by John Wilcox
The little Scotsman looked up sharply. ‘Do? Why, disperse them, of course. Send ’em back across the river. Off you go, Lendy. How many men do you need?’
The captain looked down on the milling throng below. ‘Well, it would be unwise to take all of my troop,’ he said. ‘Should keep some in reserve back here. I’ll take forty. That should do it.’
Fonthill gulped. Forty against two and a half thousand! ‘Jenkins and I will come with you,’ he said.
‘Rather you didn’t, Fonthill,’ said Jameson. ‘I would be grateful if you two stayed back here with me and organised the manning of the walls. Haven’t got too many chaps, you see, who know what they’re doing in these matters.’
The doctor still seemed quite unconcerned. Simon’s brain, unbidden, recalled the words to him of the British commander at Isandlwana when warned that twenty thousand Zulus were about to descend on him: ‘I hope Johnny Zulu does attack. I’ll give him a bloody nose . . .’
Captain Lendy strode away and Fonthill heard him giving orders to his little troop below. Simon exchanged glances with Jenkins. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We have little time. Come with me. We’ll run through the streets calling for every fit man to bring his rifle and gather in the square below. Quickly now.’
The two ran down and took to the streets. Within the eight-foot-high mud walls - not high enough, thought Fonthill - the township was more of a hamlet, with insubstantial wooden huts radiating out from the square behind the wooden doors guarding the only entrance, and forming only four streets. It took barely five minutes, given that many men were already on the ramparts, for the main population of the town to gather around them. Fonthill counted: some seventy men, old and young, but all of them carrying rifles, some more than one. Almost as many women and children had accompanied them. To one side stood the ten troopers that Lendy had left behind.
Fonthill looked over his shoulder. Lendy and his men had not saddled up yet. ‘Right,’ he shouted to his little group. ‘Ladies, go and fetch whatever spare ammunition you have. Bring it back as quickly as you can, then take the children and lock yourselves and them in the houses.’
‘I’m not doin’ that,’ one amply proportioned woman called from the back. ‘I’m stayin’ with my man. And the little ’uns will do the same.’ A chorus of approval rang out from the rest of the women.
Simon glimpsed Alice arriving and joining the crowd at the back. He sighed. ‘Very well, but please don’t get in the way. We may have some hard fighting to do. Now.’ He gestured with his hand to segregate about twenty men. ‘You men stand over here with Sergeant-Major Jenkins. You will be in reserve and when I call will double to whatever part of the wall looks under pressure. The rest of you, space yourselves around the ramparts - but don’t fire until I give the order. Troopers, come with me. I will spread you out among the civilians,’ he lowered his voice, ‘to give a bit of stiffening if it is needed. Right, go to your positions. Quickly now.’
He realised that Alice was at his side. Her eyes were pained. ‘I have just used the telegraph to send my story,’ she said. ‘Oh, I do so wish it hadn’t come to this.’
‘So do I, darling.’ Fonthill pulled her to him briefly. ‘Look. I really can’t see forty men dispelling two thousand. Where do you want to be?’
She looked up at him unflinchingly. ‘With you, of course. I shall go and get my rifle.’ And she turned on her heel and strode off.
‘Strong lady, the Nkosana.’ Mzingeli was at his shoulder, carrying his rifle.
‘Are you going to fight, old chap?’
‘Of course. Matabele long time enemy. They kill my people. Now I kill them. I stay with you.’
Fonthill nodded and looked across at Jenkins. ‘You understand, 352? Hold your men back until I shout and tell you where to go on the wall.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
‘Good. Come on, Mzingeli. Let’s see what’s happening on the other side.’
They scrambled up on to the ramparts. The natives below seemed to have sensed that battle was imminent, for those of them who had been seated had now risen and all were flourishing their spears at the men on the walls. To Fonthill, they seemed to stretch almost as far as the river and they presented a frightening sight, their plumes nodding as they danced and chanted and their painted faces contorted with derision.
