Zulu Hart (16 page)

‘Her name?’

‘Ngqumbazi.’

‘I know of her. She and her father accompanied Mpande into exile, as did my own grandfather. But unlike them, he never went back.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he quarrelled with Xongo over my grandmother and was warned never to return to Zululand. So, you see, your kin is directly responsible for my miserable existence in Natal, a despised Kaffir who will never set eyes on the land of his ancestors beyond the White Mfolosi River.’

George closed his eyes and sighed. Of all the Zulu refugees in Natal, I have to bump into the one whose ancestor was an enemy of my own.
Just my luck.

‘Check his horse for money,’ barked the leader.

As one of the warriors began to rifle through his saddlebags, George realized he would have to act fast or he would lose everything. Slowly, he began to move his right hand towards his waist, where, beneath his shirt, he had secreted his grandfather’s revolver.

The leader saw him, out of the corner of his eye, and shouted, ‘Keep your hands up.’

George ignored him and made a grab for the gun. As his hand clasped the butt, the leader spun round and lunged with his spear, its flat blade penetrating a loose fold in George’s shirt but missing his flesh.

George aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
It had misfired. By the time he had pulled back the hammer for another shot, the third warrior was upon him, a crashing blur of bone and steel and muscle. As he fell, George fired, the ball smashing into the warrior’s chest and sending him spinning to the ground. He turned to face the leader but he and the other warrior had vanished into the wood. With adrenalin coursing through him, George loosed off another shot into the sky to speed them on their way. Then he checked the fallen warrior for signs of life. There were none. With the danger over, he looked down and saw that his pistol hand was shaking violently. Even killing in self-defence did not make it any easier.

He walked over to where Emperor was tethered. His ears were pricked, but otherwise he seemed unruffled, the benefit of having been trained to ignore the sound of firearms. George checked his saddlebags, the contents of which were strewn on the ground on either side of the horse. Everything was there apart from the pouch containing his money. ‘No!’ he howled, head in hands.

He needed that money. It was all he had in the world. How would he buy a stake in a diamond mine now? How would he eat? After all he had been through, it was too much to take and he sank to the ground, sobbing with frustration. Only gradually did it occur to him that it could have been worse. He still had his health and his horse, and an uncle not far distant who might provide food and shelter, and even some money if his share in the farm was still worth anything. It was in this more positive frame of mind that he covered the corpse as best as he could with earth and leaves, remounted Emperor, and continued up the road to Pietermaritzburg.

The sun was fast receding behind a flat-topped hill, its crown of red rocks glowing pink from within, as George covered the last half-mile of veldt that separated him from the isolated farmhouse. Watching him from the veranda that ran the length of the single-storeyed, brick-built dwelling was a lone man in an easy chair. It could only be his uncle, but George found it hard to make out the man’s features in the failing light. He dismounted, tied Emperor to a hitching post and approached the veranda. ‘Stay right where you are!’ said the man.

George was close enough to see the black muzzle of a rifle, pointing right at him. He stopped and raised his hands, palm outwards. ‘Don’t shoot. My name’s George Hart.’

‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’

‘I’m Emma’s boy.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said the man, lowering the rifle. ‘And to think I almost shot you. I’m sorry. But it’s not a good idea to arrive at a farm unannounced. I’ve lost a lot of stock to thieves and you can’t be too careful.’

‘Of course.
I understand.’

The man rose, leant the rifle against the wall and came down the steps to greet George.

‘I’m your uncle Patrick,’ he said, shaking his hand enthusiastically. ‘It’s good to meet you. Come inside and I’ll get one of the boys to see to your horse.’

George retrieved his gear from Emperor’s back and followed his uncle inside. The main room was spacious enough for both a kitchen and a sitting area, but its bare walls and basic furniture made the absence of a feminine touch all too obvious. ‘You can use the spare room,’ said Patrick. ‘Supper’s in twenty minutes.’

It was the first opportunity that George had had to study his uncle, albeit by the light of a paraffin lamp. They looked remarkably similar, though his uncle was noticeably darker and his hair a little wirier. He was also more heavily built, with flecks of grey in his hair and beard, and crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, the legacy of a lifetime squinting in the sun. But his uncle’s amused response to his request for a lavatory - ‘There’s a spade by the door’ - was proof enough they shared the same dry sense of humour.

Supper was eaten at a rough wooden table with benches on either side. It was a delicious beef stew, and George wolfed it down hungrily. Only when he had finished a second helping, washed down with a cup of maize beer, did his uncle ask him for details of what he was doing in Africa.

‘It’s a long story,’ said George with a rueful smile. ‘But suffice to say my African blood played its part. Would you believe that my mother only told me about it, and your existence, a few weeks ago?’

‘Yes, I would. Emma was always embarrassed about her African relatives, even as a young girl. She and I were left this farm, but she’s never shown any interest in it beyond asking for her share of the profits. Not that it’s made any of those for a while. So if you’ve come here hoping to claim her inheritance, you can forget it.’

‘Ah,’ said George with a rueful expression, ‘I was worried you might say that. Truth is, I’ve had quite a run of bad luck recently and, to top it all, I was held up by Kaffirs on the way here and relieved of what little money I had left.’

After George had explained, his uncle whistled and said, ‘It’s lucky you’re so handy with Father’s pistol. What did you do with the body?’

‘I covered it with leaves and left it.’

‘That’s hardly going to discourage scavengers, but no matter. Probably best not to report it. You’ll only get embroiled in legal matters, and I can’t imagine his accomplices will make a fuss.’

‘Is this sort of thing typical?’

