The Shangani Patrol (47 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
Jameson called back over his shoulder, ‘You’ll stay with us, of course, Fonthill? We would all be glad to have the benefit of your experience.’
‘Of course, Doctor.’ Fonthill turned to his wife. ‘Alice, I would much prefer it if you would continue on to Fort Salisbury. Jenkins and Mzingeli can escort you, and you should reach there in less than a week.’ He smiled, persuasively he hoped. ‘Jameson will be sending messengers back there to cable Rhodes and you will be well informed. What’s more, you can send your own reports to the
Post
from the cable station there without delay.’
Post
from the cable station there without delay.’
Mindful of the worry she had caused him, Alice bit back the derisory response on her lips and instead smiled winningly. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, ‘but I would much prefer to stay with the column. So much more comfortable, and I do so like the fresh air.’
Jenkins smothered a grin, but Simon just frowned.
It was quickly decided that it was too late for the troops to advance much further, and Jameson resolved to take advantage of the open nature of the terrain and camp then and there. Fonthill noticed that despite the fact that Forbes was nominally in command, the force of the doctor’s personality - or was it his command of Rhodes’s wallet? - ensured that he took the main decisions, at least when the enemy was not present. Pickets were pushed out, guards were mounted, campfires were lit and the force settled down for the night.
For five days the two columns advanced, eagerly and yet nervously seeking action but finding none. Their scouts, with whom Fonthill and Jenkins ranged for much of the journey, could find no trace of the Matebele host, even though they rode through bush country that would be ideal for an attack. It seemed that Lobengula was holding his troops back to defend his capital - perhaps in Somabula Forest.
As the weather worsened, with mist and light rain descending, the British outriders reached the beginning of the forest and halted. It seemed, in fact, not particularly worse in terms of density than any of the more thickly wooded bush country through which they had already ridden, but Fonthill confirmed with Mzingeli that this would be the last and probably the best place for the Matabele to attack before Bulawayo, now only some fifteen miles away.
‘What d’yer think, Fonthill?’ asked Forbes as Wilson and Jameson joined them at the head of the column.
‘Well, in one way it is tempting to push on through the forest during the night,’ said Simon. ‘The Matabele, like the Zulus, would never dream of launching an attack at night, so we might be able to reach the open ground on the banks of the Shangani on the other side. But I fear that with no moon, and this mist about, we would probably lose our way. The column might break up and we would end up dispersed all over the bloody place.’
He eased himself in the saddle and wiped the damp mist from his face. ‘My advice would be that we should camp here for the night, wait until there’s decent visibility after dawn and push on. The forest is too big to go round, I understand.’
He shot a sharp glance at Mzingeli, who nodded.
‘Oh, we don’t want to make a diversion,’ exclaimed Jameson. ‘I want to get straight on to Bulawayo and have it out with Lobengula as soon as possible. If you agree, Forbes, I think we should do as Fonthill recommends.’
Fonthill stifled a smile. The race against the Imperials was never far from the doctor’s mind.
‘Quite so. We will make camp and push on in the morning.’
The morning, however, was almost as unpromising for riding through thick woodland as the night would have been, for a thick fog descended on the forest, leaving tendrils of it, like a spider’s web, hanging from the tallest of the thorn trees and making the temperature drop by nearly twenty degrees.
‘Rains will be here soon,’ growled Jameson, wiping his glasses. ‘Come on, Forbes. We don’t have time to wait about. Let’s get on.’
They set off again, their horses stepping delicately through the dripping, shadowy glades and every sound beyond the gloomy greyness of the tree trunks making the outriders twitch their rifles and lick their already moist lips. Fonthill, who rode with Jenkins in the van - Mzingeli had been sent back to stay close to Alice - had no idea how long it took the two columns to pass through the forest, but every minute spent in that fog made him curse the more that his wife was back there in the gloom. If the Matabele came at them here in force, emerging from the undergrowth without warning, dodging and screaming, hurling their throwing spears, then he knew that the little army would be overwhelmed. There would be no time to form a square or create a laager. The warriors would be on them before an order could be given. It would have been much wiser to take another three days, or whatever, and skirt this wet, dripping labyrinth. Damn this childish, dangerous race against the Imperials!
At last they were out of the wood. The country was now more open, although still carrying sufficient timber to provide cover for an attacking force. In the distance could be seen the bulge of the banks bordering the Shangani river. Of the Matabele there was still no sign.
‘I don’t think they were ever in there waiting,’ said Wilson.
‘Probably not,’ agreed Fonthill. He caught Mzingeli’s eye and saw the faint negative shake of the head. He rode over. ‘Do you think they were there?’ he asked.
‘They there,’ said the tracker, his face expressionless as usual. ‘I heard them and see some. But they go.’
‘Why didn’t they attack, for goodness’ sake? They had us at their mercy.’
Mzingeli sniffed. ‘That fog. They think it white man’s magic, brought down to stop attack. They frightened in wood - like us. But they go.’
‘What? Do you mean they have given in and run back to Bulawayo?’
‘No. They attack. Soon, I think.’
Simon rode back and shared Mzingeli’s view with Forbes. The big man nodded. ‘Probably right,’ he said. ‘Feel it in me water.’ He jerked his head towards the Shangani. ‘River will probably be low and the banks high, so we’ll have to cut a defile down to get to the water and then lay down brushwood and what-have-you to stop us sinking into the mud. Just as well we haven’t got too many wagons. Won’t be able to get across today, so . . .’
Wilson had moved away a little to chide a man who had dismounted. Now he returned. ‘What’s the plan, then, Forbes?’ he asked. ‘Straight across, eh?’
