The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  ‘Not as big as my land.’

  ‘With respect, sir, it is about twice as large.’ Fonthill was not sure about this, but he rather doubted if the king would be able to check the fact.

  A silence fell on the gathering, only broken when a huge black woman entered, bearing a gourd of beer for Simon. She wore native dress, which meant very few garments. The king nodded towards her.

  ‘This my sister, Nini. She not married.’

  Unsure about the significance of this last piece of information, Fonthill struggled to his feet and bowed. Mzingeli, aware of the proprieties, inclined his head from the sitting position. But Nini strode forward, seized Simon’s hand and shook it vigorously, an act that made her huge bare breasts sway alarmingly. ‘How is you?’ she asked, disdaining to use Mzingeli’s interpretive skills.

  ‘I is . . . I am very well, ma’am. I am delighted to meet you.’

  ‘You have wife?’

  ‘Yes, she is with me.’ A look of what might have been disappointment came across Nini’s otherwise happy features. ‘You know Queen Victoria?’

  Fonthill shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. This was all getting rather out of hand. ‘Only very slightly, ma’am.’

  It was clear that the king’s sister’s knowledge of English was being exhausted, for she now nodded to Mzingeli to translate. ‘She know that Queen has sons. She would like to marry one. You help her?’

  Simon gulped, quickly dismissing from his mind the irreverent vision of the portly Prince of Wales and the eighteen-stone Princess Nini attempting to copulate. ‘I fear that would not be possible, ma’am. The Queen’s sons are married already, and our religion and constitution allow only one husband at a time.’

  The princess nodded, seemingly not disconcerted by the news. She pointed to the gourd. ‘Good beer. I make. Goodbyeing.’ Then, with a cheerful grin, she left.

  Fonthill squatted again and, although not exactly yearning to drink beer at half past eight in the morning, took a sip from the gourd. Nini was right. It was excellent. Perhaps she could have made a match of it with that famous bon vivant Prince Edward after all . . . But the king was speaking again.

  ‘I trust you. Anyone who is friend of great English Queen must be honourable man. Everyone I talk to from other countries want me to give them my land. They say to dig in it but I think they put their own people on it. I know that world is changing and not like that of my father. Perhaps I must give in to these strong countries, like yours.’

  The king was now looking hard at his guest and his face wore an expression of . . . what? Pleading? Desperation? Simon experienced a sudden sympathy for this man, who just wished to be left alone to live as his forebears had, but who clearly saw that he must somehow move with the times. A man who realised that he must change but not knowing which way to turn. A man under great pressure.

  He cleared his throat to reply, but the king was continuing. ‘I say to Rhodes he can come here and dig. In return, he promise me,’ and he slapped one finger after another on to his palm, ‘one hundred pounds your money on first day of every lunar month, a thousand rifles with hundred thousand bullets, and steamboat for me on Zambezi. What happen? Nothing. Now, Portuguese, Germans and other English tell me I have done wrong and should sign with them. My inDunas say I must not sign my country away. What do I do? You honest man. You know great Queen. Tell me, what do I do?’

  Fonthill frowned. What the hell to say? He took another, reflective drink from the gourd. Then, ‘I am English, of course, and your majesty will think that because of that I will favour the English in my reply. But I will attempt to be objective.’ He waited for Mzingeli to translate, for it was important that the tracker found the right words. Then he continued.

  ‘You know that the British Empire is the largest in the world. It has territories that are . . .’ his brain attempted to find a comparison that would be roughly accurate and also meaningful, ‘a hundred, hundred, hundred times bigger than Matabeleland and Mashonaland combined. It has ships that control the wide oceans and armies that exist in fifty countries or more. I myself have fought in these armies in five countries in the last five years and seen their power. If your majesty feels he must side with one of these great nations, then I have to say that he should choose the strongest, which is Britain.

  ‘As for the offers you are receiving from other English companies, I understand that you have already signed a treaty with Rhodes. I do not know this man well, but he is very rich and powerful - he owns many, many more oxen even than your majesty. He is a man of distinction in the Cape, and because of his prominent position, he would not - he could not - avoid keeping his word to you. So I recommend that you should put your trust in him.

