Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The Shangani Patrol (32 page)
Mzingeli had now joined him. ‘I’ve left my pack by the tree over there,’ said Fonthill. ‘Please fetch it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Then I shall need your help in getting this musket ball out. I’m no doctor, blast it.’
The tracker nodded and ran off. Simon returned to his wife and knelt by her side. ‘We will soon have this damned thing out,’ he murmured. ‘Did you bring your first-aid bits and pieces with you by any chance?’
She nodded. ‘I thrust a small bundle into the top of your pack before we left,’ she whispered, her eyes heavy. ‘Not much. Just a bandage or two, a little morphine, some antiseptic. Had to leave my bag hidden where we camped. Too heavy . . .’ Her voiced tailed away.
‘Splendid. Hold on. Won’t be long now.’ But he did not share the confidence his voice expressed. He held his wife’s hand tightly until Mzingeli returned carrying his pack. Fonthill foraged inside it and produced the little bundle, wrapped in oilskin, that Alice had prepared. He unrolled it and laid the contents carefully on a blanket at the side of the divan: three tightly rolled bandages, some lint and a cotton pad, a jar of antiseptic cream, a small bottle of painkilling pills - and a broken bottle of morphine, its precious liquid long since drained away.
Hurling the bottle away with a curse, he fumbled once more in the pack and produced a half-bottle of whisky, now containing only a little of the spirit. He beckoned Mzingeli outside. ‘Let me see your knife,’ he said. The tracker produced it. ‘Good. Better than mine. Thinner and sharper. Now, go and put the blade into a fire until it glows completely red. Let it cool - but don’t touch it or let the blade touch anything else. It’s got to be completely clean. Then bring it back here.’
Fonthill re-entered the tent, his wife’s anxious eyes following his every movement. He took the cork out of the whisky bottle, put his other hand behind Alice’s head and lifted it up. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘drink a little of this, my love, please.’
Her wide eyes on his, she took the bottle and swallowed, spluttered and handed it back. ‘I hate whisky,’ she coughed.
‘I know, my darling, but you must finish the bottle. Come along now. Do what Dr Fonthill says, there’s a good girl.’ He gave a mirthless smile and handed her the bottle again. ‘Do it in your own good time, but drink it all, please.’
Pulling a face, she raised the bottle to her lips again, and eventually drank all the amber liquid. Her head sank back on the sheet that Simon had folded for her as a pillow. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered, ‘I feel awful.’
‘Lie there for a moment, my darling. Sleep if you want to.’
He put down her hand and left the tent. All of the slaves were now unshackled and were standing or lying, rubbing their ankles and necks where the chains and yokes had chafed their skin. Jenkins, rifle cradled, was talking to Joshua, and Mzingeli was gingerly holding his knife blade in the flames of a rekindled fire.
‘Ready yet?’ called Fonthill.
The tracker held up his free hand to quell Simon’s impatience, and Jenkins came hurrying over. ‘I didn’t realise she’d been ’it,’ he said, his face showing lugubrious concern. ‘’Ow bad?’
‘She has a musket ball in her thigh. I am going to try to dig it out as soon as Mzingeli gets that knife clean.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m not looking forward to it.’
‘Excuse me if I don’t come in. I’ll be sick if I do.’
‘No. Stand guard and make sure that none of the Kaffirs return. Oh.’ He nodded to the slave master. ‘Tie him up. We have unfinished business with him for the morning.’
Jenkins gave a puzzled look, then nodded. ‘Very good, bach sir.’
The tracker held the knife up into the night air to cool it. Behind him, the fire he had started in the bush began to flicker and die as it ran on to the stony ground of the clearing. He strode towards Fonthill and offered him the knife, handle first. ‘Still bit warm,’ he said.
‘Yes. Perhaps better to wait a minute anyway. I’ve given her some whisky. It’s the only anaesthetic I had. She’s not used to it, so I hope it does the job.’
The tracker nodded sympathetically. Then they both re-entered the tent. Alice was lying back, half unconscious, her head rolling from side to side.
