The Shangani Patrol (7 page)

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Authors: John Wilcox

BOOK: The Shangani Patrol
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The little gathering fell silent for a moment as the flickering flames lit their faces spasmodically. Somewhere far away a hyena barked and caused Fairbairn to look up. ‘Bad sign, that,’ he said. ‘The little devils are getting more adventurous. Coming close to our huts and stealing the rubbish.’
 
‘What about the British in all this, Mr Fairbairn?’ Fonthill asked. ‘Mzingeli here tells me that he believes that Rhodes from the Cape has entered into some sort of deal with Lobengula.’
 
Fairbairn’s teeth flashed in the firelight. ‘Yes, he has. In fact his people have just left, after being here for months. He got the king to put his cross on the paper what seems like ages ago, giving Rhodes the right to prospect for minerals, mainly gold, of course. In return Lobengula has been promised all sorts of things: guns, ammunition, money and so on. But nothing has materialised. That’s why he says all white men are liars. At the moment, I don’t think that treaty is worth the paper it is written on. The king won’t really understand what he’s signed anyway. But the others are still sniffing around here, to get him to let them have rights, too.’
 
‘Who are they?’
 
‘Well, the Dutchmen from the Transvaal are always pulling at his sleeve, but he hates the Boers so he won’t do anything with them. No . . .’ The trader’s voice faded away for a moment. ‘The worst are the Portuguese.’
 
‘Why?’
 
‘They think this territory is theirs anyway, because they’ve been next door in Mozambique for bloody centuries. But they’ve never really had the guts just to come in and invade and settle the land, which is what is called for. The main problem is that they are insistent. They’ve got a man here now. His name is Manuel Antonio de Sousa - very fancy bloke to match his fancy name. But everybody calls him Gouela. He’s a slave master in his own right and a cruel bastard - ah, excuse me, ma’am.’
 
Alice, whose eyes had never left Fairbairn’s face, nodded her acceptance.
 
‘He has abused all the tribes in his territory to the east. He rapes and flogs, but he’s got a silver tongue from what I hear and he is here to rubbish the British to the king and to get him to sign a treaty with the Portuguese. He’s got silly airs and graces but the king gets taken in by all this stuff. So Rhodes ought to watch out.’
 
Fonthill slowly nodded his head. ‘Fascinating,’ he said. ‘Now, Mr Fairbairn, we have just a little drop of Boer brandy left. Will you take a dram?’
 
Fairbairn stood. ‘No, thank you kindly. I must be getting back. He looked down at the bundle at his feet. ‘I will leave all this stuff with you. Take what you want and bring the rest back to the store and . . . er . . . you can pay me there. It’s about three hundred yards that way, outside the outer fence. Now, I’ll say good night to you all.’
 
After his departure, Alice drew her knees up under her chin and stared into the embers of the fire reflectively. ‘I have to say, Simon,’ she said, ‘that I don’t like the sound of all this. You must be careful not to trade on your incredibly close relationship with our Queen,’ she looked up and grinned, ‘because you would just be the latest in a long line of interlopers here who couldn’t deliver. You mustn’t be a scapegoat for Cecil John Rhodes.’
 
‘And, look you, I don’t like what I ’ear about this Portuguese chap,’ said Jenkins. ‘Manuel Saucepot or whatever ’is name is. I fancy ’e could be trouble.’
 
Fonthill rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’ll try and stay out of this mess if I can. But I can’t see us getting out of here before our transport arrives. We are in the hands of the king, for better or worse. So let’s go to bed.’
 
Chapter 3
 
The next morning Fonthill, stripped to the waist, was washing outside the hut in a bowl of cold water when he saw a strange apparition approaching. A white man, resplendent in a yellow uniform, complete with gold buttons and red braid at the shoulders and a sword at his waist, was being slowly borne towards him on a palanquin, or litter, carried by two Kaffirs. At the door of the hut, the litter was carefully lowered to the ground and the man put out his jackbooted legs, stood stiffly and inclined his head.
 