‘No. We’ll laager on this bank while we cut a path down and up the other side. Safest. Cross tomorrow.’
The younger man tugged at his moustache and shot a questioning look at Fonthill. ‘I would have thought we could easily get across today. There’s no sign of the Matabele. We need to press on, you know. What do you say, Fonthill?’
Simon sighed. He had no wish to intervene in what seemed to be incipient rivalry between the two officers. ‘I rather think Major Forbes is right, Wilson,’ he said carefully. ‘There’s still plenty of cover for an attack, and we would be more or less defenceless if they came at us as we were trying to get across in the mud. One more day shouldn’t make much difference, I would have thought.’
Wilson gave his cocky grin and indicated where Jameson was spurring his horse on to get a first glimpse of the river. ‘I know someone who thinks that a day would make a hell of a difference,’ he chortled. ‘But you’re in command, Forbes, though you may have trouble in convincing the medical department.’ He raised a forefinger to the rim of his hat and rode away, to hurry along the last remnants of the columns emerging from the forest.
Jenkins had observed the conversation, although he was just out of earshot. ‘What was all that about, then?’
‘It was all about whether we should cross the river today. Forbes has decided better not, and I agree.’ Fonthill raised himself from the saddle and looked about him. ‘I must confess that I don’t like this place. Mzingeli feels that the Matabele are out there near us now and are poised to attack.’
‘Well,’ sighed Jenkins, flicking the moisture from the end of his moustache, ‘I wish they would bloody well get on with it. I’m catching pneuman . . . newinia . . .’
‘Pneumonia?’
‘No. No. Influenza. I can feel it in me bones.’
The two columns redeployed and a rough laager was made from the wagons, carts and cut thorn bushes, curling out in a semicircle from the northern bank of the Shangani. The river itself was wide, sixty yards or more, but not deep, and mud banks thrust up from the water in the centre to glisten in the sunlight, now burning away the last of the morning mist. From within the protection of the laager, men worked to level down the high banks of the river and then to cut branches and strew them to provide a firmer base for wagons and horses in making the crossing. Forbes sent out patrols on the other side of the river, while work began on the further bank.
The task was completed just before dusk and the camp settled down for the night. Extra guards were mounted at dawn but still the Matabele did not attack.
The crossing began at once, and a very makeshift laager was created on the southern bank. It all took time and it was late afternoon before the two columns had squelched and slipped their way across the deep mud and re-formed on the far side.
‘If you think this is bad,’ Wilson confided cheerfully to Fonthill and Jenkins, ‘just wait a few weeks. This place will be impassable. Once the rains come - and I mean real rain, not this bit of damp - the river will be in full flood. Almost impossible to cross.’
‘Crocodiles?’ asked Jenkins, his eyes wide.
‘Not when the river’s in spate. They don’t like fast-flowing water and they’ll head for high ground. But always keep your eyes open for the beggars.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that all right, bach. I’ll do that.’
‘We’ll laager for the night on this side and set off again early in the morning,’ called Forbes. ‘Jameson is anxious to push on, of course.’
Fonthill nodded. The terrain on the south bank was very like that on the north - still suitable for a dawn attack. ‘You’ll be putting out patrols early tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
‘Mind if Jenkins, Mzingeli and I go with them?’
‘Of course not. But my feeling is that the Matabele have retreated to Bulawayo and are going to make a stand just north of there.’
Fonthill nodded. ‘You’re probably right.’ But he was unsure. He pulled Mzingeli to one side. ‘I thought you said they would attack on the north bank,’ he said, ‘once we were out of the forest.’
‘No, Nkosi. They frightened of wood and ghosts so rush across the river. Did you not see their marks in mud?’
Fonthill shook his head. ‘So they have retreated to Bulawayo after all?’
‘No. They come tomorrow. I think they out there.’ He indicated the bush with a broad sweep of his hand. ‘They come at dawn.’
Jenkins gave a histrionic gulp. ‘And you want us to go out early on patrol, bach sir?’
Simon shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t think too highly of these scouts that Forbes is sending out. They’re noisy and too sloppy riding in this bush. Not proper soldiers. Perhaps we can stiffen ’em up a bit. Show them how to do it. All right?’
‘Very good, sir.’
It was still dark when the three saddled up. The morning was overcast and dampish, with no stars to bid good night to the darkness and no moon to pave the way for the sun. The patrol consisted of twelve troopers, all good farmers, fine horsemen and keen shots, under the command of a sergeant, who had been chairman of their local community outside Fort Salisbury. As they fanned out to pick their way between the trees, Fonthill hung back a little.
‘We will stay together,’ he said. ‘A bullet in your rifle breech but keep the safety catch on. We don’t want any accidents in this rotten light. We will stay in the centre and try and keep those two chaps ahead in sight.’
The dawn seemed to be taking its time coming, and very soon they had lost sight of the two troopers ahead of them. To their right, they could hear two of the troopers calling to each other, and to their left, the crackle of broken branches as horses were pushed through the undergrowth. Fonthill frowned. Did they have to advertise their presence so obviously? Ahead, however, there was silence. Riding on slowly, Simon felt the perspiration start to form on his upper lip.
Suddenly the bushes in front parted and a horse came crashing out, its eyes yellow and wide. On its back swayed one of the troopers, an assegai piercing his chest and its blade tip emerging from his back. At the same moment, Jenkins’s rifle rang out and a warrior fell on the right, in the act of hurling his spear. Two more came running fast and softly between the trees, and Fonthill aimed quickly and fired, seemingly without effect.
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