  ‘However . . .’ Fonthill paused to allow Mzingeli to keep pace, but also to gather his thoughts. He found himself empathising with the king’s appeal. Could he help? ‘As you know, I wish to return to the Cape as soon as possible. I promise you that I will see Rhodes and explain to him your concern. I will say to him that whatever problems he has in keeping his word to you, they must be overcome, otherwise he will lose his contract with you. I hope that may help your majesty. I fear I can do no more.’

  The king listened carefully, and when Mzingeli had finished, he sat for a while looking at Fonthill. Then: ‘Wise words. Yes, I keep with Rhodes, but only as contract said: he can dig, but not to settle people here. Yes, please. You talk to him in Cape. I am glad you help me.’

  Fonthill bowed his head in acquiescence, and as silence descended again, he took another sip from the gourd. Then, however, a further thought occurred to him.

  ‘Your majesty has a Portuguese agent visiting you?’

  ‘Yes. He important man.’

  Simon coughed and wondered how to go on. ‘I am afraid, sir, that he does not appear to me to be a gentleman. I understand that he treats the tribes that come under his command to the east very badly. Making slaves of them—’

  The king interrupted Mzingeli quickly at this point: ‘That is good. Some people no good for anything but slaves. I have slaves.’

  Damn! Fonthill had to recover. ‘Yes, sir. But you treat your slaves well. I understand that he does not. He rapes and whips them. That is not the action of a white gentleman.’

  ‘Ah yes. It is right, you are different. But he is friends with King of Portugal. He is agent.’

  ‘I believe that he merely has duties involving the native tribes to the west of Mozambique. But also he has threatened me this morning’ - Simon felt at this point that he was behaving rather like the school sneak, betraying another boy to the headmaster, but he ploughed on anyway - ‘saying that I must not interfere with your plans to give digging rights to other countries. I think you should know, sir, that I do not think he is to be trusted.’

  Another silence descended, and it was clear that Lobengula was not comfortable with the accusation. Fonthill, however, refused to retract it. De Sousa had thrown down the challenge, and this opportunity for creating bad odour between him and the king was too good to be missed.

  Eventually Lobengula spoke. ‘King hear your words. He think about it.’

  Silence once more. It seemed as though the king had something else to say but was almost embarrassed to say it, or could not find the words to do so. He stirred on his couch, and once again a grimace flashed across his face.

  ‘Your majesty is in pain?’

  This seemed to open a door of opportunity for the big man. ‘Yes. My foot gives me much hurt. It is curse put on me by my enemies.’ His face took on a diffident expression, as though about to seek a favour but not knowing how to ask it of this strange, highly placed white man, who had brought him gifts but had so far asked nothing of him. Then he seemed to pluck up courage.

  ‘Your lady has power of witchcraft, my people tell me.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Fonthill smiled. ‘She is no witch doctor.’

  ‘Ah, but she heal shoulder of the Malakala man. Put back flesh torn by lion. No one get better after lion bite
or claw. They die. This man good now, I hear. Could she come and take curse off my foot?’

  Consternation settled on Fonthill. First he was a close friend of Queen Victoria, the most famous and powerful monarch in the world. Now he was married to a witch doctor! He thought quickly. Alice had only rudimentary medical knowledge, given to her over four days by doctors at the Missionary Society who knew the territory and its dangers. But there was no way she could cure gout. Or was there . . . ? Perhaps she could alleviate the pain a little. To do so would put them in good standing with the king. If she failed, however, this could diminish them both in Lobengula’s eyes. Anyway, he could hardly refuse the man’s request.

  ‘Your majesty will know,’ he began, ‘that we do not believe in curses. The problem with your foot will be a medical one . . .’ He sought for simple words that would explain it. ‘It will be the result perhaps of something you have eaten or drunk too much of. Or maybe a thorn that has settled deeply in the foot.’

  The king scowled. The scowl was reflected in Mzingeli’s translation. ‘He say he know all about thorns. No thorn in his foot.’

