Read The Shangani Patrol Online
Authors: John Wilcox
The Shangani Patrol (2 page)
Alice wrinkled her nose. ‘How disgusting. Does this mean . . .’ and her voice faltered for a second, ‘that we must kill all three?’
The black man shook his head. ‘No, unless they all attack us. We kill only lion. His ladies then go away and find another mate. I don’t think they come back here.’ Mzingeli looked around enquiringly, as though waiting for further questions. Then his eyes widened and he added slowly, ‘This dangerous. Everybody go very, very careful.’
As though on cue, the tips of the mopane trees fringing the compound became suddenly alight as they caught the first rays of the rising sun. The little party turned to leave and began making for the opening at the edge of the thorn hedge that encircled the village. There, as if from nowhere, the village
inDuna
, or headman, materialised, spoke briefly to Mzingeli and then smiled and nodded to Fonthill.
inDuna
, or headman, materialised, spoke briefly to Mzingeli and then smiled and nodded to Fonthill.
‘He thank you for what we do,’ said the tracker.
Simon returned the smile and gave an acknowledging nod. But he felt not at all confident about their mission, and despite Mzingeli’s competence, nor did he feel assured that they could bring it to a successful conclusion. When they had recruited Mzingeli in the Transvaal - on the warm recommendation of an old army acquaintance in the Cape - they had had no intention of hunting lion or other big game, or even of crossing the lazy Limpopo into the wilderness that was Matabeleland. They had merely wished to travel in a leisurely manner through the rolling grasslands of the veldt, shooting a few guineafowl and buck, camping under the stars and breathing the fresh, clear air of the country. A holiday, but also a way of forgetting the sadness they had left behind them at home in Norfolk. A brief change of direction for the three of them: Simon, Alice and, of course, Jenkins, Fonthill’s former batman, now lifelong friend, and survivor, with Simon, of a dozen or more dangerous encounters on campaign with the British Army. This was to have been a few weeks of indulgence, far from danger, and with a first-rate tracker to guide them through the country and help them find game when they needed it.
It had been Mzingeli who had suggested that, as they were so near to the Matabele border with the Transvaal, they should cross the river and spend a couple of nights at his home village, thus allowing him to see again his elderly father, who was the
inDuna
there. There would be no need to seek permission from the all-powerful Matabele king, Lobengula, to enter his country. They would slip in and move out again without detection. The tracker had explained that he himself was a member of the Malakala tribe, a minority clan who lived on either side of the Limpopo. A non-militant, reclusive people, they had been completely subjugated by the Matabele, who used them as a source of plunder and slaves. His fellow tribesmen, he said, would see that the party were completely hidden from the king’s men during their short stay.
inDuna
there. There would be no need to seek permission from the all-powerful Matabele king, Lobengula, to enter his country. They would slip in and move out again without detection. The tracker had explained that he himself was a member of the Malakala tribe, a minority clan who lived on either side of the Limpopo. A non-militant, reclusive people, they had been completely subjugated by the Matabele, who used them as a source of plunder and slaves. His fellow tribesmen, he said, would see that the party were completely hidden from the king’s men during their short stay.
Fonthill gave a wry smile as he trod carefully behind the tall figure of Mzingeli. He was still unsure whether the tracker had known, as he neared his old home with his employers, that his village’s slender stock of cattle - those few still left to them by the Matabele - was being ravaged by the lions, or whether it was a mere coincidence that they should arrive when the white man’s legendary firepower and hunting skills were so sorely needed. Either way, Simon had felt quite unable to resist the request that they should rid the village of this terrible scourge. He smiled again. He felt a little like the young hero of a medieval tale, called upon to slaughter the terrible dragon that was terrorising the hamlet and taking away the young maidens. Except that he knew nothing about dragon-slaying and even less about lion-killing. Thank God for Mzingeli - except that, of course, they wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place if it hadn’t been for the crafty old tracker. He shrugged. Ah, well. He and Jenkins had been in more dangerous situations than this and survived. If only Alice hadn’t insisted on coming too!
