Free The Shangani Patrol by John Wilcox Page A

come in,’ and pulled the blanket towards him until he had a large portion wrapped around his wrist. He took a gentle step forward towards the snake. Immediately, it coiled its head back again. With a jerk of his wrist, he flicked the blanket at the adder, so that it almost touched the square head, now held nearly upright. The snake hissed and struck at the blanket with what seemed like the speed of light. The two, slightly back-curved fangs snapped together on the frayed edge of the cloth and immediately became entangled in the coarse wool fibres.
     
    Fonthill tugged the blanket back, but it remained caught in the snake’s fangs, pulling the thing towards him. He sprang to the side, caught his leg on the foot of Alice’s bed and fell to the ground. He threw the rest of the blanket at the snake and, rolling over, saw it thrashing its head under the folds of the cloth as it tried to free itself.
     
    This was his chance. He hurled himself towards the doorway and landed on his stomach at the foot of his bed. Scrambling to his knees, he pulled his own blanket from the bed and held it as a feeble barrier between him and the snake, like some grounded matador, in the hope that he could slip through the doorway behind its cover. The snake, freed now, had followed him and struck at the blanket, tearing it from his grasp as though it was a mere sheet of paper and tossing it aside. This time, its fangs had not become entangled.
     
    With only inches between them, the serpent and its victim stared at each other, eye to eye. Simon saw the adder open its jaws and pull back its head to strike. He held up a hand and closed his eyes.
     
    The shot that echoed within the confined space of the hut sounded like a howitzer cannon being fired. Fonthill felt something fall across his knee and he recoiled. When he opened his eyes, he saw the body of the headless serpent twitching on the ground by his kneecap. Turning his head, he saw Jenkins lying on his stomach, halfway through the doorway of the hut, Mzingeli’s Snider rifle at his shoulder. His head lay to one side and he was being sick.
     
    Simon could hear Alice shouting from outside, ‘Let me in, let me in.’ He summoned up a feeble croak. ‘It’s all right. Jenkins has got him. We are both all right.’
     
    At this the Welshman raised his head, vomit on his chin. ‘He didn’t bite you then, bach sir?’ he whispered. ‘The ’orrible thing didn’t get you?’
     
    Fonthill stood slowly, shaking off the body of the snake with a shudder. Of its head there was no sign, except for a red smudge of some undefined matter on the wall of the hut. Jenkins’s shot had shattered it completely. He walked over to his comrade and knelt by his side, only to see the Welshman disappear slowly backwards on his stomach through the opening, as if by magic. Having pulled him clear, Alice appeared, her face ashen.
     
    She crawled into the hut and put her arms around her husband. ‘Thank the Lord you are all right.’
     
    ‘Mind where you put your feet, my darling,’ Simon whispered into her hair. ‘I’m afraid poor old 352 has been a bit poorly. I’d forgotten how frightened he was of snakes.’
     
    Outside, Mzingeli, Sando, Ntini and a still trembling Jenkins awaited them. Simon pulled the Welshman to his feet and regarded him severely. ‘You’ve made a terrible mess of our living accommodation,’ he said and punched him on the shoulder. ‘God bless you, old chap.’ He took his hand and pumped it. ‘I am just so grateful that my best friend just happens to be the finest shot in the world.’
     
    ‘Not with that bloody old thing he ain’t, look you.’ Jenkins wiped his chin and gestured towards Mzingeli’s rifle. ‘If the range had been a foot or so longer I would have missed. It fires up, y’see, but anyway, I was trembling so much.’ He turned to Alice and wiped away the perspiration from his face with a very dirty handkerchief. ‘Sorry about the mess, miss. Can’t stand