Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The Shangani Patrol (9 page)
‘I don’t know. Perhaps there is something in the self-help medical book the missionaries gave me. I will go and get my bag.’ She stood to move into the low opening of the hut, but Simon held her back.
‘I’ll go. I need to oil the rifles, anyway.’
He crawled through the opening and stood for a moment in the dim interior, trying to accustom his eyes to the poor light, before bending down to look under Alice’s bed for her bag. Suddenly a movement caught his eye. On the low wooden-framed bed by the door -
his
bed - something was moving, undulating under the blanket that had been lightly thrown there. Then, slowly, a cold-eyed flat head emerged to regard him, followed by the coils of a body.
his
bed - something was moving, undulating under the blanket that had been lightly thrown there. Then, slowly, a cold-eyed flat head emerged to regard him, followed by the coils of a body.
It was a puff adder.
Fonthill felt his mouth go dry. He made to move back towards the hut opening, but the snake followed him with his head and then slipped from under the blanket on to the ground. It was cutting him off from the exit. Where the hell were the rifles? His eye caught them: the two Martini-Henrys and Alice’s gun, neatly stacked against the wall - just by the entrance. The snake, of course, was between him and the guns.
He looked hard at the reptile, which had now formed itself into a tight coil, with its head held high and back, in an ‘S’ shape. Simon licked his lips and tried to remember what Mzingeli had told them. The puff adder was, he recalled, the most dangerous snake in Africa. Its bite could penetrate leather and its poison was extremely toxic. It could kill a man and frequently did so in this part of Africa.
The thing was now uncoiling and moving towards him slowly, hissing, its mouth wide open and revealing its fangs. Even in the semi-darkness he could see the dark bands around its eyes. Uncoiled, it revealed itself to be about three and a half feet in length. Fonthill felt the hairs begin to stand up on the back of his neck.
He took a deep breath and shouted, ‘Alice. Do not crawl into the hut. There is a snake in here. It is between me and the rifles and the door. Get 352 or Mzingeli quickly - and a gun. Quickly now.’
There was no reply. He called again. Silence once more. He looked round for some sort of weapon. His hunting knife was hung up above his bed and unreachable, but even if he could have got to it, it would have been useless against the adder, which could strike so quickly. The thing was slowly slithering towards him now. Fonthill felt completely vulnerable in his lightweight cord trousers and slip-on shoes. He had even left his socks off today, of all days. What could he use to distract the snake?
He felt behind him with one hand, encountering Alice’s bed. The blanket! Slowly he pulled at it until he felt it come loose and slide on to the floor. Could he hear voices now, from outside? He called out: ‘Don’t come in,’ and pulled the blanket towards him until he had a large portion wrapped around his wrist. He took a gentle step forward towards the snake. Immediately, it coiled its head back again. With a jerk of his wrist, he flicked the blanket at the adder, so that it almost touched the square head, now held nearly upright. The snake hissed and struck at the blanket with what seemed like the speed of light. The two, slightly back-curved fangs snapped together on the frayed edge of the cloth and immediately became entangled in the coarse wool fibres.
Fonthill tugged the blanket back, but it remained caught in the snake’s fangs, pulling the thing towards him. He sprang to the side, caught his leg on the foot of Alice’s bed and fell to the ground. He threw the rest of the blanket at the snake and, rolling over, saw it thrashing its head under the folds of the cloth as it tried to free itself.
This was his chance. He hurled himself towards the doorway and landed on his stomach at the foot of his bed. Scrambling to his knees, he pulled his own blanket from the bed and held it as a feeble barrier between him and the snake, like some grounded matador, in the hope that he could slip through the doorway behind its cover. The snake, freed now, had followed him and struck at the blanket, tearing it from his grasp as though it was a mere sheet of paper and tossing it aside. This time, its fangs had not become entangled.
With only inches between them, the serpent and its victim stared at each other, eye to eye. Simon saw the adder open its jaws and pull back its head to strike. He held up a hand and closed his eyes.
The shot that echoed within the confined space of the hut sounded like a howitzer cannon being fired. Fonthill felt something fall across his knee and he recoiled. When he opened his eyes, he saw the body of the headless serpent twitching on the ground by his kneecap. Turning his head, he saw Jenkins lying on his stomach, halfway through the doorway of the hut, Mzingeli’s Snider rifle at his shoulder. His head lay to one side and he was being sick.
