by John Wilcox
He called across to Mzingeli. ‘Ask one boy at each of the thorn bushes to get into a wagon to help fight off any natives who get through.’
The tracker lifted his rifle in acknowledgement, and Fonthill felt some reassurance as he saw the boys, smiling broadly and waving their assegais, climb into the wagons. At least they seemed confident enough. But was this very thin line enough to resist an attack from all sides? He looked at the cattle. The oxen had been seemingly unfazed by the gunfire and were standing, heads down, quite passively. Even the horses in their midst were trying to graze in the tiny space allowed to them. The warriors were taking their positions now, spreading out on the edge of the bush, with the powder trail behind them. No, he could not afford to wait.
‘Time to shoot the bottles,’ he called across to Jenkins.
The Welshman waved his rifle in acknowledgement and climbed on to the side planking of his wagon, situated next to that of Joshua. There he paused, wobbling for a moment as he wrapped an arm around one of the steel roof hoops, now bereft of their canvas covers. He raised his rifle to his shoulder . . . and paused. ‘Can’t see the bleedin’ bush on this side,’ he shouted. ‘These bastards are in the way.’
‘Damn! try when they start running. I’ll do the one on this side.’
‘All right. ’Ere they come again.’
Balancing at the end of his wagon, Fonthill raised his rifle to find the bush with the tall branch, but Jenkins was right. The attacking warriors gave him no sight of it. Forgetting the need for translation, he shouted, ‘No volleys. Fire at will. FIRE!’
Once again gunfire rang out from the wagons, but on the word ‘Fire’, the warriors had immediately plunged to the ground, so that the bullets hissed over their heads. Now they raised themselves and continued to run towards the wagons, shrieking and brandishing their spears above their shields. But not all of them. Hurriedly ramming in another round, Fonthill had time to see three of the warriors slinking away from the charge, clearly declining to risk their lives in the last few yards of the dash to the wagons. The others, however, came on.
Again, at such short range it was impossible for anyone to miss, and Fonthill, firing from Jenkins’s old wagon, felled one man, reloaded and killed another before he turned to his left, where the line was almost upon Alice’s wagon. He brought down a third, who was attempting to reach up to Alice with his knobkerrie. But the boys in the wagons were now involved, and they stood manfully along the side boardings, thrusting and stabbing downwards. In his wagon, Simon joined them, swinging his rifle by the barrel as a club.
A thrown assegai thudded into the side of the wagon and he plucked it out and threw it back, swinging the gun again and smashing its heavy barrel on the head of a warrior who was attempting to climb on to a wheel. He thrust the muzzle into the face of a second, who fell back on to those behind, giving Simon time to look up. He could see the bush! Quickly - too quickly - he aimed and fired. Nothing! Before he could reload, however, there was an explosion from the other side of the compound. Turning, he saw a flame rise and then fall, before running along spluttering and dancing, virtually at ground level, as the fire took hold of the powder and then leaped into the dry brush all around. In seconds, the bush beyond the far side of the wagons was a wall of flame. It reached the edges of the vegetation but there, starved of fuel, it spluttered and died. Nevertheless, although it did not vault the barren trail, it continued to burn behind it, crackling and rising in a yellow wall, causing the attackers in front of it to run, screaming, away from the flames towards the northern part of the trail.
‘Three five two,’ shrieked Fonthill. ‘Come over here and protect Alice. I’m going out to fire the trail. Cover me if you can.’
Without waiting for a reply, he rammed a round into the breech of his rifle and leapt down on the inside of the laager, pushing his way desperately between oxen and wagons until he reached the point nearest the end of the flame wall. He shot one attacker and then vaulted from the wagon and ran headlong through a narrow gap in the warriors until he reached the unfired end of the powder trail. There he turned, in time to swing his rifle at a large native, who took the blow on his forearm, causing him to stumble backwards. Fonthill was conscious that another attacker had been brought down by a bullet from the laager, and he crouched and fumbled for his matches, praying that one would strike first time. It spluttered into life and he just had time to roll away from an assegai thrust that plunged into the ground near his hip before the powder trail hissed and then broke into life. The fire immediately danced away until it broke into a wall of flame on reaching the vegetation, complemented by an explosion as the second bottle was reached. The laager was now in the centre of a fire storm.
