by Lamb and Wolseley. You have served your country well enough now not to owe it any more.’
Fonthill bent and kissed her brow. ‘Have no fears, my love. The great ensnarer will not catch this rabbit - unless he wants to be caught, that is. In any case, I love bacon and eggs and this hotel does a miserable breakfast.’
Fonthill arrived a little early the next day for his appointment and found that ‘The Richest Man in Africa’ lived in second-floor rooms in one of the busiest streets in the middle of Cape Town, accommodation typical of a youngish bachelor of moderate means. The rooms were wood-panelled and cosy, those perhaps of a don at the University of Oxford. Rhodes himself answered the door and led him to a table of some polished dark African wood set for breakfast.
‘Sit down, my dear Fonthill,’ he said. ‘My man will have breakfast for us in five minutes or so. That gives me the chance to ask you about Gordon. I knew him well, you know. But you must have been the last white man to have seen him. Tell me about him.’
Fonthill studied the great man with interest. Rhodes had put on considerable weight since last they had met. He must now weigh about fourteen stone, but he carried it well, for he was tall and broad-shouldered. He was dressed carelessly in an old tweed jacket and cream cricket flannels, and the air of an undergraduate was enhanced by the auburn hair, now touched with grey, but flung loosely over his forehead. His eyes were bluish grey, dreamy and kindly and rather bulbous. They seemed to be those of a country parson - Fonthill remembered that he was indeed the son of a clergyman - and they certainly betrayed no trace of ruthlessness or commercial avarice. The moustache had been allowed to droop either side of his full lips, and his voice was high-pitched and had risen to a squeak at the mention of General Gordon. His appearance and demeanour were far from those of a determined businessman and political schemer.
‘Ah, Gordon,’ said Simon. ‘I did not know you knew him, sir.’
‘Indeed. We were great friends. Worked together in the early eighties when we were both members of the Losses Commission set up to decide compensation for those Basutos who had remained loyal through the rebellion at that time. Big difference in our ages, but we got on well and Charlie asked me to join him in the Sudan. But I was about to come on to the Cape Cabinet and had to decline. Tell me what happened at the end.’
Fonthill described the voyage of the two steamers sent up the Nile ahead of Wolseley’s expedition in a desperate attempt to relieve the general in a besieged Khartoum, and their arrival just two days too late. To his surprise, Simon saw tears well up into Rhodes’s eyes.
The big man fished out a red handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. ‘Disgraceful,’ he said. ‘Disgraceful and tragic. I wish I had been with him. I do, you know.’
The awkward silence was broken by the arrival of a beaming black man carrying two tureens on a tray, which he placed on the table. ‘This is Tony,’ said Rhodes. ‘Been with me for years. Couldn’t do without him. Tony, meet Mr Fonthill, a great man of the Empire.’
To Simon’s surprise, the servant gave a half-bow then extended his hand. Rising, Fonthill took it and they exchanged hearty handshakes before the man retired.
Rhodes took off the lids of both tureens. ‘You know, Fonthill,’ he said confidentially, ‘these Kaffirs are great people. I like and respect ’em. When I was farming in Natal years ago, I lent a great deal of money to them when it was hut tax time, and they always came and worked if off for me. Kaffirs are really safer than the Bank of England. Two eggs or three?’
‘Er . . . two, please.’
Rhodes busied himself with adding bacon, tomato, black pudding, mushrooms and sausages to Fonthill’s plate, and Simon realised why the man had put on so much weight since last they had met.
‘Now, Fonthill. You have just returned from Lobengula’s kraal, I hear. Tell me about him and conditions there.’
‘I have, and indeed I have a message for you from the king.’
‘Oh.’ Rhodes looked up sharply. ‘Pray tell me.’
Fonthill put down his knife and fork and first described the situation in Bulawayo - the supplicants at the court of the king and in particular the pressure being applied by de Sousa on behalf of the Portuguese.
‘Ah, Gouela. I’ve heard about him. But what’s the king’s message?’
‘It seems that in return for the king’s signature on a concession allowing your company to develop the mineral rights in Matabeleland and Mashonaland, you would deliver to Lobengula a monthly retainer of a hundred pounds, a thousand Martini-Henry rifles with a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition and a steamboat with guns suitable for defensive purposes on the Zambezi river. But the king says that none of these promises have been met, and, to put it politely, he will consider the contract to be null and void unless he receives these payments soon.’
