by John Wilcox
Beit raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, Mr Fonthill, these are unsettled times, and certainly you are going into territory that has no conventional rule of law, to say the least. I will provide rifles for your two overseers, whose names, by the way, are Murphy and Laxer. May I enquire as to your route?’
‘Yes. We will take what I understand is the now reasonably well-established northern road through Bechuanaland, paying King Khama a courtesy call at his capital at Palapye, before continuing up through the Tuli Block between the Shashe and Macaloutsi rivers and crossing into Matabeleland at Tuli. There is a little gold mining there, I understand?’
‘Umph, yes. It’s been going on for some time, before the recent finds on the Rand. But it’s small and not very profitable. When last I looked, Tuli gold was worth about four pounds per ounce. But a word about King Khama.’
‘Yes?’
‘I have not met him, but by all accounts he is a civilised man and an enlightened ruler. However, he hates the Matabele. His people are peaceful and non-aggressive, all the things the Matabele are not, and Lobengula’s men still raid into his territory, even though Bechuanaland recently became a British protectorate. In fact you could say that a state of war exists between the two countries, so I advise that you keep the contents of your cargo secret. It would not do for you to be seen taking weapons through his country to give to the King of the Matabele.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘I take your point, Mr Beit. Tell me about the area just south of the Tuli crossing. I understand that it is a bit of a no-man’s-land, lots of cattle stealing and that sort of thing.’
‘Indeed it is. It is really a disputed territory, but no one is actually prepared to go to war to possess it. It has the reputation of being a rather lawless place - although, indeed, one could say that everywhere north of here fits that description.’ The gentle smile had returned. ‘Mr Fonthill, this may be . . . what shall I say? . . . a not exactly incident-free journey you are about to undertake. But I know of its importance and I do wish you well.’
‘Thank you, sir. Perhaps I could see the overseers at eight tomorrow? Ah. Just one other point. I am expecting a tracker - a member of the Malakala tribe, named Mzingeli - to arrive here to join me within the next couple of days. I would be grateful if you would direct him to our hotel. Oh yes. He will need a tent, please, and a good rifle.’
Beit’s eyebrows rose again. ‘A tent and a rifle for a Kaffir?’
‘Yes. This man will be vital to me on this trip. Now, may I see the cargo?’
‘Of course.’ Beit rang a small handbell on his desk and gave instructions in German to a young man who entered. ‘Hans will show you. Please let me know if there is anything more you need.’
There were no signs of diamonds in the diamond vault but the boxes were as described: made of stout timber, with two bands of strip steel strengthening them, and padlocked. The young German gave them two keys and Fonthill unlocked the boxes and examined and then counted the contents. It was, of course, all in order. The Cape wagons waiting outside were new and of sturdy construction, the maids-of-all-work in South Africa upon whose stout axles most of the transport in the southern colonies rested.
Early the next morning, Fonthill, Jenkins and Alice visited the de Beers offices again to meet Murphy and Laxer, the two men who would be virtual managers of the expedition while on trek and overseers of the natives.
The first impression was less than favourable. Murphy, the senior of the two, was in his middle forties and carrying a full black beard and a stomach that hung well over the belt that held up his woollen trousers. His face was pockmarked but his eyes were bright enough. Laxer, a dark-countenanced man with a strong Cockney accent, was younger, small and thin, but seemed wiry and energetic. Both men were burned by the Transvaal sun and they were dressed, Boer style, in wide-brimmed slouch hats, check shirts and lace-up boots.
‘Have either of you been to Matabeleland before?’ asked Fonthill.
‘No, your honour.’ Murphy had kept his Irish accent. ‘But we’ve bin just about everywhere else in this godforsaken land. Down in the Cape, in Zululand, ’ere in the Free State an’ through the Transvaal.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Drivin’ most of the time. We can ’andle any size of team you can yoke up. An’ we’re used to ’andlin’ the blacks and can speak the Bantu lingo.’
‘Fine. Have you seen the oxen and the Cape carts?’
‘Sure enough. Good beasts an’ well-found wagons.’
‘And you’ve agreed terms with Mr Beit?’
‘Yes, your honour. ’Appy about that.’
‘There is one point.’ The two men’s heads turned towards Alice in some surprise at hearing her intervene. ‘We do like to treat our boys well, you know,’ she said. ‘There will be no beatings or anything of that kind. Is that understood?’
The two exchanged glances and this time Laxer spoke. ‘Well, missus, I’d ’ave to say that in our experience a touch o’ the whip is what’s needed to get the black fellers movin’ properly. We’ve bin at this lark a long time, see, an’ they’re a lazy lot. I don’t care where they come from.’
‘Well, Mr Laxer, whatever your experience, there will be no whipping on this trip. Is that clear?’
‘Er, yes, mum.’
‘Good.’ Fonthill spoke again. ‘We shall be trekking through Bechuanaland and then north through some rather wild territory. Can you handle rifles?’
‘Oh aye, governor. We’ve ’unted all our lives.’
‘Good. There is a possibility that we may be attacked at some time by unfriendly natives who will be . . . er . . . covetous of our cattle. So you may be expected to help us defend ourselves. Do you have a problem with that?’
