The Shangani Patrol (24 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
‘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.
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.
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.
The biggest crowd of all, of course, was provided in Bulawayo itself, where it seemed that many hundreds of people swarmed out to accompany the party on the last mile or so of the entry into the capital. Here, the escort took its duty very seriously, using spear and shield to keep the crowds away from the wagons as the little procession approached the outlying thorn
zariba
that enclosed the town. Now, however, there was no praise-singing to precede the meeting with the king, for Lobengula was waiting for them outside his house, sitting under the shade of the great indaba tree, on an ox cart where, Fonthill was later told, he often preferred to sleep. Despite the heat, he was dressed in his European garb, complete with billycock hat, and carrying a short assegai. He descended with great care, for it was clear that his right foot was still swollen, and as his wooden throne was quickly brought from his house, he gestured with a broad grin and his spear for the visitors to sit on the goatskins laid before him.
zariba
that enclosed the town. Now, however, there was no praise-singing to precede the meeting with the king, for Lobengula was waiting for them outside his house, sitting under the shade of the great indaba tree, on an ox cart where, Fonthill was later told, he often preferred to sleep. Despite the heat, he was dressed in his European garb, complete with billycock hat, and carrying a short assegai. He descended with great care, for it was clear that his right foot was still swollen, and as his wooden throne was quickly brought from his house, he gestured with a broad grin and his spear for the visitors to sit on the goatskins laid before him.
No provision for interpretation had been made, so Fonthill nudged Mzingeli to translate as Lobengula began to speak.
‘He say,’ began the tracker, ‘that his good friends are welcome once again to his kingdom. He does not care what they bring for it is their good company he wishes.’
Fonthill, Alice at his side, inclined his head. ‘I too am delighted to see his majesty again and I thank him for his warm welcome.’ He had agonised for days wondering how to address the fact that his cargo was not all that had been promised, and in the end he had decided simply to ignore the matter until it was raised. ‘I bring warm greetings to the king from Mr Rhodes, who apologises for the fact that he could not come himself. This is because he is about to be made prime minister of the Cape Colony, and he was forced to remain in the great city of Cape Town to receive this honour.’
The king waved his assegai in acceptance. ‘It is understandable,’ translated Mzingeli, perspiration beginning to appear on his brow as he grappled with his unfamiliar and important task. Fonthill waited for Lobengula to make some reference to the cargo, but the king remained silent, beaming at Simon and his wife. It was obviously beneath his dignity to refer in public to the gold, guns and ammunition. Again Fonthill marvelled at the innate good manners of the man.
Simon cleared his throat, but Alice spoke first. ‘How is his majesty’s foot?’ she enquired, with a sweet smile.
‘Ah.’ A comic expression of great suffering came over Lobengula’s face. ‘It is . . . what you say?’ enquired Mzingeli desperately.
‘Hurting?’ offered Alice.
‘Yes, hurting.’
‘Is the king still drinking much champagne and brandy?’
A frown descended upon the royal countenance, to be replaced by a look of petulant annoyance that in turn gave way to another of his face-splitting grins. ‘Less than before but still too much. Does the Nkosana doctor bring with her the painkiller?’
Alice inclined her head. ‘As before, I can help a little, but the main cure will come from the king drinking less of the white man’s alcohol and eating less red meat. It is, I fear, the only way.’
‘Good. Then the Nkosana perhaps will visit later to put the little spear into bottom . . . ?’
‘Of course.’ The king’s relief was clear.
Fonthill cleared his throat. ‘We have brought with us, your majesty, the . . . er . . . goods that Mr Rhodes promised as his part of the treaty he signed with you—’
Lobengula interrupted the translation by waving his assegai across his face, as though brushing away impertinent flies. ‘That is good but not of great importance. We can talk of this later. Now we have beer . . .’
‘’Ow very, very sensible,’ breathed Jenkins.
‘. . . and then, when you have rested from journey, you will eat with us.’ He clapped his hands, and gourds of beer were brought by young Zulu girls, shepherded in by the great bulk of Nini, the king’s sister, who beamed on them all. This time, Fonthill noted with approval, Mzingeli, Ntini and all the boys were served also.
Small talk ensued for a few minutes as the king enquired about their long journey. Simon had decided that he would make no reference to the two attacks on them by de Sousa - at least not in public - and conversation quickly petered out. Then the king waved his assegai again.
‘You go to huts now,’ he said. ‘Then, at sunset, we eat. Good meat,’ he caught Alice’s eye and finished lamely, ‘with many berries. Can Nkosana come early and cure foot?’
‘I will come, of course.’
With that the meeting broke up and the party retreated to their wagons, where Ntini presided over the unloading of the personal possessions, which were taken to the huts that had housed them before. Fonthill was glad to see that the hole cut into the back of his hut had been carefully repaired.
‘What about the gold an’ stuff?’ enquired Jenkins.
‘Look.’
Silently, six of the king’s men had appeared and were quietly offloading the cases. ‘He can’t get into them until I unlock them,’ said Fonthill, ‘but it’s clear that he is not so uninterested in them as he made out. At least everything will be under guard overnight and we won’t have to worry about them.’ He turned to Alice. ‘Shall I come with you into the treatment room?’
