The Shangani Patrol (22 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
‘Good.’ Fonthill climbed up beside Jenkins and looked north along the trail. The approaching warriors were now running and spreading out further to encircle the wagons. He made a quick estimation: about fifty, perhaps fewer, but still no sign of rifles being carried. They had about four minutes.
He jumped down. The boys were now carrying their spears and running to the thorn bush barriers. He called to Mzingeli: ‘Bring Ntini and Joshua here and interpret for me. Alice and Jenkins, join me here, quickly.’
The little circle gathered around him. ‘Alice has already spread the rifles,’ he said. ‘Each of you take up position in one of the wagons, where you will find the rifles. Alice, I leave it to you whether you use Mzingeli’s Snider or your own hunting rifle.’
‘I will use my own,’ she said. ‘I will be more accurate with that.’
‘Very well. You will each have a wagon. Pile up whatever you can find to fire behind. They may have rifles. I will stay more or less in the centre to reinforce whichever wagon is under most pressure. Do not fire until I give the order, and then . . . shoot to kill. Oh, Mzingeli. Perhaps it might be a good idea to put two of the boys in among the animals to quieten them if things get . . . er . . . hot. Yes?’
Mzengili, ever economical with words, nodded, interpreted for Ntini and Joshua and then ran off to find two herdsmen from the boys manning the gaps in the wagons. As the group broke up, Simon pulled Alice back. ‘I will be right behind you, my darling.’
She gulped but regarded him steadily. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said. ‘I may just need that.’
Fonthill thrust a box of matches into his breeches and then climbed up again on to one of the booms and watched as the warriors halted, spread out across the track, some two hundred and fifty yards away. He could now see that they seemed to be wearing full warpaint, and that they had monkey’s or cow’s tails attached, garter-like, just below their knees and elbows and, from what he could see behind their shields, more across their chests, suspended from necklaces. They stood in silence, perhaps waiting for orders. Simon could see no European, nor any evidence that the warriors were armed with anything other than spears, although these were not black-bladed like those of the Matabele, but shone silver in the morning sun.
‘Who are they, Mzingeli?’ he called. ‘Where are they from?’
The tracker climbed up beside him. He was silent for a while. Then: ‘Not sure. Not Matabele. Maybe Zulu.’
Fonthill’s heart sank. Although they had been finally defeated by the British at Ulundi eleven years before, the Zulus remained among the finest fighting men in Africa. They were the bravest of the brave. ‘They can’t be, can they?’ he pleaded. ‘Their homeland is about eight hundred miles away.’
‘Yes. You right. Not Zulu. Perhaps Swazi.’
Simon gulped. That was no improvement. The Swazis were fierce enough and he had seen how well they fought when they had joined forces with Wolseley to defeat the Sekukuni tribe some nine years before on the Transvaal border with Portuguese East Africa. But they too would have been forced to travel a vast distance to link up with - and be paid by - de Sousa. Unlikely.
His supposition was interrupted by a great cry as the warriors lifted their spears and shields and stamped their feet.
Mzingeli did not change his expression but spat. ‘Not Swazi cry,’ he said. ‘Minor tribe from east. Look good but not fight well.’
It became clear that the cry was some form of salute, for Fonthill saw their front rank open for a moment and a pale figure in a familiar yellow uniform push through. He stood still for a moment as he surveyed the pathetic little laager before him, his outline reduced by the tall warriors flanking him.
‘Can you see him?’ Fonthill called softly to Jenkins.
‘Just about, bach sir. Shall I try?’
‘No.’ Then into Simon’s mind’s eye came the image of the puff adder, poised to strike. He did not hesitate. ‘Don’t try,’ he called. ‘Kill the bastard.’
The shot rang out clearly and de Sousa staggered for a moment, clutching his shoulder, before the ranks closed around him once more. The warriors raised their shields and assegais again and shouted their war cry. Yet it seemed more a gesture of defiance than a signal to attack. They remained standing, waiting for something.
