Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The Shangani Patrol (5 page)
This attracted the
inDuna
’s attention, and he gazed in astonishment at the neat array of stitches that patterned the ugly wound in the bearer’s shoulder. He demanded to know who had made this decoration, and his jaw dropped as Mzingeli explained what Alice had done. He became noticeably deferential to her afterwards.
inDuna
’s attention, and he gazed in astonishment at the neat array of stitches that patterned the ugly wound in the bearer’s shoulder. He demanded to know who had made this decoration, and his jaw dropped as Mzingeli explained what Alice had done. He became noticeably deferential to her afterwards.
‘He think you powerful lady witch doctor,’ Mzingeli told her.
‘So she is,’ grunted Simon. ‘So she is. I should know.’
Alice aimed a playful blow at him. But her eyes were dark. ‘I only wish I was,’ she said.
Gradually they passed out of the mopane woodland and moved into more open country, still dotted with bush but also studded with rocky kopjes that rose from well-grassed veldt. These were interspersed with low rocks, smooth and sun-burnished, that swelled up from the grassland like whales stranded on a seashore. It was obviously better country for cattle, and they passed many small kraals before stopping at one to spend the night. That evening, as they sat around an open fire eating black bread and the meat of a young duiker buck, the Matabele party, including the
inDuna
, kept well away from the British and their bearers. Fonthill, however, noticed that the Matabele were casting envious eyes on the rifles and the packs.
inDuna
, kept well away from the British and their bearers. Fonthill, however, noticed that the Matabele were casting envious eyes on the rifles and the packs.
‘Ah,’ said Mzingeli, ‘Matabele are thieves. Everyone knows this. We must be careful with our things.’
‘Tell me about them. What sort of race are they?’
The tracker curled his lip. ‘They are the conquerors of this region. Everyone afraid of them - like Zulus in south. The men think war and hunting only things for men to do. Leave everything else to their women. They take everything they see because they think it is their right.’
‘I see. Where did they originate?’
‘They really Zulus. They come from Zululand long time ago - maybe fifty years, maybe more - in the time of the great Zulu king Shaka. They had their own chief, Mosilikatze. He have trouble with Shaka and lead his clan north. They fight Boers in Transvaal and move north again. Come here and settle. Kill men of many tribes, including my own, and also big tribe in north, the Mashonas. Make these people their subjects and slaves. They good hunters and warriors. Everyone afraid of them.’
The flames from the fire flickered across the tracker’s face. Usually passive, his features were now set grimly and his eyes were cold. ‘They kill my two brothers. So I leave village as young man and cross Limpopo and go south. Work for Dutchmen on farms in Transvaal and become good tracker and hunter.’
Mzingeli fell silent, and the two men stared into the fire for a moment. Fonthill looked across the flames and saw that both Alice and Jenkins were asleep under their blankets, their heads resting on their folded outer garments, their rifles tucked under the edges of their coverings. Most of the natives of the kraal had crawled into their beehive-shaped huts, and the Matabeles from Bulawayo were stretched out on their sleeping mats.
Fonthill reached into the pack at his feet. ‘A little brandy, Mzingeli?’ he enquired. ‘I think we deserve one, after all the fuss of the day. We call it a nightcap back home.’
The pain left the tracker’s face and he gave one of his rare smiles. ‘A nightcap? Ah, good word. Let us put on a nightcap then, Nkosi.’
Simon extracted the bottle and two tin cups and poured a little of the amber liquid into each. Suddenly he became aware that they were not alone.
‘If there might be a drop to spare, bach sir,’ said Jenkins, close to his right ear, ‘then I could just be persuaded, see.’
Fonthill sighed, took out another cup, and poured a dram. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but I refuse to drink with a man who is in his underpants. For goodness’ sake, Jenkins, go and put your trousers on.’
Jenkins slipped away and Simon turned back to Mzingeli. ‘Have the Matabele been at war lately?’
‘In some ways they always at war, because they kill anyone who argues or stand up with them. But they careful with white men, because Lobengula hears about power of white men in south. He know they beat Zulus.’ The tracker took a sip from his cup, grimaced and wiped his lips with his hand. ‘This is problem for him. He has about twenty thousand warriors, maybe more, who have not washed their spears for long time - some of them never. They want . . . what you call it . . . honour from war and also things they take from it.’
