The Shangani Patrol (18 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The tracker allowed himself a faint smile. ‘Too far to walk. Where we go?’
In his message to Mzingeli, Simon had merely said that he must be prepared to be away for at least a year and that they would journey to the north. He knew that the tracker could not read and that the message would have to be conveyed to him by the Afrikaner upon whose farm Mzingeli had his home. He therefore felt it prudent to betray as little as possible of their destination.
‘Well, I’m afraid that it is back to Bulawayo to begin with . . .’ the tracker let his face signify faint disapproval, ‘and then exploring out to the east, towards the coast.’ He explained the reason for the trip, and Mzingeli’s expression lightened a little at hearing of the contents of their cargo.
‘King will be pleased,’ he said. ‘But not Gouela, I think.’
‘Indeed. I fear that we may be attacked again and we must keep a very keen watch. That is one of the many reasons I am glad you are with us.’
‘Ah. I bring rifle.’
‘Good, but perhaps Ntini can be taught to use it. I have a modern army rifle for you - and it will be yours to keep. Oh, and the pay will be higher this time because Rhodes is providing everything.’
Mzingeli allowed one eyebrow to rise and his mouth to twitch a touch to show his pleasure. ‘Thank you. Good.’
It was after dawn before the column set off. Although the Kaffir drivers and herdsmen seemed competent, the oxen were not fully broken in to the yoke and it took a little time - with many curses from Murphy and Laxer - before they could be inspanned. Fonthill had begged an extra horse for Mzingeli to ride, which did not set well with the two overseers, who had been allocated seats in the wagons when they were not required to walk with the oxen and the boys. The mule was handed down to Ntini.
Eventually the party set off in a cloud of dust that rose and then hung sparkling in the rays of the early sunlight. Fonthill rode ahead, his compass in his pocket, for the trail to the north out of the town was clearly defined. By his side rode Alice and Jenkins. In the leading wagon sat Murphy by the side of the senior Kaffir driver, who handled his oxen team well. Behind them, under the white canvas sheeting that protected the cargo from the sun, sat the tents and the paraphernalia of camping. If there had to be a trial crossing of a particularly difficult-looking river or donga, Fonthill reasoned that this load was the one that could most easily be risked, so it should lead. The second wagon, the most heavily laden, carried the guns and ammunition boxes. Then came the gold sovereigns, secured in one box, although Fonthill had procured other similarly bound containers, filled with stones, to sit around it to mitigate whatever attention might be prompted by one box being carried in singular state. The fourth wagon contained their personal belongings and half a dozen barrels of water, plus a similar number of light
fatchies
, or water bags. The last wagon was used to spell the Kaffirs who were herding on foot the oxen and extra horses at the rear. Laxer - at least to start with - was walking with these boys, ensuring that no animal was allowed to wander. Set out ahead of the column at angles of forty-five degrees, like probing horns, rode Mzingeli and Ntini as scouts, each equally proud of his new mount.
fatchies
, or water bags. The last wagon was used to spell the Kaffirs who were herding on foot the oxen and extra horses at the rear. Laxer - at least to start with - was walking with these boys, ensuring that no animal was allowed to wander. Set out ahead of the column at angles of forty-five degrees, like probing horns, rode Mzingeli and Ntini as scouts, each equally proud of his new mount.
It was, felt Fonthill, looking around him, a well-equipped, well-organised convoy, and, he reflected grimly, it needed to be. Their route lay over untrammelled territory that bristled with danger. Despite the sunshine and the crispness of the morning, he felt a sense of foreboding.
The first day was uneventful and easy riding, in that the veldt surrounding Kimberley was a huge plain, level and virtually featureless, even boring. The air was good but the country was dreary: the plain broken only by small, flat-topped hills, with a few thorny mimosa and a little wild jessamine poking through the thin sandy soil. Away from Kimberley, this land was arid and empty, as though it had never been farmed or occupied, and so unlike the prosperous, burgeoning town that they had just left behind them.
And so it continued for the next ten days or so, until they were well into the kingdom of King Khama, where the land became dry and arid, with the surface terrain coloured a dark red and the fresh water sources becoming few and far between, forcing them to rely on their carried reserves. The travellers met no one. It was as though they had discovered a new land, undefiled by human beings or other living things.