‘Hold your fire,’ shouted Fonthill. ‘Wait until I give the order.’ Then, quietly to Mzingeli, ‘Back to your post, old chap. Quickly.’ He gave a reassuring grin to the boys crouched under him behind the thorns, and remained standing on the boom. If there were rifles among the warriors he wished to draw their fire. No answering shot came, however, and he frowned as he looked at the ranks ahead of him, still bunched together. It was not an overwhelming force, but his worry remained that they would fan out completely, surround the wagons and then attack all at the same time. With one gun per wagon, and only three reasonable shots among them, it was highly unlikely that a concerted attack could be withstood. If, however, the natives attacked in a tight bunch on one side only, relying on overwhelming force concentrated on one target - which was a usual tactic - then he might be able to reinforce the attacked side.
He shouted to Jenkins: ‘If they bunch and attack just one side, leave your post and join me in firing from that side.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
Then he heard a cry from among the line of warriors. It was not delivered in the normal guttural deep bass of the Bantu. More a high-pitched shriek - Portuguese? It was enough, and the warriors immediately broke into a loose run towards the north-facing wagon, in which crouched Alice. His heart in his mouth, Fonthill waited for a moment to see if the attacking line would deploy to spill around the little circle, but it did not. It came straight for Alice’s wagon.
‘On the north side, 352,’ shouted Simon. ‘FIRE!’
A ragged volley ensued and Fonthill rushed to the side of Alice’s wagon. It brought down just two warriors, but that was enough to trip up another. ‘Reload,’ shouted Simon. ‘Wait . . . FIRE! This time three attackers fell, and then Fonthill realised that Mzingeli was at his side. ‘Reload,’ he ordered, and then, again, ‘FIRE!’ This time the range was considerably shortened and four warriors fell, showing that Alice, too, was causing damage.
It was enough to halt the attack, and the line stopped at a distance of about one hundred yards as the warriors faltered and then stood, undecided, waving their spears and shouting. Fonthill tasted again that familiar acrid powder on his lips and smelled the cordite as it entered his nostrils. The old elation of battle, first savoured - albeit for only a tragically brief moment - at Isandlwana returned, and he grinned as he thumbed another cartridge into the breech. ‘Let’s give them another while they’re standing,’ he screamed. ‘FIRE!’
It was impossible to miss at that range, and the line immediately broke, turned and fled, leaving ten bodies on the dusty ground, two of them slowly attempting to move. The boys at the thorn bushes raised their assegais and hurled derision at the retreating warriors.
‘Are you all right, Alice?’ Fonthill called.
‘All is right in this wagon, sir. Although I have to say that this gun smoke is ruining my hair . . .’
‘Good girl. Anyone hurt, Mzingeli?’
‘No, Nkosi. They not really near enough to throw spears. Next time perhaps.’
‘Hmm.’ Would they come again? They had lost about a fifth of their number, and if they had any sense, they would spread out and attack from all sides at once. It depended upon whether there was leadership in their ranks. Had Jenkins finished off de Sousa?’
He called up to the Welshman. ‘Good shooting, 352. It looks as though you got the Portuguese.’
‘Oh yes, bach sir, I got ’im all right, but only in the bloody shoulder, see. It was a bit long range to be accurate an’ he was partly covered by the black fellers either side of ’im. I wish ’e would do somethin’ brave, like, an’ lead a charge.’
‘Fat chance of that.’
‘Will they ’ave another go, then?’
‘Oh yes. I think they will. But they might spread out the next time and come at us from all around. That will make it difficult.’
‘Do you want me to shoot the bottles?’
‘Not yet. Only if we’re hard pressed. I am worried about the cattle if we start a blaze. But we will if we have to. Can you see the bushes?’
‘Just about.’
‘Good. Wait for the command. Mzingeli . . .’
‘Nkosi.’
‘If the attackers reach the spaces between the wagons, do you think the boys will stand up to them and fight?’
