The Shangani Patrol (49 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The straggling herd had hardly had time to reach the river when the Matabele emerged from the bush. From the moment they burst out from the trees, running fast, shouting and brandishing their assegais and rifles, it was clear that their targets were the horses.
‘They are trying to stampede them,’ shouted Fonthill. A small group of Matabele had broken away from the main band and were heading for the horses, waving their arms and screaming. The beasts were now pricking their ears and prancing, their handlers desperately trying to soothe them. Behind the advancing warriors, a screen of natives had emerged and were beginning to direct rifle fire at the escort and the horse wranglers.
Fonthill thrust his foot into his stirrup and struggled to remount. He shouted to the escort, who, milling about and unsure whether to return the Matabele fire or gallop back to the laager, seemed leaderless: ‘You men, follow me.’ He pointed towards the sprinting Matabele. ‘We’ve got to run them down before they stampede the horses. Come on, quickly.’
Impeded by the need to lead Alice and Mzingeli’s horses, neither Fonthill nor Jenkins had a hand free to draw and fire the rifles in their saddle buckets. Instead, they cantered towards the escort, twenty of whom gathered around them.
‘Right,’ shouted Fonthill. He pointed towards the spearhead of Matabele diagonally to their right. ‘Give them a volley and follow me at the gallop. Ready, FIRE!’ The noise of the shots made their mounts prance, but a dozen of the running warriors spun and fell. ‘Now, hard at them and use your rifles as lances. Stay together. Follow me, GALLOP!’
‘Hold tight, bach,’ shouted Jenkins, and they were off, heads down, rifles held low like medieval lances, a small but solid mass of cavalry bearing down on the running warriors. It was too much for the Matabele, and they scattered in all directions as the horsemen crashed through them, flying hooves sending tribesmen to the floor and rifles thumping into cowhide shields and sending them spinning away. The fact that he was leading Alice’s horse in the charge had unbalanced Fonthill, never the best of horsemen, and he knew that if he hit one of the warriors he would be unseated. As it was, as they thundered towards the group he realised that he was slipping sideways and about to slide off the saddle. A strong Welsh hand from his right pushed him back again and he regained his balance, to ride through the milling tribesmen unscathed. One horseman was unseated but Jenkins reined in hard, swung round and threw the bridle of Mzingeli’s mount to him, and the trooper was able to scramble away to safety.
At the end of their charge, the horsemen reined in, turned and waited for Jenkins and the fallen trooper to rejoin them. Fonthill, perspiration pouring down his face, nodded towards the Welshman. ‘Thanks, 352,’ he gasped. ‘I thought I was gone then.’
Jenkins grinned. ‘With respect, bach sir, you really shouldn’t lead mad charges when you can’t sit on your arse properly on an ’orse.’
Fonthill returned the grin, although there was more relief in his face than amusement. He wiped his face with his hand. ‘Yes, well, not exactly the Charge of the Light Brigade, I do agree, but more effective, I would say. Well done, lads. Anyone hurt?’
The question was made more relevant by the singing of bullets winging their way over their heads. The Matabele riflemen had trotted forward and were now kneeling and firing directly at Fonthill’s troop. It seemed, however, that the sights on their rifles were still set too high for the firing to be effective. More of a threat were the scores of black spearmen who were now spilling out of the trees and breaking into a run towards them. The group of warriors deputed to stampede the horses seemed to have disappeared, and down by the river, the horse handlers and the rest of the escort were cracking whips, screaming, nudging the lead horses and beginning to turn the mounts away from the water and the Matabele and back towards the laager.
Fonthill gestured towards the running warriors. ‘Reload. We’ll advance towards those spearmen and put one volley into them. Then let’s get out of here quickly and go and help our people gallop the horses back. We will form a screen to protect the rear. Trot forward, now.’