Simon could hear Alice shouting from outside, ‘Let me in, let me in.’ He summoned up a feeble croak. ‘It’s all right. Jenkins has got him. We are both all right.’
At this the Welshman raised his head, vomit on his chin. ‘He didn’t bite you then, bach sir?’ he whispered. ‘The ’orrible thing didn’t get you?’
Fonthill stood slowly, shaking off the body of the snake with a shudder. Of its head there was no sign, except for a red smudge of some undefined matter on the wall of the hut. Jenkins’s shot had shattered it completely. He walked over to his comrade and knelt by his side, only to see the Welshman disappear slowly backwards on his stomach through the opening, as if by magic. Having pulled him clear, Alice appeared, her face ashen.
She crawled into the hut and put her arms around her husband. ‘Thank the Lord you are all right.’
‘Mind where you put your feet, my darling,’ Simon whispered into her hair. ‘I’m afraid poor old 352 has been a bit poorly. I’d forgotten how frightened he was of snakes.’
Outside, Mzingeli, Sando, Ntini and a still trembling Jenkins awaited them. Simon pulled the Welshman to his feet and regarded him severely. ‘You’ve made a terrible mess of our living accommodation,’ he said and punched him on the shoulder. ‘God bless you, old chap.’ He took his hand and pumped it. ‘I am just so grateful that my best friend just happens to be the finest shot in the world.’
‘Not with that bloody old thing he ain’t, look you.’ Jenkins wiped his chin and gestured towards Mzingeli’s rifle. ‘If the range had been a foot or so longer I would have missed. It fires up, y’see, but anyway, I was trembling so much.’ He turned to Alice and wiped away the perspiration from his face with a very dirty handkerchief. ‘Sorry about the mess, miss. Can’t stand snakes, see.’
She kissed him. ‘I don’t know how many times I have had to thank you for saving my husband’s life, 352,’ she said. ‘But this surely must have been the closest thing. My word, it must.’ She turned towards Fonthill. ‘I heard you shout, Simon, and immediately ran for Mzingeli, who of course had the only other gun. Then I saw dear old 352 coming down the hill.’
Mzingeli coughed and nodded towards Jenkins. ‘I want to go in because is my gun - only one outside hut - but he say no. He best shot. I think he right.’
Fonthill shook his head again. ‘Right. Let’s clear up inside and get rid of what’s left of the brute. Three five two, get yourself a whisky. You are relieved of duty for at least ten minutes. Then we must all talk.’
Later, the six of them squatted on the beaten earth outside the hut. ‘Now,’ began Fonthill, ‘I want to ask you something, Mzingeli. Could that snake have crawled in through the doorway of the hut on its own?’
The tracker shook his head. ‘No. Snake don’t like people, although it will attack when people come close.’ He gestured with his arm. ‘Too many people here. Snake never live in village. Out in woods and stony holes. Not here.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘What?’ asked Alice. ‘You don’t think it was planted, Simon, do you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Excuse me for a moment.’ He was back within a minute. ‘As I thought, someone has cut a hole in the wickerwork at the back of the hut and closed the gap with a large stone. The snake was obviously slipped though the hole. The noise outside the entrance would probably have stopped it from escaping that way. By the time I got inside, it was a rather angry snake, I would say.’ He turned to Mzingeli. ‘Did you or either of the boys see anybody approaching, perhaps, say, carrying a sack?’
The question was translated but received no affirmative reply.
Fonthill frowned. It had to be de Sousa. The bastard! He looked ruefully at Alice. ‘You were right. I
must
have upset him. Must be very sensitive people, these Portuguese. What a nasty piece of work!’
must
have upset him. Must be very sensitive people, these Portuguese. What a nasty piece of work!’
‘What are you goin’ to do about ’im, then, bach sir?’ enquired Jenkins in a low voice. ‘Let me nip over with me knife to where’e lies on ’is fancy bed, like.’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. The king obviously respects the man for some reason. I certainly don’t want to have blood on my hands while I am in his kraal - and neither did de Sousa, for that matter. That’s why he used the snake. A very African way to kill a European, don’t you think? He wouldn’t have been suspected.’
