The Shangani Patrol (52 page)
Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
He called Fonthill to him. ‘Will you scout on ahead to the river and see if the Matabele have crossed? Rotten job, I know, but I would rather you did it with your two chaps, who can slip through the bush easily, than have a troop go on and blunder and splash about. Come back as soon as you can and report on the state of the river, too.’
It took the three men less than an hour to ride up to the swollen river. Despite the rain, it was clear that a large group of men had made the crossing not so very long before. ‘How long, would you say, Mzingeli?’ asked Fonthill.
The tracker dismounted. Here the banks of the river were not high, and though they were wooded, the bush was not too thick. Broken branches showed where a wide crossing of the river had been made by many people, and wagon tracks could still be discerned in the mud. Mzingeli shrugged. ‘Only yesterday, I think. Many cross. Now on other side.’
‘Mount up,’ called Fonthill. ‘We may have to leave quickly.’
‘Blimey,’ said Jenkins, squeezing the moisture from his moustache, ‘you’re not thinkin’ of goin’ across now, are you, bach sir? It looks a bit deep to me. Probably full of crocodiles an’ all.’
‘No. There won’t be any crocs in that fast-flowing water, but I don’t want the three of us to ride into an impi on the other side. Let’s get back while there’s plenty of daylight.’
They met the column only two miles or so from the river. Forbes immediately called a halt and held a council of war as Fonthill reported. ‘We are pretty certain that Lobengula has crossed, and only yesterday,’ he said. ‘If you want to go after him, you had better do it soon, because the river is rising all the time. It’s about two hundred yards wide. You can make the crossing all right now, but you may have only about twenty-four hours in which to do it.’
Forbes nodded, his face expressionless. ‘Any sign of Matabele on the other side?’
‘No. But they could be in the bush, of course.’
‘Umph. If we cross today and I find we’ve got about three thousand warriors facing us, I would have my retreat cut off.’
A silence fell on the little gathering, broken by Wilson, who leaned forward eagerly. ‘Let me go now with a small patrol,’ he said. ‘I should be able to make contact with the Matabele and have some idea of their strength and position. I can move quickly if I take the best horses.’
Fonthill looked at the faces of the two men. It was clear that Wilson, younger, less experienced but ambitious, was anxious to have the honour of finding Lobengula. Forbes, himself not without ambition, was obviously also anxious to claim the distinction of catching the king, but he knew that one false move now could jeopardise his whole command. Caution overcame ambition.
‘Very well, Wilson. It seems clear that the king’s camp is near, just across the Shangani. Take twenty men and establish exactly where it is. But be back by nightfall. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘We will come with you,’ said Fonthill.
‘No.’ Forbes’s face was set in granite. ‘I may well need you here. We are vulnerable. Off you go, Wilson.’
The young major rode off with his party, which included several officers, and Forbes set about building a laager of thorn bushes to provide some protection for his main force. The rain at last had slackened and Fonthill, Jenkins and Mzingeli settled down around a spluttering fire that the tracker had managed to light and ate their biltong.
‘I ain’t no general, like,’ observed Jenkins, ‘but I can’t ’elp feelin’ that things ain’t exactly as we would like’ em. What d’you think, bach sir?’
Fonthill nodded gloomily. ‘You are right, General Jenkins. Major Forbes has a real problem on his hands. He can’t really advance his main force - pathetically small as it is - across the river until he has established where the enemy is and how large it is, but if he leaves it much longer he won’t be able to cross and the king will get away again. And if he is caught on the other side without a chance to laager, he will be stuck with the river at his back and no way to retreat or manoeuvre. What do you think, General Mzingeli?’
The tracker munched his biltong. ‘Not good, any way.’
The three sat in silence under two clouds: the first, grey and swollen with rain; the second, one of foreboding and almost as real.
Like the rest of the camp they turned in early that night, despondent not only because of the cold and wet but also because Wilson and his men had not returned. Taking this as an indication that the little patrol had been wiped out and that he was about to be attacked, Forbes set extra guards.
But the camp was aroused well before midnight when two men from the advance party rode in, to be followed an hour later by three more. They reported that Wilson had indeed reached Lobengula’s camp but was in danger of being cut off by the Matabele guarding the king and had taken up a position in the bush, where he would wait until the main body joined him.
Fonthill and Jenkins arrived just as Forbes had finished questioning the arrivals, with the help of his next most senior officer, Captain Borrow. ‘Dammit it all, Fonthill,’ exploded the major, ‘I told the man to return here before dark. Now he has set himself up right on the enemy’s doorstep and as good as ordered me to come and rescue him! Bloody fool.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
Forbes looked at each of them in turn, his eyes wide. Simon could not help but sympathise with the man. Soldiering in the colonies, far from home and with no major outbreak of hostilities to offer the chance of distinction, was a dull and slow business, with little real chance of advancement. Forbes had not put a foot wrong so far in this strange campaign. Now he had been offered the seemingly easy but high-profile task of bringing in the recalcitrant rebel king, to put the final touches to his little war under the eyes of the generals back in Whitehall. Yet this small matter of ‘clearing up’ was proving to be a nightmare, thanks to a thrusting junior officer.
‘Well . . .’ The major gnawed at his moustache. ‘I can’t risk crossing the Shangani with my whole force in the dark. We would end up all over the place. I’ve got few enough men anyway, and we could be under attack here ourselves at any minute.’ His voice dropped. He was thinking aloud now. ‘But I will have to send what reinforcements I can to Wilson to help the damned fool get back.’ The silence descended again. Then: ‘Yes . . . right.’ His mind was made up.