Simon licked his lips. ‘Right. Might as well start. You hold her leg very tightly and make sure that it does not jerk. Press down. I expect it will start to bleed again when I fish for the bloody ball, so staunch the bleeding with this felt. I want to be able to see what I am doing.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh dear. My poor Alice.’
As Mzingeli crouched on one side, Fonthill settled on the other and began very slowly to peel back the skin surrounding the wound. ‘Forceps is what we want,’ he breathed, ‘not this damned butcher’s knife.’
At first Alice seemed to feel no pain, but then, as Simon began gently probing to locate the ball, she jerked and then moaned.
‘All right, darling,’ he mouthed, ‘won’t be long. Nearly there. Ah, found it!’
With as much care as he could muster, he pushed the tip of the knife around the side of the ball and then, very slowly, worked it underneath the lead. At this point, Alice opened her eyes and then screamed. ‘Hold her,’ breathed Fonthill, ‘nearly there. Now . . .’ He levered the ball upwards until, in a welter of blood, he could seize it with his thumb and forefinger and flick it away.
As he did so, Alice sat upright and, eyes staring, grabbed his shoulder. ‘Brave girl, brave girl,’ he soothed. ‘It’s out now. Clean as a whistle. Lie back, my darling.’ He pushed her gently back on to the bed. ‘Just got to clean it up now. Lie still, there’s a good girl.’
He seized the whisky bottle and emptied the last drops of the liquor directly on to the wound, before pouring a little water around the edges and wiping them gently. Then he opened the antiseptic cream and - all the finer points of hygiene lost in his anxiety - scooped a little out with the tip of the knife and spread it on the cotton pad. Handing the knife to Mzingeli, he pressed the pad down firmly on the wound and began winding a bandage around it to keep it in place. As he finished with a knot, he realised that Alice was watching him.
‘Oh my love,’ he whispered, ‘I am sorry to have hurt you.’
She shook her head slowly and summoned up the palest of smiles. ‘Don’t be silly. Couldn’t have done better myself. Do you know, I might take to whisky.’ Then she closed her eyes and her head sank back on to the folded sheet.
‘Can we find another blanket?’ Fonthill asked Mzingeli. ‘Shock is a danger now. We must keep her warm.’
The tracker nodded and stole out of the tent, to be replaced by Jenkins. ‘Oh blimey, bach.’ The Welshman’s face was as white as Alice’s. ‘I was outside listenin’. I couldn’t ’ave done what you just did. Do you think she will be all right?’
Fonthill wiped the perspiration from his brow and shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He looked around. ‘It was just so . . . so . . . bloody primitive. I only hope I did the right thing and that infection hasn’t got into the wound.’ He looked unspeaking into the Welshman’s eyes for a moment. ‘You know, 352, I don’t know what I would do if I lost her. Bringing her out here, exposing her to all this violence . . . She fought as coolly as a Guardsman and certainly saved my life by shooting one of those spearmen. And now, if I’ve botched this up . . . Oh lord!’ He put his hand over his eyes.
Jenkins patted his shoulder. ‘You’ve done all you could, bach,’ he said. ‘A bloody wonderful job, I’d say. Now it’s up to the man upstairs, see. I think you need a rest. Just you lie down on that bed thing there. Go on now. You’ll be near ’er if she wants anythin’. I’ll watch over the camp.’
Reluctantly Fonthill nodded and sprawled on to the other divan. Then he rose, pulled the bed so that it was next to Alice’s and lay down on it again, reaching across so that he could take her hand. He was already asleep when Mzingeli crept in with two blankets, one of which he added to Alice’s covering; the other he laid across Simon, before tiptoeing out.
Chapter 12
When Fonthill awoke, sun was streaming in through the tent opening and the camp was clearly active, for he could hear the sound of mules braying, the clanging of cooking utensils and voices singing. He had cramp in his arm from where he lay awkwardly, still holding Alice’s hand. He looked across sharply at her. She lay peacefully asleep, her breast rising rhythmically to her breathing, colour now back in her cheeks. He smiled in relief, gently disengaged his fingers from hers and threw back his blanket.
