The Shangani Patrol (29 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The night was dark when something woke him. Immediately awake, he reached for his rifle and sat up. The fires at the edge of the scarum were still guttering and the low flame was reflected in the copper amulets hanging from the hedge. So they had not been taken. What, then, had woken him? He narrowed his eyes the better to see through the opening, and as he focused he made out several large grey shapes, as tall, it seemed, as the scarum, moving slowly, ponderously, past the opening.
‘Elephant,’ said Mzingeli from his blanket. ‘Stay quiet. They don’t harm us.’
By the morning, both the elephants and the trinkets had gone.
‘Good,’ said Fonthill. ‘Joshua’ - the boy had now picked up a serviceable knowledge of English - ‘put some more of those things outside. Then we must just sit and wait.’
It was well past midday when Mzingeli nodded. ‘They come now,’ he said. ‘Don’t show rifles. They frightened if you do.’
Gradually, as they watched, three men emerged from the bush and stood tentatively just beyond the ashes of the fire, at the opening of the scarum. Very slowly, Mzingeli rose and ambled towards them, his arm lifted in greeting. He spoke a few words but there was no reply, so he squatted on the camp side of the ashes and silently regarded the natives. After a while, they lowered themselves to the ground and sat cross-legged.
‘Is it goin’ to be a card game, then?’ enquired Jenkins quietly of Fonthill.
‘Shush. Let’s leave it to Mzingeli.’
Simon looked at the natives. They were of far less impressive stature than the Matabeles, and seemed unwarlike, in that they were not painted and carried no weapons. They were naked except for loincloths of some animal skin, and their hair was plastered down with red earth. The middle of the three now spoke hesitantly to Mzingeli. The tracker responded, picking his words as though only partly understanding the language. Then he stood nonchalantly, handed down the trinkets and gave them to the three.
As a result, the conversation improved considerably, although it was clear that Mzingeli did not speak the language fluently. The tracker stood, walked back into the compound and, turning, beckoned the men to follow him. Reluctantly they did so until they stood facing Fonthill and Jenkins. Simon immediately made a gesture towards the ground and the three, followed by Mzingeli, squatted before him.
‘There’s cosy now, isn’t it?’ said the Welshman, grinning.
Jenkins’s ability, proven in so many different countries and continents, to break through all kinds of linguistic barriers worked again, and his grin was immediately returned by the visitors, who revealed great yellow tombstone-like teeth.
‘Who are they?’ enquired Fonthill of Mzingeli. ‘Can you communicate?’
‘Yes, but not fluent. They Manica people, ruled by king called Umtasa. Their land goes up to Portuguese land. But Portuguese claim their land too. They heard of English and are glad we not Portuguese.’
‘Good. How far away is their king?’
The tracker directed the question to the man sitting in the middle of the trio, who seemed to be senior. He had taken the gifts to himself and now sat with the cloth draped over his shoulders and the copper artefacts hanging around his neck. He replied at some length.
‘He say that Umtasa is at kraal, say a day’s march to east. He can take us to his village nearby and then come with us to Umtasa.’
‘Good. Thank you, Mzingeli. Have Joshua offer them some food and we will make ready to go. I think we will leave Joshua, Alice and the boys here - they should be all right within the scarum - and the three of us will go to the king’s kraal. It will be quicker that way.’
‘Thank you very much, but I am not going to be left behind.’ Alice had quietly approached. ‘Simon, will you stop treating me as some kind of fragile supernumerary who is to be perpetually excluded from the more exciting parts of this expedition. Really, I am tired of it, my dear.’
Fonthill sighed. ‘Very well, Alice. We will leave Joshua in charge. We will be away overnight so we must go prepared. Quickly now. I would like to be there by nightfall.’
As soon as the visitors had eaten their rice and biltong, the party moved off, taking one mule, laden with presents, food and their bedding, with them. The bush was now very thick and the going soft underfoot, deteriorating now and then to semi-swamp. Mosquitoes were accompanying them step by sodden step, and Alice was glad that she had brought quinine with her. To them all the unspoken thought occurred: this is no place for road-building.
They reached the village after a four-hour trudge. It was a poor affair, just a few huts set in a small clearing by a stream, but so hidden by thorn bushes and low trees that even invaders knowing the territory would have difficulty in finding it. It was clear that the man leading the trio was the local headman, and Fonthill prevailed upon him that they should not pause at the village but press on towards the king’s kraal. He was retrospectively anxious that their scarum, containing most of their possessions, had been left so lightly defended, and wished to return to it as soon as possible.
They passed several other villages on the way to the Manican capital. The people were shy but friendly, not at all militant and more pastoral than the Matabele. They possessed few cattle - indeed the land did not encourage grazing - but they grew maize and grain where they could. It was clear that if they decided to come this way, Rhodes’s engineers would have no trouble with the natives. The terrain and climate, however, could be another matter. It was hot, and the dreaded tsetse flies seemed to be as numerous as the mosquitoes. Fonthill kept a concerned eye on the mule, but, having been treated with salt, it seemed to be impervious to the insects.
It was nearly nightfall before they came to King Umtasa’s kraal. It was set in clear land on a slight rise that took it away from the swamp and the worst of the mosquitoes and tsetses. It was not as large as Bulawayo, but was similar in shape and style, with thorn bushes providing a series of enclosures that led to the king’s own house, a circular construction of wickerwork and red clay only slightly larger than those that surrounded it. The usual chorus of barking dogs and excited children ushered them into the heart of the town. Unlike in Bulawayo, however, the adult Manicans hung back.
