The Shangani Patrol (3 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
Eventually, after half an hour, he raised his right hand slightly in a signal to halt. The bush had thinned noticeably, and ahead of them the track had widened until it admitted a rocky outcrop. The tracker, his eyes still fixed to the front, motioned over his shoulder for Fonthill to join him.
He nodded to the ground ahead and then whispered, ‘See mark in front of lion’s paw, like brush mark.’ Simon squinted but could see nothing of the kind. ‘Lion tired,’ continued Mzingeli. ‘He drag front of his paw as he lift it up.’ The tracker gently nodded his head. ‘I think they found place to rest and digest meal, up there, behind rocks.’
‘What about our scent?’ asked Fonthill.
‘We are upwind. They do not smell us.’
Fonthill felt a hand on his shoulder. Alice whispered in his ear, ‘They’re up there, aren’t they? Up in those rocks?’
‘Yes. Mzingeli believes so.’
‘Don’t go in alone. Take 352 with you.’
Simon fought back a flash of irritation. ‘No. He must stay here with you. I can kill this damned lion. In any case, Mzingeli will probably come with me—’
He was interrupted by the tracker, who turned, his finger to his lips. ‘We go together round to right,’ he whispered. ‘Stay very close. Be ready to shoot quickly if lion sees us. Very quiet now.’
Gesturing to Jenkins to stay close to Alice, Fonthill gave a twisted smile to his wife - somehow the muscles on his face seemed to be set rictus-like, not allowing him to give her the reassuring beam he intended - and followed Mzingeli at a crouch, his rifle clutched across his breast. The two men stole away to the right of the rocks, the tracker gently pulling away branches and holding them until Simon could take them in turn and pass through. They climbed a little through the bush and moved in a semicircle until they began to edge around the end of the highest rock, some ten feet away from it. Mzingeli was ahead, his bare feet making no sound as he placed each one carefully in front of the other on the now stony ground. Then he froze and, his eyes staring ahead of him, motioned for Simon to come alongside
Ahead of them was the lion, stretched resplendent in the shade of the overhanging rock. His great head lay away from them, the tangled mass of the dark brown mane contrasting with the tawny colour of the body, and he seemed huge in that confined space, the end of his tail almost, it seemed, within reach. His head rested on one side; the one eye that could be seen was closed, and his chest rose and fell in gentle rhythm. There seemed to be a look of beatific satisfaction on the giant beast’s face in repose. It had been a good meal and he was sleeping it off. Of the lionesses there was no sign.
A smile creased Mzingeli’s face. He gestured with both hands to Simon as if tracing a circle, and mouthed, ‘Big.’ Then he moved slightly to his right and nodded his head forward. The signal was clear: kill. Kill now.
Fonthill licked his dry lips and inched forward, raising his rifle to the shoulder. Where was the target spot? Ah yes, just above and behind the front leg. Not easy to define from the rear, with the mane spreading so far down the body. He squinted through the foresight. Damn! It was set at one hundred yards. At point-blank range he would overshoot by miles. Feeling Mzingeli’s disapproval radiating towards him, he lowered the rifle and, with infinite care, pushed down the sight, then raised the rifle once more and focused on the sleeping animal. His finger tightened on the trigger . . .
squeeze, don’t pull
. . . and there it stayed, until the end of the long barrel began to sway a little with the weight of it.
squeeze, don’t pull
. . . and there it stayed, until the end of the long barrel began to sway a little with the weight of it.
The lion was sleeping,
sleeping
. Fonthill had killed many men in the heat of battle or in one-to-one combat over the preceding years, but he had never killed anything that was not erect and facing him. This magnificent beast lay a few yards from him in perfect somnolence, completely unaware of the danger. It seemed somehow unfair, completely unfair, to kill him like this. It was not a killing, more an execution. He could not do it. Give the animal a fighting chance, at least.
sleeping
. Fonthill had killed many men in the heat of battle or in one-to-one combat over the preceding years, but he had never killed anything that was not erect and facing him. This magnificent beast lay a few yards from him in perfect somnolence, completely unaware of the danger. It seemed somehow unfair, completely unfair, to kill him like this. It was not a killing, more an execution. He could not do it. Give the animal a fighting chance, at least.
