Zulu Hart (17 page)

‘Former
officer,’ corrected George, coffee cup in hand. ‘But why propitious?’

‘Because, my dear George,’ said the bishop, ‘there are many in Natal, the Cape and now the Transvaal who are pushing for war with the Zulus.’

‘So I gathered from a particularly obnoxious Natal businessman on the way out. He talked about the need to exploit Zululand’s natural resources.’

‘There are some who think like that. But the sheer proximity of a powerful black state like Zululand, with its forty thousand disciplined warriors, is enough to make any settler nervous, and senior officials like Sir Bartle Frere and our own Sir Theophilus Shepstone, now Governor of the Transvaal, play on these fears. Their true motives for conquering Zululand are, of course, far more cynical. For Frere it would bring confederation one step closer; for Shepstone, who tends to take a more Natal-centric view, it would solve this colony’s overpopulation and security issues - internal and external - at a stroke.’

‘Why is Frere so hell-bent on achieving confederation?’

‘The oldest motive of all, George, and that’s personal gain. If successful, he’s been promised the first governor-generalship of South Africa, a peerage and a sharp hike in his salary. Without those incentives he never would have agreed to accept what, for an imperial administrator of his stature, is a minor post. As Governor of Bombay he was master of thirty million souls; here, even in his dual role as Governor of the Cape
and
High Commissioner for Native Affairs in South Africa, his subjects are fewer than two million.’

George shook his head, though he was not in the least surprised by Frere’s motives. ‘What about Shepstone?’

‘He’s different. As a local he acts in what he sees as the best interests of the Natal settlers. But the net result will be the same.’

‘And if the Zulus are conquered, what will become of them?’ asked George.

‘They’ll be forced on to reservations and their best land given to white settlers, as happened here. For years I believed that Shepstone was acting in the best interests of the local tribes, and that his “Native Policy” would allow both the retention of old tribal structures and, for those who wished to detribalize, an easy integration into the white man’s way of life. But, as time went on, it became obvious that his only real aim was to ensure that he, as Secretary for Native Affairs, had complete control over the blacks. It is nothing more or less than despotism and will surely be extended to the Zulus.’

‘So now you understand, George,’ said his uncle, ‘why your appearance is propitious. A man with military experience and a foot in both camps, so to speak. You could be very useful to the bishop.’

George turned back to the bishop. ‘I don’t mean to dampen your hopes, but I can’t see how I could help. I was only in the army for five minutes, and my knowledge of South Africa in general, and the Zulus in particular, is limited to what I read during the voyage out here.’

‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ said the bishop. ‘But you’re also related to one of King Cetshwayo’s chief advisors, and you could prove extremely useful as a go-between.’

‘Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting I act, to put it bluntly, as your spy?’

‘Not so much a spy,’ said a female voice from the back of the room, ‘more a supporter of Father’s humanitarian mission.’

George turned to see a handsome, dark-haired woman in the doorway. She was simply dressed in a long, floor-length skirt and high-necked blouse, its ruffled collar and neck brooch the only slight concessions to fashion. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, revealing a wide, almost masculine face, with large blue eyes and a sensual mouth. She appeared to George to be in her mid-twenties, but could have been older.

‘Forgive my daughter’s intrusion,’ said the bishop with an indulgent smile. ‘She has an unfortunate habit of listening in on other people’s conversation. But I’m partly to blame. I’ve encouraged all my children to support my work, and none has taken to the task with more gusto than Fanny.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘My dear, come and meet Patrick’s nephew, George Hart.’

As the two shook hands, George was struck by the bold, self-assured manner with which Fanny held his gaze.

‘I only caught the tail-end of your discussion,’ she said to George, ‘but I agree with Papa: your connection to Chief Sihayo could prove very useful.’

‘Don’t think of it as spying,’ said the bishop. ‘You’ll simply be opening up a reliable means of communication between us and Cetshwayo that might, just might, help to avert war.’

‘How exactly?’

‘Have you heard of the Boundary Commission, which is due to meet presently?’

‘My uncle mentioned it but didn’t elaborate.’

‘Well, it’s quite simple, really. The Zulus and the Boers of the Transvaal have long disputed a large wedge of land bisected by the Blood River. The Boers claim that the land was ceded to them by the Zulus; Cetshwayo has always denied this and, until recently, the Natal authorities tended to take his side. But the British annexation of the Transvaal last year has changed everything. The Boers’ border dispute has become Britain’s, and when negotiations failed towards the end of last year, Sir Theophilus declared his support for the Boer claim. That’s when our lieutenant governor, Sir Henry Bulwer, stepped in and suggested a Boundary Commission. Cetshwayo agreed and it’s due to meet at Rorke’s Drift in a couple of days.’

‘I don’t see the problem,’ said George. ‘Surely all parties will abide by the decision of an independent commission?’

‘They might, if it was truly independent. But it isn’t. It’s made up of three nominees of the Natal government, one of whom is Shepstone’s brother, John. Fortunately one of the other two commissioners is Colonel Anthony Durnford of the Royal Engineers, a man of high principle and a good friend.’ The bishop looked pointedly at his daughter, causing her to blush.

He continued, ‘The unknown quantity is the third commissioner, Michael Gallwey, our attorney-general. If he sides with the Shepstones, and it’s likely he will, the verdict will go against the Zulus and might well provoke a war. So you understand our eagerness for you to make contact with your cousin, Chief Sihayo. He has Cetshwayo’s ear and could prevent an overreaction to the commission’s report.’

‘Yes, I see what you mean. But you have to understand that, until very recently, I was an officer in the British Army, and this sort of work might be considered by some to be disloyal.’

The bishop’s brow furrowed.
‘Disloyal to whom, exactly?

You, more than any Briton, should sympathize with the Zulus’ plight.’

