Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The Shangani Patrol (17 page)
Fonthill booked them all into a modest hotel, then, with Jenkins, hurried to the de Beers office. He was half hoping to find Mzingeli waiting for them, but realised that the tracker would have to make his way by foot for perhaps three hundred miles to reach the diamond town. He would need more time yet.
The two were ushered into a dark, gloomy office and greeted by a small, fastidiously dressed man who addressed them in perfect English, overlaid with a slight German accent. ‘Alfred Beit,’ he said. ‘I have been expecting you.’
Fonthill regarded Beit with interest. He knew little of his background, except that as the son of a Hamburg Jew, he had been sent to Amsterdam to study the diamond business and then out to Kimberley to work as a diamond merchant. What he had heard, however, was that Beit and Rhodes had set up a warm and informal business relationship and that the big man now trusted the little Jew implicitly. Beit, in fact, had become Rhodes’s right-hand man, although he avoided the limelight whenever he could.
‘You have, gentlemen, taken on quite an assignment,’ he said, favouring them both with a distant smile. ‘But Mr Rhodes tells me that he has complete confidence in you, and of course I shall give you all the help I can.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Beit. Can you tell me how far advanced are the preparations for my departure?’
‘Indeed. Everything is ready. The rifles, ammunition and gold for King Lobengula are locked away in one of our diamond vaults, and I can assure you,’ his smile became more affable, ‘that nowhere could be more secure than that.’
He began to enumerate points, with one finger dropping precisely into the palm of his other hand. ‘The rifles are packed into ten wooden boxes, which are sealed and locked with steel bands, fifty rifles to each box. The cartridges similarly are carried in two boxes, with the rounds wrapped in greaseproof paper in batches of twenty-five each. The money is in gold sovereigns and is carried in one smaller but stout box. I will require you to inspect them all and give me a receipt for them before you leave. I have provided five Cape wagons for you, which I suggest should be sufficient for the load you carry and your own travel requirements. Each wagon will be pulled by six oxen, and another ten oxen have been supplied to accompany you as reserves.’
Fonthill began to open his mouth to deliver a question, but Beit, the accountant supreme and master of detail, was well into his dry delivery. ‘I don’t believe that you will need mules, for oxen are the most reliable form of locomotion in the territory you will cover. However, there are three good horses for yourselves and, ahem, your wife, plus two reserves. They are all salted against the tsetse. Your personal belongings, of course, will be carried in the wagons. These include four serviceable tents and, of course, cooking utensils.’
‘Men?’ Simon was able to interject.
Beit nodded. ‘Yes. I have provided five good Kaffirs to drive the wagons and another five to carry out whatever tasks you require from them on the journey. You may well become bogged down in drifts and need - what shall I say? - direct muscle to push and pull you through, although it should not be too bad at this time of the year.
‘Of course you will need an overseer, and I have hired a man for this purpose and another to act as his assistant. They are British and have had some experience, I understand, of taking wagons to and from the gold fields on the Rand.’ The little cough came again. ‘They are a little what you might call rough and ready,’ he smiled, ‘but I think that will be an advantage on your journey.’
Fonthill frowned. ‘Do they know the nature of the cargo - in fact, do any of the men know the nature of the cargo?’
‘No. They know that the boxes contain gifts for the king, but I have deliberately had it put about that these are the usual knick-knacks that we have given to natives in the past.’
‘Hmm. Won’t they be rather puzzled that we have bound knick-knacks in stout boxes with steel bands?’
Beit waved a well-manicured hand. ‘Oh no. A wagon could well overturn crossing a dry donga or whatever, and it is important to protect these things from rough treatment. The men will know that. You will meet these people at whatever time you wish. Perhaps tomorrow?’
‘Yes please. If all is in order, I would wish to set off as soon as possible.’
‘Of course. Now, let me think if I have overlooked something. Ah yes. Do you have rifles?’
‘Yes. Do the overseers?’
‘No. Do you think it might be necessary?’
‘If they are trustworthy, yes.’ Fonthill had a quick mental vision of de Sousa’s Portuguese Kaffirs streaming round the base of the kopje. ‘There are those in Matabeland who have a vested interest in seeing that we do not reach the king with our cargo.’
Beit raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, Mr Fonthill, these are unsettled times, and certainly you are going into territory that has no conventional rule of law, to say the least. I will provide rifles for your two overseers, whose names, by the way, are Murphy and Laxer. May I enquire as to your route?’
‘Yes. We will take what I understand is the now reasonably well-established northern road through Bechuanaland, paying King Khama a courtesy call at his capital at Palapye, before continuing up through the Tuli Block between the Shashe and Macaloutsi rivers and crossing into Matabeleland at Tuli. There is a little gold mining there, I understand?’
‘Umph, yes. It’s been going on for some time, before the recent finds on the Rand. But it’s small and not very profitable. When last I looked, Tuli gold was worth about four pounds per ounce. But a word about King Khama.’
‘Yes?’
‘I have not met him, but by all accounts he is a civilised man and an enlightened ruler. However, he hates the Matabele. His people are peaceful and non-aggressive, all the things the Matabele are not, and Lobengula’s men still raid into his territory, even though Bechuanaland recently became a British protectorate. In fact you could say that a state of war exists between the two countries, so I advise that you keep the contents of your cargo secret. It would not do for you to be seen taking weapons through his country to give to the King of the Matabele.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘I take your point, Mr Beit. Tell me about the area just south of the Tuli crossing. I understand that it is a bit of a no-man’s-land, lots of cattle stealing and that sort of thing.’
