by John Wilcox
From the left, the second lioness had timed its attack to coincide exactly with that of its mate and it bounded towards Jenkins. The latter’s shot took her just above the right eye and that of Mzingeli directly in the open, snarling muzzle. She lay as still as the others.
‘Well,’ gasped Jenkins, ‘we weren’t very quiet but we seem to ’ave done the job, isn’t it?’ In moments of great anxiety, Jenkins’s Welshness always seemed to increase.
Simon gathered Alice into his arms. ‘Well done, my love,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Good shooting. I doubt if I could have finished him myself. Are you all right?’
‘Quite all right, thank you. Well done yourself.’ But her voice carried a tremble. She gently disentangled herself. ‘What about Sando?’
Mzingeli and Ntini, with gun and spear, were labouring to lever the dead lioness off the struggling bearer, who eventually emerged covered in blood, although whether his own or that of the lioness it was difficult to tell. Closer inspection, however, disclosed an ugly strip of flesh hanging from his shoulder, like an unbuttoned epaulette, although his teeth were flashing in a broad grin. He was clearly going to live to fight another lion on another day.
Mzingeli looked up and grinned. ‘Very good shooting,’ he said to Fonthill. ‘Better this time. Not easy to move and fire. Nkosana very good too.’
‘Thank you,’ said Alice, then she frowned. ‘But I am sorry we had to kill the females, too. Why did they attack us, Mzingeli?’
The black man shrugged. ‘I think they knew we going to kill lion. They frightened too, you know.’
‘Ah well.’ Alice looked down at Sando and then bent and examined his shoulder.
‘Mmm. Not good. This will need stitching. Where’s my medical bag?’
Jenkins picked up the pack that Ntini had dropped and presented it to Alice. He looked at the wound and wrinkled his nose. ‘Blimey, miss. There’s not much you can do with that, is there?’
‘Oh yes.’ Alice rummaged through the pack and extracted a small but quite heavy leather bag. ‘I took an instructional course in basic medicine at the London Missionary Society before we left,’ she said. ‘Just as well, I would say, the way this so-called holiday is going. Here, hold this.’ She held out a small bottle. Jenkins wiped his hands on his trousers and took it, then received a small package wrapped in oiled waterproof paper.
Alice kneeled down beside the stricken bearer, whose face was now creased in pain. His eyes widened in anxiety when she produced another bottle from her bag, and then a small, tube-like instrument with a thin needle point at its end. She called to Mzingeli.
‘Please come and interpret for me. Please explain to Sando that this is not witchcraft but white man’s medicine to make him better. Tell him that I will use this needle.’ She turned to Simon and Jenkins, now watching with as much anxiety as Sando, and held up the hypodermic syringe. ‘It’s still quite new, I think; it’s called the Pravaz syringe back home.’ She showed it to Mzingeli. ‘I will use this to put some fluid into his veins that will stop the pain. Then I will very carefully clean the wound and sew the skin and flesh back on to the shoulder. He will feel no pain while I do this, although later on it will hurt a little. He must not touch it afterwards.’
Mzingeli nodded and translated. Sando, the whites of his eyes showing and his mouth open, said nothing, but watched Alice with awe as she went about her work: first pouring a little water on to her hands, washing them with a tiny bar of soap from her box and drying them, then slipping the needle end into the little bottle, pulling the morphine into the syringe and, with great care, injecting the fluid into the arm. The bearer winced but seemed as fascinated by the procedure as the four others, who were all looking on, quite engrossed. Alice poured a little liquid from the bottle on to a swab from the package that Jenkins held and then gently dabbed it on the open wound to disinfect it. This also had the effect of stopping the bleeding. Wiping the wound dry, she selected a needle from her box and then threaded it with a fine gut.
‘Simon,’ she called, ‘wash your hands and put a little of this disinfectant on them. Then pull back the flesh that is hanging down and hold it in place while I sew. Three five two - if you’re going to be sick, I would rather you did it away from my patient, thank you.’
