The Shangani Patrol (33 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The announcement, made hesitantly by the tracker, who seemed to share Jenkins’s surprise at Fonthill’s decision, was greeted by a low hiss and then, when the import of it sank in, by a fierce shout of approval. Immediately the men ran to the Nubian, picked him up, chains and all, on their shoulders and bore him out of the clearing.
Simon yelled to Jenkins, ‘Stay with Alice!’ and followed, with Mzingeli and a grinning Joshua. The execution was carried out with dispatch. A large baobab tree with a sturdy branch extending out some ten feet from the ground was found, and a man shinned up and secured the base of the slave master’s whip to the branch. Within seconds the end of the whip was tied securely around the Nubian’s neck and willing hands launched him to swing, weighed down by the chains that only hours before had marked their own captivity and passage into slavery.
Fonthill experienced a sudden, reactive surge of disgust as he saw the man’s frozen expression of terror before the drop broke his neck. Then he turned on his heel and walked quickly back into the camp.
During the two days that they remained in the clearing, Fonthill and the others learned of how Joshua and the boys had been taken. They had stood guard in turns through the night, as Simon had instructed, but the guard had stood down with the dawn and they were all taking breakfast within the scarum when, without warning, the slavers had struck. The spearman had come running quickly into the camp, and it took only seconds to herd the five boys together within a ring of steel. The slave line had followed and they were immediately shackled and yoked. Only Joshua had tried to escape, and he had been flogged for his audacity. The slavers, it seemed, had come from the north, from a port called Bagamayo (meaning in Kiswahili ‘lay down your heart’), and the slaves were destined to be exported from there. They had been captured from villages on the slavers’ march to the south. Some had been in chains for two weeks. Listening to the story, Fonthill felt exonerated for hanging the slave master. Killing wasn’t easy, but in some cases it was the only means of justice.
Alice continued to recover, and to Simon’s huge relief, it became clear that his rough and ready surgery had proved effective and that no infection had entered the wound. Nevertheless, she still found it difficult to walk. The unpleasant associations of the clearing - the grave pit and the swinging, enchained body in the forest, although Alice knew nothing of the execution - began to press in on them all, however, and Fonthill decided that they should set off on the third day and make their way back to the scarum, where they had left their tents, supplies and, most importantly, Alice’s medical bag. A litter was constructed for Alice from one of the divans, and they set off shortly after dawn.
It was an uneventful journey, made long by the necessity to put the litter down every hour to allow Alice some respite from the jarring, irregular movement she was forced to endure. They found their camp untouched, however, and were able to retrieve their possessions from where they had been hidden in the bush.
Once inside their tent, Simon examined Alice’s wound. The antiseptic ointment seemed to have done its job well, for there was no sign of infection, but the hole made by the musket ball remained gaping and there was some suppuration. Fonthill caught Alice’s eye.
‘I’m afraid it needs stitching,’ he said. ‘Mustn’t leave the hole like that in this climate.’
‘Hmm.’ Alice’s face was white under her tan. ‘Who is going to do that, then?’
‘I . . . er . . . don’t suppose that you . . . ?’
‘No. I couldn’t quite face that, and anyway, I am not as good a needlewoman as I claimed. I am afraid, my love, that it must be you. It isn’t saying much, I fear, but you are far and away the best surgeon in our little group. You have already proved that.’
Fonthill gulped. ‘Do we have a needle and some gut?’
‘Yes. In my bag.’
‘So I just . . . ?’
‘Yes, dear.’ She gave a wan smile. ‘You just pierce the skin and draw the edges together. Neatly and tidily. While I scream.’
‘Oh lord. Do you have any morphine in your bag?’
‘Yes. And a syringe. Might as well get on with it, darling, while I have faith in you. I don’t want people staring at a nasty hole in my leg while I bathe in the North Sea off the Norfolk coast, now do I? And if you do well, you can take on the task of mending your socks when we get home.’
Gloomily Fonthill opened up her precious medical bag, laid out a towel on a collapsible stool and placed upon it the necessary implements. He stuck his head out of the tent and called Joshua to bring soap and hot water and to summon Mzingeli.
‘What’s up?’ enquired Jenkins.
Simon explained. ‘Ah yes.’ The Welshman’s face looked drawn, then he nodded his head in appreciation of the task ahead. ‘I’ll just see to the lightin’ of the fires for the night, then,’ he said. ‘Important, this fire-layin’ business, see. Got to be done right. You won’t need me in there.’ And he strode away very quickly.
Alice, her jaw set squarely, supervised the injection of the morphine and then threaded the needle before lying back, waiting for the drug to take effect. ‘Remember,’ she said, her head on the pillow, ‘you must make the edges of the flesh meet. No gaping gaps, please.’ Then she nodded. ‘I think the morphine has taken effect now. Stitch away.’ And she took a deep breath and looked the other way.
Once again Mzingeli took on the task of holding down Alice’s leg, and staunched the bleeding while Simon made the incisions. It took about fifteen minutes before he was able to draw the needle through for the last time, snip off the end of the gut and tie it in a knot to prevent it slipping back.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Not a bad job.’ He looked up at his wife, who had made no sound during the operation, but her face was wet with perspiration and blood was flowing from where she had bitten her lip. She was quite unconscious. It was clear that the anaesthetic, clumsily applied, had not been as effective as had been hoped. Cursing, Fonthill bandaged the wound, gently tucked Alice’s leg beneath the blanket and, kneeling, began to wipe her brow with a cloth dipped in cold water.