The volley brought down a handful of the attacking warriors but did little to stop the advance of the others, who came on, spears swinging low, pumping strength into their legs, and shields pushed forward. Still they came, appearing out of the trees without break to form a black mass moving very fast across the open ground. Fonthill realised that this was no marauding party, sent out to steal horses and snipe at the edges of the advancing British columns. Lobengula had committed his main impis - probably including his much-famed seven-hundred-strong bodyguard - to overwhelm the white men. As if to underline this, he could hear heavy firing coming from the direction of the laager. He bit his lip. Would there be a laager to return to?
They rode back hard and caught up with the last of the horses, now galloping equally fast. As they broke cover, Simon realised thankfully that the laager was not surrounded and that the escorts were leading the mounts back towards a protected compound, where an opening was being kept for them. Looking behind him, however, he realised that the first of the charging spearmen were breaking out from the bush to complete the ring enclosing the laager.
‘Halt,’ he shouted. ‘Two more volleys before we ride in.’
With impeccable - and surprising - discipline, the little troop turned round, lined up, fired their volleys and then galloped back into the enclosure.
‘Come on,’ shouted Fonthill, handing his two horses over to a Kaffir wrangler. ‘We must find Alice and then help in the line. I have a feeling that this is the big one.’
Alice was perched between two troopers behind the side board of a wagon, Mzingeli and her rifle by her side but her head down, scribbling furiously in her notebook. ‘Make way, lads,’ cried Fonthill, and they shouldered themselves in beside her.
‘Thank God you’re back,’ cried Alice, regarding them both, her eyes wide. ‘What happened?’
‘The captain ’ere decided to charge the ’ole Mattabelly army,’ said Jenkins, slipping a round into his rifle. ‘So ’e nearly fell off.’
Alice gave a half-smile, but there was little humour in it, more concern. ‘Can’t be true,’ she said. ‘My husband is a magnificent rider, and anyway,’ she gestured to the front, ‘the whole Matabele army is out there, coming our way. Look!’
They followed her gaze. The spacious clearing in which they had camped was black with warriors. This time the attack was not pell-mell but coming seemingly in stages, with riflemen thrusting forward to fire, reload and fire again before the spearmen rushed towards the laager. Once again, however, the firing was wild and the riflemen could be seen fumbling with the Martini-Henry’s loading mechanism, some of them dropping their cartridges on the ground and trying to scoop them up again.
This time the laager had been erected more carefully and the Maxims and the two seven-pounder guns mounted strategically, so that the former could sweep the warriors in the lead and the latter send their shells to explode in the rear.
To Fonthill’s amazement, he saw that the Matabele riflemen were firing into the smoke and dust on the ground caused by the explosion of the shells. He reached across to tug at Mzingeli’s sleeve. ‘Why on earth are they doing that?’ he asked.
A look of derision stole across the tracker’s face. ‘They fools,’ he said. ‘They think that when shell explodes it send out spirits of white men. So they shoot to kill them. Stupid!’
The concentrated firepower of the British was taking a terrible toll. There was no protection in the clearing, nowhere to hide from the volley firing, the sweep of the machine guns, nor the boom of the two cannon. The warriors seemed to be engaged in a dance of death, as they ran forward, jumped high as they were hit and then fell backwards, scattering their rifles, spears and shields before lying still, occasionally moving a limb, like injured beetles.
‘Oh, this is brutal,’ sighed Alice. ‘Why don’t they stop and run away?’
But still they came running forward, black waves beating against a hostile shoreline. Some of the spearmen somehow managed to evade the bullets and the shells and reach within a hundred and fifty yards of the laager wall, to throw their assegais in a defiant and futile gesture, only to crumple and join the ranks of the dead behind them.
After letting off two rounds, Fonthill could not bring himself to fire again and merely sat, his arm around Alice, as they watched the slaughter. Jenkins, however, at their side, continued to fire. Then, as he reloaded and lifted his rifle again, he stiffened.
‘Hey, bach sir,’ he cried, pointing to the edge of the trees. ‘It’s ’im, ain’t it? Look, just there. In the golden suit.’
Fonthill and Alice followed the pointing finger and caught a flash, nothing more, of a yellow jacket before it disappeared back into the bush.
‘De Sousa?’ asked Alice, her eyes wide.