Fonthill threw himself forward, away from the fire, and lay prostrate. He, however, was no longer of interest to the warriors nearest to him. The effect of the blaze and the explosion on them and the remaining attackers had been immediate. Those who had reached the wagons turned and fled, rushing into the warriors behind, so that the ground between the flaming bush and the laager became a maelstrom of black figures, silhouetted against the yellow flames.
‘Keep firing,’ shouted Fonthill, now crouching and running back towards the wagons, but he could not be heard above the roar of the flames. It was a superfluous order in any case. The black figures starkly illuminated against the flames made perfect targets, and the firing continued from the wagons. The terrified attackers, not knowing which way to turn at first, had now found one escape route, however. The line of powder across the trail to the north had found no vegetation to feed on and had now spluttered to extinction, leaving a narrow gap between the fires. Through it ran what was left of the attackers, hurling away their weapons as they fled.
‘Alice!’ shouted Fonthill, hauling himself into her wagon.
‘Yes, I’m all right.’ She rose from behind the little barricade she had made, her face smudged black with cordite and her eyes looking at the flames in wonder. ‘What on earth have you done?’
‘Just a few fireworks. Thank God you’re safe. Whoa!’ The last exclamation came as the oxen nudged at the wagon, causing it to shudder. ‘Boys.’ He gestured to the thorn-filled gaps, and at the black figures in the wagons, who were staring wide-eyed at the flames. He pointed to their two comrades who were mingling with the oxen, attempting to soothe them, and in dumb show indicated that they should join them. He bit his lip. If the beasts did stampede, then the wagons would be easily overturned.
He jumped down himself and joined the boys, who were all now thrusting their way between the horns, patting necks, talking quietly and gently calming the animals. The horses were wide-eyed, but Mzingeli and Jenkins made their way to the middle of the herd to quieten them too, and the compound was soon more tranquil, if still a little disturbed.
They were helped by the fact that the fire had run its course on both edges of the wide trail, where the vegetation ran out and offered it no fuel, so leaving the laager untouched. The flames still ran back a little into the bush, but there was no wind and it was clear that, amongst the stony outcrops, the fire was beginning slowly to burn itself out.
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins. ‘Just like bonfire night, bach. Bloody good idea.’ He grinned broadly. ‘I’m glad I thought of it.’
Fonthill turned to the tracker. ‘Mzingeli, see if any of the boys have been hurt, and Jenkins and I will make sure that the varmints have actually gone. We must be careful.’
Treading carefully, their rifles at the ready, the two moved between the figures lying around the clearing. There were, in fact, no wounded, for the range had been too short to inflict light wounds and those seen moving on the ground earlier had obviously succumbed. Even Alice’s hunting rifle seemed to have proved effective. They counted twenty-three corpses and then, horrifyingly, another three blackened figures where the flames had taken them in the bush. Nowhere was there evidence of a uniformed figure.
Fonthill climbed on to the north-facing wagon and levelled his field glasses u
p the trail. He could clearly see the last of the retreating warriors and . . . was that a litter being carried, bearing a figure in yellow? He refocused but the distance was too great.
‘Only two boys hurt little bit by spears,’ reported Mzingeli. ‘But they happy with fight. They think they now great warriors and are excited about the oxen promised to them.’
‘Well.’ Fonthill. grinned ‘That’s one way of getting rid of the animals when we reach Bulawayo.’
‘Will they try and ’ave another go when we cross into Mattabellyland?’ asked Jenkins. ‘Or even, look you, on the other side of those koppy things?’