‘Thank you, miss. Oh bloody . . .’Ere, Jelly, ’old this bottle, quick.’
The operation continued until the flesh had been sewn into place, with Sando’s head nodding now, his eyes half closed, as the morphine took effect. ‘There,’ said Alice, making a tight little overstitch to complete the sewing. ‘Just as well that I was always a good seamstress.’ She looked up at Fonthill. ‘Don’t you think, darling?’
Simon shook his head and blew out his cheeks. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, my love, I think you are bloody marvellous. Killing a lion one minute, then performing surgery on your knees the next. You continue to amaze me. I may have to marry you again if you go on like this.’
‘Very good, very good, Nkosana,’ added Mzingeli, his face beaming. Then he prodded Sando awake and spoke to him sharply.
‘No,’ said Alice. ‘Let him be for a while. He will need to recover from the shock.’
Fonthill stood upright and nodded to the carcasses of the dead beasts. ‘What should we do with these?’ he asked the tracker. ‘Just leave them for the scavengers to clear up?’
Mzingeli looked shocked. ‘Oh no, Nkosi. They very valuable. Meat no good for eating, but skins good, particularly lion’s tail. Fetch much money in Transvaal and Cape. Ntini and me do it now. Then we carry back to kraal.’
‘Very well. I’ll get Jenkins to make us some tea . . . when the poor lamb has recovered, that is.’
A fire was soon lit and a shame-faced Jenkins set their little black kettle on it, and as Alice carefully repacked her bag, Mzingeli and Ntini began to the skin the carcasses, using very sharp hunter’s knives. Within minutes, the skins were stretched over bushes to dry and everyone settled down to drink strong black tea - even a woozy Sando, who kept looking at his shoulder in puzzlement.
It was, then, a peaceful scene that was interrupted by Jenkins, who looked up from his mug and murmured softly, ‘Oh, shit!’
Out of the bush had materialised some ten or twelve natives. They were tall men, superbly built, with very black skins that seemed to shine over rippling muscles in the sunlight. They wore girdles of monkey’s tails and headdresses of black ostrich feathers, extending over their necks and shoulders and reminding Simon of the fur tippets worn by fashionable ladies in London. Each warrior - for they seemed to be in war dress - carried a long shield of hide, like that used by the Zulus of the south, and a short stabbing assegai, except that, unlike the Zulus of the south, the blades of their spears were not silver but quite black. They moved around the edge of the clearing so that the little group was surrounded, and then stood, watching them silently.
Fonthill shot a quick glance at Mzingeli. It was the first time he had seen fear on the face of the tall man.
‘Matabele,’ said the tracker. ‘Black blades. Bad men. Very bad.’
Chapter 2
Fonthill slowly stood. ‘What do they want, do you think?’ he asked Mzingeli.
‘I ask. But they don’t like Malakala people. Take us for slaves.’ He licked his lips and spoke to one of the Matabele, who had advanced a little ahead of the rest. He wore a waxed circlet of fibre woven into his hair, like the Zulu elders, and had the air of an inDuna.
The man looked at Mzingeli scornfully and then, ignoring him, advanced towards Fonthill and stood for a moment, slowly turning his head to look at Alice and Jenkins before moving his gaze back to Simon. He gestured to the carcasses of the dead animals and then spoke angrily.
‘He say why do we kill King Lobengula’s lions and why do we come into Matabeleland without king’s permission?’
Out of the corner of his eye, Fonthill saw one of the Matabele pick up Alice’s rifle and then her pack. A second native moved towards Jenkins’s Martini-Henry. Simon t
ook a deep breath, then slowly bent down and picked up his own rifle, which lay at his feet.