While they were still within a couple of days’ riding of Kimberley, Fonthill had set a surreptitious watch during the hours of darkness to ensure that the precious cargo remained untouched. He, Jenkins and Mzingeli took it in turns to remain awake under their blankets for three hours at a time, keeping the boxes under surveillance, until, on the second night, Alice insisted on being added to the rota. Neither Murphy nor Laxer, nor any of the Kaffirs, however, showed the slightest interest in the cargo, and after a week Simon ended the guard duty.
The two overseers, in fact, displayed every competence. They took it in turns to spell the native drivers on the wagons’ hard benches and they supervised the workers genially and managed the daily tedious outspanning and inspanning rituals with efficiency. When a little game showed itself on the plain as they neared the heart of Bechuanaland, Murphy hunted down a duiker buck and took it with a shot fired from the saddle. That night they ate boiled rice and fresh meat, the latter roasted by means of a sharpened stick thrust through it and extended over the fire, the stick leaning on the V of a forked branch pushed into the ground. They drank Kaffir beer purchased from one of the native villages that had now begun to appear. The consistency of very thin gruel and a pinkish colour, it was made from local corn, the grain of which had been left to vegetate, dried in the sun, pounded into meal and gently boiled. Jenkins pronounced it excellent - sweet, he said, ‘with a slight acidity in the finish, like’. Bowing to the knowledge he had acquired as mess corporal in the 24th Regiment, they accepted his wisdom and bought several
fatchies
of it to supplement their water supply.
fatchies
of it to supplement their water supply.
Alice had come to an agreement with Mzingeli that Ntini should take her dispatches back to Kimberley, from where they could be cabled to the
Morning Post
in London. It seemed that the young man knew where the cable office was - he had been employed similarly by a London businessman anxious to keep in touch with share values while on a hunting trip led by Mzingeli in the Transvaal. He was also reliable and anxious to earn the extra money that Alice promised him for providing this service. If it became necessary for her to cable while Ntini was away, she was resigned to relying on her ability to acquire a similarly trustworthy runner from local sources.
Morning Post
in London. It seemed that the young man knew where the cable office was - he had been employed similarly by a London businessman anxious to keep in touch with share values while on a hunting trip led by Mzingeli in the Transvaal. He was also reliable and anxious to earn the extra money that Alice promised him for providing this service. If it became necessary for her to cable while Ntini was away, she was resigned to relying on her ability to acquire a similarly trustworthy runner from local sources.
She had filed a preliminary story from Cape Town describing the purpose of their journey, the nature of their cargo and the route they would take. It was, she confessed, only a ‘colour story’, with little hard news. But it was a necessary preliminary sketch for what she hoped would follow.
After three and a half weeks of slow but not unpleasant progress, they reached King Khama’s capital. It was little more than a collection of shacks made of mud and some timber and peopled by several hundreds of the king’s rather unprepossessing subjects.
Observing them, Fonthill could well understand why the Matabeles treated them with derision. They showed little of the northern tribesmen’s fine physique and posture, being smaller and diffident in bearing and not at all warlike. Their king, however, was obviously made of a different fibre. In the past, as a comparatively young man, he had fought both his father and his brother and banished them, ruling ever since with justice and kindness, while showing a bold front to Lobengula, who ever looked for an opportunity to raid into Khama’s kingdom.
On arrival just outside the dusty little town, Fonthill sent a respectful message to the king, asking for his permission to camp in his capital and to pay a visit. The next day, a tall, slim, white-haired black man strolled unaccompanied into their camp. His high-cheekboned face featured a clipped beard and moustache, and he wore a well-cut European jacket, impeccably creased trousers and a wide-brimmed black hat, around whose high crown a white cloth had been wound. Khama, King of the Bechuanas, could not have cut a figure more different than that of Lobengula, King of the Matabele, had he worn the uniform of an admiral of the British fleet.
‘Good morning,’ he said to Fonthill. ‘I am Khama. I heard that you were on your way. I trust that you have had a pleasant and safe journey,’ and he extended his hand in greeting. ‘I believe that you are on your way to Bulawayo?’