‘Oh surely no, sir.’ Murphy’s accent seemed to have grown during the course of the meeting, as though he was curbing it deliberately at first. ‘We don’t mind pottin’ at the black fellers at all, at all. Ah, that is, missus, when they’re out of order, that is. An’ only then, bless you.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I am hoping to leave just after first light tomorrow, if, as I hope, my native tracker arrives in time, so I will expect you to inspan before dawn and for us to be fully loaded by then. We have a long way to go and I don’t want to waste any further time.’ He shook hands with them both. ‘Let’s hope it’s a safe and uneventful journey. You can expect bonuses if you perform well. Jenkins and I will be here to help you load the cargo.’
The two men nodded, touched the brims of their hats with their forefingers and shuffled away. Fonthill, Jenkins and Alice exchanged glances.
‘What do you think?’ Simon asked them both.
‘I could have wished for more congenial travelling companions,’ said Alice, ‘but I suppose we must take what we can get. At least they seem experienced enough.’
Jenkins made a face so that his black eyebrows seemed almost to meet his great moustache. ‘Tough birds I’d say, bach sir. Not completely to be trusted, either. Let’s hope they can do their jobs. I will keep a close eye on them, look you.’
‘Oh goodness.’ Alice smiled. ‘I do hope that doesn’t mean punching them in the eye, my dear.’
‘Oh no, miss. Unless they deserve it, that is, see.’
Fonthill’s last pre-departure worry was removed when, just after noon, Mzingeli arrived. He came in covered in dust and riding a decrepit mule, so that his bare feet nearly touched the ground on either side of the animal’s flanks. Behind him, grinning widely, walked an equally dishevelled Ntini. ‘Sorry, Nkosi,’ said Mzingeli. ‘Long way. Am I late?’
‘My dear fellow, no, not at all,’ said Fonthill, pumping his hand. ‘I am glad to see that you have joined the cavalry.’
The tracker allowed himself a faint smile. ‘Too far to walk. Where we go?’
In his message to Mzingeli, Simon had merely said that he must be prepared to be away for at least a year and that they would journey to the north. He knew that the tracker could not read and that the mes
sage would have to be conveyed to him by the Afrikaner upon whose farm Mzingeli had his home. He therefore felt it prudent to betray as little as possible of their destination.
‘Well, I’m afraid that it is back to Bulawayo to begin with . . .’ the tracker let his face signify faint disapproval, ‘and then exploring out to the east, towards the coast.’ He explained the reason for the trip, and Mzingeli’s expression lightened a little at hearing of the contents of their cargo.
‘King will be pleased,’ he said. ‘But not Gouela, I think.’
‘Indeed. I fear that we may be attacked again and we must keep a very keen watch. That is one of the many reasons I am glad you are with us.’
‘Ah. I bring rifle.’
‘Good, but perhaps Ntini can be taught to use it. I have a modern army rifle for you - and it will be yours to keep. Oh, and the pay will be higher this time because Rhodes is providing everything.’
Mzingeli allowed one eyebrow to rise and his mouth to twitch a touch to show his pleasure. ‘Thank you. Good.’
It was after dawn before the column set off. Although the Kaffir drivers and herdsmen seemed competent, the oxen were not fully broken in to the yoke and it took a little time - with many curses from Murphy and Laxer - before they could be inspanned. Fonthill had begged an extra horse for Mzingeli to ride, which did not set well with the two overseers, who had been allocated seats in the wagons when they were not required to walk with the oxen and the boys. The mule was handed down to Ntini.
Eventually the party set off in a cloud of dust that rose and then hung sparkling in the rays of the early sunlight. Fonthill rode ahead, his compass in his pocket, for the trail to the north out of the town was clearly defined. By his side rode Alice and Jenkins. In the leading wagon sat Murphy by the side of the senior Kaffir driver, who handled his oxen team well. Behind them, under the white canvas sheeting that protected the cargo from the sun, sat the tents and the paraphernalia of camping. If there had to be a trial crossing of a particularly difficult-looking river or donga, Fonthill reasoned that this load was the one that could most easily be risked, so it should lead. The second wagon, the most heavily laden, carried the guns and ammunition boxes. Then came the gold sovereigns, secured in one box, although Fonthill had procured other similarly bound containers, filled with stones, to sit around it to mitigate whatever attention might be prompted by one box being carried in singular state. The fourth wagon contained their personal belongings and half a dozen barrels of water, plus a similar number of light fatchies, or water bags. The last wagon was used to spell the Kaffirs who were herding on foot the oxen and extra horses at the rear. Laxer - at least to start with - was walking with these boys, ensuring that no animal was allowed to wander. Set out ahead of the column at angles of forty-five degrees, like probing horns, rode Mzingeli and Ntini as scouts, each equally proud of his new mount.
It was, felt Fonthill, looking around him, a well-equipped, well-organised convoy, and, he reflected grimly, it needed to be. Their route lay over untrammelled territory that bristled with danger. Despite the sunshine and the crispness of the morning, he felt a sense of foreboding.
