The Shangani Patrol

by John Wilcox

  Lobengula scratched his mark and then, sighing, reached for the wax. He scooped a little out with a broad finger, spread it on the paper alongside his cross, and then firmly impressed his seal on to the still warm wax, with a finality that seemed to express relief. The deed was done.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Simon, sharing the relief. ‘I will see that this is taken directly to Cape Town. He looked up at the king. ‘As this is an important document and,’ he coughed, ‘I believe there are people near here who would wish to see that it is not delivered, may I ask your majesty if he would provide a guard to see that, at least, it gets to the border safely?’

  The king waved a hand airily. ‘You shall have fifty warriors,’ he said. ‘They shall leave tomorrow.’

  Fonthill inclined his head. ‘The king is most kind.’

  Lobengula nodded. ‘I am told you want to go to the east. Why?’

  ‘Ah yes, sir. Mr Rhodes is anxious that once the road to the north is established, some way is found to make a passage to the Indian Ocean, so that a supply route is set up and it will be easier to trade with Matabeleland and Mashonaland by sea from the south. He has asked me to explore to examine the possibilities. I intend to begin this journey as soon as I am equipped, with, I hope, the help of Mr Fairbairn here.’

  ‘You go so quick?’

  ‘I fear so, sir.’

  ‘You take your wife with you? It is dangerous country that way.’

  Fonthill gave a rueful smile. ‘As I think you . . . er . . . know, sir, she is a strong woman. She insists on accompanying me, and I must confess, I will find her support and company on this difficult expedition of great value.’

  ‘Umph. Matabele men don’t take women with them when they go to war.’

  ‘Well, I am not exactly going to war. I hope that I shall not encounter violence where I go.’

  A grin came over the king’s face. ‘You will. The tribes that way are fighting people, not . . .’ his lip curled, ‘like the Bechuanas the other way.’

  There seemed little more to be said, so Fonthill inclined his head. Then he rose. ‘If the king will excuse me, there is much to be done.’

  Lobengula dismissed them both with a wave of his hand, and they left him disconsolately picking shreds of wax from the bottom of his ivory seal.

  Once outside, Fonthill let out a sigh of relief. He rolled the parchment up and tied it firmly with a red ribbon. ‘I’m glad that’s over,’ he confided to Fairbairn. ‘I was never sure that he would sign it.’

  ‘Come back to the shop and have a dram,’ said the Scotsman. ‘In celebration if you like - and you’d better tell me about this expedition of yours and how I can help.’

  ‘Thank you, I could do with a whisky. Yes, I shall need your help with provisions, and rather more than that, I fear.’

  The two trudged up the hill towards the trading post. ‘It sounds as though you will have to go through de Sousa’s province,’ said Fairbairn. ‘You will walk into trouble there.’

  ‘Not if I can avoid his land, or if I can leave him behind here. Slip away before he knows about my departure. I intend to travel light and fast, if I can.’

  ‘Huh, that depends on the terrain. There is some pretty thick bush that way - and Gouela is not the only one you have to worry about. This is slavers’ country.’

  ‘What, this far south? I thought they did not come further down than the Sudan.’

  ‘Good lord, no. The Arabs are all over central Africa, including the Congo. They stop short at Mashonaland, though. The Matabele would be too much of a handful for them. But they are a fierce lot. They employ mercenary tribesmen who can fight, and they have their raiding down to a fine art. It doesn’t do to tangle with them. They raid down to the east here, next to Portuguese East Africa and Matabeleland, although there is no precise border - just a jumble of small tribes - ideal hunting ground for them, of course.’

  They reached the store and ducked under the low lintel of its doorway. ‘Here, sit down,’ said Fairbairn. ‘I’ll bring us a wee dram - on me. Take a look at this.’

  Fonthill sank into a cane armchair that creaked with his weight and picked up the old map that Fairbairn flung at him. He spread it out on his lap. It showed the east coast of southern Africa, accurately, as far as he could see, with the formidable block of Portuguese East Africa dominating the coastline north to south for about a thousand miles. No getting round that. The blue line of the Zambezi snaked its way down from the north, eventually curving to debouch into the Indian Ocean. But it was far too far to the north, perhaps some four hundred miles away from Bulawayo, to offer the convenience of a riverside road. And what good would a steamboat be for Lobengula at that distance? Fonthill had brought with him from the Cape a couple of maps that charted expertly the Indian Ocean coast but did little to help inland. Now this map shared the same fault. It too showed no distinct frontiers between Matabeleland/Mashonaland and its northern neighbour, a kind of no-man’s-land round Lake Nyasa, nor to the west towards Portuguese Angola or the east and the huge Portuguese possessions along the coast. What was more disturbing, however, was that the map was virtually blank between Bulawayo and the nearest point to the Portuguese eastern territory: just a reference to ‘swamp’ and the brown shading of a mountain range. It was, without a doubt, a wilderness.

  ‘Have you been out this way?’ he enquired of Fairbairn.