He gulped. ‘Throwing forty horsemen out into that lot is going to be suicide.’ He spoke to himself.
Slowly the big wooden gates to the fort creaked open and Lendy and his men, their bush hats buttoned up to one side and the butts of their carbines resting on their thighs, trotted out in excellent order in two columns. Immediately the cries of the Matabele rose in a crescendo, but they did not attack. Instead they fell back a little, as though surprised at the audacity of the little group of horsemen who had come out calmly to face them.
Fonthill realised that the gates had been left gaping open. ‘Close those bloody gates,’ he called down. He was, of course, cutting off whatever chance of retreat Lendy’s men might have, but he could not risk allowing the Matabele to cut through the horsemen and run on unimpeded into the heart of the settlement.
The troop split and wheeled to right and left, so that each man had a clear view of the enemy. Then Lendy shouted: ‘Select your target. Take aim. Even-numbered troopers, FIRE!’ Twenty rifles cracked as one and the same number of natives, standing at point-blank range, crumpled and fell. Lendy’s voice, clipped and clear, rose up again to Fonthill. ‘Reload. Odd numbers, FIRE! Reload. Even numbers, FIRE! Reload.’
Among the first to fall was Umgandaan, who ran forward brandishing his spear. Perhaps it was his loss or the steadiness of the volleys, but immediately the mass of warriors broke and ran as fast as they could back to the dubious safety of the river. Only a handful of young, brave men followed Umgandaan’s example and ran towards the troopers, only to die in their turn. From a phalanx of threatening warriors, the Matabele had splintered within seconds to become hundreds of frightened individuals, turning their backs on the enemy and running away from the guns. It was a complete rout.
‘Fire at will,’ screamed Lendy. Then, ‘Canter, follow them up. Fire as you go.’
A single shot rang out from the wall of the fort. ‘No firing from the walls,’ shouted Fonthill. He realised that the men on the ramparts, only a few of whom could be called good shots, were more likely to hit the troopers than the tribesmen. Even now, as the soldiers urged their horses forward, they were in great danger, for if the Matabele rallied and counter-attacked, they could surround the troopers and engulf them before the horsemen could reload. Then the fort would be virtually at their mercy, for the mud walls could be easily scaled.
But the warriors continued their headlong race towards the river, spreading out in a black mass, their truculence, like their pride, melting away as their strong legs took them from the fearful firepower of the forty white men on horses.
‘Oh, thank God. Lendy is bringing them back.’ Alice was at Simon’s side, her rifle held listlessly at her side and tears pouring down her cheeks as her gaze took in the figures sprawled on the ground below. At least fifty of the tribesmen lay dead. All forty of the troopers, however, were trotting their horses back, their bush hats thrown back, their faces beaming with triumph. In the distance, a host of black figures could be seen wading and swimming across the river.
‘It’s the most amazing turnaround,’ gasped Fonthill. ‘Forty routing two and a half thousand. God, Lendy and his men were brave to ride out there. I am not sure I would have done it.’
‘What’s ’appenin’ outside, then?’ Jenkins called up from the square. ‘’Ave we won the war? Can we come up and ’ave a look?’
‘Yes. Let all of them come up. The Matabele have fled.’
‘Blimey. An’ I didn’t fire a bleedin’ shot. Amazin’.’
Fonthill dropped down to order the opening of the gates and was met there by a sombre-faced Jameson. Simon shook his hand and congratulated him.
‘Humph,�
� grunted the doctor. ‘It’s Lendy we must congratulate. It was the surprise, you know. The Matabele just didn’t think we would attack them. They thought we would stay holed up behind these walls. Then the old fears about our guns stirred up among them when the shooting started and they just took to their heels.’ He took off his hat and wiped the sweat off his pate with his handkerchief. ‘Trouble is, Fonthill, I’m sure that this is not the last of it. I can’t really see Lobengula accepting this. I shall have to tell Rhodes to prepare for war now. Dammit, it’s going to cost the company a packet.’
