The Shangani Patrol (39 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
‘God, they’re vulnerable,’ he muttered. ‘If the Matabele attacked now, it would be a massacre.’
Jenkins cocked a quizzical eye. ‘Best to tell ’em, then?’
Fonthill frowned. ‘I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with this Jameson, or with the other two so-called commanders. But you are right. They can’t go on like this.’
The little party allowed their horses and oxen to pick their own way down the side of the hill until they drew level with the first of the wood-clearers. Dr Jameson, Fonthill was told, was back in the leading wagon, and there they found him, sitting on the driver’s seat, scribbling on a pad. Simon looked at him keenly. He was a little man, dressed for the trek in rough boots, old trousers and a flannel shirt, opened almost to the waist in the heat. His bush hat had been thrown aside to reveal a balding head and a moustached face that showed character: a fine forehead, full lips, a firm chin and eyes that were as bright as a monkey’s.
Diffidently Fonthill introduced himself, with apologies for his intrusion. Immediately the doctor’s face lit up and he took in the members of the party in one swift, appraising glance: Simon, slim and weathered, with experience lining his face; Alice, her features tanned by the sun and dust-covered, but presenting a refreshingly feminine figure in her jodhpurs, cotton shirt and soft blue neckerchief; Jenkins with his immense moustache, width of shoulder and black button eyes; and Mzingeli, as dignified as a native chief with his erect posture and white hair, but holding back discreetly.
‘My word, Fonthill,’ said Jameson, jumping upright and reaching across to pump Simon’s hand. ‘I was hoping that we would meet up.’ He spoke with only the softest of Edinburgh accents. ‘I’ve heard so much about you and,’ he gave a small bow to Alice, ‘your wife and the rest of your party. Rhodes told me all about you, and I’ve been reading with fascination your pieces in the
Morning Post
, Mrs Fonthill. Och, what a time you seem to have had of it.’
Morning Post
, Mrs Fonthill. Och, what a time you seem to have had of it.’
Alice summoned up her sweetest smile, and relieved by the warmth of their welcome, Fonthill introduced her formally and then Jenkins and Mzingeli.
‘Right,’ said Jameson. ‘Hitch your horses to the end of my wagon and pull yours in behind it, if you can get in. We only progress, of course, by fits and starts as the way is cleared up front, but we are still travelling at the rate of about ten miles a day, which I think is pretty good given the workload and this heat. Then you must all come and have a cup of tea with me and meet Johnson and Pennefather, my . . . er . . . colleagues.’
Fonthill was pleased that the invitation clearly included Mzingeli. It looked as though Jameson was one of the new breed of colonists who were relaxed about relationships between black and white - and that was a relief. Within minutes they were all sitting at the side of the column drinking tea from primitive and distinctly pioneering tin mugs. Johnson and Pennefather, it seemed, had ridden on ahead with the scouts in the van.
‘Congratulations on your good work with Lobengula,’ said Jameson. ‘I can well imagine that getting him to agree to our entry was not easy. How is the old boy’s gout?’
Fonthill gestured for Alice to speak. ‘Oh, I’m only a first-aid practitioner,’ she said quickly. ‘I have been plying him with morphine injections and anti-gout pills. They seem to have begun to work, but the real problem is his drinking, his diet and his lack of exercise.’
‘Oh aye.’ The doctor nodded. ‘I did exactly the same when I was up there and came to the same conclusion.’ He turned back to Simon. ‘But how did you get on out in the east? Last I heard formally was that you were setting out, and then of course I read Mrs Fonthill’s account of the attack on the slavers. Marvellous stuff.’
Simon inclined his head, then related to Jameson his securing of a ‘first stage’ treaty with King Umtasa. He decided to omit the story of Lobengula’s abduction of Alice, but described in full the clash with de Sousa and the man’s claims to territorial suzerainty over Umtasa’s kingdom, and also his persistence in cultivating Lobengula.
‘The problem,’ concluded Fonthill, ‘is that whatever he has signed, the king is very uneasy about the size of the column here and particularly the police you have with you. I think he is coming to the conclusion that this is a virtual invasion of his country. Here, I have a letter for you from him.’