Outside, fires had been lit and the wooden neck yokes were proving to be excellent fuel underneath two cooking pots. Some of the women, now chastely wearing brief garments that seemed to have been roughly fashioned from the Arabs’ white burnouses, were stirring the contents of the pots, and others were helping the men throw earth into pits that had been dug on the periphery of the camp. Away to his left, the mules grazed. It was a scene of pastoral activity.
‘Ah, good mornin’, bach sir.’ Jenkins hove into view, chains wrapped around his shoulders and arms. ‘You got a bit of sleep, then? ’Ow’s Miss Alice? I looked in about an hour ago an’ she was sleepin’ like a baby.’
Fonthill yawned. ‘Thank you, yes. She’s still asleep, thank goodness. Are you going to start an ironmongery business?’
‘Ah, this lot. Thought I’d throw ’em all in on top of the bodies I’ve ’ad the lads bury up there, see.’ He gave a theatrical shudder. ‘These irons - awful bloody things.’
‘Good idea. How are the boys?’
‘Joshua’s back is still a bit sore but ’e’s all right really - at least now. So are the others, although, as you know, we lost one of the slaves. I’ve ’ad ’im buried separately.’ He sniffed and then grinned. ‘Everybody’s very relieved to be free again. We would ’ave the freedom of Africa if they could give it to us.’
Fonthill returned the grin. ‘Where’s Mzingeli?’
‘’E went out early and shot us a bit of meat, an’ that’s what’s stewin’ now. Now ’e’s in the other tent, rubbin’ some leaf stuff into Joshua’s poor old back. It’ll probably kill ’im.’
‘Well I’m glad I’m not being asked to do it. I don’t think I’m much of a doctor.’
‘Don’t say that. Miss Alice is goin’ to be all right, look you. Right as rain, I tell you. You can see to my ’angovers any time.’
Fonthill yawned again and stretched. ‘Well, she will need rest. I think we had better stay here for at least two days. Can Mzingeli feed us all with his rifle, do you think?’
Jenkins munched his moustache. ‘Should think so. What are you goin’ to do with this slave lot?’
‘Give them the choice of coming back to the local village with us or making their own way back to where they were taken.’
‘An’ what about ’im?’ Jenkins jerked his head to the side of the tent. Fonthill turned and saw the slave master lying on the ground, shackled in his own chains.
Fonthill’s face seemed to be set in stone. ‘Oh,
he
will be no problem,’ he said.
he
will be no problem,’ he said.
‘Yes, but what will we do with ’im?’
‘We shall hang him.’
‘What! Just like that?’
‘Yes. The sooner the better.’ Fonthill spoke slowly and decisively. ‘The man is a slaver and a murderer. I saw him cut the throat of a defenceless slave. If any of the Arabs had survived, they would have met the same fate. Let us do it now, before Alice recovers. We will take him a little way into the bush, drape those bloody chains around him, string him up by his whip and leave him there. Anyone who comes this way - and it seems to be a slavers’ route - will see him and know him for what he was. He will be a warning to others. Fetch Mzingeli and Joshua and we will do it now.’
Jenkins’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure, bach sir? I mean, killin’ a bloke in cold blood - even if ’e is evil - isn’t like you, now is it? I mean, an officer an’ a gentleman?’
‘To hell with that.’ Fonthill’s expression had not changed. ‘The British made slavery illegal eighty-three years ago. One day, perhaps sooner than we think, this territory will be under British rule, and I want these people here,’ he gestured to the ex-slaves, ‘to know that wherever we are, we will always strive to exterminate this filthy trade. It will be a lesson to them too. Come on. Let’s get on with it.’
The Welshman, surprise still on his face, shrugged the chains to the ground and went to fetch Mzingeli and Joshua. Fonthill strode to the centre of the clearing, clapped his hands and waved everyone towards him. The singing stopped and he was soon surrounded. He waited until they were joined by the tracker and Joshua and then he asked Mzingeli to translate his intention.
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