The Shangani Patrol (34 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
‘If your majesty will sign the treaty of friendship between your country and the charter company of Mr Rhodes, as has King Lobengula, then the company will be able to extend protection. Mr Rhodes has now begun building a road through Matabeleland and Mashonaland to the west that will bring him and his influence close to you. I must first return, of course, with the treaty signed by you.’
‘And he will give me guns?’
‘I shall relay your request to him.’
‘This treaty don’t take my country from me?’
‘No. This is a treaty of friendship between your country and the British Government, as represented by the charter company. It will give the British the right to oppose the Portuguese claim to your land.
‘Ah.’ Umtasa pulled at his trim beard for a moment. Then he nodded his head. ‘Your words are good. You fight slavers already and bring back two of my people. You show you can fight. You bring me treaty. I sign it now.’
Fonthill gave a quiet sight of relief. He was growing weary of the strain of picking his words carefully, and delicately balancing his answers. He was, he realised, tiptoeing between the truth and the near truth. It was a role he did not relish.
Jenkins, who had been listening, immediately rose and retrieved the carefully rolled piece of parchment from Simon’s pack. He also brought a pen and a sealed bottle of ink. Umtasa called for a table to be provided, and then he spread out the document and, following Fonthill’s pointed finger, laboriously made his cross. Simon scrawled his own name, on behalf of the charter company, and a frowning Jenkins, his tongue poking out from under his moustache, scratched his signature as a witness. Sprinkling a little sand on the signatures, Fonthill extended his hand, and he and Jenkins shook the king’s hand as the last seal of goodwill.
The
inDunas
sitting around the fire, not quite understanding what had just taken taken place but realising that it was a ceremony of some importance, set up a brief ululation in approval.
inDunas
sitting around the fire, not quite understanding what had just taken taken place but realising that it was a ceremony of some importance, set up a brief ululation in approval.
Jenkins carefully rolled up the document, put away the ink, pen and sand, wiped the back of his hand across his moustache and confided, ‘Well, as we’ve just got married, so to speak, shall we ’ave another little drop of beer to celebrate, eh, your worship?’ And he raised his empty cup in genial supplication.
The king grasped the meaning, nodded and ordered more beer, and the drinking continued until the fires were guttering low.
Fonthill rose the next morning with a throbbing head, although Jenkins and Mzingeli appeared to be completely unaffected by the night’s carousing. During the evening, the king had repeated his claim that the country to the north offered more open and firm going, right through to the Portuguese border, but Simon resisted the temptation to detour on the way back to the scarum to see for himself. He was already feeling guilty about leaving Alice, and he decided that they would make all haste back to her and explore to the north-east as soon as she was able to walk.
They set off early, carrying with them a pair of medium-sized elephant’s tusks that Umtasa had presented to Fonthill for freeing the slaves, and which the four boys carried slung between them.
It was, however, a long trek, and it was almost dark before they reached the scarum. The camp seemed quiet enough, with the mules grazing peacefully outside the stockade, and Fonthill raised a loud ‘hello’ as they approached. There was no reply, however, and Simon exchanged a puzzled glance with Jenkins. Then he broke into a run.
Alice’s tent was empty, and there was no sign of Joshua either. Alice’s travelling pack, her few clothes and her medical bag had gone, yet there was no evidence of a struggle. The two Martini-Henry rifles and her Westley Richards stood leaning in a corner of the tent. Alice and Joshua had disappeared without a trace.
Fonthill looked wide-eyed and despairingly at Jenkins and Mzingeli.
‘P’raps they’ve just gone to pick berries or somethin’,’ offered Jenkins.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid, man. She can’t walk.’
‘Ah yes. Sorry, bach.’
In desperation, Fonthill looked around the interior of the tent once again. Something else was missing . . . Ah yes. ‘The divan has gone!’ he exclaimed. It was true. The bed from the Arabs’ tent that had been converted into a rough litter to carry Alice had disappeared. So too had her blankets. ‘Why the hell should she want to take her bed with her? Or, for that matter, who else would want to take it?’