He turned and tried to smile reassuringly at his wife. They were walking in single file, as Mzingeli had instructed, except that for some reason, the two bearers, Ntini and Sando, carrying their spears and light shoulder packs, had overtaken Jenkins, leaving the latter at the back. Fonthill caught the Welshman’s eye.
‘I’d be grateful,’ said Jenkins, in a hoarse whisper that seemed to boom back at them from the trees, ‘if I could be relieved of this postin’ at the back, see, before we come up with these bleedin’ lions . . . oh, beggin’ your pardon, Miss Alice.’
Alice sighed, stopped and turned. ‘Three five two, if you’re going to apologise every time you swear, it is going to make for a very long day. Let me remind you that I am a brigadier’s daughter, I have served as a war correspondent on almost as many campaigns as you and Simon, and I have heard language that might make even your hair curl. So do feel free to swear as much as you bloody well like.’
Jenkins bit into his huge black moustache. ‘Yes, miss. Sorry, miss. It’s just that I’d rather be up front to face the bugg . . . beggars when they come than at the back ’ere, with me arse sort of exposed, look you.’
Mzingeli held up his hand. ‘No talk now.’ He spoke curtly in his own language to the two bearers, who sheepishly moved behind Jenkins. Then they all moved on.
Within what seemed like only moments, they had been swallowed up by the bush. Mzingeli had called this terrain mopane woodland, named after the mopane itself, a deciduous tree with butterfly-shaped leaves that cattle loved to chew, and he had told them that it stretched in a broad belt for miles along the low veldt north of the Limpopo. Yet it bore little resemblance to any woodland that Fonthill remembered from England. The mopane jostled for space with the much larger baobab tree and the smaller thorn trees and bushes. Visibility was only about one hundred yards, and the terrain could not have been more different from the rolling grassland that they had left behind them in the Transvaal.
The night had brought them little sleep, for the bush had been alive with noise: the squeal of hyenas, the barking of baboons, the grunting of dozens of other, unknown animals, and above all, the roar of lions - that primeval sound that made them pull their blankets under their chins and ensure that their rifles were within reach. Lions feared no one; even elephants were likely to form a defensive circle when the king of beasts was on the hunt. Now, however, as they walked, the woodland had turned into a sleepy, seemingly quiet environment. But it was not a tranquil place. They trod carefully yet they continually disturbed guineafowl, which suddenly flew up ahead of them, squawking, flapping and sending their hearts into their mouths. Simon became aware of a distinctive smell of . . . what? Ah yes - cinnamon. He realised that it emanated from the miniature kopjes of dried clay constructed by ants that now began to appear among the trees. The rainy season had long since passed, and underneath their boots the soil was dry and powdery. Strange new country. Good country for lions. He licked his dry lips and gripped his rifle tightly.
None of them carried weapons ideal for big-game hunting. They had set out originally armed mainly with light rifles, like the small-calibre Westley Richards that Alice now cradled. Ideal for bringing down antelope and buck but capable only of wounding a charging lion. Mzingeli’s Snider was an old rifle that had been replaced as British Army issue long before the Zulu War ten years ago, and although the man had already proved himself to be a good shot with it, it too seemed inadequate for today’s purpose. The bearers had their assegais, razor sharp but best used for skinning and cutting up a carcass rather than killing. That left the Martini-Henry rifles carried by Fonthill and Jenkins. These had been used by the pair at the end of the abortive Sudan campaign four years ago, and thrown into the back of their wagon almost as an afterthought when they had set out from the Cape, merely a precaution in case danger should ensue from hostile natives. They packed a heavy .45 cartridge that, as Mzingeli had reminded them, could be effective against a charging Zulu. But a lion . . . ? Fonthill looked down and checked that he had inserted a round ‘up the snout’.
Simon himself, at thirty-four, was no longer the apprehensive young subaltern who had first landed in South Africa exactly ten years ago. The decade spent as a highly irregular army scout in Zululand, Afghanistan, the Transvaal (twice) and Egypt had lined his face a little and brought a light dusting of grey to his temples. Some five feet nine inches tall, his figure had filled out a little but his waist was slim enough, his shoulders broad and he carried himself lightly. He certainly looked the part of a hunter, in his light khaki shirt and trousers. The brown eyes, narrowed now under his wide-brimmed Boer hat as they peered into the bush, still, however, carried a trace of uncertainty, although the Pathan musket that had broken his nose had left it hooked and given his face a predatory air.