  Simon bowed his head. ‘Very well, sir. My wife is not a witch doctor, but nor is she any other sort of doctor. She does, however, have some basic skills in healing that might help you and perhaps relieve your pain. I will ask her.’

  The big smile returned to Lobengula’s face. ‘Good. Ask her come soon. Now, I give more food to you tonight. Is there more you want?’

  Smiling, Fonthill shook his head. ‘Only our horses and wagon from the border, sir. We are anxious to travel south.’

  ‘My men go get them today. Is good you go soon - to see Rhodes.’ Then he added quickly, ‘After your lady help me.’

  Fonthill rose, pulling Mzingeli with him, and they both bowed and shuffled out of the room. As they trudged back to the hut, Simon confided, ‘I shall be glad to get out of here, Mzingeli. I seem to be getting deeper and deeper into I don’t quite know what. But I don’t like it.’

  The tracker nodded. ‘King is cunning. You must be careful.’

  Alice herself was just returning to the hut as Fonthill approached. ‘I’ve been to Fairbairn’s store to pay him,’ she said. ‘I’ve left Jenkins up there, trying to haggle with him about the price of a bottle of whisky. The man was not exactly giving anything away last night, but I don’t begrudge him what he charges. He lives behind the shop, so to speak, and I can’t help feeling that he doesn’t have much of a life. But it’s his choice. Now, what did his majesty want?’

  They both sat on a log and Simon recounted his conversation with Lobengula, beginning with the king’s request for help with Rhodes.

  Alice pulled a face. ‘I have never met the great Cecil John,’ she said, ‘but he sounds a bit of a slippery customer to me. I would not like you to become too involved with him.’

  ‘Oh, as millionaires go, I don’t think he’s too bad. Of one thing I am sure - he’s a genuine patriot. When I met him in Kimberley seven or eight years ago, he gave me his vision of a British route to the north, with much of his map painted red. Then, he was just the company secretary of a mining outfit. I have read since that he has made two fortunes: the first in diamonds, of course, and the second from gold in the Transvaal. It’s my bet that he is not really interested in Matabeleland or Mashonaland for the mineral rights. He would rather settle the land with Britishers if he could and then try and build a road, or even a railway, to the north. The king is a shrewd old cove and I believe that he suspects this is what Rhodes is up to and he is worried about it.’

  Alice sniffed. ‘Well on that matter, I would be on Lobengula’s side. I know he is a cruel old despot, but he has done nothing to harm the British or any other Europeans, for that matter. Why can’t we leave him gradually to slip into the nineteenth century in his own way and his own time? We’ve got the biggest blasted empire the world has ever seen. Why do we need to add a few more African acres to it?’

  ‘I don’t quite agree, my love.’ Simon smiled. They had been over this ground before. Alice’s radical views were familiar to him. She yearned for the return to power of William Ewart Gladstone as prime minister of Great Britain, and for a resumption of a Liberal government’s anti-imperialist policies. As a war correspondent for the Morning Post, she had even managed to infiltrate her views into her reports for that most Tory of newspapers.

  He looked around him and gestured towards the rolling grassland behind the barrier of thorns. ‘I’ve seen enough to know that this is good land,’ he said, his eyes crinkled. ‘And I gather it is even better further north in Mashonaland. As it is, it is not developed at all, and the Matabele seem to know nothing about agriculture. They will never make the most of this fertile ground. I am talking about cultivating it, not digging for gold, silver, copper or whatever might be beneath these grasslands. I wouldn’t mind at all farming here.’ He grinned at her. ‘Bit less boring than Norfolk, anyway.’

  But Alice was not smiling, and remembering the king’s other request, Simon was glad of the chance to change the subject and put Lobengula’s plea to her.

  ‘What?’ His wife’s face was a study in consternation. ‘Good lord. I am not a doctor, Simon. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, Alice. I did try and explain, but it seems you have acquired a reputation as a magnificent witch doctor after stitching up Sando’s shoulder. Perhaps there is something you could do to ease Lobengula’s pain?’

  ‘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.

  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 an
d 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.