‘I do …
up to a point. But I know next to nothing about my own Zulu kin, let alone the Zulus as a people.’

‘Well, here’s your chance to find out more. And you wouldn’t be doing it for nothing. I’d cover all your expenses and throw in a small salary.’

All along George had been tempted by the offer, despite his conflict of loyalties, because he was keen to meet his Zulu kin and excited by the cloak-and-dagger adventure of it all. He also liked the idea of helping to avert an unjust war. But the clincher was the money. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’d be a fool not to accept. What’s the best way to make contact?’

‘In person, of course, though you’ll need a cover.
Any ideas, Patrick?’

‘He could go as a trader.’

‘Yes, I think that would work admirably,’ said the bishop. ‘We’ll kit you out with a team of oxen and a wagon loaded with goods, and you can tell anyone who asks that you’re going to Zululand to trade for cattle and hides. People do it all the time.’

‘Does it matter that I’ve no experience handling oxen?’ asked George.

‘Not in the slightest. You’ll have a driver and a team leader, a
voorloper,
to do that for you. As the proprietor, or transport-rider, as we call him, your job is to ride alongside the wagon and keep an eye on things.’

‘I think I could do that. So when do I start?’

‘I admire your zeal, George, but you’ll have to wait until the Boundary Commission has prepared its report.’

‘And how long will that take?’

‘A month, maybe two.’

‘That long? Well, at least it gives me plenty of time to prepare.’

‘Just do your best,’ said the bishop, ‘that’s all we ask.’

‘I will - but I can’t promise anything.’

‘We wouldn’t expect you to,’ said Fanny, beaming. ‘It’s just nice to know you’re on our side. We don’t forget our friends.’

The ride home passed mainly in silence. George was preoccupied with the rapid turn of events, and strangely excited by the task he had been set, its difficulty not withstanding. He was much taken with the Colensos, as his uncle had known he would be. After coffee, Mrs Colenso had made a brief appearance, as had her two remaining daughters, Harriette and Agnes, and all three had charmed George with their wit and forthright opinions. But if Fanny took after her mother in looks, she had also inherited her father’s charisma and moral certainty. George had never met such an intoxicating combination of vitality and goodness, and, in spite of his feelings for Lucy, was thoroughly smitten. The clincher was when Fanny had blushed at the mention of Durnford as a ‘good friend’. George had felt oddly irritated, even jealous, and yet he barely knew Fanny, and next to nothing about Durnford. He decided to rectify the matter as his uncle’s homestead came into view.

‘Tell me about Colonel Durnford, Uncle. What sort of a man is he?’

‘I’ve only met him a couple of times, at Bishopstowe, and he struck me as a fine, soldierly looking fellow. But he hasn’t had the smoothest career. He was in command of the Bushman’s River Pass debacle when three men of the Natal Carbineers were killed trying to prevent the Hlubi tribe from crossing the Drakensburg into Basutoland, and many of Natal’s leading lights have never forgiven him for implying that some Carbineers performed less than heroically. But the Colensos have never followed the herd, as you may have gathered, and they all think extremely highly of Durnford, particularly Fanny.’

‘Yes, I noticed. But is Durnford not old enough to be her father?’

‘I suppose he is. He must be nearing fifty, though he could pass for a much younger man.’

‘And Fanny?’

‘She’s twenty-seven, so marriage to a man like Durnford might suit her very well.’

‘You talk as if she’s almost over the hill,’ said George sharply.

His uncle gave a hearty chuckle. ‘You know as well as I do, George, that few women who are still unmarried at thirty ever get married. But fret you not because, as things stand, Fanny and Durnford could never wed.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because, my dear George, Durnford is already married. He has a wife and child in England, though he has not seen them for many years.’

‘Is that so?’ said George, the trace of a smile on his lips.

Over the coming weeks, as George waited impatiently for the Boundary Commission to complete its report, he helped his uncle out on the farm and visited Bishopstowe as often as he could. He spent many hours discussing the internal workings of the colony with Bishop Colenso and, slowly but surely, his sympathy towards the plight of all Africans under white rule grew stronger. According to the bishop, the white settlers were even talking about seizing the land set aside for the locations, hence the popular support for a war against the Zulus that would, if successful, gain more territory. Everyone at Bishopstowe was opposed to such wickedness, and George felt himself in agreement.

The most passionate denunciator of official policy towards the colony’s African population was, however, not the bishop but his daughter Fanny. This energy and essential goodness made her even more attractive in George’s eyes and he spent as much time with her as he could. She seemed to reciprocate his feelings, and many were the times, as they rode together, or were neighbours at
dinner, that
her hand strayed on to his forearm. He tried more than once to declare his high regard for her, but she always prevented him, by making a joke or changing the subject. She was fascinated by his mixed-race heritage and asked him endless questions, only some of which he knew the answers to; others he preferred to ignore. ‘My mother was - is - an actress; I never knew my father,’ he responded to a query about his parents. ‘What more is there to say?’

On other subjects he was more forthcoming. When asked by Fanny, during a long afternoon ride in brilliant sunshine, how he felt about his African ancestry, he replied, ‘I suppose I’m rather proud. It was shock finding out, of course. But I’d always been the odd one out growing up, on account of my dark skin, and at least now I know the truth. The Zulus sound such a noble, impressive race, and their military exploits speak for themselves. My only worry is that if it does come to war I might be forced to choose sides. It’s not a decision I ever want to face.’

George was almost grateful when the deliberations of the Boundary Commission dragged on through spring and into summer. In late June he learnt that the commission had finally completed its report. But nothing had reached the press by the time George was called to an urgent meeting at Bishopstowe in mid-July.

Fanny was waiting at the front door. ‘George, it’s so good to see you,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek.

‘And you,’ said a smiling George. ‘What news?’