‘No. Witch doctors don’t like to be watched when they’re casting their spells.’
‘All right. But take Mzingeli with you.’
‘Of course. I shall need him to translate anyway.’
Alice carefully unpacked her medicine bag and checked its contents. ‘Right, Mzingeli. Let’s go.’
This time, however, they were forced to wait outside the king’s house by a very nervous servant as loud voices came from within. Mzingeli frowned. ‘King angry with someone,’ he whispered. ‘Man inside steal royal cattle, I think. Ah. Yes. Man is to have hand cut off and he thrown to crocodiles in river.’
‘Oh my God.’ Alice blanched. ‘How disgusting. He can’t do that.’
The tracker shrugged. ‘It is the way here. He not always cheerful man. He very cruel.’
Alice took a deep breath. ‘Then he can cure his own blasted gout.’
‘No, no, Nkosana. Don’t make him more angry. We all in his power here. He . . . er . . . value you. Perhaps if you make him angry, we all die.’
They were forced to remain silent, until a scream came from within. At that, Alice thrust her way past the servant and entered the smoke-filled interior. The sight that met their eyes was repellent. Lobengula had removed his European clothes and was standing, wearing just a loincloth. The black folds of his skin were glistening in the firelight and his eyes were aflame. Kneeling in front of him, writhing in agony, was a native, whose right hand had been hacked away by an axe. Blood was spurting from the stump.
As Alice watched, he was dragged to his feet by two men and hauled towards the door, presumably on his way to the river. She barred the way.
‘Put that man down,’ she cried, pointing to the ground. A silence fell on the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. The two men stood, gripping the victim, who had now slumped into unconsciousness. Their jaws had dropped and their eyes, widened in surprise, were white spheres in the half-light. They turned in consternation, looking for direction from the king, but Lobengula stood immobile, frozen by surprise.
Alice turned. ‘Mzingeli, bring my bag. Quickly now, or this man will bleed to death.’
The tracker shook his head. ‘No, Nkosana. No interfere. They kill us.’
‘Do as I say. Here, yes. Good, thank you. Now, hold the man’s arm up. Quickly.’ She unclipped her bag and fumbled inside. ‘Higher than that. I don’t want the bag filled with blood. That’s better.’
Kneeling and working quickly, she produced a narrow strip of bandage, which she folded lengthways and wrapped around the stricken man’s arm above the elbow, knotting it loosely. Then she looked around, plucked a knife from the girdle of one of the two executioners, thrust its handle into a fold of the bandage and twisted it to act as a tourniquet. ‘Hold this, Mzingeli,’ she said. ‘Keep it tight until the bleeding stops, then, when it does stop, loosen it slightly, and tighten it again. Now . . .’
Alice rummaged in her bag once again and produced a large pad of cotton wool, which she screwed tightly, wrapped in gauze and drenched in antiseptic from a bottle. Perspiration was now pouring from her brow. Wiping it away with the back of her hand, she pressed the pad on to the bloody stump and looked around in some desperation. Her eye fell on the nearest of the executioners.
‘You,’ she cried. ‘Yes, dammit, you. Come here.’
Uncomprehending and fearful, the man remained unmoving. Alice reached across and pulled him towards her roughly by his forearm. ‘Here. Hold this.
This
, you bloody fool. Look.’ She gently pressed her hand on to the pad. ‘Hold it like this. Yes, well done, you great barbarian. Hold it still while I bandage.’
This
, you bloody fool. Look.’ She gently pressed her hand on to the pad. ‘Hold it like this. Yes, well done, you great barbarian. Hold it still while I bandage.’
Kneeling awkwardly, Alice wound a bandage around the thief’s forearm and then crossed it several times over the pad to hold it in place on the stump, before doubling it back to the forearm, cutting it off with her scissors, slicing the cotton into two strips and firmly knotting the two together to hold the bandage in place. She looked up and blew out her cheeks. ‘Keep the tourniquet tight for the moment,’ she ordered the tracker.
Then she caught the eye of the king.
There was no sign now of the grinning, genial monarch. Lobengula’s face was contorted with rage. The King of the Matabele had never in all his life had his way thwarted when ordering an execution - and certainly not by a woman, whatever her colour. He opened his mouth to speak - or scream - but Alice interrupted him.
‘Your majesty,’ she said in a loud but precise tone that seemed to cut through the hot, smoky atmosphere like a jet of cold water, ‘this man has suffered enough for his crime.’ She turned to the kneeling Mzingeli. ‘Go on. Interpret.’
The tracker did so, in a low, hesitant voice. ‘I have tried to staunch the bleeding,’ Alice continued, ‘but I am not sure I have succeeded. The man may well die during the night. So it will certainly not be necessary to feed him to the crocodiles. If you are a wise and tolerant ruler, as I am sure you are, the compassionate thing to do would be to leave him to die in his bed, with his family at his side. By severing his hand, you have already punished him for his crime. I am sure you agree.’ She summoned up a smile.
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