The Shangani Patrol (13 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The man’s jaw dropped. ‘You would not wish to do that, sir, surely?’
‘Yes, I would. I want a street with rough bars in it.’
‘Ah, goodness. Well. Let me think. The docks, I think, sir. Turn left at the door here and walk—’
‘Yes, thank you. I will find them. Alice, you stay here. I might be some time.’
His wife opened her mouth to argue, but Fonthill was gone before she could do so, whirling on his heel and heading towards the clouds of black dust billowing into the air from where several freighters were re-coaling. Between the black columns he caught a glimpse of the blue Atlantic.
The harbour, when he reached it, seemed vast and he realised that his search would be more difficult than envisioned. The first bars he met seemed comparatively respectable, with white traders in creased cotton suits, merchant navy officers, their peaked caps tipped to the back of their heads, and port officials drinking whisky. Jenkins would not feel at home here. He would want beer and the company of off-duty soldiers and sailors.
Eventually Fonthill reached a narrow street off one of the quays where every second doorway seemed to be the entrance to a bar. He turned into the first, where the atmosphere reeked of tobacco smoke, beer and cheap gin. It was crowded but there was no sign of the familiar black moustache and stubbled hair. In the second, he approached two British soldiers of a line regiment and, describing Jenkins, asked if they had seen him.
‘Yes, mate. It was ’im all right. Drank about three pints, bought us one and then said that’e was on ’is way to the post office. Welsh bloke, old 24th, wasn’t ’e?’
Fonthill nodded his thanks and continued his way up the alley. He doubted if the post office would have seen Jenkins that day, although he had certainly left his mark in six bars, where he was warmly remembered by the clientele. Simon gritted his teeth and continued the search. He knew the pattern. Jenkins would be affable to begin with, and then, on the slightest provocation, the Mr Hyde in his nature would surface, fuelled by the pints he had put away, until he would become argumentative, truculent and then violent - and violence in this quarter almost certainly meant the use of knives.
Leaving the seventh bar, he paused. This was proving pointless. The man could be anywhere in this thriving but seedy port. Perhaps he really had put down the last glass and made for the post office. Then he heard a crash and shouting from an open door under a swinging inn sign. He ran to it and turned inside.
If Landseer had painted the scene, he might have entitled it
Jenkins At Bay
. The Welshman, his shirt torn and perspiration pouring down his face, was holding a broken, jagged-ended pint glass and backing away to a corner of the bar. Facing him and moving irrevocably towards him were two large men in dungaree trousers and vests. Both were coal-stained, and under the black smudges it appeared that one was white and the other coloured, perhaps a Lascar. It was clear that they were stokers from the coaling freighters, and it was also clear that they were intent on causing serious harm to Jenkins, for they both had knives in their hands. Around the sides of the bar pressed a bedraggled crowd of onlookers, loose grins on their faces in anticipation of seeing blood shed. Two smashed tables were strewn on the sawdust floor, and beside them lay a third stoker, blood streaming from his nose and a cut above his eye. He appeared to be unconscious.
Jenkins At Bay
. The Welshman, his shirt torn and perspiration pouring down his face, was holding a broken, jagged-ended pint glass and backing away to a corner of the bar. Facing him and moving irrevocably towards him were two large men in dungaree trousers and vests. Both were coal-stained, and under the black smudges it appeared that one was white and the other coloured, perhaps a Lascar. It was clear that they were stokers from the coaling freighters, and it was also clear that they were intent on causing serious harm to Jenkins, for they both had knives in their hands. Around the sides of the bar pressed a bedraggled crowd of onlookers, loose grins on their faces in anticipation of seeing blood shed. Two smashed tables were strewn on the sawdust floor, and beside them lay a third stoker, blood streaming from his nose and a cut above his eye. He appeared to be unconscious.
‘That’s enough!’ Fonthill’s voice cut through the anticipatory buzz and he strode forward. ‘The police will be here in a minute. Give me those knives.’
‘Ah, good to see you, bach.’ Jenkins nodded in greeting. His eyes were rheumy but alert. ‘Now don’t you worry about this,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to get involved, see. I can’ andle these gentlemen all right on me own, thank you very much.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Put down that glass. You men, give me your knives before someone gets hurt.’