Jameson read it impassively, until giving a wry smile at the concluding questions. ‘Aye,’ he said, tapping the envelope against his moustache. ‘I understand his worries and I can well imagine the pressures he’s been under from all those supplicants at his court. What’s more, I know that his
inDunas
think he’s giving away too much and all his warriors want a fight. But, you know,’ and he shrugged his shoulders, ‘this is not the eighteen sixties. We’re nearing the twentieth century now and the old boy has to move with the times. Civilisation will come to Matabeleland whether he likes it or not. And he has signed those treaties with us. We have the right to make our road and dig for minerals in Mashonaland.’
inDunas
think he’s giving away too much and all his warriors want a fight. But, you know,’ and he shrugged his shoulders, ‘this is not the eighteen sixties. We’re nearing the twentieth century now and the old boy has to move with the times. Civilisation will come to Matabeleland whether he likes it or not. And he has signed those treaties with us. We have the right to make our road and dig for minerals in Mashonaland.’
Alice leaned forward. ‘But do you have the right to settle his land?’ she enquired.
‘Oh.’ Jameson waved the envelope dismissively. ‘That will come inevitably. Matabeleland will become a British protectorate sooner or later, just like Bechuanaland.’
Alice gave the little man the full benefit of her smile. ‘Yes, but your treaties with the king acknowledge his ownership of both Matabeleland and Mashonaland. You cannot just ride roughshod over him and colonise the place, now can you?’
Jameson frowned, and seemed to recall the fact that Alice was not just Fonthill’s wife but also a journalist for one of Britain’s most influential newspapers. He was seeking a reply when Simon, uneasy about the direction the conversation had taken, intervened.
‘When we left Bulawayo,’ he said, ‘the atmosphere was very uncomfortable. The warriors seemed to be preparing for war: there was much spear-sharpening and new shield construction, and the women were making sandals for their men, always a bad sign. And, of course, Lobengula has the five hundred rifles and the ammunition that I took to him, although I must say I have seen no sign of them practising with the guns. But do you expect to be attacked?’
‘It is certainly a possibility. So, in the end, I am glad that we have the soldiers with us, although,’ he gave a wry smile, ‘Rhodes didn’t want ’em. Soldiers, he said, always end up looking for a fight. But we do take good precautions. We laager every night, set off firecrackers at intervals in the bush through the hours of darkness, and we have this damned great searchlight, which,’ his smile broadened into a grin, ‘I borrowed from the British navy at Simonstown. We use it through the night, sweeping the bush. So far, it has frightened to death every Kaffir we’ve met.’
Fonthill acknowledged the ploy with a smile. ‘The trouble, though,’ he said, ‘is that you are in ideal terrain for ambush - and you are likely to remain in it for another hundred miles or so. Your line stretches back for two miles. By the look of it, your scouts out in the bush wander a bit - and I don’t blame them for it, because you can’t really see your hand in front of your face out there - so you will get precious little warning of an attack. Like the Zulus, the Matabele like to attack at dawn. You would never have time to pull the wagons into a laager.’
Silence fell on the little gathering. It was broken eventually by Jenkins, who munched his moustache and nodded. ‘The captain’s right, sir,’ he said. ‘’E knows about these things, see.’
Jameson glanced at them both. ‘Look,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m really just a general practitioner from Edinburgh, so I wouldn’t dream for a minute of arguing with two distinguished ex-soldiers who I know have fought at Isandlwana, Kabul, Kandahar, Majuba, El Kebir and Khartoum. What you say sounds sensible to me, but I shall have to put it to Pennefather. He should be back soon. Now, tell me what your plans are. I do hope you are joining us.’
Fonthill explained that Alice had been instructed by her editor to join the press contingent on the column (it turned out to be small - five only, all men, of course) and that they would indeed like to stay until some sort of settlement had been established at the end of the trek. He added that Rhodes had promised him land in the new territory and he wanted to see it for himself.
‘Then you’re most welcome. We can certainly use your knowledge of the country and your military expertise.’
At that point two men on horseback joined them. The first, a lithe figure, deeply tanned and dressed like a Boer, was introduced as Frank Johnson. Fonthill was surprised at how young he looked (he later learned that he was only twenty-four) for a man who had such a record. He had, of course, hunted and prospected through the country since his teens and he had the skill to put together the logistics of this remarkable operation, which was, so far, working well. The second man was easily recognisable as Colonel Pennefather, in that, despite the heat, he was wearing the uniform of a colonel in the Inniskilling Dragoons. A tall man, with a white moustache, he regarded Fonthill steadily.