Fonthill pursed his lips. ‘I think we’ve hurt them badly enough. We must have killed almost half of them and I doubt de Sousa is paying ’em enough to persuade them to have another go at us. The fire, I think, would have really frightened them.’
Mzingeli nodded. ‘They think you great witch doctors,’ he intoned. ‘Masters of fire. They don’t attack again.’
‘Good. Now . . .’ Simon looked around. ‘Where the hell is Alice?’
‘She’s scribblin’ again,’ said Jenkins. ‘Would it be a letter to ’er mother, then, d’you think?’
Fonthill sighed. ‘I doubt it, old chap. I rather feel she is recording for posterity what she will probably call the Battle of Tuli Gap. But whatever she names it, I’m damned glad it’s over.’
He sank to the ground, all the fatigue and misery of warfare suddenly descending upon him and the adrenalin raised by the excitement of battle now drained away. He wiped his blackened face with what was left of his handkerchief.
For a moment the two men, one squatting on the ground, the other standing protectively over him, were silent. Then Fonthill looked up and grinned sadly. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We’d better organise a burial party.’
Chapter 9
It was late afternoon before the debris of the battle had been cleared away, and reluctant as he was to remain in this blackened, benighted spot, Fonthill decided that it would be best to stay in laager overnight before moving on. He sent Mzingeli and Ntini out to scout the other side of the kopjes and further ahead to the far bank of the little Shashe to ensure that the Portuguese and his men had retreated fully. They returned to say that the tracks of the attackers had ended at the Shashe Drift and then reappeared on the other side, heading north. They were, it appeared, quite safe. For now.
While the burial parties worked, Alice attended to the minor cuts sustained by two of the boys and then stayed in her wagon, head down, writing on her pad. She broke off only to stride into the blackened bush to estimate distances, speaking to no one, her brow wrinkled in concentration. Only on Mzingeli’s return, when Simon broke open the whisky to celebrate, albeit wearily, the victory, did she join the others.
Later, as the boys cooked, she settled by Fonthill’s side. ‘I have written my story,’ she said, ‘and I must send it back to the cable station. May I have Ntini set off to do this tomorrow?’
Simon shook his head. ‘Sorry. That’s just not possible. Once we are in Bulawayo, I have to deliver the goods to the king and then persuade him to allow Rhodes to send off his pioneer column. When, hopefully, he has agreed, Ntini can leave to send my telegram to Rhodes and he can carry your cable at the same time.’
‘Hell, Simon, this is a news story, for goodness’ sake! I must get if off immediately.’
‘Oh come along, Alice! Who is going to scoop you out here? I agree that news travels amazingly fast across this emptiness, but none of your competitors will trust native rumours, and anyway, you will have the kind of details that no one else could possible garner. I’m sure you can afford to wait.’
‘No I can’t.’ Her eyes were cold and hard. ‘You can surely spare just one man for me.’
Fonthill sighed. ‘I am afraid not. I am sorry, my dear. You must wait. This mission is more important than your story.’
Alice’s eyes came alight. ‘Your mission.’ The words were a sneer. ‘Do you really consider that taking guns to a native chief is an honourable mission? We have seen today another example of the criminal brutality that exists everywhere out here. By bribing tribes with guns - bloody guns, for God’s sake - do you really think that Rhodes is peacefully settling this territory?’ She grabbed her husband’s arm. ‘Of course he’s not. He is just stirring the pot. It’s not his country to settle anyway. It belongs to Lobengula. Why can’t he leave the man alone? You are not on a mission, Simon. You are just running guns, like any other disreputable smuggler, although you seem to manage to kill more people in the doing of it. Don’t talk to me about your mission!’
Simon tried to reach for her hand, but she withdrew it. He frowned at her vehemence. Then his own temper rose. ‘Dammit all, woman. Only a few minutes ago I was being kissed as a hero of the Empire. Now I am being condemned as a murdering gun-runner. I think you had better make up your mind.’