So Fonthill shouted, ‘Get up, you lazy bastard.’
Immediately the sleeping thing became alive, very much alive. The lion was on its feet within a second, turning its great head towards the danger, its mouth open showing yellow incisor fangs and emitting a roar that boomed back from the rocks around. At that moment, Fonthill fired.
The bullet tore through the muscles just behind the animal’s head, cutting a furrow through the mane and causing blood to spurt. Then, with one bound, the beast had gone, leaving behind the echo of the shot and a bloodstain on the rocky ground. From the other side of the rock came two responding roars and a scuffle as the lionesses, unseen, followed him.
Fonthill and Mzingeli were left staring at each other. Neither spoke for a second or two, then Simon cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. I just couldn’t kill him while he was asleep. It seemed so . . . so . . . unfair somehow. I am sorry, Mzingeli.’
Slowly, a smile spread across the tracker’s face. ‘I think I understand, Nkosi.’ Then the smile disappeared. ‘But now we have big problem. We cannot leave wounded animal. We must follow into bush and finish him. If he stay alive with wound, he cannot chase properly to hunt and he turn to eating men. Becomes man-killer. We must track him now into bush. Very dangerous.’
‘What happened?’ Alice and Jenkins had suddenly materialised, Alice’s eyes wide. Behind them - at some distance - appeared Ntini and Sando. ‘Oh, thank goodness you are all right.’ Alice clutched Simon’s arm. ‘What happened?’
‘Well, I . . . er . . . missed. That’s it really. No, it isn’t.’ Fonthill’s face was crestfallen. ‘The fact is, I just couldn’t kill the bloody thing at point-blank range when it was sleeping.’
Mzingeli’s face was once again illuminated by his great grin. He interjected, ‘Nkosi shouted, “Wake up, lion” to make it fair. It is the English way, I think. I don’t see this before.’
‘Well,’ Jenkins’s expression was lugubrious, ‘it’s not the bloody Welsh way, I can tell you, Jelly. I would ’ave shot ’im up the arse if necessary, see.’
Fonthill cleared his throat again. ‘Yes, well. I couldn’t do it and that’s that. Then I missed, although I wounded the beast. Now I must follow him and finish him off. It should be quite easy. I will have a blood spoor that will lead me to him, and this time I promise I won’t miss. You must all stay here because the lionesses are still about, but I would like Mzingeli to come with me, please.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Simon.’ Alice’s voice was quite determined. ‘We will all come with you. This time it will be more dangerous because the animals will be alerted - and they will probably be in the bush, and not,’ her voice took on a gentler tone and her eyes were soft, ‘lying on a nice clean rock waiting for you to shoot. Don’t worry, my love, the odds will be much more equal this time.’
‘Oh bloody ’ell,’ said Jenkins.
Mzingeli gestured to the two bearers and spoke to them in their own tongue. Then he turned to the others. ‘I think we take cup of tea and something to eat before we follow. There will be time.’
They set off again within the half-hour, moving more quickly this time. The trail was easy to follow and it led in a straight line, deeper into the bush. Then, after a while, the drops of blood became more irregular until finally they disappeared and Mzingeli was forced to deploy his arcane tracking skills again. Not that this was too difficult, because the three animals seemed now to be moving abreast through the bush, flattening the long grasses that had become a feature of the terrain.
As they progressed, a new and deeper air of tension began to pervade the little group. The bush seemed very, very quiet now, as though all of its occupants were standing off, silently waiting for the denouement that was surely to come. Somewhere a jackal barked, and high above an eagle wheeled, but otherwise the eerie stillness seemed to grow as they trudged along, watching carefully to ensure that they did not tread on a puff adder that might lurk in the sandy hollows that were becoming more prevalent and whose bite could be fatal. On either side of them the grasses seemed to have become longer and more impenetrable.
They reached a little clearing and Mzingeli held up his hand. He nodded at the ground. ‘He stop bleeding,’ he said. ‘Not hit bad, then, and maybe close. He very dangerous now. I think he very angry.’ As he spoke, the others were aware of a strange, musky smell.