He said something quickly in a language foreign to Fonthill and waited for a reply. ‘I am sorry,’ said Simon, hurriedly towelling himself. ‘You must forgive me, but I don’t speak that language.’
 
‘Of course not.’ The man’s English was highly accented but it was clear that he was being contemptuous. ‘Why is it that you English do not speak any language other than your own?’ It was not a question, more a condemnation. Fonthill studied him carefully. He was of medium height-a little shorter than Simon - strongly built and with a face that reflected a life spent in the tropics: pockmarked and yellow-tinged. Beneath the peaked cap that matched the uniform hung hair in waved ringlets. He must be, of course, the Portuguese spoken of last night by Fairbairn.
 
‘I am afraid that with most of us that is true,’ Fonthill replied, pulling over his head the coarse shirt that Mr Fairbairn had supplied. ‘Though not all of us.
Mais si vous parlez Francais, peut-être je peux vous aidez
,’ he added, ‘or
vielleicht wäre die Deutsche Sprache lieber
? However, I do apologise, for I do not speak any of the lesser languages, such as Portuguese.’
 
A distant chuckle came from within the hut. The Portuguese’s eyes hardened. ‘English will do,’ he said. ‘I speak it fluently.’ He jerked his head forward. ‘Manuel Antonio de Sousa, agent for the King of Portugal in Matabeleland and Mashonaland, at your service.’
 
Fonthill took a pace forward and extended his hand. ‘Simon Fonthill. How do you do.’ He shook the man’s hand, an action that resembled handling a damp, warm fish, then gestured. ‘I am sorry I cannot ask you inside, but my wife is completing her toilet. We had rather a long day travelling yesterday.’ He indicated a log nearby. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
 
‘No. Your wife is with you?’ De Sousa seemed surprised.
 
‘Yes. We were on holiday, travelling in the Transvaal, when we crossed into Matabeleland to help one of the Malakala villages, whose herd was being attacked by lions. We met up with a party of the king’s men and were brought here.’
 
‘Ah, that explains the skins. Or does it?’ The sneer had returned. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? You are, of course, working for Rhodes.’
 
Fonthill felt his temper rising but took a deep breath. ‘No, I am not. I have no interest in Mr Rhodes’s activities. As I explained, I am on holiday. Now, Mr de Sousa, what can I do for you?’
 
For a moment, de Sousa’s black eyes gleamed in anger. Then he laughed. ‘Listen, my friend,’ he said. ‘When you return to your master, tell him that King Lobengula has no further interest in the false promises of the British. This is Portuguese territory and Lobengula is a Portuguese subject, and he has agreed to allow my people -
not the British
- to develop this country. Rhodes - and you - would be well advised to stay out of my way.’
 
Jenkins chose that moment to crawl out of the hut. He looked at the Portuguese’s litter, with its two bearers standing idly by, and spoke with exaggerated concern. ‘Oh, somebody ill, then? Goodness me. It must be the heat, I suppose.’ Then, pretending to see de Sousa for the first time, ‘Ah, good morning. Would you like to come inside out of the heat and lie down, perhaps?’
 
De Sousa looked at the Welshman in astonishment. Then his lip curled. ‘This is your wife?’ he asked with a sarcasm to match that of Jenkins.
 
‘No,’ replied Fonthill evenly, ‘this is the only accommodation we have at the moment, until our wagon arrives from the border, so we are forced to share. Now,’ his voice took on a harder tone, ‘I do not like being threatened, Mr de Sousa, and I can only repeat once again that I have nothing to do with Mr Rhodes. As for staying out of your way, I shall go where I like in this territory, subject to the approval of the king. I know as well as you do, sir, that Matabeleland is not under the suzerainty of Portugal and remains an independent country. If this was not so, you would not be here. Your behaviour, sir, is not that of a gentleman and I would be grateful if you would leave.’
 