Simon, who had been oiling his rifle, hurriedly wiped his palm on a piece of rag, shook hands and allowed his face to slip into a momentary frown. Did
everyone
in Africa know his business? He composed himself. ‘That is true, sir. Please, sit down, and may we offer you coffee or perhaps some tea?’ He pulled forward a camp stool.
everyone
in Africa know his business? He composed himself. ‘That is true, sir. Please, sit down, and may we offer you coffee or perhaps some tea?’ He pulled forward a camp stool.
‘Oh, I am quite happy to squat on the ground, you know. I am very much an African, you see.’ He sat cross-legged on the beaten grass and, awkwardly, Fonthill sat beside him. ‘But I would very much like a cup of tea. You do not have Darjeeling, by any chance, do you? I have quite acquired a taste for it, you know.’
‘Darjeeling?’ Simon was just able to prevent his jaw from dropping. ‘I think we might be able to oblige you, sir. One moment, please.’ He scrambled to his feet and called to Alice. She immediately assessed the identity of their visitor and, quickly adjusting her hair, strode forward to be introduced.
‘Darjeeling?’ she repeated. ‘Of course, your majesty. It is our favourite. It will not take a moment.’
A minute or so later, the three sat together on the ground, drinking their tea and discussing the weather, as though they were in a vicarage garden on a sunny morning in England. Then came the question that Fonthill had been fearing.
‘May I ask what it is you take across my land to the King of the Matabele?’
Simon drew in his breath. He had decided long ago that he would not lie to the man, but he knew that to reveal that his cargo contained rifles could well bring a refusal from Khama to allow him to continue his journey through Bechuanaland, so adding many days to the trip. What to say?
‘I hope your majesty will forgive me if I do not reveal the contents of my cargo,’ he said. ‘They are items agreed by Mr Rhodes and King Lobengula as part of the treaty recently signed between the two, and I must respect their confidentiality. However, I give you my word, sir, that these cases will not be broached during our passage through your land and that their contents will have no adverse effect on your relations with the King of the Matabele.’
He inwardly winced at the dissembling, but clutched to himself Rhodes’s assurance that the Matabele army would be unable to use the rifles effectively without the sort of training that would be unavailable in this part of Africa.
A frown settled on the king’s dignified features. Alice hurriedly stepped in. ‘May I refill your cup, your majesty?’ she asked.
‘Thank you. Yes. Excellent tea.’ A silence descended for a moment. Then: ‘Very well. I accept your word as an English gentleman that whatever is contained in those wagons will not be used against the Bechuana people.’ He gave a wistful smile. ‘You know, Mr Fonthill, that we are a rather poor country, with few mineral resources, in that most of our land is a kind of desert. My people are not aggressive and, unlike the Matabele, do not take easily to fighting. We are pastoral, not warlike. I would not wish to have the uneasy balance between these two countries swing unfairly towards our militant neighbours.’ The smile deepened. ‘I am sure you understand me.’
Fonthill felt a wave of sympathy towards this urbane man. He also felt guilty. Could he relieve Khama’s fears, at least slightly, without compromising his position? ‘I quite understand, your majesty,’ he said, ‘and I echo your sentiments. As I understand it, if this cargo has any significance outside Matabeleland, it would lie mainly towards the Transvaal.’
‘Mmm.’ The king did not look exactly mollified. ‘Excellent tea,’ he said again to Alice. ‘Thank you very much.’ He stood. ‘You may proceed, and I wish you a safe journey.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘There is, however, one further point on which I fear I can offer no indulgence.’
‘Sir?’
Khama nodded, and his face was grave. ‘Yes. Alcohol. We make our own very good beer, Mr Fonthill, but one must drink a substantial amount before it affects the senses, and on the whole it does not produce drunkenness in my people. This is not true, however, with the white man’s spirits. It is against the law here to sell such substances to the native people of Bechuanaland. It corrupts their health and their behaviour. Do you follow?’
Fonthill inclined his head. ‘Of course, sir. We do carry some whisky and a little Cape brandy, but I will ensure that while we are in Bechuanaland it is consumed only by us - and then moderately.’
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