‘Heard about you,’ he said abruptly. ‘Who were you with?’
‘Originally the 24th of Foot, Colonel, and then the Queen’s Own Corps of Guides on the North-West Frontier.’
‘Must say, you look damned young to have a CB.’
‘Oh, that came up with the rations after the Sudan,’ said Simon airily. ‘The DCM of Jenkins here was far more important.’
Jenkins stood immediately and shook the hands of both men, bestowing on them his great moustache-bending smile. Johnson took this act of equality with equanimity, but Pennefather’s jaw dropped momentarily, although he gave Jenkins’s hand a firm enough grip.
‘Er . . . Fonthill here has a point about our defences,’ said Jameson.
‘Ah.’ Simon tried to look uninvolved. ‘It was just something that occurred to Jenkins and me as we breasted that hill up there. It’s probably not quite got home to you because you’ve not had the benefit of our vantage point. If you have a minute, perhaps I could show you.’
‘Certainly,’ said Pennefather, with a quickness that surprised Fonthill. ‘I would be glad to have your view. Let’s go now.’
At the top of the hill, Simon swept his hand back along the wagon line, the end of which was out of sight to the west. ‘It’s a single line, of course . . .’ he said.
‘And stretching about two miles,’ Jenkins pointed out helpfully.
‘. . . and I don’t see how you could laager it in time if the Matabele attack.’
‘Probably won’t be necessary.’ The colonel pulled on his moustache. ‘We’ve got ample firepower, you know. Five hundred rifles should be able to stop any kaffirs coming at us, I’d say.’
Fonthill stifled a sigh. ‘With respect, Colonel, Pulleine had one and a half thousand seasoned professional infantrymen at his disposal at Isandlwana -
and
he was on a plain and could see the Zulus coming at him for at least a mile. Yet he and his men were still massacred. Lobengula has about twenty thousand warriors, all descended from the Zulus. In this bush they could be on and through you in two minutes.’
and
he was on a plain and could see the Zulus coming at him for at least a mile. Yet he and his men were still massacred. Lobengula has about twenty thousand warriors, all descended from the Zulus. In this bush they could be on and through you in two minutes.’
Pennefather scowled and Simon took a deep breath, prepared to continue the argument. The old soldier, however, stiffened in the saddle, turned to Jameson and said, ‘He’s right. We
are
vulnerable.’
are
vulnerable.’
Jameson lifted his eyebrows and addressed Simon. ‘What do you propose we should do?’
‘If the colonel agrees, I would suggest that you change the method of advance. Instead of having your wagons in single file, you should have them in two parallel lines. This will reduce the length of the column and enable you to close the two lines at front and back in the event of an attack by just drawing over the leading and rear wagons. This could be done quickly, and although it would be a hell of a long laager, it
would
provide cover for the men to fall back into. And I believe you should have the scouts riding much further out from the wagons. The officers in charge don’t seem to have sight of the column because of the thickness of the bush and are getting lost as a result. They should be given compasses so that they can plot their courses and range wider. This should give you more time to laager if there is an attack. And don’t forget that like the Zulus, the Matabeles like to attack at dawn, so the pickets should be out during the night in extended order.’ Fonthill paused, suddenly realising that he was sounding like a senior officer talking to three juniors. ‘I . . . er . . . hope that this is helpful.’
would
provide cover for the men to fall back into. And I believe you should have the scouts riding much further out from the wagons. The officers in charge don’t seem to have sight of the column because of the thickness of the bush and are getting lost as a result. They should be given compasses so that they can plot their courses and range wider. This should give you more time to laager if there is an attack. And don’t forget that like the Zulus, the Matabeles like to attack at dawn, so the pickets should be out during the night in extended order.’ Fonthill paused, suddenly realising that he was sounding like a senior officer talking to three juniors. ‘I . . . er . . . hope that this is helpful.’
Jameson, Johnson and Pennefather exchanged glances. Johnson spoke for the first time. ‘This would halve your rate of progress, Doctor, and consequently cost more money,’ he said. ‘Can we afford it?’
The diminutive doctor looked across at Pennefather. ‘Colonel?’
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