The two men remained glaring at each other for a moment, and then the Portuguese walked slowly to his litter, lay down upon it and, with a flick of his wrist, bade his bearers carry him away.
 
Fonthill and Jenkins watched him go with smiles on their lips. ‘What a pompous bit of offal,’ said the Welshman. ‘’E looks an’ sounds like a tin soldier, don’t ’e?’
 
‘I’m not so sure about that.’ Alice had crawled out of the hut and joined them. She put a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘You were right to tick him off, my love, but I have a feeling that you have just made a rather dangerous enemy.’
 
Simon puffed out his cheeks. ‘I didn’t have much choice, actually. He was bloody rude from the start so I had to put him down. Obviously the man is a bounder. You’ll remember what Fairbairn said about him last night. And of course he was bluffing about Matabeleland being Portuguese territory . . .’
 
‘Yes, my dear, but I believe that they have always claimed it as being . . . what is the phrase? “In their African sphere of influence.” Maybe this is recognised in Whitehall. Don’t forget that Portugal is supposed to be our oldest ally. So perhaps they have some sort of case. All I am saying is that you should stay away from him.’
 
‘Yes, well, if you say so, Alice. But I shan’t lose any sleep in worrying about him.’
 
They were interrupted by the
inDuna
, who approached them accompanied by Mzingeli. The tracker looked concerned. ‘King want to see you now,’ he said.
 
Fonthill wrinkled his nose. ‘Very well. Let me just make myself presentable for his majesty. You had better come with me, Mzingeli, to interpret, please.’
 
This time Fonthill and Mzingeli were ushered straight into the king’s house. They found him half sitting, half lying on a chaise-longue, but dressed very differently now. Despite the warmth in the dark interior, he wore a pair of cord trousers, rather the worse for wear, a dirty flannel shirt, a tweed coat and a billycock hat in which was stuck a feather. One foot was encased in a lace-up boot; the other wore an old carpet slipper with its end cut away to reveal a swollen, obviously inflamed big toe.
 
The total effect was incongruous and Simon bit back a smile. Instead he bowed his head in greeting as Lobengula waved him to sit on a pile of skins before him. Mzingeli squatted at his side and the king gestured to him to interpret.
 
‘He ask,’ began the tracker, ‘how was Queen Victoria when last you see her?’
 
‘Er . . . very well, thank you, sir. Ah, she is still sad, of course, because her husband died - even though this was about twenty years ago.’
 
‘She got no other husbands left?’
 
‘No. It is our custom only to have one spouse at a time. And she has never married again.’
 
‘That very silly. But your business. Give her my salute when next you see her.’
 
‘I will indeed, sir.’
 
The king shifted his afflicted foot slightly and grimaced in pain, but he continued, through Mzingeli: ‘You know Rhodes?’
 
‘Only slightly. I have met him once, but that was eight years ago.’
 
‘He never come to see me. Only send his people. If he so interested in my land, why he no come and talk to me himself?’
 
‘I don’t know, sir. However, I do know that he is very busy with affairs of state in the Cape Colony. I understand that he may soon be elected prime minister there.’
 
‘Humph. That not king.’
 
‘No, sir. But it means he is the leader of this very big land.’
 
‘Not as big as my land.’
 
‘With respect, sir, it is about twice as large.’ Fonthill was not sure about this, but he rather doubted if the king would be able to check the fact.
 
A silence fell on the gathering, only broken when a huge black woman entered, bearing a gourd of beer for Simon. She wore native dress, which meant very few garments. The king nodded towards her.
 
‘This my sister, Nini. She not married.’
 
Unsure about the significance of this last piece of information, Fonthill struggled to his feet and bowed. Mzingeli, aware of the proprieties, inclined his head from the sitting position. But Nini strode forward, seized Simon’s hand and shook it vigorously, an act that made her huge bare breasts sway alarmingly. ‘How is you?’ she asked, disdaining to use Mzingeli’s interpretive skills.
 
‘I is . . . I am very well, ma’am. I am delighted to meet you.’

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