Into Matabeleland!

In the 1800’s explorers, prospectors and hunters alike risked their lives for lawful access to Matabeleland. To those who were given the road, the treasures seemed uncountable...

Just finished editing another twenty-one thousand words, a ‘middle-bit’ from Sons of Africa. Totally knackered. Mentioned it before, I know, but want it finished and out with Amazon Kindle this April. Already started the sequel, Rex – and a standalone, Empress Gold. Both well under way. Golf has gone out the window, too much work so cannot justify. Think I’ll get drunk and go bite the dog. Only jesting; couldn’t do that – dog’s too quick for me.

.... On the window in front of me, the RR logo for Rhodesia Railways was etched into the glass. We were steaming north-west, rattling down that same, narrow-gauge track that Rhodes’ lot had laid to reach Victoria Falls. My Dad said the bridge up there was massive and the water was a million feet down if you fell off. We weren’t going that far, though; not this time.

If the track bent far enough to the right I could sometimes see the hot glow from the engine’s fire-box, but only when the driver’s helper opened the door to shovel in more coal. Steam shot out from behind the wheels – near to the ground and smoke from the engine sometimes got inside my collar and made my neck black.

Mother crooked her finger at me.

‘Something I want you to see.’

I went back inside the compartment. It was almost dark outside. My mother was reading from Frederick Russell Burnham’s, Scouting on Two Continents. She pointed out through the window. The sky was orange and red. A bit like Red hot poker plants.

‘Not too far from here there was a very famous battle between the Matabele and some British soldiers.’

I looked at her book. Black with gold writing on the front. Inside the cover, the Burnham man had signed it and written, ‘To Walter Weaver...’ The battle she was talking about was in there. The Shangani Patrol – all the men were killed. Thinking about it made me a little bit sad.

‘The man who wrote this, did he not get killed?’

Mother shook her head. ‘Just him and his friend got out in time. Everyone else died out here in the jungle.’

‘Why did they fight?’

She closed the book and smiled.

‘Because they were men, Jeffrey. That’s what men do.’

Fifty years on, older and wiser, I still have the book...

Sons of Africa; an extract:

... Nathan pushed himself upright. A bullet had lodged in his thigh; the pain now almost unbearable. He was light-headed, the desire to sleep unrelenting, heavy about his shoulders.

‘Damn them all. What are they waiting for?’ He fed a fresh cartridge into the breach of Dillon’s rifle. Incessant cold and loss of blood cramped his fingers.

‘Have they gone, Captain?’

‘Keep your finger on the trigger, boy.’ Linen bandage, black with blood covered most of Dillon’s face. ‘Fire when you hear them come in close.’

‘Are they coming back, sir?’

‘Anyone special back home?’

‘My mother and father, and a girl.’ Dillon’s mouth softened. ‘Mary. Pretty as a picture, sir. Lives with her mother. Hurst Green... a small village in the north of England.’

 ‘Best be ready, lads,’ warned Jack Robertson. ‘The beggars are coming back.’

At first, the sounds were no louder than a light drumming – distant – rain on canvas tents.

‘I can hear them,’ said Dillon. ‘Captain Goddard, sir – I can’t see. Will you stand with me?’ The sound of rain became the thunder all around them. A thousand spears to long shields.

 ‘I’m here, boy.’ Nathan drew Dillon’s head against his shoulder. At twenty yards both men heard the rasp of stabbing spears being wrenched from their leather thongs; with his free hand, Nathan levelled the Boxer-Henry.

‘Can you hear me, Dillon?’

‘I can hear you, Captain. Will it hurt, sir? When they kill us.’

*

A slight wind moved amongst the dead as though gathering up souls from the fallen. Upwards of a thousand warriors stood about the killing ground – not a single man spoke.

Alone, Mjaan paused at every soldier’s corpse to marvel at the devastation reeked upon it – some were little more than boys, though they had fought with the hearts of lions. He walked slowly from the killing and at the edge of the redoubt waited for the silence to become total.

Mjaan raised his spear to the heavens.

‘No man shall defile the dead nor speak ill of them or he will die by this blade!’

Thunder growled above the battleground; the eyes of a thousand amadoda were all upon their General...