‘Could be,’ answered Simon. ‘I couldn’t really see.’
‘It was ’im all right,’ said Jenkins. ‘I’m sure of it. Dammit, I was too late in firin’. Now I’ve missed ’im again, blast ’is eyes.’
Fonthill stared long and hard at the rim of the bush as the Matabele continued to pour out and run across the open ground, but there was no repeat sighting of the yellow uniform. ‘Well, it seems that Gouela is now definitely hunting with Lobengula,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps we shall yet have a chance of settling scores with him.’
‘No,’ muttered Alice. ‘Please keep away from that awful man.’
At last the waves began to recede and the attacks finally stuttered and died. Simon consulted his watch. He estimated that the battle, if battle it was, had lasted only forty-five minutes. A cheer went up from the defenders in the laager as silence descended on the clearing.
‘There must be at least three thousand dead men out there - probably more,’ whispered Alice. She turned to her husband. ‘What for, darling? Why?’
Fonthill could think of nothing more to say and merely shook his head. Then he raised it and walked to meet Jameson.
‘A complete and utter victory, old boy,’ said the doctor, his face beaming under the perspiration. ‘And I have just heard what you did out there down by the river. If the Matabele had run off our horses we would be at their mercy, for all our firepower. We are all in your debt, Fonthill. Thank you very much.’
Simon shrugged. ‘Well, Doctor, you have had your battle. Do you and Forbes and Wilson think it was decisive?’ He jerked his head over his shoulder. ‘There are enough dead out there, God knows.’
Jameson looked at him sharply. ‘Well, my dear fellow,
they
attacked us, if you remember. It had to be done. Brutal, I agree, but necessary surgery.’ His voice dropped. ‘I hope that your wife was not too shocked by it all. Not good for a lady to be involved in this sort of thing, of course.’
they
attacked us, if you remember. It had to be done. Brutal, I agree, but necessary surgery.’ His voice dropped. ‘I hope that your wife was not too shocked by it all. Not good for a lady to be involved in this sort of thing, of course.’
‘Oh, she has witnessed much of this in her career. She saw what happened at Rorke’s Drift; she was at Ulundi, Kandahar, Sekukuni, El Kebir and Abu Klea, so she has seen more battles than most generals.’
Jameson’s jaw dropped. ‘Good lord!’
‘What do you propose to do now?’ Simon asked.
‘We will march on Bulawayo, of course. My aim is to put Lobengula into custody. We have given him a hard knock here and I don’t think he will attack us again, but we can’t have him at liberty. He still has thousands of men under arms and I must get him to make some formal acknowledgement of surrender. We don’t want this thing to go on indefinitely.’
‘Where is Rhodes?’
‘He is riding up from the east. We shall meet him in Bulawayo.’
Jameson took off his hat and fanned his face, then he looked around the laager, where the men were lying in various postures of exhausted relaxation, their weapons at their side. Their jaunty, arrogant air had long since deserted them, together with the smartness of their uniforms. Their hats were stained with black rings of sweat and their brown jackets were bleached by the sun. Leggings were scratched and torn by the thorn bushes and their faces showed relief, not triumph. The acrid smell of cordite lay heavily on the air and flies were beginning to mobilise on the Matabele dead. The edge of the bush offered no threat now, for the cream of Lobengula’s impis lay strewn in the dust under the sun and the rest were making their weary way back to the king’s kraal.
Jameson swung his head around slowly to take it all in. ‘By Jove, Fonthill,’ he said, his voice little above a whisper. ‘You know, I was never certain we could do it. After all,’ he gestured with a dismissive hand, ‘this lot were not soldiers. Just farmers really. All volunteers. Oh, they could shoot and defend themselves, but they knew little about military discipline, standing firm under attack and all that sort of thing, and they all remembered Isandlwana, don’t forget. Bringing ’em this far in the face of an enemy outnumbering them by twenty-five to one and winning two engagements I have to say is an achievement. Yes, I know it’s not over yet, but I feel it is bar a bit of shouting. Eh?’ He looked up at Fonthill, rather like a puppy demanding praise.
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