Mzingeli had quietly walked outside. Now he re-entered the tent. ‘Nkosana taken,’ he said. ‘Many men.’
Simon crashed his fist into an open palm. ‘Oh my God! Who? Where?’
The tracker shrugged. ‘Don’t know. They go that way.’ And he pointed to the west.
Chapter 13
Fonthill noted the direction of Mzingeli’s pointed finger and ran outside the scarum and looked hard to the west. At first his unskilled eye could see little to help him. Then, on bending and examining the ground, he perceived the crushed grass and broken twigs that betrayed the passage of a considerable number of people. He turned to find Mzingeli and Jenkins at his elbow.
‘Can you see anything that would tell us who they were,’ he demanded of the tracker, ‘and how long ago they struck?’
Mzingeli bent and put a long black finger into the disturbed grass. He wrinkled his nose. ‘No, Nkosi. Not sure. But I think yesterday. And they don’t wear shoes. Native men. Going fast. Look how . . . what is English? Yes, heel of foot don’t show. Only ball. They running.’
Fonthill nodded, although he could detect nothing of the sort. ‘Running? Why on earth should they do that?’
Jenkins sucked in his moustache. ‘I suppose they’d be worryin’ about us comin’ after them, like.’
‘Well they’ve got at least a day and a half’s advantage on us anyway.’ He bit the knuckles of his fist and tried to think rationally. He turned back to Mzingeli. ‘Is there any sign of anyone being hurt?’
‘No. No fight. No blood. Guns not moved. Bed gone. Blankets gone. They look after her. Take Joshua, too.’
‘So they definitely wanted Alice,’ mused Fonthill. ‘They saw that, obviously, she couldn’t walk, so they took her bed and probably carried her on that. Who would do that? Perhaps someone who wants to have a hold over us so has taken her as some sort of hostage. But who . . . ?’ Then his eyes lit up. ‘Of course, why didn’t I think? De Sousa!’
He turned to the others, anguish showing in his face. ‘This is virtually his territory anyway, and he has a score or two to settle with us. He obviously saw the scarum and swept in. It was just his luck to find us gone but Alice remaining. Oh why did I leave her?’
‘Don’t think about that, bach sir.’ Jenkins was at his most pragmatic. ‘Just think about gettin’ ’er back, which we will, as surely as God made little apples. Now, look you, do we go after ’em right away, or wait until morning?’
Fonthill deflected the question to Mzingeli. ‘Can you follow the spoor in the dark?’
‘Perhaps, but can’t go quick at night.’
‘Very well.’ Fonthill spoke quickly. ‘Let us have something to eat and drink. We will have to leave the mules because they will slow us down, and we take only what we need: dried biltong, water bags; no tents, just blankets. Leave the ivory tusks. But we take Alice’s Westley Richards and the other rifles. I want to be well armed and on the way before darkness falls.’
They all bustled about, unhobbling the mules, stuffing their packs with essentials, filling extra water bottles and then, squatting briefly, eating a quick supper. Fonthill was careful to ensure that the document he had signed with King Umtasa was safely stowed in his pack. They were still chewing when a crashing in the undergrowth made them grab their rifles and brought them to their feet.
From the direction in which they had come only a few minutes before, a figure emerged. He was a native, dressed only in loincloth and monkey-skin calf bands and carrying nothing except a water bag. Perspiration poured from his face and chest and he was gasping for breath. Fonthill raised his rifle but was restrained by Mzingeli.
‘He from Umtasa kraal,’ said the tracker, and he moved quickly towards the tribesman, who looked on the verge of exhaustion. Mzingeli seized the man’s water bag to slake his thirst, but it was empty. Instead he raised his own bag to the runner’s mouth and urged him to sit. They then engaged in conversation, conducted between the Manican’s gasps.
‘What does he say?’ interrupted Fonthill.