The first day was uneventful and easy riding, in that the veldt surrounding Kimberley was a huge plain, level and virtually featureless, even boring. The air was good but the country was dreary: the plain broken only by small, flat-topped hills, with a few thorny mimosa and a little wild jessamine poking through the thin sandy soil. Away from Kimberley, this land was arid and empty, as though it had never been farmed or occupied, and so unlike the prosperous, burgeoning town that they had just left behind them.
And so it continued for the next ten days or so, until they were well into the kingdom of King Khama, where the land became dry and arid, with the surface terrain coloured a dark red and the fresh water sources becoming few and far between, forcing them to rely on their carried reserves. The travellers met no one. It was as though they had discovered a new land, undefiled by human beings or other living things.
While they were still within a couple of days’ riding of Kimberley, Fonthill had set a surreptitious watch during the hours of darkness to ensure that the precious cargo remained untouched. He, Jenkins and Mzingeli took it in turns to remain awake under their blankets for three hours at a time, keeping the boxes under surveillance, until, on the second night, Alice insisted on being added to the rota. Neither Murphy nor Laxer, nor any of the Kaffirs, however, showed the slightest interest in the cargo, and after a week Simon ended the guard duty.
The two overseers, in fact, displayed every competence. They took it in turns to spell the native drivers on the wagons’ hard benches and they supervised the workers genially and managed the daily tedious outspanning and inspanning rituals with efficiency. When a little game showed itself on the plain as they neared the heart of Bechuanaland, Murphy hunted down a duiker buck and took it with a shot fired from the saddle. That night they ate boiled rice and fresh meat, the latter roasted by means of a sharpened stick thrust through it and extended over the fire, the stick leaning on the V of a forked branch pushed into the ground. They drank Kaffir beer purchased from one of the native villages that had now begun to appear. The consistency of very thin gruel and a pinkish colour, it was made from local corn, the grain of which had been left to vegetate, dried in the sun, pounded into meal and gently boiled. Jenkins pronounced it excellent - sweet, he said, ‘with a slight acidity in the finish, like’. Bowing to the knowledge he had acquired as mess corporal in the 24th Regiment, they accepted his wisdom and bought several fatchies of it to supplement their water supply.
Alice had come to an agreement with Mzingeli that Ntini should take her dispatches back to Kimberley, from where they could be cabled to the Morning Post in London. It seemed that the young man knew where the cable office was - he had been employed similarly by a London businessman anxious to keep in touch with share values while on a hunting trip led by Mzingeli in the Transvaal. He was also reliable and anxious to earn the extra money that Alice promised him for providing this service. If it became necessary for her to cable while Ntini was away, she was resigned to relying on her ability to acquire a similarly trustworthy runner from local sources.
She had filed a preliminary story from Cape Town describing the purpose of their journey, the nature of their cargo and the route they would take. It was, she confessed, only a ‘colour story’, with little hard news. But it was a necessary preliminary sketch for what she hoped would follow.
After three and a half weeks of slow but not unpleasant progress, they reached King Khama’s capital. It was little more than a collection of shacks made of mud and some timber and peopled by several hundreds of the king’s rather unprepossessing subjects.
Observing them, Fonthill could well understand why the Matabeles treated them with derision. They showed little of the northern tribesmen’s fine physique and posture, being smaller and diffident in bearing and not at all warlike. Their king, however, was obviously made of a different fibre. In the past, as a comparatively young man, he had fought both his father and his brother and banished them, ruling ever since with justice and kindness, while showing a bold front to Lobengula, who ever looked for an opportunity to raid into Khama’s kingdom.
On arrival just outside the dusty little town, Fonthill sent a respectful message to the king, asking for his permission to camp in his capital and to pay a visit. The next day, a tall, slim, white-haired black man strolled unaccompanied into their camp. His high-cheekboned face featured a clipped beard and moustache, and he wore a well-cut European jacket, impeccably creased trousers and a wide-brimmed black hat, around whose high crown a white cloth had been wound. Khama, King of the Bechuanas, could not have cut a figure more different than that of Lobengula, King of the Matabele, had he worn the uniform of an admiral of the British fleet.
‘Good morning,’ he said to Fonthill. ‘I am Khama. I heard that you were on your way. I trust that you have had a pleasant and safe journey,’ and he extended his hand in greet
ing. ‘I believe that you are on your way to Bulawayo?’
Simon, who had been oiling his rifle, hurriedly wiped his palm on a piece of rag, shook hands and allowed his face to slip into a momentary frown. Did everyone in Africa know his business? He composed himself. ‘That is true, sir. Please, sit down, and may we offer you coffee or perhaps some tea?’ He pulled forward a camp stool.
‘Oh, I am quite happy to squat on the ground, you know. I am very much an African, you see.’ He sat cross-legged on the beaten grass and, awkwardly, Fonthill sat beside him. ‘But I would very much like a cup of tea. You do not have Darjeeling, by any chance, do you? I have quite acquired a taste for it, you know.’
‘Darjeeling?’ Simon was just able to prevent his jaw from dropping. ‘I think we might be able to oblige you, sir. One moment, please.’ He scrambled to his feet and called to Alice. She immediately assessed the identity of their visitor and, quickly adjusting her hair, strode forward to be introduced.