‘Indeed it is. It is really a disputed territory, but no one is actually prepared to go to war to possess it. It has the reputation of being a rather lawless place - although, indeed, one could say that everywhere north of here fits that description.’ The gentle smile had returned. ‘Mr Fonthill, this may be . . . what shall I say? . . . a not exactly incident-free journey you are about to undertake. But I know of its importance and I do wish you well.’
‘Thank you, sir. Perhaps I could see the overseers at eight tomorrow? Ah. Just one other point. I am expecting a tracker - a member of the Malakala tribe, named Mzingeli - to arrive here to join me within the next couple of days. I would be grateful if you would direct him to our hotel. Oh yes. He will need a tent, please, and a good rifle.’
Beit’s eyebrows rose again. ‘A tent and a rifle for a Kaffir?’
‘Yes. This man will be vital to me on this trip. Now, may I see the cargo?’
‘Of course.’ Beit rang a small handbell on his desk and gave instructions in German to a young man who entered. ‘Hans will show you. Please let me know if there is anything more you need.’
There were no signs of diamonds in the diamond vault but the boxes were as described: made of stout timber, with two bands of strip steel strengthening them, and padlocked. The young German gave them two keys and Fonthill unlocked the boxes and examined and then counted the contents. It was, of course, all in order. The Cape wagons waiting outside were new and of sturdy construction, the maids-of-all-work in South Africa upon whose stout axles most of the transport in the southern colonies rested.
Early the next morning, Fonthill, Jenkins and Alice visited the de Beers offices again to meet Murphy and Laxer, the two men who would be virtual managers of the expedition while on trek and overseers of the natives.
The first impression was less than favourable. Murphy, the senior of the two, was in his middle forties and carrying a full black beard and a stomach that hung well over the belt that held up his woollen trousers. His face was pockmarked but his eyes were bright enough. Laxer, a dark-countenanced man with a strong Cockney accent, was younger, small and thin, but seemed wiry and energetic. Both men were burned by the Transvaal sun and they were dressed, Boer style, in wide-brimmed slouch hats, check shirts and lace-up boots.
‘Have either of you been to Matabeleland before?’ asked Fonthill.
‘No, your honour.’ Murphy had kept his Irish accent. ‘But we’ve bin just about everywhere else in this godforsaken land. Down in the Cape, in Zululand, ’ere in the Free State an’ through the Transvaal.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Drivin’ most of the time. We can ’andle any size of team you can yoke up. An’ we’re used to ’andlin’ the blacks and can speak the Bantu lingo.’
‘Fine. Have you seen the oxen and the Cape carts?’
‘Sure enough. Good beasts an’ well-found wagons.’
‘And you’ve agreed terms with Mr Beit?’
‘Yes, your honour. ’Appy about that.’
‘There is one point.’ The two men’s heads turned towards Alice in some surprise at hearing her intervene. ‘We do like to treat our boys well, you know,’ she said. ‘There will be no beatings or anything of that kind. Is that understood?’
The two exchanged glances and this time Laxer spoke. ‘Well, missus, I’d ’ave to say that in our experience a touch o’ the whip is what’s needed to get the black fellers movin’ properly. We’ve bin at this lark a long time, see, an’ they’re a lazy lot. I don’t care where they come from.’
‘Well, Mr Laxer, whatever your experience, there will be no whipping on this trip. Is that clear?’
‘Er, yes, mum.’
‘Good.’ Fonthill spoke again. ‘We shall be trekking through Bechuanaland and then north through some rather wild territory. Can you handle rifles?’
‘Oh aye, governor. We’ve ’unted all our lives.’
‘Good. There is a possibility that we may be attacked at some time by unfriendly natives who will be . . . er . . . covetous of our cattle. So you may be expected to help us defend ourselves. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘Oh surely no, sir.’ Murphy’s accent seemed to have grown during the course of the meeting, as though he was curbing it deliberately at first. ‘We don’t mind pottin’ at the black fellers at all, at all. Ah, that is, missus, when they’re out of order, that is. An’ only then, bless you.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I am hoping to leave just after first light tomorrow, if, as I hope, my native tracker arrives in time, so I will expect you to inspan before dawn and for us to be fully loaded by then. We have a long way to go and I don’t want to waste any further time.’ He shook hands with them both. ‘Let’s hope it’s a safe and uneventful journey. You can expect bonuses if you perform well. Jenkins and I will be here to help you load the cargo.’
The two men nodded, touched the brims of their hats with their forefingers and shuffled away. Fonthill, Jenkins and Alice exchanged glances.
‘What do you think?’ Simon asked them both.
‘I could have wished for more congenial travelling companions,’ said Alice, ‘but I suppose we must take what we can get. At least they seem experienced enough.’
Jenkins made a face so that his black eyebrows seemed almost to meet his great moustache. ‘Tough birds I’d say, bach sir. Not completely to be trusted, either. Let’s hope they can do their jobs. I will keep a close eye on them, look you.’
‘Oh goodness.’ Alice smiled. ‘I do hope that doesn’t mean punching them in the eye, my dear.’
‘Oh no, miss. Unless they deserve it, that is, see.’
Fonthill’s last pre-departure worry was removed when, just after noon, Mzingeli arrived. He came in covered in dust and riding a decrepit mule, so that his bare feet nearly touched the ground on either side of the animal’s flanks. Behind him, grinning widely, walked an equally dishevelled Ntini. ‘Sorry, Nkosi,’ said Mzingeli. ‘Long way. Am I late?’
‘My dear fellow, no, not at all,’ said Fonthill, pumping his hand. ‘I am glad to see that you have joined the cavalry.’
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