‘Borrow,’ he barked, ‘take seventeen troopers right away, cross the Shangani and join Wilson. Tell him I will come to him when I can.’ He turned to Fonthill. ‘I’d be grateful if you and your two scouts would go with them. If it comes to a scrap, you will be of great help to Wilson, I know. And if you do get near the king, your knowledge of him will come in very handy.’
Simon gulped. It was more an invitation than an order, given Fonthill’s civilian status, but it was one that could hardly be refused. Sending just twenty-one men across the Shangani to reinforce the patrol seemed madness. It would mean that Wilson would have too many men to help him patrol, but not enough to reinforce him in fighting a major action. It was neither one thing nor the other. He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.
‘Very good. We will come with you, Borrow.’ He doubled away to bring the glad news to Jenkins and Mzingeli.
‘’Ow many?’ Jenkins’s face registered indignation. ‘What’s ’e doin’, makin’ up a few ’ands of whist or somethin’?’
The Shangani when they reached it looked menacing by the light of a moon half hiding behind the clouds. Swirling and surging, it was now a dull yellow, and driftwood was being tossed along in the turbulence. The river hissed as it bounced over the wide and comparatively shallow drift. Captain Borrow regarded it with concern.
‘May I suggest, Borrow, that we link the horses together?’ suggested Fonthill. ‘That way the strongest swimmer will help the weakest. Do we have rope?’
Borrow nodded. ‘Sergeant,’ he called, ‘fix a leading rope to my horse. Men, hold your rifles high. Keep the water out of your magazines. Grab the rope and follow me. First six men across, dismount quickly and form a semicircle, rifles at the ready, until we are all across.’
Jenkins, the bravest of the brave in facing an enemy, now showed a face the colour of the moonlight itself. ‘I don’t like this at all, not at all, bach sir,’ he gasped. ‘You know I can’t swim. An’ then there’s the crocs. P’raps, look you, I could be a sort of rearguard on this side an’ protect you all as you cross . . .’
Fonthill sighed. ‘There are no crocs in this racing water,’ he said, ‘and you are not going to drown, I will see to that. I will be right behind you. Just hold on to the rope. The horse will do the swimming. Give him a kick to keep him going. Here we go. Come on.’
Led by Borrow, a slim man but a good horseman, the little party entered the water. The lead horse, its eyes showing as much yellow as the river itself, tossed its head and baulked, but Borrow skilfully urged it into the water and set the beast swimming. In single file, the patrol followed him, and immediately the weaker horses were swept downstream, but were held by the rope and kept roughly in line - although it was a line that bowed and sagged. It was some two hundred yards further downriver before Borrow was able to reach the far side of the Shangani, but all of his men were able to climb up the bank and reassemble, including a trembling Jenkins.
‘Nothin’ to it really,’ he confided to Mzingeli. ‘You see, the ’orses do the swimmin’, like. You just sit. It’s easy, see.’
One of the messengers from Wilson had volunteered to make the return journey, and he led the party as it picked its way between the trees and bushes in the semi-darkness, for the moon had now disappeared behind the clouds. Every member rode with his heart in his mouth, expecting a shower of assegais to rain in from the darkness on either side, but all was tranquil as the horses trod quietly through the bush. In fact, it was only twenty minutes after leaving the riverbank that a cry of ‘Who goes there?’ told them they had reached the patrol.
The men were lying behind their prostrate horses in a rough circle in a clearing. Wilson rose and shook hands warmly with Borrow and Fonthill. ‘How many have you brought?’ he asked.
Barrow smiled. ‘Only twenty, I’m afraid.’
For a brief moment Wilson looked dismayed. Then he grinned. ‘Oh well. More than enough, I expect.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘We’ve found the king’s camp. It’s about half a mile up there. Couldn’t attack in the dusk, so we will move in tomorrow at first light.’
Fonthill frowned. ‘You won’t wait until Forbes arrives with the main party?’
‘Good lord, no. We can do the job.’
‘How many warriors has the king, then?’
‘Oh,’ Wilson looked nonchalant, ‘not all that many, I think. Couple of hundred perhaps. Maybe more. Fellow we captured thought something like that, but we’re not sure, to be honest.’
‘And you plan to attack the camp with thirty-odd men?’ Fonthill tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
‘Of course. Get at ’em first thing and take them by surprise. The fact that you got through shows that they have not surrounded us, so they are not anxious for a fight, in my estimation. I know natives, Fonthill. Punch ’em hard and they will fold. Believe me.’
Borrow coughed. ‘Fonthill was at Isandlwana
and
Rorke’s Drift, sir,’ he murmured. ‘He may know natives too.’
and
Rorke’s Drift, sir,’ he murmured. ‘He may know natives too.’
‘Ah yes. Sorry, Fonthill, no condescension intended, old boy. But the Matabele are not the Zulus, you know.’
‘Hmm.’ Fonthill regarded the great moustache, which somehow looked lugubrious on such a narrow, young face. ‘Yet the Matabele showed great courage, don’t you think, in attacking us twice on our way to Bulawayo. And this time, we will not be safely laagered.’
Wilson waved a hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve got the firepower. We will move in early, grab the old boy and take him back across the river. They won’t have the guts to follow us.’
‘Well, it’s your decision.’ Fonthill tried to sound uncritical. ‘I think, however, that Forbes was rather expecting you back last night.’
‘Yes, well, I felt that once I had made contact with the enemy, it was my duty not to let go.’ He took Fonthill by the elbow and walked him away from Borrow. ‘To tell you the truth, Fonthill, Forbes can be a little . . . what shall I say? Cautious, I think is the word. Natural, I suppose, given his age and all that Sandhurst stuff he imbibed when he was young. But I know Africa, y’see, and how to behave here. These Kaffirs don’t follow the rules laid down at training college. We have to fight ’em the same way.’
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