‘It’s getting that way. The Kaffirs resent being confined to locations on the poorest-quality land, not above a tenth of the total, while the far less numerous white settlers own the rest. And the recent doubling of the hut tax, which applies to all dwellings occupied by blacks, has only increased the bad feeling. The white settlers, on the other hand, are terrified that one day the Kaffirs will rise and murder them in their beds.’

‘How do you fit in?’

‘Well, I’m exempt from the hut tax, if that’s what you mean,’ said Patrick, smiling. ‘I try to keep my head down and stay out of politics. Even so, it’s hard to get by. The farm was valuable once, but I’ve had to sell so much land just to balance the books that it’s virtually worthless. I still graze a few cattle, as doubtless you noticed, but for much of the year I’m forced to work as a farmhand on other properties to make ends meet. You’re welcome to stay here and help out for as long as you like. I can’t pay you, though.’

‘I appreciate your candour, Uncle. I won’t say I’m not disappointed; I am. But it may be for the best. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be a farmer. I’d appreciate it, however, if you’d put me up for a short time while I find my feet. I intend, at some point, to head over to Kimberley and try my luck in the mines.’

His uncle frowned. ‘I’m not sure I’d recommend that, George. A friend of mine went over there in seventy-two, just after word of the diamond-field discovery in Griqualand leaked out. Sold his house, packed all his belongings in an ox-cart and just took off. But, like thousands of other prospectors, he found nothing but flies, squalor and heartbreak. He stayed until his money ran out and he was forced to sell his three claims. With nothing to come back to, he blew his brains out.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Uncle. But plenty of others have had better luck. I read about one penniless English prospector who found a stone worth thirty thousand pounds.’

‘I’m not saying it’s impossible. Just that the odds are against you. For every good-luck story there are thousands who leave the fields destitute, if they leave at all. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you.’

George smiled thinly. ‘Me neither. But it’s not even an option until I’ve got some stake money together. In the meantime I’ve half a mind to visit Zululand and find out more about my grandmother and her family. Do you know if she’s still alive?’

‘I don’t. But I know some of her brothers are. The eldest, Sihayo kaXongo, is a member of King Cetshwayo’s council and one of his most trusted advisors. He rules a vast swathe of land on the left bank of the Buffalo River, beyond a ford known as Rorke’s Drift. He’s a man of considerable influence in Zululand.’

‘Would it be possible to meet him?’

‘I can’t see why not, though you might have to wait until the Boundary Commission has drafted its report. It meets at Rorke’s Drift in a few days and Sihayo is one of the Zulu delegates.’

‘What is this Boundary Commission?’

His uncle rolled his eyes. ‘I’m not the best person to ask. What I do know is that the commission has been set up by the Natal government to arbitrate on the border dispute between Zululand and the Transvaal. But given that the Transvaal is now a British colony, it’s asking a lot to expect the Natal commissioners to be unbiased.’

‘And Sihayo is advising this commission?’

‘Yes. But if you want to know more, you need to talk to my neighbour John Colenso, bishop of Natal.’

‘The same Bishop Colenso who wrote the Zulu-English dictionary?’

‘The very same.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned. I studied the dictionary on the voyage over. I also read a bit about the bishop. Wasn’t he forced to relinquish his pastoral duties for a time in the sixties?’

‘He was indeed. He clashed with his superiors over doctrine. But he’s a determined character and was eventually reinstated by the Privy Council in England.
Quite right, too.

He’s done great work in the colony since arriving in the fifties.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, for a start he’s built five missions, including one in Zululand itself, and a church in every European settlement in the colony. And all the money to pay for it was raised by him in Britain. He’s also a keen advocate for the rights of Africans in general, and Zulus in particular, and gets on well with King Cetshwayo. The Zulus call him “Sobantu”, which means “Father of His People”.’

‘I can’t imagine any of this makes him popular with his fellow white settlers.’

‘No. He and his family are ostracized by most of the leading families, who regard him as a traitor. He’s certainly a thorn in the side of the Natal government. Would you like to meet him?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Good. We’ll ride over tomorrow.’

Near Pietermaritzburg, Natal, 9 March 1878

The short ride to Bishopstowe passed mostly in silence. The weather was crisp and clear, the dew still glistening on the grassy slopes that lay between George’s uncle’s house and the bishop’s official residence. The track followed the base of Natal’s own Table Mountain, and in the early morning light its rocky outcrop seemed to have taken on an aspect of deep ultramarine shadows, wreathed in white mists. George was entranced.

‘Now you know,’ said his uncle, ‘why the bishop chose to build his house so far from his cathedral in Pietermaritzburg. And why he refuses to move his study to a quieter and more convenient part of the house that doesn’t have a view of the mountain.’

As they crested the next rise, Bishopstowe came into view. It was a substantial two-storey brick-built house with a steeply pitched roof of thatch and a sprinkling of pretty dormer windows. A raised veranda, covered in creepers, ran the length of the building; lemon trees dotted the front lawn.

They dismounted at the front gate and handed their reins to a young black servant. As they reached the veranda steps, the front door was opened by a tall man with oval spectacles, his wide handsome face framed by a shaggy mane of white hair and a magnificent set of whiskers. He reminded George of an Old Testament prophet, and his black clothes and white linen neckcloth left no doubt as to his identity.

 
George’s uncle spoke first. ‘Hello, John. I’ve brought my nephew, George Hart, to meet you.’

‘I didn’t know you had a nephew,’ said the bishop, shaking hands with George, ‘and such a fine-looking one too. Well, do come in.’

They took coffee in the drawing room, the mountain clearly visible through the large bow window. The bishop seemed fascinated by George’s life story, and asked a stream of questions. Unused to such directness from a stranger, George tried to change the subject, but the bishop was insistent. ‘I find it quite propitious,’ he said at last, ‘
that
a British officer with Zulu blood should arrive in Africa at such a time.’