Mzingeli lifted his hand for silence and continued to interrogate the runner. Eventually he rose. ‘He come from King Umtasa,’ he said. ‘After we leave kraal, de Sousa arrive with men. He tell king that he heard we in area and want him to produce us for him to kill. King say we left day before. De Sousa go off to find us. This man sent by king to warn us. He been running all day.’
‘Ah.’ Fonthill clenched his fist. ‘That settles it. The bastard arrived here before us and took . . . Wait.’ He frowned. ‘Ask him how long after we left the Portuguese set off.’
Mzingeli translated. ‘He not sure but think about one hour. He run around Gouela and men and then come straight here. They not far behind him now.’
Fonthill’s frown deepened. ‘That means that de Sousa could not have got here before us and taken Alice. I just don’t understand this, at all.’
‘Well,’ sniffed Jenkins. ‘Do we wait ’ere an’ give old Saucepot another bloody nose, or do we bugger off after Miss Alice? Not much time to decide, bach sir.’
Fonthill raised his hand. ‘Let me think. Now, if Gouela had been able to overtake us in some way, by design or accident, and taken Alice, then he would have waited here to surprise us. That means that he hasn’t taken her and someone else has. Right. We go after Alice, and we start now before that greaser and his men arrive. Here.’ He delved into his pack and pressed two golden sovereigns into the messenger’s hand. ‘Mzingeli, please give him our thanks and ask him to pass our gratitude on to the king. Give the man one of our spare water skins and tell him that if he can hide them from de Sousa, the mules are his. We leave now.’
Leaving the young man standing in the compound clutching his sovereigns, Fonthill and his party broke into a trot and set off into the bush, following a trail that was now only slightly discernible in the dusk. They alternately trotted and walked for about an hour, stringing out in single file with Mzingeli in the lead, followed by Simon, Jenkins and the four boys, before the tracker was forced to admit that he could not follow the spoor any longer in the growing darkness.
‘Right,’ grunted Fonthill, perspiration trickling down his face. ‘We get off this track and bed down in the bush. No fire. No light. No talking . . .’ He paused. ‘Wait a minute, we are missing a boy.’
Indeed they were. Only three of the young men who had journeyed with them from Bulawayo had gathered around him. ‘Mzingeli - find out what’s happened.’
A quick conversation ensued between the tracker and the three boys. Then Mzingeli reported: ‘Boy was last in line. Slow runner. Boy in front of him not realise he fall behind and disappear. Maybe he come soon.’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘If you can’t find the track in the dark, then this lad can’t.’ He sighed. ‘All right. You and I had better go back and look for him. Jenkins, stay in charge here, and for goodness’ sake don’t let any of the boys stray.’
Jenkins pulled a face. ‘Better I come with you, bach sir, with old Saucepot on our trail. Just in case you run into trouble.’
‘No. You stay here with the boys. We don’t want too many bodies wandering around in the bush in the dark. Keep a guard rota. We won’t be long. I only hope we can retrace our steps.’
It was difficult, but they did so - at least for some forty minutes. Mzingeli was well in the lead and hardly visible in the darkness when a movement in the bush to his right caught Fonthill’s eye. Something was swinging from a branch. Rifle at the ready, he took a couple of paces into the thicket before he stopped, his mouth opening in horror. Hanging from the branch by his neck was the young man who had fallen behind. Swinging at his side and equally dead was Umtasa’s messenger. As Simon watched, the man’s hand twitched and the two gold sovereigns slipped to the ground.
Fonthill was turning to shout to Mzingeli when something crashed on to his head and blackness descended.
Fonthill came round with excruciating pain consuming his mind and body. The throbbing in his head was as nothing compared to . . . what was it? He opened his eyes and realised that somebody, very close to him, was slowly cutting into the flesh of his chest with a knife. There was a strong smell of pomade, highly scented hair oil. He struggled but realised that his wrists were bound behind him and his ankles were similarly tied. The black eyes of de Sousa looked into his at a distance of some twelve inches, and then, realising that he had regained consciousness, the Portuguese held up a knife, from the end of which dripped blood.
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