‘Yes,’ said Jenkins, ‘well I would be if I’d ’ad a bullet through me—’
He was silenced by the most frightening sound Simon, Alice or Jenkins had heard since they had first landed in South Africa. From somewhere nearby, out in the bush but beyond their vision, came a low, rumbling growl. Its source was hard to place, but it was immediately followed by another from a different direction and then a third, again with a different origin. The sound was other-worldly - malicious and menacing, as though Satan himself was watching them from the surrounding bush and giving a warning of intent. The three Europeans all immediately felt a prickling at the nape of their necks.
‘The buggers ’ave surrounded us,’ breathed Jenkins.
Fonthill pulled Alice to his side and looked at Mzingeli. The tracker’s eyes were wide and he was turning slowly, examining each section of the undergrowth in turn, his rifle at the ready. The six had instinctively moved together now, so that they stood in a tight circle, almost back to back, except for Sando, who for some reason had stayed slightly apart, his eyes fixed on some long grass underneath a thorn tree.
In a flash of tawny flesh, the lioness broke out of the grass, ran towards the bearer and then sprang on him. Sando just had time to sink on to his haunches and dig the butt of his long spear in to the earth, its blade pointing at an angle of about forty-five degrees straight at the lioness. It seemed that the animal hit Sando and the blade of the assegai at exactly the same time. The spear head penetrated its throat, snapping the shaft, but the lioness seemed to engulf the bearer, knocking him backwards, its jaws seeking his throat, despite the tip of the blade protruding from the back of its neck.
With speed matching that of the lioness, Ntini plunged his own assegai into the side of the beast, at the top of and just behind its foreleg. He withdrew it quickly and then thrust it into the stomach, this time twisting it as he pulled it out with that familiar sucking sound,
iklwa
, that Fonthill had first heard on the battlefield of Isandlwana a decade before. The lioness became suddenly still. From underneath its body, a bloodstained Sando began the struggle to free himself.
iklwa
, that Fonthill had first heard on the battlefield of Isandlwana a decade before. The lioness became suddenly still. From underneath its body, a bloodstained Sando began the struggle to free himself.
The others, however, had no time to help him, because the little clearing now erupted into a maelstrom of action. From the right, the lion broke cover with ferocious speed and sprang at Fonthill, as though recognising him as his earlier tormentor. Instinctively Simon leapt aside, firing as he did so. At such short range, the force of the bullet had the effect of making the beast twist in mid-air, although it had only entered that mass of muscle under the chin, not quite penetrating it. As the lion hit the ground, however, Alice’s much lighter cartridge took him at the side of the head. The second shot had the effect of stunning the beast for a moment, and fumbling a second round into the breech of his Martini-Henry, Fonthill had time to leap forward and deliver the
coup de grâce
at point-blank range into the lion’s heart. The beast’s head sank forward with a sigh and he lay still.
coup de grâce
at point-blank range into the lion’s heart. The beast’s head sank forward with a sigh and he lay still.
From the left, the second lioness had timed its attack to coincide exactly with that of its mate and it bounded towards Jenkins. The latter’s shot took her just above the right eye and that of Mzingeli directly in the open, snarling muzzle. She lay as still as the others.
‘Well,’ gasped Jenkins, ‘we weren’t very quiet but we seem to ’ave done the job, isn’t it?’ In moments of great anxiety, Jenkins’s Welshness always seemed to increase.
Simon gathered Alice into his arms. ‘Well done, my love,’ he murmured into her ear. ‘Good shooting. I doubt if I could have finished him myself. Are you all right?’
‘Quite all right, thank you. Well done yourself.’ But her voice carried a tremble. She gently disentangled herself. ‘What about Sando?’
Mzingeli and Ntini, with gun and spear, were labouring to lever the dead lioness off the struggling bearer, who eventually emerged covered in blood, although whether his own or that of the lioness it was difficult to tell. Closer inspection, however, disclosed an ugly strip of flesh hanging from his shoulder, like an unbuttoned epaulette, although his teeth were flashing in a broad grin. He was clearly going to live to fight another lion on another day.
Mzingeli looked up and grinned. ‘Very good shooting,’ he said to Fonthill. ‘Better this time. Not easy to move
and
fire. Nkosana very good too.’
and
fire. Nkosana very good too.’
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