‘Pick up your rifle, 352,’ he said softly. Then he sighted the long barrel over the shoulder of the Matabele chieftain and fired it into the skull of the lion, causing it to jerk. The noise of the report caused all of the natives to jump and sent echoes bouncing back from the surrounding bush. Fonthill nonchalantly reloaded his rifle, cocked the mechanism and slowly raised the muzzle until it was pointing directly into the eyes of the man facing him.
‘Tell him,’ he called to Mzingeli, ‘to order that man to replace Alice’s rifle and pack on the ground, otherwise I will blow his head off.’
‘No, Nkosi.’
‘Yes. Tell him.’
The tracker cleared his throat and spoke slowly. The Matabele’s eyes widened for a moment, and Simon thought he detected fear in them as he regarded the muzzle of the gun, aimed so menacingly close to him. But he remained still and stood silent. At last he turned his head and nodded towards his follower. Sulkily the man dropped the rifle and the pack and Alice stepped forward to regain them.
It was a victory of a sort. Simon smiled and lowered the rifle, and nodded cordially to the inDuna. ‘Now,’ he said to Mzingeli, ‘please explain the circumstances - how we were asked by your village to shoot the lions, which were attacking their herd.’
For the first time, the inDuna deigned to notice the tracker and stood frowning as the story was told. When he responded, it was with perhaps just a little less antagonism than before.
‘He say,’ said Mzingeli, ‘that we should not have entered country without king’s agreement.’
‘Very well. Please explain that we were on our way to - what’s the place that is supposed to be the guardian entrance to Matabeleland?’
‘Makobistown.’
‘Yes, that’s it. I had forgotten. Please explain that we crossed at the Tati border and were on our way to Makobistown to gain permission when emissaries from your father’s kraal asked us to remove the danger of the lions. We have skinned the beasts and were about to travel to Bulawayo to present the skins and the lion’s tail to his majesty, as a gift from us.’
For a brief moment a smile flickered across Mzingeli’s face before, sombrely, he translated.
The lie - probably supported by Fonthill’s intransigence - was obviously convincing, for the inDuna’s attitude changed. He turned to Mzingeli, nodded and waved his assegai. Immediately his companions, their faces still imperturbable, squatted on the ground, their spears at their sides.
‘Phew,’ murmured Jenkins. ‘Shall I make us all a nice cup of tea, then, bach sir?’
‘Good idea. Mzingeli, ask the chief if he would like English tea.’
The tracker did so, and a brief, guttural interchange took place.
‘He say no. Rather have brandy.’
‘Very well. Three five two, see if you can find a drop of brandy. Not the good French, mind you. That Boer Cape stuff that you like so much.’
The Welshman made a face. ‘What a terrible waste.’ He shuffled across to Sando’s pack and withdrew a bottle and an extra tin cup. Simon, Jenkins and Mzingeli threw away the tea dregs at the bottom of their own cups and joined the Matabele. Fonthill clinked cups with the inDuna and raised his mug in an unmistakable gesture. ‘To King Lobengula,’ he toasted. The others followed suit and the Matabele, grinning, nodded his head and joined them. Then he spoke again to Mzingeli, who now seemed to have earned his approval.
‘This not good,’ explained the tracker. ‘He say they take us to Bulawayo to king’s kraal. He say Lobengula like English. He say we should start now.’
‘Oh blast! Will it be dangerous, do you think?’
‘Cannot say, Nkosi. King cruel man. When some man accused of stealing his cattle, he kill him, of course. But very cruelly. He strip off skin from forehead and pull it over eyes that saw cattle. He cut off nose that smelled them. He cut off ears that hear them. He put out eyes that seen them. Then he throw man to crocodiles. Very cruel.’
‘How disgusting.’ Alice had joined them, after seeing to her patient, who was now fully conscious.
‘Yes, Nkosana. But is true he seem to like English. Some traders stay in Bulawayo and one missionary. Other men come from other countries to try and get treaty to dig for gold and other things in ground, but king very careful. I hear perhaps he sign treaty with Nkosi Rhodes from Cape. But I am not sure.’