He turned his head to look at his wife stepping behind him. Exactly the same age as Simon, Alice Fonthill had matured into a fine-looking woman: erect, slim, with long fair hair tied into a serviceable bun behind the brim of her bush hat, her grey eyes steady and meeting those of her husband with a ready smile, although they too displayed a hint of something - sadness? - that gave her face a haunting, perhaps melancholy element. Alice’s chin was perhaps a little too strong and square to bestow conventional beauty, but she carried herself with an air of charismatic attractiveness that had served her well in the masculine world of journalism, especially during her time covering the campaigns of Queen Victoria’s army over the last ten years.
Behind them both, Jenkins carried his rifle at the slope over his shoulder, as befitted an ex-soldier of Her Majesty’s 24th Regiment of Foot. It was at the regiment’s hospital on the Welsh borders that he had met Fonthill, becoming the young subaltern’s servant-batman, mentor and friend. Always known as 352 - the last three figures of his army number, and used to distinguish him from the many other Jenkinses in this most Welsh of regiments - he was some four years older than Simon, although no flecks of grey had yet dared to fight their way through the thicket of black hair that stood out vertically on his head, or into the great moustache that swept across his face. Seemingly as broad as he was tall (he stood at about five feet four inches), Jenkins exuded strength. He was as muscled and broad-chested as a pit bull terrier - Welsh, of course.
Now the three walked in self-absorbed silence, slowing a little in pace with Mzingeli, who had changed direction to the right and begun pushing through the thorns into a little clearing. As he did so, two hyenas squealed and ran away in their hangdog way and, in an indignant beating of wings, a brace of vultures rose into the air. Underneath them, the bones of an impala were picked almost clean.
Mzingeli held up his hand to keep them away from the carcass. Then he bent his knees and began examining the sandy floor near the bones, squatting and peering carefully at the earth, occasionally poking at it with one long black finger.
He stood and beckoned Simon. ‘The three killed here,’ he said. ‘Maybe three hours ago.’
‘Are they nearby still?’
‘No. They go to find somewhere in shade to sleep. Look.’ He pointed to the ground. ‘Big lion - probably more than four hundred thirty pounds. See here, where he lies down. Big mane.’ Fonthill bent to examine the scuffed sand but could see nothing distinctive.
‘Were the two lionesses with him?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. They kill impala. Old lion just come up and do eating when hunting is done. Good life for him.’
Ntini called from the edge of the clearing. Mzingeli nodded. ‘Good, we have spoor. We follow.’ He addressed them all now in a soft voice. ‘I do not know how far away they are. I think not far, maybe half a mile. So we go very quietly. Very dangerous now.’
‘Oh blimey,’ murmured Jenkins. ‘Let me come up front with you, bach sir.’
Fonthill shook his head. He was under no illusion that Jenkins was concerned about his own safety. The Welshman had the heart of a lion himself, and Simon knew of only three things that daunted him: water (he couldn’t swim), heights and crocodiles. No, he would wish to be near Fonthill to protect him. A crack shot, he knew that Simon was still only a moderate marksman and that the opportunity of firing off a second round after a missed first shot was unlikely to present itself. By the time the second cartridge could be inserted into the breech of the single-shot Martini-Henry, the lion would have sprung. He wished to take up his post, familiar to him over the years, at Fonthill’s shoulder.
Simon smiled. ‘No thanks, old chap. Stay just there. Behind Alice.’
In single file again, they moved off. This time the two bearers, who previously had been conversing in very low voices so that Mzingeli could not hear up ahead, were silent, the whites of their eyes showing prominently and their assegais held firmly across their bodies. They had dropped back a little from the quartet ahead. They were undoubtedly apprehensive. Perhaps their fear had communicated itself to the others, for everyone was now stepping with great care and peering cautiously into the foliage that pressed in on them on either side - everyone, that is, but Mzingeli, whose eyes remained fixed on the sandy track ahead of him.
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