‘Plunder.’
‘Yes. King must hold them back all the time. Like holding lid on boiling cooking pot.’
A trousered Jenkins had now rejoined them. ‘Will they attack the Dutchmen in the Transvaal, then, Jelly?’ he enquired.
‘They would like to. If Matabele have guns, perhaps. But they have only a few. And Boers have many.’
Fonthill took a sip of brandy, coughed a little and asked, ‘What about the king?’
Mzingeli’s smile reappeared. ‘He has sixty-three wives. Likes beer, brandy and champagne . . .’
‘Champagne?’
‘Yes. Traders bring it in for him. He drinks much. He just want to be left to his wives, his cattle and his white man’s drink. He don’t want war. Although . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘He like to kill. Bulawayo mean Place of Man Who Was Killed. My father tell me - he the one that tell me all this - my father say that Lobengula six months ago or so send
impi
, war party, to punish two villages where men defy him. They kill all the men, and the children and girls taken as slaves. Then the wives and older women made to carry all good things . . . what you say, plunder . . . back to king’s kraal. Then they pushed into circle with spears and women all killed by two young warriors, who so wash their spears.’
impi
, war party, to punish two villages where men defy him. They kill all the men, and the children and girls taken as slaves. Then the wives and older women made to carry all good things . . . what you say, plunder . . . back to king’s kraal. Then they pushed into circle with spears and women all killed by two young warriors, who so wash their spears.’
‘Miserable bastards,’ murmured Jenkins.
Fonthill frowned. Then he drained his cup and stood. ‘It seems we shall have to handle King Lobengula with care. Bed now, I think. Good night.’
Mzingeli put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Nkosi, it was very good shooting today. Very fine. No one afraid. And you did clever talking with Matabele. Very good.’
‘Well, thank you, Mzingeli. I am just sorry that I was stupid the first time. Thank you.’
The little party made equally good time the next day, and after midday they began to climb, so much so that the three British began to gasp a little, reminding Fonthill that this country was some four thousand feet above sea level. They emerged on to a plateau, in good open country, well watered, with a smudge of high hills on the horizon to the north-east. The pace eased a little now and the party settled into a rhythm that lasted for another two and a half days. By the time Bulawayo came in sight, Simon estimated that they had travelled some eighty miles or so from the border.
Lobengula’s capital was not as big as Fonthill had expected; not as large, for instance, as he remembered Ulundi, the capital of Zululand, but big enough, perhaps half a mile in diameter. The kraal was enclosed by a great thorn fence that undulated up and down the plateau and within which hundreds of wickerwork beehive huts had been erected for Lobengula’s subjects. Grazing cattle - long-horned oxen, many of them distinctively black in colour, domestic cows and steers of a provenance unknown to Fonthill - were dotted on the plateau, almost as far as the eye could see. Smoke from many cooking fires arose and a distinctive smell came drifting across to them: a mixture of cooking fat, cattle manure and human excrement.
Fonthill wrinkled his nose and exchanged glances with Alice. A thought struck him. ‘Do you think these fellows will say that they killed the lions themselves and will get the credit for bringing them back to the king?’ he asked Mzingeli.
The tall man nodded his head slowly. ‘It could be. They like that.’
‘Right. Please tell them that we would like to take our skins to the king straight away.’
The
inDuna
nodded his head curtly in response. Soon they were surrounded by dozens of dogs that yapped all around them and snapped at their heels, together with troops of naked children, who looked at the white people with wide-eyed curiosity and teeth that flashed in the sun. The children were joined by two tall Matabele carrying assegais, who, on being addressed by the
inDuna
, turned and immediately ran back to the kraal as fast as their long legs could carry them.
inDuna
nodded his head curtly in response. Soon they were surrounded by dozens of dogs that yapped all around them and snapped at their heels, together with troops of naked children, who looked at the white people with wide-eyed curiosity and teeth that flashed in the sun. The children were joined by two tall Matabele carrying assegais, who, on being addressed by the
inDuna
, turned and immediately ran back to the kraal as fast as their long legs could carry them.
‘They go to warn the king that we are coming,’ confided Mzingeli. ‘They also go to prepare the praise-singers.’