Within a minute she had come round. She gazed at him dreamily. ‘I don’t suppose there is any whisky in the camp, is there?’ she enquired.
‘There is just one bottle left,’ Simon breathed, ‘and you can have all of its contents, my love. You have been a brave, brave girl.’
‘Oh good.’ And she went back to sleep.
Mzingeli allowed himself one of his rare smiles. ‘Nkosana like a warrior,’ he said.
They all stayed within the scarum for the next three days while Alice recovered, but the problem of what to do with the ex-slaves began to be pressing. They were becoming fractious, and yet were timorous of leaving the camp on their own. They still feared that the slavers, in some form or other, might return, although Mzingeli tried to assure them that this was most unlikely. The question was: where should they be taken? Most of them seemed to have come from outside the Manican territory. Could they find their own way back to their villages?
Fonthill called a meeting, and he, Jenkins, Mzingeli and Joshua, whose English had now improved to the point where he could understand most of what was said to him, sat around Alice’s bed. It was Mzingeli who stated the obvious.
‘We no nursemaids,’ he grunted. ‘Take them to nearest village. Then they decide what to do.’
Simon looked at his wife. ‘I don’t think you will be able to walk for a time,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want to leave you here.’
Alice waved her hand. ‘Don’t worry about me. I want to start writing the story of the fight with the slavers anyway, and will need a bit of peace and quiet to concentrate. You must take Mzingeli with you to interpret and Jenkins to help you keep them all moving. I have a feeling that you will have to herd them like cattle, so you will also need some herdsmen.’ She smiled. ‘Just leave Joshua with me, with a couple of Martini-Henrys and that whisky you promised, and we will be as right as rain.’
‘Well I don’t know about that.’ Fonthill looked at Jenkins, who shrugged his shoulders, and then Mzingeli, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of assent.
He sighed. ‘All right. We will go tomorrow. If we make an early start, we should be back well before nightfall—’
Alice interrupted. ‘No. It’s pointless rushing. When you get to the village, you are virtually halfway to the king’s kraal. Why don’t you push on to see him and get him to sign your treaty? He will be so happy that you have sent the slavers packing that he will give you anything you want. Probably make you deputy king or Prince of Wales. Strike while the iron is hot. Joshua and I will be right as rain here for two days if you leave us food and drink. Eh, Joshua?’
The boy grinned, not quite comprehending the conversation but glad to be included, and nodded his head.
‘Very well. But we won’t be away longer than two days. Joshua, you keep a good watch and look after the Nkosana.’
Joshua’s grin widened and he nodded again.
In truth, Fonthill was happy to accept Alice’s suggestion. Her leg was healing well, but she would need to rest for at least another three days or so, and he did not relish the prospect of kicking his heels idly in the scarum for that time. He was anxious to pull King Umtasa into his bag, prospect a little to the north for firmer terrain for a road, and return to Bulawayo as quickly as possible before going south to meet Rhodes’s column on the march. It would almost certainly be on its way now, and he was eager to march with it and look for possible farming land in Mashonaland. For Alice’s safety he had no fear. The Manican people were not warlike and would cause her no harm, and Mzingeli had assured him that no slavers would come through this way now for a year or more after the rebuff the last party had received.
It was with a happy heart, then, that he, Jenkins, Mzingeli, the four boys and the chattering band of ex-slaves set off for the Manican village. Surprisingly, it seemed that two of the natives, a pair of brothers, were from the king’s kraal and were anxious to return there. They had been taken when they had strayed too far to the west on a hunting expedition. Bringing them back safely would surely cement Fonthill’s relationship with the king, and thus confirmed the good sense of pressing on to his kraal as soon as possible.
And so it proved. The majority of the ex-slaves were left at the village, and Fonthill, Jenkins, Mzingeli and the two Manicans continued their journey, arriving at the kraal just before nightfall. They were met with cries of joy and dancing as the two brothers were welcomed back from the dead. Chattering children, singing adults and barking dogs formed an avenue through which they all marched to the king’s hut. It was, Simon reflected, rather like the return of the prodigal son.
That evening they were once again the guests of King Umtasa at an outdoor feast. The king had insisted on interrogating the two brothers on their capture and learning how Fonthill and his party had rescued them. He nodded his head in particular approval at the hanging of the slave master. The man, it seemed, was known to the tribe, and although the king’s own kraal was too large and well defended to be a target for their depredations, the slavers had raided other villages in Umtasa’s territory and the big Nubian had earned a reputation for cruelty. It was good, said the king, that his new British protectors had already showed that they would and could keep their word.
Fonthill swallowed hard at this. It would be some time, he knew, before a British presence could be extended directly to the Manican people - and what about the Portuguese claim to their land? Through Mzingeli, he gently probed Umtasa on this. Was the king forced to pay allegiance to the European power?
The king shook his head. ‘No. They want money. They come sometimes and want me pay taxes. I give little grain but nothing more. Their man comes with his men from the south. He used to take slaves and particularly women from my villages. But I say I complain to Mozambique so he don’t no more.’
‘What man was that?’
‘His name de Sousa,’ Mzingeli allowed himself a ghost of a smile as he translated, ‘but everyone call him Gouela.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘This man is known to me,’ he explained. ‘He is an agent for the Portuguese government in territories just over the border in Portuguese East Africa. But he has no claim on your country. He also makes claims on the land of the King of the Matabele, but King Lobengula does not accept them. You are right to reject him. He is no better than the Arab slavers who come from the north.’
The king listened impassively. ‘Will your Rhodes protect me from him?’
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