The headman prostrated himself before a large man who appeared from the house, and taking their cue, Simon and his entourage bowed their heads before the king. The man was dressed inconspicuously in a loincloth of some animal skin and little else, except for a necklace of animal’s teeth - lion’s? - around his throat. His skin was very, very black and glistened in the reflection of the flames that danced from several fires lit outside the entrance to his house. Unusually, he affected a short white beard that contrasted strangely with the tight black curls of his hair. His frown on first seeing the Europeans disappeared as the headman, still prostrate, spoke.
‘He say we not Portuguese,’ murmured Mzingeli. ‘That good.’
The king grunted to the headman, who rose to his feet, and raised his forearm, the palm of his hand facing Fonthill, in greeting.
‘Please tell him,’ said Simon, ‘that we bring greetings from the Queen of England and from her representative in Africa, Mr Cecil Rhodes.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Alice. ‘That’s a bit much.’
Ignoring her, Fonthill continued. ‘We come to offer a treaty of friendship between the British and the Manican people. We would like to present some small gifts as a token of our goodwill. Jenkins, please . . .’
The Welshman turned back to the mule, whose load he had begun unfastening on their way through the township. From the packs he produced lengths of cloth, several knives and axes, more of the copper decorations, two small hand mirrors, and - to gasps from the spectators who had now gathered near - two Snider rifles. He laid the gifts at the king’s feet, gave a cheery nod and said, ‘Merry Christmas, your worship.’
The king immediately picked up a rifle, weighed it in his hand, sighted along the barrel and spoke to Mzingeli.
‘He say good, but no good without bullets.’
‘’E’s no fool,’ breathed Jenkins, who turned back to the packs and produced three small boxes of cartridges and laid them on the ground with the other gifts.
The king nodded and spoke again, flashing a sly glance at Alice. ‘He say we are welcome. We come a long way, so stay with him to recover from journey. Lady particularly welcome. He not seen white lady before. Eat with him tonight. Take beer now.’
A signal was given, mats were brought for them to sit on, and after a slight delay, the inevitable gourds of beer were produced by smiling women. Fonthill noticed that the gifts were left lying on the ground, as though they were of no importance, although everyone was eyeing them. He liked that. It showed good manners.
They were given one hut for them all to share, and then joined the king and some of his
inDunas
- no wives - at a meal around the fires. Seated on logs, they ate meat that had a strangely fishy taste and which was served with mealies. On asking, Simon was told that it was crocodile. He decided to keep the news from Jenkins, who was conversing merrily but one-sidedly with an
inDuna
. Jenkins did not like crocodiles.
inDunas
- no wives - at a meal around the fires. Seated on logs, they ate meat that had a strangely fishy taste and which was served with mealies. On asking, Simon was told that it was crocodile. He decided to keep the news from Jenkins, who was conversing merrily but one-sidedly with an
inDuna
. Jenkins did not like crocodiles.
Through Mzingeli, whose proficiency in the language seemed to have improved considerably, he asked the king about the nature of the terrain throughout his kingdom. Did the semi-swampland continue to the north and south?
The king shook his head. ‘Better land to the north. Firmer. Take wagons easily. That is best way to Mashonaland. But further. He take you there tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. We must return to our camp first, but with the king’s permission, we will return immediately with our mules and people to look at that land.’
‘King want to know why you interested.’
Fonthill cleared his throat and felt Alice’s gaze on him. ‘If the king is prepared to sign a treaty of friendship with the Queen’s company in South Africa, then one day it could be that a road will be built - with his permission, of course - through his country to link Mashonaland with the Indian Ocean.’
‘That Portuguese territory.’
‘Yes. An agreement would also need to be reached between the Queen of England and the King of Portugal.’
‘You know the Portuguese?’
‘Er . . . yes. I have met one of their agents.’
‘They say that they own my country. They do not. Would your Queen give me protection from Portuguese?’
‘If you reject the Portuguese claim to your land and sign a treaty with the South African charter company, which has powers under the British Government, then this can be done.’
‘Are you sure, Simon?’ The question came very quietly from Alice, but he was forced to ignore it because the king was speaking.
‘He say that he will sign it but he will need more guns.’
‘I will pass on his request to Mr Rhodes in the Cape, who is the chief of the company.’
‘Then he sign.’
‘Good. I have a copy of the treaty back at my camp and I will bring it to him for his signature tomorrow.’
The evening ended early, for Simon was anxious to set off back to the camp at dawn the next day. Predictably, before turning in, Alice raised the question of the treaty.
‘Have you really brought a proper document with you?’
‘Yes, of course. In fact I brought three with me from Cape Town, duly signed by Rhodes. We didn’t know the tribes then, of course, because we didn’t know whom we would meet, but all I have to do is fill in their names and those of the kings and get them to sign.’
She screwed up her features. ‘Gracious, this all sounds so . . . tawdry. And what on earth could Rhodes - let alone the British Government - do if the Portuguese came here and started to throw their weight around? Think of Gouela. A bit of paper isn’t going to stop him.’
‘One thing at a time, Alice. The process has to be started somewhere, and it starts with this bit of paper, as you call it. Once the charter company is established in Matabeleland - and that means the road - then Rhodes can extend his protection to outlying provinces like this.’
Alice sniffed but said nothing more.
The next morning they set off back to their scarum even before the king had risen, although the village headman and his two villagers kept their promise to accompany them. As always, the return journey seemed quicker than the outgoing one, and it felt like only a couple of hours before they reached, and passed through, the village, dropping off the natives there. In the early evening they caught sight of the tall tips of the scarum fence. Everything seemed quiet and peaceful as they approached. Perhaps too quiet.
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