He hurried forward to meet Lendy, while the settlers raised a cheer to welcome back the troopers as they rode through the gates. Fonthill and Jenkins joined in the applause, but Alice and Mzingeli watched silently.
‘So Rhodes is going to have his war, then,’ murmured Alice.
Fonthill sighed. ‘It looks like it.’ His face was sombre. ‘I suppose it was inevitable, once Lobengula’s men began all this killing.’
‘No,’ she said coldly. ‘It was inevitable once Rhodes sent in his damned column to invade the king’s country. And I shall say so in my dispatch.’ She turned away, her face tear-stained but determined, and strode off to the telegraph station.
Just before dusk descended, Jameson had Lendy send out patrols to see if the Matabele were forming up again, but the horsemen returned to report that the shattered impi had remained broken and was limping back, in small groups, towards Bulawayo. It looked as if the danger to Fort Victoria was over - at least for the time being. The doctor, however, was convinced that the Matabele threat was not ended. He confided to Fonthill that Rhodes had been advised by military men in Cape Town that a force of at least seven thousand well-equipped troops would be needed to subjugate the Matabele nation if things got out of hand.
‘The company can’t afford that,’ he said. ‘Rhodes is very strapped for cash as it is. I’ve got to get a second opinion - one that knows these Kaffirs better than the colonels and generals in the Cape. I’m going to talk to the Boers.’
There were a handful of Dutchmen from the Transvaal who had moved north into Mashonaland and taken shelter in the fort. Most of them had had brushes of one sort of another with the Matabele in the past, and Jameson set about getting their advice. The next morning he took tea with Fonthill, Alice and Jenkins and told them the result of his soundings.
‘These chaps say that seven thousand is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘They believe that a force of between eight hundred and a thousand men, well mounted and armed, will do the job.’
‘Sounds light to me,’ said Fonthill. ‘They would need Maxims and cannon if they’re going to take on all of Lobengula’s impis. Where are those going to come from?’
Jameson sipped his tea and gave a rueful smile. ‘That’s the point. Rhodes abhors the thought of what he calls the Imperials - that’s the redcoats in the Cape, with the Colonial Office behind ’em - getting involved. As it is, we’ve now got a high commissioner appointed by the government in Salisbury to oversee the colony. But of course, he’s got no money. It’s the company that will have to raise the force and pay for it.’
He fished in his pocket. ‘I cabled Rhodes late last night to put the situation to him. Here’s his reply.’ He handed the cable to Fonthill, who read it aloud.
‘“Read Luke XIV: 31.” Is that all? What does it mean?’
Jameson produced a battered pocket Bible. He read, ‘“Or what king, going down to make war against another king, sitteth not down first, and consulteth whether he be able with ten thousand men to meet him that cometh against him with twenty thousand.”’
Fonthill frowned. ‘I suppose he means that you’ve got to think carefully about expenditure.’
‘Exactly. But Rhodes is down there and I am very much here. I have told him that I can do the job with a thousand men but they must be well armed and he will just have to find the money.’
Alice put down her cup in exasperation. ‘Surely this war is not inevitable. You have always said, Doctor, that neither Rhodes nor Lobengula wants to fight. Can’t you make a last appeal to the king? I am sure he would listen.’
‘Hmm.’ Jameson smoothed his moustache. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Mrs Fonthill. Y’see, time is not on our side. In a few weeks the rains will start, and mounted troops - our main weapon - will be immobilised. The settlers will be cut off from the south and the Matabele, in their own good time, could swoop down on the settlements and destroy them piecemeal. We would not be able to move our men about to protect them. Plus I’ve got idiots among the settlers who want to form their own militia and set off now to burn Bulawayo. To go off at half-cock would be equally disadvantageous.’
He smiled. ‘So, I really have to strike while the iron is more or less hot. Having said that, the High Commissioner is making one last appeal to Lobengula from the British Government to restrain his troops. But I think things have gone too far for that, and I can’t afford to wait. I must make preparations now and I have told Cecil John that he must find the horses and arms right away.’