‘Cecil John Rhodes. Ah.’ Fonthill nodded his head. ‘He’s a shrewd devil, that one. I met him once, years ago. I wonder . . .’
His musings were ended by the inDuna climbing to his feet. The Matabele spoke briefly to Mzingeli then to his men, who all stood.
‘I’m sorry, Alice,’ said Simon, ‘but it seems we are all off to Bulawayo to pay homage to the king, whether we like it or not.’
She frowned, then her face relaxed into a smile. ‘Ah well,’ she said. ‘At least it should be interesting. Just don’t get caught stealing his cattle, that’s all I can say.’
Three long, thick branches were cut from the bush by the Matabele and the skins carefully draped over them. The ends of the poles were lifted on to the shoulders of six of the warriors and then they were off. As they left the clearing, the hyenas were already gathering around the carcasses of the lions.
They moved at what seemed at first to be a slow pace, set by the inDuna, but his loping stride was deceptive and the three British soon began to feel the heat, as they left the bush and began to traverse stony, sandy terrain. Around them, but unseen, baboons began to bark and troops of more courageous chattering monkeys formed company with them as they marched. Alice became concerned that the unremitting pace might displace some of Sando’s stitches, and she insisted that the party halt, while she made a makeshift sling for the man’s arm.
This attracted the inDuna’s attention, and he gazed in astonishment at the neat array of stitches that patterned the ugly wound in the bearer’s shoulder. He demanded to know who had made this decoration, and his jaw dropped as Mzingeli explained what Alice had done. He became noticeably deferential to her afterwards.
‘He think you powerful lady witch doctor,’ Mzingeli told her.
‘So she is,’ grunted Simon. ‘So she is. I should know.’
Alice aimed a playful blow at him. But her eyes were dark. ‘I only wish I was,’ she said.
Gradually they passed out of the mopane woodland and moved into more open country, still dotted with bush but also studded with rocky kopjes that rose from well-grassed veldt. These were interspersed with low rocks, smooth and sun-burnished, that swelled up from the grassland like whales stranded on a seashore. It was obviously better country for cattle, and they passed many small kraals before stopping at one to spend the night. That evening, as they sat around an open fire eating black bread and the meat of a young duiker buck, the Matabele party, including the inDuna, kept well away from the British and their bearers. Fonthill, however, noticed that the Matabele were casting envious eyes on the rifles and the packs.
‘Ah,’ said Mzingeli, ‘Matabele are thieves. Everyone knows this. We must be careful with our things.’
‘Tell me about them. What sort of race are they?’
The tracker curled his lip. ‘They are the conquerors of this region. Everyone afraid of them - like Zulus in south. The men think war and hunting only things for men to do. Leave everything else to their women. They take everything they see because they think it is their right.’
‘I see. Where did they originate?’
‘They really Zulus. They come from Zululand long time ago - maybe fifty years, maybe more - in the time of the great Zulu king Shaka. They had their own chief, Mosilikatze. He have trouble with Shaka and lead his clan north. They fight Boers in Transvaal and move north again. Come here and settle. Kill men of many tribes, including my own, and also big tribe in north, the Mashonas. Make these people their subjects and slaves. They good hunters and warriors. Everyone afraid of them.’
The flam
es from the fire flickered across the tracker’s face. Usually passive, his features were now set grimly and his eyes were cold. ‘They kill my two brothers. So I leave village as young man and cross Limpopo and go south. Work for Dutchmen on farms in Transvaal and become good tracker and hunter.’
Mzingeli fell silent, and the two men stared into the fire for a moment. Fonthill looked across the flames and saw that both Alice and Jenkins were asleep under their blankets, their heads resting on their folded outer garments, their rifles tucked under the edges of their coverings. Most of the natives of the kraal had crawled into their beehive-shaped huts, and the Matabeles from Bulawayo were stretched out on their sleeping mats.