Free The Shangani Patrol by John Wilcox

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    He looked around him and gestured towards the rolling grassland behind the barrier of thorns. ‘I’ve seen enough to know that this is good land,’ he said, his eyes crinkled. ‘And I gather it is even better further north in Mashonaland. As it is, it is not developed at all, and the Matabele seem to know nothing about agriculture. They will never make the most of this fertile ground. I am talking about cultivating it, not digging for gold, silver, copper or whatever might be beneath these grasslands. I wouldn’t mind at all farming here.’ He grinned at her. ‘Bit less boring than Norfolk, anyway.’
     
    But Alice was not smiling, and remembering the king’s other request, Simon was glad of the chance to change the subject and put Lobengula’s plea to her.
     
    ‘What?’ His wife’s face was a study in consternation. ‘Good lord. I am not a doctor, Simon. You know that.’
     
    ‘Yes, Alice. I did try and explain, but it seems you have acquired a reputation as a magnificent witch doctor after stitching up Sando’s shoulder. Perhaps there is something you could do to ease Lobengula’s pain?’
     
    ‘I don’t know. Perhaps there is something in the self-help medical book the missionaries gave me. I will go and get my bag.’ She stood to move into the low opening of the hut, but Simon held her back.
     
    ‘I’ll go. I need to oil the rifles, anyway.’
     
    He crawled through the opening and stood for a moment in the dim interior, trying to accustom his eyes to the poor light, before bending down to look under Alice’s bed for her bag. Suddenly a movement caught his eye. On the low wooden-framed bed by the door - his bed - something was moving, undulating under the blanket that had been lightly thrown there. Then, slowly, a cold-eyed flat head emerged to regard him, followed by the coils of a body.
     
    It was a puff adder.
     
    Fonthill felt his mouth go dry. He made to move back towards the hut opening, but the snake followed him with his head and then slipped from under the blanket on to the ground. It was cutting him off from the exit. Where the hell were the rifles? His eye caught them: the two Martini-Henrys and Alice’s gun, neatly stacked against the wall - just by the entrance. The snake, of course, was between him and the guns.
     
    He looked hard at the reptile, which had now formed itself into a tight coil, with its head held high and back, in an ‘S’ shape. Simon licked his lips and tried to remember what Mzingeli had told them. The puff adder was, he recalled, the most dangerous snake in Africa. Its bite could penetrate leather and its poison was extremely toxic. It could kill a man and frequently did so in this part of Africa.
     
    The thing was now uncoiling and moving towards him slowly, hissing, its mouth wide open and revealing its fangs. Even in the semi-darkness he could see the dark bands around its eyes. Uncoiled, it revealed itself to be about three and a half feet in length. Fonthill felt the hairs begin to stand up on the back of his neck.
     
    He took a deep breath and shouted, ‘Alice. Do not crawl into the hut. There is a snake in here. It is between me and the rifles and the door. Get 352 or Mzingeli quickly - and a gun. Quickly now.’
     
    There was no reply. He called again. Silence once more. He looked round for some sort of weapon. His hunting knife was hung up above his bed and unreachable, but even if he could have got to it, it would have been useless against the adder, which could strike so quickly. The thing was slowly slithering towards him now. Fonthill felt completely vulnerable in his lightweight cord trousers and slip-on shoes. He had even left his socks off today, of all days. What could he use to distract the snake?
     
    He felt behind him with one hand, encountering Alice’s bed. The blanket! Slowly he pulled at it until he felt it come loose and slide on to the floor. Could he hear voices now, from outside? He called out: ‘Don’t