‘But ’alf a mo,’ intervened Jenkins. ‘I thought you said ’is cupboard was bare.’
‘Oh aye.’ Jameson’s smile was now mirthless. ‘The company’s cupboard is as empty as a Scotsman’s wallet. I understand that Rhodes is going to sell forty thousand of his own chartered shares. They’re at rock bottom just now, with all this trouble, so he won’t be pleased about that, but we can’t afford to wait. So we shall get our mounts and weapons. I only hope they are in time.’ He shook his head. ‘I also hope that we won’t have to use ’em, but that, I fear, is a forlorn hope. Now you will have to excuse me. I must begin the business of organising our men to fight. We want volunteers, and we don’t want the Border Police coming in from Bechuanaland.’ He smiled wanly. ‘This has got to be a company fight, you understand. No Imperials.’
His departure left the little group in silence. Eventually Alice spoke: ‘Will you fight, then?’
Fonthill looked at the floor, then met her gaze. ‘I will have no alternative—’ he began.
‘Of course you will!’ Her anger made her stamp her foot. ‘You don’t have to go to war just because Rhodes wants his little empire. It’s a terrible shame he’s had to sell some of his shares, and my heart bleeds for him. But that does not mean that you must risk your life,’ she shot a glance over her shoulder, ‘and that of 352. If the company wants to fight, then let the bloody company fight!’ Her voice softened and took on a more conciliatory tone. ‘It’s not your war, darling.’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it is, my love. Having invested in this territory, I cannot turn my back on the people here. You heard what Jameson said about the rains. Things have gone too far now, and Jenkins and I cannot walk out on the settlers and leave them at the mercy of the Matabele. You saw what Lobengula’s impi did to the Mashonas here.’ He reached across and seized her hand. ‘We couldn’t move aside and watch a series of massacres. You must understand that.’
‘Oh, I understand all right.’ She turned her head away. ‘More butcherings - this time of natives by machine guns.’ Her voice fell away to no more than a whisper. ‘It’s too high a price to pay, even for the best farmland in the world.’
Chapter 16
The bitterness that had coloured her reply stayed with Alice that night and through the next day. She received a cable from Cornford in Fleet Street congratulating her on her story of the clash at Fort Victoria and asking her to file further dispatches as and when the crisis escalated. But this did little to ease the agony in her mind and soul. She had agreed with Simon that the four of them should return to Salisbury, which was nearer to their land and to where Jameson had ridden to organise the forces needed to face Lobengula. So her morning was spent in packing their few belongings, but as she did so, her mind was racing.
Her years as a journalist and then with Simon had consigned her to a role as observer and housewife. True, her reportage had been proactive and might even have altered conception
s back home about the campaigns she reported upon, although she doubted it. And as chatelaine of their home in Norfolk, she had been a dutiful and hard-working supervisor of the house, who sometimes helped Simon with the estate. Nevertheless, she had never become involved with things that mattered. As a war correspondent, she had watched and noted, never integral to the events she was describing and about which she often harboured such strong feelings.
In the little wooden house they had rented in Victoria, there was scant privacy, and having packed the last of their meagre belongings, Alice slipped out, climbed on to the ramparts and sat, chin in hand. Below her, native working parties were collecting the dead on wagons and cracking their whips over the oxen to pull them away. It must have been very like this, she pondered, during the great plagues in medieval Britain, when cries of ‘Bring out your dead!’ echoed throughout the land.
Thus prompted, her mind dredged up memories from the past of so many similar scenes she had observed: the Zulu bodies, rigid in their death postures and stacked in front of the the mealie bags at Rorke’s Drift; the dead Pathans, who had had the audacity to defend their country, spread out on the plain before Kandahar; the blazing houses of the bePedi tribe, set afire by Wolseley’s troops at Sekukuni; the white-clad Egyptians, poor troops, their scattered corpses strewn across the parapet protecting the guns of El Kebir . . . Alice shook her head. What carnage!