Rhodes nodded his head slowly and removed a tureen cover. ‘Do have another egg, Fonthill. They come from my house up towards Table Mountain outside the city. I have a little farm there.’ He nodded towards the pale blue flowers arranged in a bowl on the table. ‘Plumbago. My favourites. They’re from there too.’ He ladled an egg. ‘Come along. I insist.’
Fonthill sighed and accepted the egg.
Helping himself to bacon, Rhodes nodded his head again. ‘All true, my dear fellow. All true. Incidentally, how is the king’s gout?’
Shifting uncomfortably on his chair, Simon resisted the temptation to cry, ‘Oh do get on with it,’ and carefully explained Alice’s treatment of the king and of her champagne diagnosis.
‘Quite right. Best thing is to give it up. I only drink moderately, you know. Much too much to do. Now, turning to the king’s message . . .’ He pushed his plate away from him and, turning his head, shouted, ‘Tony. Toast and marmalade, please.’ He fixed his big grey eyes on Fonthill. ‘Yes, the payment. As you can imagine, my dear fellow, it has not been exactly easy to get together the contingent parts of that. But I have done so. At least, the steamer on the Zambezi is certainly not there yet - and more of that later - but the gold, the guns and the ammunition are all now gathered together and are waiting in Kimberley to go north.’
‘I am glad to hear it, sir. Why do they not go now?’
‘Because, Fonthill, I am waiting for you to lead the expedition to take them to Bulawayo. It will not be an easy journey - particularly in view of what you tell me of de Sousa and his behaviour, although I had already had some indication of the man’s determination to undo my treaty. No. It needs a person of great resource and qualities of leadership, with knowledge of the country, and yes, someone I could trust. My dear fellow, you would do me a great service if you could take this precious cargo to Lobengula and secure from him his confirmation that he will accept a party of my people, who will march north to Mashonaland to develop the land. I had heard you were somewhere in South Africa, and knowing of the fine reputation you have earned since last we met, I have waited until we could meet here and I could explain to you my plans and beseech your help.’
Fonthill’s eyebrows rose. ‘Well, sir, you certainly flatter me. But I don’t know . . .’
Rhodes silenced him by raising his hand and standing. ‘Let me first of all fill in some all-important details. Do come over here, there’s a good fellow.’ And then, over his shoulder: ‘Tony, where’s the toast and marmalade? Stir yourself, lad.’
They moved to a large table set against the panelled wall and covered with documents. Selecting one of them, Rhodes untied the red tape that bound it and smoothed it flat with his hand. ‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘One of the three original copies of the treaty of friendship that I persuaded the British Government to enter into with Lobengula last year. This is important because it precludes the making of any other treaty or ceding of land with any other foreign power. Got it?’
Fonthill smiled as he remembered from their first meeting the staccato questions that so often ended Rhodes’s statements. He nodded. ‘Got it.’
‘Good. Now.’ Rhodes threw aside the document and unrolled another one of similar size. ‘Here’s the treaty the king signed with me. Look, see, there’s Lobengula’s cross and his great elephant seal. It gives me, as you say, the right to prospect and dig for minerals on his land.’
‘Quite so, sir. But has the British Colonial Office seen this and approved it? If so, I am a bit surprised that it was happy to arm the Matabele with rifles. You know that these people are fierce warriors, and I understand that a law was passed here some years ago prohibiting the provision of arms to the natives.’
Rhodes threw back his head. ‘Ah, that only applied to the Basutos. And don’t worry about the Imperials back home. The deal was done before they’d adjusted their pince-nez and I got them to rubber-stamp it, though they looked down their noses at it a bit. These rifles won’t make the Matabele an armed force, because there’s no one to train ’em to use ’em. But Lobengula wants them to frighten the Boers, who are his main worry in terms of invasion, and they will probably do that, which also helps our cause, y’see. Old Kruger in the Transvaal would love to get his hands on Matabeleland and Mashonaland, and these guns and this document will stop him, or at least make him pause, because the treaty has legal viability.’
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