  ‘No fear,’ said the Scotsman. ‘No real reason to go, and wouldn’t want to anyway. Not much more than tsetse fly, swamp, spears and slavers. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.’

  ‘Where is Gouela’s territory exactly?’

  ‘Exactly, I don’t know. But I think you can expect it to be pretty much due east of here. Just in the Portuguese eastern territory, of course. Border country. The dagoes claim all the land west of there to be under their control, or “protection”, of course. The British Government disputes this. But neither side seems really anxious to do much about it, though de Sousa huffs and puffs here.’

  At that point a Matabele crept deferentially into the shop and bent to whisper in Fairbairn’s ear.

  The Scotsman nodded and looked up. ‘You should know this,’ he said to Fonthill. ‘I’ve just heard that de Sousa decamped before daylight this morning. Gone, with his little army. The word is that he has returned to his territory. Just the way you are planning to go, I’m afraid, old chap.’

  Chapter 10

  Fonthill returned to his hut, the map and his signed agreement with Lobengula under his arm but his brain a-jumble with conflicting thoughts. He had to go east to explore the possibilities of finding a route to the sea, but that way would lead him right into Gouela’s arms. To detour would obviously be sensible, but he had no idea of the precise location of de Sousa’s province, the better to avoid it. Before leaving the Cape, Rhodes had told him that he intended the road to continue the well-established trail through Bechuanaland, then, after crossing to the border, to skirt well to the east of Bulawayo - ‘to keep out of trouble with the old boy’ - and then curl north and east into Mashonaland proper. But where exactly? First, however, there was the task of getting the new agreement back to Rhodes and Alice’s story back to the cable station.

  Simon did his best to give answers to the many questions with which Alice plied him on his return, and was able at least to assure her that Ntini would be protected by an escort to the Transvaal border, beyond which the Portuguese would not dare to go, even if his leaving of the king’s kraal did turn out to be a ruse.

  Alice immediately set about writing a separate story - to follow on from the battle at the border - confirming Lobengula’s agreement to the entry of the road-builders, and Fonthill began to sort out his requirements for the exploration to the east. He wanted at least five of the ten Kaffir boys with them as bearers on the new journey. Would they agree to come, leaving behind their newly acquired oxen and accepting instead the promise of good cash payments at the end of the journey? He would certainly need Joshua, who had proved himself to be
a good right-hand man to Mzingeli.

  He asked Mzingeli to pick out the five who had fought the best at the Tuli kopjes and offer them £25 each to make the journey. The tracker advised mules, salted against the tsetse fly, as the best means of carrying their loads through the heavy bush, and undertook to see if there were any locally that could be bought to supplement his own animal. The wagons and the surplus oxen Fonthill decided to present as a gift to the king.

  The tracker returned to say that he had been able to persuade only four of the Kaffirs to accompany them on the journey and had been forced to increase the payment offer to £30. Fonthill shrugged. There was no alternative and they would have to make do. The good news was that bright-eyed Joshua had been eager to come.

  Alice completed her story early that afternoon, and Ntini was instructed to travel south with it together with the escort and the other boys, and then return to wait for them at Bulawayo.

  Shortly after dawn, the fifty plumed and armed warriors reported for duty and they all set off: the oxen herded by the six boys, now returning home with the cattle as prizes, Ntini proudly astride his horse, carrying his precious documents - the signed agreement, Fonthill’s telegram to Rhodes and Alice’s long message in cable form - strapped behind him, and his escort walking, assegais and shields in hand, on either side of him.

  That evening Alice, accompanied by Mzingeli, called on the king to treat his painful foot. She found him relaxed and, as ever, delighted to see her.

  ‘You should not go with husband on stupid journey,’ he said. ‘Stay here until he come back. You safe here. We all look after you. Good food, no work, except to treat foot. Plenty beer . . .’ he giggled, ‘and a little champagne if you like - too much bad for you, you know.’

  She smiled. ‘You are very kind, sir, but where my husband goes, I go.’

  ‘You got no children? I have many - too many.’

  ‘Yes, but you have sixty-three wives. No, we have no children. Our only child died in childbirth. I was lucky to survive but we lost our son.’

  ‘Yes, but you still young. Don’t you try no more? Is husband no good on sleeping mat?’

  The question was put without embarrassment, although Mzingeli hesitated to find words to reduce its coarseness. Alice looked away for a moment but realised it would be ridiculous to take offence. This was not genteel Norfolk.

  ‘He is splendid there as elsewhere, your majesty. It is just that we have not been blessed. So we accept it now.’

  ‘Ah.’ The first sign of empathy crossed the king’s broad features. ‘King is sorry. Now, stick little spear into bottom. Pain not so bad today.’

  ‘Have you been taking the medicine and pills?’

  ‘Yes. As you say.’

  ‘Then I think that is helping you as much as the morphine. Now, please roll over.’

  That evening after dinner, as the firelight flickered outside their hut, Fonthill called on Mzingeli and Joshua to join Alice, Jenkins and himself in a whisky - heavily laced with water for Joshua - and a briefing on the journey ahead. The tracker, who had returned with the good news that he had procured five good mules, interpreted in a low voice for Joshua.