‘The what?’
‘When king meet new people, they have to wait outside his house while they are told, in song, of how wonderful king is. It is custom. It can take half an hour.’
‘Oh, bloody ’ell,’ wailed Jenkins. ‘I could do with a drink, see, not the chapel choir.’
They entered through a gap in the thorn hedge, where a huge pile of oxen horns had been stacked to one side. ‘This to show everyone how rich king is,’ whispered Mzingeli. ‘All cattle are owned by him. He has about three hundred and likes to count them into cattle kraal every night and see them out to graze every morning.’
Flies were now hovering around them, feasting on the perspiration that dripped down their cheeks and the backs of their shirts. The flies intensified as they neared the king’s cattle compound, now empty, and set beside a smaller enclosure within which grazed goats and some horses. Both were adjacent to the king’s kraal, a separately ringed fence of thorns enclosing huts for his wives and important members of his household. The king’s own dwelling stood out by its singularity in this uncivilised setting. It was a not unpleasant-looking low thatched house, one storey high, with a veranda running the length of its front, European style.
Mzingeli caught Simon’s eye. ‘Built for him by European trader. Man called Grant. He dead now.’
To one side of the main house and near the goats’ kraal stood a round hut built of sun-hardened mud and topped with a conical thatch. It shared with the goats the intermittent shade bestowed by a tall indaba tree, whose roots twisted and curled above ground like giant pythons frozen in time. Before the hut the ground had been beaten flat by thousands of feet, so that it seemed to glisten in the sun.
‘That where king has court,’ explained Mzingeli. ‘Gives wisdom.’
They were halted by the
inDuna
and the skins were lowered to the ground. Immediately two Matabele appeared, caparisoned in monkey skins and ostrich feathers, their faces and bodies streaked with red ochre and carrying what appeared to be fly whisks. They immediately began to chant, swaying in unison and beating time with their whisks. At once a crowd began to gather and started to repeat the words of the singers in a hypnotic ululation, stamping their feet to the rhythm.
inDuna
and the skins were lowered to the ground. Immediately two Matabele appeared, caparisoned in monkey skins and ostrich feathers, their faces and bodies streaked with red ochre and carrying what appeared to be fly whisks. They immediately began to chant, swaying in unison and beating time with their whisks. At once a crowd began to gather and started to repeat the words of the singers in a hypnotic ululation, stamping their feet to the rhythm.
‘The praise-singers,’ confided Mzingeli.
‘What are they saying?’ asked Alice.
The tracker listened for a moment, his head on one side. ‘Silly words,’ he said. ‘They say that Lobengula is King of Kings, Lord of White Men, Slayer of Men, Devourer of Whole Earth and so on . . . silly words.’ His lip curled in contempt. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he gestured to Simon, Alice and Jenkins to come close and, raising his voice to be heard above the chanting, said, ‘I forget. When you meet the king you must not address him standing. You must sit. He must always be above you. The Matabele always move before him in bent position, with hands resting on knees.’
‘To hell with that,’ said Fonthill. ‘We would not do that for our Queen, so I don’t see why we should do it for some other monarch. I suggest we just bow our heads when he approaches.’
The chanting continued for at least half an hour, while the British three stood in the hot sun, shifting their weight from one foot to the other and wiping away the perspiration that dripped down from under their hats and beneath their shirts. Eventually the singing stopped and was replaced by a roar of acclamation as a tall figure emerged from the door of the house and slowly crossed the veranda threshold. Immediately, all the Matabele sat. It was the cue for the visitors to bow their heads, although Mzingeli and his boys squatted also.
From under his eyelashes, Fonthill observed the king closely. He was about six feet tall and of massive proportions. At first glance he seemed to be almost completely naked, his skin very black. Then it could be seen that his huge stomach hung down above a narrow strip of hide that encircled what once had been his waist and from which a profusion of monkey tails dangled. His posture was erect and magisterial and his features were regular and quite handsome, with the flat nose and thick lips of the Zulu, and the Zulu elder’s narrow band of fibre oiled and bound into his tightly curled hair. His eyes seemed cold until they fell upon the lion skins; then they lit up and he smiled, gesturing towards the trio with the long assegai he carried and speaking in a low, guttural voice.
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