The Shangani Patrol Read Free

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