At first his strong, upper-class voice and his air of command made the two men pause, glaring over their shoulders at him. Then the white stoker spoke, slowly and with a strong Scandinavian accent. ‘Stay avay, out of dis. We cut oop this man. We cut oop you as vell if you interfere.’ He gestured with his knife.
Jenkins, with the experience of a dozen or more barroom fights behind him, sensed that this was his moment. Taking advantage of the Swede’s confrontation with this unexpected stranger, he leapt forward and smashed the bottom of his pint glass on to the man’s head, then, swaying to his right, swept a left hook into his stomach. In doing so, however, he left his back unprotected, and the Lascar swung back his arm to bury his knife into it.
Instinctively, Fonthill launched himself into a low rugby tackle and caught the Lascar behind the knees, crumpling him so that the man collapsed on top and then away from him, his knife spinning into the crowd. For a moment the two lay winded on the floor, and Simon felt the taste of sawdust in his mouth. Then he threw himself on to the Lascar’s back, fighting to thread his arms beneath the man’s shoulders to lock him into a half-nelson, dimly remembered from his wrestling days in the school gym. But the stoker was a quarter as big again as Fonthill, and with one convulsive heave he threw him off his back, as though he was tipping a sack of coal into the hold of his ship.
Simon cracked his face on the planking of the floor, sniffing the sawdust again and landing at the feet of the onlookers. Immediately many hands raised him, and with a cheer, he was pushed back to meet the giant Lascar, who advanced on him now, both hands outstretched, seemingly to embrace and then crush him. Involuntarily, Fonthill grabbed the shirt of the man in the crowd nearest to him, whirled him round and sent him crashing into his opponent. The stoker was huge but he was also ponderous, and clutching the onlooker to him, he fell backwards. Simon leapt forward and kicked his boot into the stoker’s face. It seemed to have little effect, however, for the man merely shook his head and rose to his feet.
Fonthill advanced and put three successive jabs with his left hand into the face of the Lascar. Cheers rose from the crowd, but he might have been hitting the wall for all the damage he caused the big man; he was merely a mosquito stinging an elephant. The stoker lumbered forward, his arms outstretched once more, and Fonthill ducked under the attempted embrace and hit the man as hard as he could in the stomach. The wheeze that the blow produced showed that the man was not as invulnerable as he seemed, and Simon danced in again to repeat the blow, but the bloodstained sawdust was no place for fancy footwork and, inevitably, he slipped. Immediately his hair was seized and he was locked into a bear hug, his nose pressed to the dirty grey vest. His senses became overwhelmed by the smell of stale beer, perspiration, cold dust and then fear, as his chin was pushed back by the palm of the Lascar’s right hand, while the left arm held him tight and exerted pressure on his vertebrae. The bastard was trying to break his neck!
Fonthill knew that it would be only a matter of seconds before the giant would relax his grip on his chin and then jerk it up and under, so snapping his neck. In desperation, he wriggled his left arm down the Lascar’s abdomen until he felt the softness of the man’s testicles. His fingers sank in, then, with almost his last breath, he squeezed and pulled. The big man shrieked and relaxed his hold, allowing Simon to slip out of his grasp.
Sucking air into his lungs, Fonthill staggered away, gasping and holding his throat, as the Lascar doubled up in pain. He was dimly aware that one section of the crowd was screaming ‘Unfair!’ while the other was whistling and cheering. But they had not yet seen enough blood spilt, for someone threw back the Lascar’s dagger, which the coloured man caught in one giant fist before advancing on Fonthill again.
‘’Ere, mate,’ another shouted. ‘Let’s make it a fair fight.’ And a second knife curved through the air and quivered in the floor at Simon’s feet.
He picked it up. It was a knife fight now. He dared not spare a moment to see how Jenkins was faring, but it seemed clear that he would have to see this through on his own. Kill or be killed.
Fonthill realised that he was completely outranged by the Lascar’s reach and that his only hope would be to use his greater mobility. The big man was holding the knife blade down, as a dagger. That meant that he would have to bring it upwards before slashing down - perhaps there would be a fleeting moment of opportunity there, if Simon could get close enough to thrust himself. His brain raced. Close enough, yes, but how to get in under the man’s guard?