The tracker’s face remained expressionless while he considered the question. Fonthill marvelled once more at the man’s imperturbability in the face of danger. He was, after all, not a fighting man, and this certainly was not his war. He had not even asked why they were being attacked.
‘They not warriors, Nkosi,’ he replied. ‘We will see. At least oxen behind them means they cannot run.’
It was a point. Even if the attackers broke through, they would have precious little room in which to move. Unless . . .
‘But will these warriors kill the oxen?’
Mzingeli allowed the nearest that he ever came to a smile to steal across his features for a moment. ‘No. Cattle are precious. Oxen not as good as breeding cows but still worth much. They want to take them when we are killed. They don’t kill them—’
He was interrupted by a cry from Jenkins. ‘They’re doin’ what you said, bach sir. They’re spreadin’ out to encircle us.’
‘Right. Cross to the boys in the wagons on the other side. I’ll stay on this side to support Alice.’
He saw the Welshman make his way through the oxen and climb into the wagon of first Ntini and then Joshua. Each was crouching, his long Martini-Henry balanced on the edge of the wagon side boarding. Jenkins patted each boy on the shoulder and grinned at them. They both smiled back, albeit distinctly nervously. Fonthill was not sure how effective they could be, even with Jenkins to back them up, for they had not been subject to the first attack. They would be tested now, though. And he thought again of Alice.
He called across to Mzingeli. ‘Ask one boy at each of the thorn bushes to get into a wagon to help fight off any natives who get through.’
The tracker lifted his rifle in acknowledgement, and Fonthill felt some reassurance as he saw the boys, smiling broadly and waving their assegais, climb into the wagons. At least
they
seemed confident enough. But was this very thin line enough to resist an attack from all sides? He looked at the cattle. The oxen had been seemingly unfazed by the gunfire and were standing, heads down, quite passively. Even the horses in their midst were trying to graze in the tiny space allowed to them. The warriors were taking their positions now, spreading out on the edge of the bush, with the powder trail behind them. No, he could not afford to wait.
they
seemed confident enough. But was this very thin line enough to resist an attack from all sides? He looked at the cattle. The oxen had been seemingly unfazed by the gunfire and were standing, heads down, quite passively. Even the horses in their midst were trying to graze in the tiny space allowed to them. The warriors were taking their positions now, spreading out on the edge of the bush, with the powder trail behind them. No, he could not afford to wait.
‘Time to shoot the bottles,’ he called across to Jenkins.
The Welshman waved his rifle in acknowledgement and climbed on to the side planking of his wagon, situated next to that of Joshua. There he paused, wobbling for a moment as he wrapped an arm around one of the steel roof hoops, now bereft of their canvas covers. He raised his rifle to his shoulder . . . and paused. ‘Can’t see the bleedin’ bush on this side,’ he shouted. ‘These bastards are in the way.’
‘Damn! try when they start running. I’ll do the one on this side.’
‘All right. ’Ere they come again.’
Balancing at the end of his wagon, Fonthill raised his rifle to find the bush with the tall branch, but Jenkins was right. The attacking warriors gave him no sight of it. Forgetting the need for translation, he shouted, ‘No volleys. Fire at will. FIRE!’
Once again gunfire rang out from the wagons, but on the word ‘Fire’, the warriors had immediately plunged to the ground, so that the bullets hissed over their heads. Now they raised themselves and continued to run towards the wagons, shrieking and brandishing their spears above their shields. But not all of them. Hurriedly ramming in another round, Fonthill had time to see three of the warriors slinking away from the charge, clearly declining to risk their lives in the last few yards of the dash to the wagons. The others, however, came on.
Again, at such short range it was impossible for anyone to miss, and Fonthill, firing from Jenkins’s old wagon, felled one man, reloaded and killed another before he turned to his left, where the line was almost upon Alice’s wagon. He brought down a third, who was attempting to reach up to Alice with his knobkerrie. But the boys in the wagons were now involved, and they stood manfully along the side boardings, thrusting and stabbing downwards. In his wagon, Simon joined them, swinging his rifle by the barrel as a club.
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