He mused for a moment. ‘I think I will let the matter rest.’
Jenkins’s black eyebrows almost met his moustache. ‘You don’t mean lettin’ ’im get away with it? ’E will just try again, won’t ’e - an’ keep tryin’ till he gets you.’
‘He might, but that’s a risk we just have to take.’ He looked at them all in turn, resting his eyes last on his wife. ‘We must all be on our guard.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Anyway, we shall be getting out of here soon, when our transport arrives. I would give it only a few days now. It’s not far from the frontier.’
‘Yes,’ said Alice glumly. ‘And I have become the Royal Physician. I must get my bag and bone up on gout, or whatever it is that’s wrong with the old boy.’ Her face fell further. ‘What if it’s syphilis, or something like that? I shall be a bit stumped then. What the hell would Florence Nightingale have done?’ She rose to get her bag, then, at the hut opening, paused for just a moment.
‘Let me go first,’ said Fonthill hurriedly. ‘I’m sure there is not another one in there. But if there is, don’t worry. I can fight snakes single-handedly now. Just give me a blanket. Oh . . . and perhaps Jenkins with a rifle.’
With a grin, he crawled in and Alice followed him.
Chapter 4
Three days later, they were on their way to the border, relieved to be rid of the hothouse atmosphere, the ever-present scent of danger, that characterised Lobengula’s kraal. The king’s men had arrived with their wagon and horses remarkably quickly and the monarch himself waved them off, shouting, ‘You come back,’ as they rode away. The sun sent shafts of welcoming light across the plain and it was pleasant as, blessedly on horseback again, they followed the faint trail across the veldt. Mzingeli loped on ahead, his Snider over his shoulder, with Sando at his heels and Ntini handling their team of oxen from his seat on the wagon at the rear.
Alice, riding a little behind Simon, allowed her mind to dwell on the last three days. She had visited the king twice, on successive days, and she grinned as she recalled the details. She had been apprehensive about her ability to make a correct diagnosis, but she need not have worried. There was no thorn or broken bone under that cutaway slipper that protected the swelling - and how had that cosy item of Victorian domestic footwear come to be worn by an African chieftain? - but a significant clue was provided by the pile of empty champagne and brandy bottles that glittered in the corner of the hut. Gout, it had to be! Her little handbook on African diseases made no mention of this malady, but her father had suffered a little from it. Too much meat, port and red wine was the cause, the local general practitioner had lectured. A balanced diet was the cure.
She had alleviated the pain on both visits by administering a little morphine into the naked bottom of the monarch as he lay on his couch. Lobengula had taken it well and had called in his
inDunas
, wives and children to witness his bravery. They had all applauded when he waved airily to them as the needle entered the great rump. But he had taken less well Alice’s injunctions to give up the white man’s drink, reduce the amount of beef he ingested and eat more berries and other fruits. She knew that it would take more than the homilies of a white woman to change these indulgences, so she had visited Fairbairn to ask him to refuse to sell the bottles to Lobengula. The trader had smiled, waved his pipe and delivered his own lecture on the inadvisability of him telling the King of the Matabele how to live. ‘He’s God around here,’ he had explained. ‘If he wants champagne and brandy, then by golly I’ve got to sell it to him.’
inDunas
, wives and children to witness his bravery. They had all applauded when he waved airily to them as the needle entered the great rump. But he had taken less well Alice’s injunctions to give up the white man’s drink, reduce the amount of beef he ingested and eat more berries and other fruits. She knew that it would take more than the homilies of a white woman to change these indulgences, so she had visited Fairbairn to ask him to refuse to sell the bottles to Lobengula. The trader had smiled, waved his pipe and delivered his own lecture on the inadvisability of him telling the King of the Matabele how to live. ‘He’s God around here,’ he had explained. ‘If he wants champagne and brandy, then by golly I’ve got to sell it to him.’
So Alice had shrugged and taken her bag away. On the morning of their departure, however, the king had summoned her and given her a bottle of splendid French cognac, vintage 1880. Whatever his vices, the man had good taste - and a sense of humour. ‘For your man,’ he had boomed, pressing the bottle into her hand. ‘Be careful he don’t get goot.’ She had decided that she liked the old ruffian. And oh how the little children had gasped, laughed and applauded as he presented his buttocks to the needle. . .
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