Then he remembered a technique he had seen Jenkins use many years before when the Welshman had been confronted by a giant Zulu. Simon took two quick steps forward and then pretended to slip, going down almost on one knee, except that the bent leg remained balanced on the ball of his foot. His left hand went to the floor, and as the Lascar stepped forward and raised his knife, he picked up a handful of sawdust and threw it in the coloured man’s face, causing him to blink and turn his head away for a second. Almost in the same movement, Fonthill brought his own knife hand upwards and thrust the blade into the other man’s forearm, twisting it and pulling it away as the blood spurted.
The giant howled, dropped his own knife and grabbed his arm, sinking to one knee. At almost the same moment, Simon glimpsed the bloodstained face of Jenkins materialise behind that of the Lascar, as he lifted a chair leg and brought it down with a thud on the man’s head. For a moment the big man teetered, and then, like a forest giant felled by a woodman’s axe, he toppled to the floor and lay still.
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins, ‘why did you choose the big one? You could ’ave ’ad my bloke, though come to think of it, ’e wasn’t so small either. Eh, you all right, bach sir?’ He threw away the chair leg and, frowning, inspected Fonthill. ‘Blimey, your nose is bleedin’ a bit . . .’
His voice tailed away as he saw the look of fury in Simon’s eyes. ‘Yes, well, sorry, bach sir.’ His manner now was abjectly apologetic, and he fumbled to put a very grimy handkerchief to Fonthill’s nose. ‘I only slipped away for a minute, see, to ’ave one or two ’alves. Sorry if you’ve been . . . er . . . inconvenienced like.’
‘Inconvenienced!’ Fonthill staggered to his feet and looked around. There were three stokers on the barroom floor, two of them now stirring and the third, the Swede, sitting and holding his head. ‘You’ve broken up a bar, nearly killed three men, as far as I can see, and almost caused me to have my neck broken. And you call it
inconvenience
!’
inconvenience
!’
‘Ah well, yes, I can see what you—’
The Welshman was interrupted by a very large barman, who advanced on them carrying what seemed to be a Zulu knobkerrie. ‘Now, man,’ he addressed Jenkins in the guttural tones of an Afrikaner, ‘I want paying for two broken tables and three chairs. And you’re not going till I get my money.’
A look of intense indignation alighted on Jenkins’s sweat-stained face. ‘Hey, bach, I didn’t start it, look you. It’s these three bastards you should get to put their ’ands in their pockets. I only . . .’
Fonthill put his hand on the Welshman’s shoulder. He pressed a white five-pound note into the bartender’s hand and tossed the knife he was still holding on to the floor. ‘That should cover it,’ he said. ‘And if it doesn’t, you’ll just have to get the rest from these bruisers. Come on, Jenkins. I’ve had enough of this place.’
If the barman had thoughts of arguing, they were dispelled by the looks on the faces of the two men, who were given a rousing cheer from the onlookers, now pushing furniture back and lifting the wreckage of broken chairs and tables, attempting the impossible task of fitting the shattered pieces together again.
Outside, Fonthill pushed his own handkerchief to his nose to staunch the bleeding and seized Jenkins’s arm. ‘I know this sounds out of character,’ he said, ‘but I could use a drink. Is there a bar here that you haven’t wrecked and is not full of ruffians?’
Jenkins’s face broke into a grin and he attempted to push the remnants of his torn shirt beneath his waistband. ‘What a good idea, bach sir. Yes. I think the first one I popped into might suit. Bit quiet it was. Down ’ere, sir.’
Once seated, Simon placed a pint of ale and a whisky chaser in front of each of them, took a deep draught of the beer and then sat gazing at his comrade in silence. At first Jenkins grinned happily and half drained his glass. Then he realised that the genial forgiveness that seemed to be linked to the drink was not, in fact, going to be on offer, and he began to shift uncomfortably in his chair. He sniffed and ran the back of his hand under his nose.
‘Look, bach sir,’ he began. ‘I really am sorry, honest.’
Fonthill held up his hand and the Welshman fell silent. But Simon kept looking at him, his face expressionless. In fact, he was attempting to weigh up how it was possible for someone only five feet four inches tall to take on three men, all much bigger than him, without the slightest trace of fear. How was Jenkins able to do it - particularly having consumed enough alcohol to sink a battleship? He had laid out two of the stokers, and although it was difficult to conceive that he would have survived without Simon’s arrival, it was quite possible. Fonthill shook his head, and Jenkins took the kind of tiny sip of whisky that would not been out of place in a rectory and looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the storm to break.
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