Their voices had risen, and Mzingeli and Jenkins, washing their cups from a water bag, looked up in surprise, while the boys bent their heads to their tasks in some embarrassment. A silence descended on the little camp.
Fonthill swallowed. ‘It’s silly to quarrel like this, Alice,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I had not realised that you felt like this about this journey, and I am sorry that you are upset.’
She looked at him stonily for a moment, and then her face softened and she leaned towards him and took his hand. ‘We were all very nearly killed today, Simon,’ she said, ‘and I have to confess that I am still trembling. Writing my story made me realise how stupid - how pathetically stupid - all this killing is. We could have been speared to death, and more than twenty of these tribesmen were killed by us. And for what? A tribal home that is not ours nor that of Portugal. You know,’ she gripped his hand tightly, ‘this man Rhodes is nothing more than a rich adventurer who has now turned his hand to land-grabbing. He has become a despot whom I regard as being far worse than poor old Lobengula with his gout.’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘No. I disagree. Rhodes may be a rich adventurer, but he is a man with a vision who is not after further pecuniary gain for himself. He has as much money as he wants.’ He enfolded her hand in both of his. ‘Alice, dear Alice, things are moving at a fast pace in this damned continent. Rhodes believes fervently that the Matabele - and particularly their subject tribes - would be far better off as part of the British Empire than under some somnolent European country represented here by that cruel bastard de Sousa. And that’s really the choice, you know, with probably the Boers of the Transvaal thrown into the equation. Them or us. Slavery, or freedom under the British flag. Poor old Lobengula cannot stay sitting like a fly in aspic, guzzling champagne and brandy while the world moves on around him. I think he knows that too.’
Alice wrinkled her nose. ‘Yes, but what if Rhodes has to kill the whole Matabele nation to give them this “freedom”? He’s quite likely to do that, isn’t he? He’s a ruthless man. It’s clear that Lamb, Wolseley and the British Government are worried about it too.’
‘He has promised not to do that unless provoked, and I doubt if that will happen. But anyway, that’s part of my job, don’t forget. To stop the man going in with all guns blazing.’
‘Hmm. So you won’t object, then, if I take one of the boys and go back myself to cable my story?’ She could not resist grinning.
‘Yes I bloody well would. I can’t spare another man, and most of all I can’t spare you. Who is going to treat poor old Lobengula’s gout? He may well treasure me as a dear and close friend of Queen Victoria, but he treasures his own personal witch doctor even more. If he finds that you are not part of the parcel I have brought, he’s likely to slit my belly open and feed me to the crocodiles.’ Her grin widened and he went on: ‘And what about the bigger story about him conceding agreement for Rhodes to allow his column of pioneers in to start digging - or colonising - Mashonaland? If you are not with me, you will miss that, my love, won’t you?’
She shook her head resignedly. ‘Oh, very well.
You win. I will wait until you have got your own story for Rhodes. But please, please, no more killing, darling. I have become so weary of it.’
‘So have I.’ They exchanged a kiss, and it seemed as if a collective sigh of relief ran through the whole camp.
They inspanned early the next morning, but, still cautious, Fonthill sent Mzingeli ahead to cross the river and ride ahead to the village of Makobistown, the ‘gateway’ to Matabeleland, where the task of the inDuna there was to report to Bulawayo the entry of strangers to the country from the south. On their first, unheralded visit, Fonthill and his party had crossed the border from the Transvaal over the Limpopo, much further to the east. Given the importance of his cargo, Fonthill instructed the tracker to request an escort from the border to the king’s capital. This would remove once and for all the threat of another attack from Gouela.
In the event, the progress to Bulawayo was uneventful, in fact almost regal, for the border inDuna was quick to recognise the importance of the party and he provided fifty plumed Matabele warriors, in full regalia, to act as escort for the journey.
‘Blimey,’ observed Jenkins, ‘now I know ’ow our Queen feels.’ To emphasise the point, he bestowed a wave of the hand, a gracious nod of the head and a regal smile on the many villagers who turned out to watch the procession go by.