  Simon spread out Fairbairn’s map. ‘This is the best chart I’ve got,’ he said, ‘but as you can see, it doesn’t tell us much.’ He took out a small ruler. ‘I estimate that it’s about two hundred miles as the crow flies between here and the Portuguese border. Firstly, we are not crows, and secondly, I understand that it is very rough ground indeed - swamp, heavy bush and mountains, or at least very big and awkward hills. That is why we are not taking oxen or wagons. Count the distance, in fact, as the equivalent of four hundred miles on easy going.’

  No one spoke, and in the near distance two dogs howled their frustration. Simon continued. ‘However, I don’t wish to go out on a route directly to the east. Again, there are two reasons for that. Firstly, old Gouela’s territory lies that way, and although he would love to see us again, I wouldn’t want to experience his welcome. The second reason is that the route to the ocean - if we find a way, that is - should link up with Rhodes’s projected road coming up to Mashonaland from the south, and I think that that will terminate somewhere north or north-east of here.’ He stabbed at the map with his ruler.

  ‘So . . . ?’ asked Jenkins.

  ‘So, we set out from here in a north-easterly direction, before turning to the right and making for the Mozambique border. If we get that far, our journey in fact will be much longer than two hundred miles anyway.’

  Alice frowned. ‘Why don’t we go further north and use the Zambezi as a river road, so to speak?’

  ‘Because Rhodes knows about the Zambezi. He is not convinced that it is the best way to the east. There could well be problems with the Portuguese at its mouth, on their territory, and there are other, navigational problems about using it as the main entry into Matabeleland. No. Rhodes wants a road. A proper land road.’

  ‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Jenkins. ‘’E doesn’t want us to build the bloody thing too, does ’e?’

  Fonthill grinned. ‘Well, if I had offered, no doubt he would have accepted the idea. But no. What he wants is to find a way that is roughly geographically suitable in the long term and politically acceptable in the short term.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Alice.

  ‘He wants us to link up with the local tribes, once we are out of Lobengula’s sphere of influence, and get them to sign treaties with his chartered company, which will offer them protection under the company’s flag and be the first step in the road-building procedure.

  ‘What Rhodes wants is a progression like the one he has achieved with Lobengula: a basic agreement, a payment of sorts and then a road-building programme that will lead inevitably to some sort of settlement - small at first but larger later. Maybe one that will not even take place properly until the twentieth century.’

  A silence fell on the circle once more. It was broken by a question from Mzingeli. ‘How long we away?’

  Fonthill nodded at the question’s relevance. ‘I just don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe six, maybe nine months. I can’t be sure. It depends upon so many things, in particular the terrain and our welcome or otherwise from the tribes.’

  Mzingeli translated quickly for Joshua.

  ‘Is this all right for him?’ asked Alice.

  The tracker smiled his slow smile. ‘He say he go where I go.’

  ‘Oh, there’s cosy then, isn’t it,’ said Jenkins. ‘I’ll come with you as well.’

  ‘Now,’ Fonthill pointed again at the map, ‘it’s a hell of a long way, but I have worked out what we need for provisions, and by the look of it, Fairbairn can provide virtually all we want, particularly native presents.’ His face slipped into a frown. ‘I am afraid that we must be prepared for anything, and the man has some old Sniders that should be all right for the boys to use if they have to, so I have bought them. Can you give them shooting lessons, 352?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The silence returned, to be broken, inevitably, by Jenkins. ‘Do you think you could spare just a drop more?’ he asked, holding out his empty mug. In fact, they all - except for Joshua - took one more drink before, deep in thought, they retired to sleep.

  The next three days were spent in steady preparation for their journey. Thinking of the possible dangers, Fonthill ensured that every morning Jenkins took Joshua and the four Kaffir boys, together with their Sniders, away from the kraal to teach them target practice, speed reloading and rifle care. Their new skills could be vital in the weeks to come. As he watched, however, he became more concerned than ever about the perils that almost certainly lay ahead. So few riflemen against Gouela - and who else? He shrugged his shoulders. They were committed now and they must just prepare as best they could.

  Alice continued her evening visits to the king. Concerned that rheumatism was affecting the royal joints, she added sweet spirits of nitre and quinine to Lobengula’s daily dosage. She had also acquired a second patient
. The cattle thief had made a good recovery and was now taking his place in looking after his family. Alice showed his wife how to change the dressing on his stump, left her a precious supply of bandage, padding and a little antiseptic, and recommended, through Mzingeli, that they leave Bulawayo to be away from the king.

  On the eve of their own departure, she found Lobengula in a particularly melancholy mood as she completed his treatment.

  ‘You don’t go on this bad journey,’ he said.

  Alice, methodically packing away her bottles, shook her head and smiled. ‘I must,’ she said. ‘I am not really a doctor, as you know, and I must accompany my husband.’

  The king growled. ‘I need you here. I am getting better. You help me. You stay. He not need you as I need you.’

  ‘No, sir. I must go.’