Zulu Hart (19 page)

‘Not yet. How long have you been here, Reverend Witt?’

‘Three years now. It’s hard to believe. The Mission Society bought the place after old Rorke died in seventy-five. He used to run a store to which all the local Zulus, on both sides of the border, came for trade goods. I turned the store into a church, as doubtless you noticed, but the Zulus still call the mission kwajimu, “Jim’s Place”.’

Witt’s wife entered with the lemonade. She was a stern- looking woman, probably in her late thirties, with her dark hair tied in a practical bun.

‘Thank you,’ said George, taking the drink. She just nodded.

‘You must excuse my wife,’ said Witt. ‘She speaks no English, though her Zulu is tolerable.’

‘In that case,
Ngiyabonga.
Thank you.’

Mrs Witt stopped in the doorway and turned. ‘You speak the Kaffir language,’ she said in Zulu.

‘A little.
I learnt on the voyage over.’

When Mrs Witt had left the room, George turned back to her husband. ‘Tell me, Reverend, what sort of people are the Zulus?’

‘That’s a hard question to answer. They’re godless, of course, and can be ruthless and cruel. The king sets the tone. He rules his people with an iron rod, and he and his chiefs have the power of life and death. The idea of a fair trial before execution is laughable. And many of the laws that are in place would seem draconian to a European. Did you know that adultery is punishable by death?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Well, it is, as is disobeying the king’s orders. A couple of years ago Cetshwayo gave one of his regiments permission to marry a younger age-grade of girls. When a number of the girls refused, because they already had lovers in a separate regiment, Cetshwayo had them killed. We missionaries object to all of this, of course, and are unpopular as a consequence. I’m safe here, in Natal, but it was getting so dangerous for the missions in Zululand that they upped sticks and left in March. Presumably you heard about that?’

‘I did,’ said George, putting his glass on a side table. ‘But some say that was a deliberate put-up job by Shepstone and the missionaries to make Cetshwayo’s regime appear more brutal than it really is.’

Witt snorted. ‘What nonsense. I know for a fact that many converts have been murdered out of hand on Cetshwayo’s orders, including a member of the Norwegian mission church at Eshowe, Maqamusela Khanyile, who was killed last year; and I myself, on my occasional trips into Zululand, have been manhandled by warriors. Missionaries will not be safe in that benighted country until Europeans are in control.’

‘So you’d support a war of conquest?’

‘Absolutely.
Only then will we be left in peace to save souls.’

‘Assuming they want to be saved,’ muttered George.

‘What’s that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I can see you have your doubts, Mr Hart, but take it from me: the country will be much better off under the British. The average male is an idle brute. When not on regimental duty or attending council meetings, he spends most of his time working skins, carving wood and sleeping. He’s far too superior for manual labour, and leaves the tilling of the fields to the women and young girls, while the young boys tend to the cattle.’

‘Makes sense to me,’ said George with a straight face.

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Never mind, Reverend.
Tell me a little about Chief Sihayo. Have you met him?’

‘A number of times, most recently when the Boundary Commission met at the drift.
He was one of the Zulu delegates, as I’m sure you know.’

‘How would you describe him?’

‘He’s fat, of course, like many of the
amakhosi
- the regional
chiefs,
I suppose you would call them. But he’s extremely handsome and a great talker with a fine sense of humour. Don’t be taken in, though. He’s a hugely ambitious, utterly ruthless man who will tell you one thing and do the exact opposite. I wouldn’t trust him an inch.’

‘Has he duped you personally?’

‘No, but you hear things. If you do trade with him, fix a price and stick to it.’

‘I’ll try and remember that,’ said George, unconvinced Sihayo was as bad as Witt was making out. All missionaries had a vested interest in overturning the old order, and Sihayo was very much the old order. George was keen to meet him and make up his own mind.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this,’ said Witt, an apologetic look on his face. ‘I know you said you were a trader, but you have the air of a military man to me. This wouldn’t be anything to do with the boundary award, would it?’

Taken off guard, George feigned ignorance. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s just that we’re all waiting on tenterhooks. If the award goes against the Zulus, as we’re certain it will, then war is on the cards. Only when the Zulus have been defeated will we be able to sleep easy at night.’

‘Do you really believe they’d invade Natal?’

‘I do, and so would you if you and your family were sitting defenceless with forty thousand bloodthirsty warriors on your doorstep.’

George caught something out of the corner of his eye: it was his wagon coming slowly down the slope. ‘My people at last,’ said George, pointing out of the window. ‘I’d better be making tracks. You said something about a map?’

‘One moment.’
Witt came back with a small-scale, poorly detailed map upon which was marked a track that led from the drift to the Zulu capital of Ulundi, a distance of sixty miles. ‘Once you’re over the drift,’ said Witt, tracing the route with his finger, ‘follow the track for about a mile until you reach the Bashee River. Cross the river, turn immediately left and you’ll come to a huge horseshoe gorge. Sihayo’s kraal is directly below the cliff face. You can’t miss it, and if you do, his people will show you the way.’

It took the best part of three hours to get the wagon across the drift. First the oxen had to be turned loose to graze, then given a similar amount of time to regurgitate and chew the cud, and finally inspanned to the trek tow and loaded on to the pont, a small ferry that worked the river by means of anchored cables. The water level was so low that George was able to ride across, guiding Emperor between the large flat rocks that jutted above the surface. He was tempted to explore the steep rocky escarpment that lay directly beyond the drift. But he decided to wait for the wagon, and it was not until five in the afternoon, with the sun beginning to set, that they were ready to set off down the dusty, rutted track on the last leg of the journey.

‘It’ll be dark soon,’ said Snyman from the box seat. ‘Probably best to camp here for the night if we know what’s good for us.’

It was more a statement than a question, and George resented its tone. In truth his temper had been building over the last few days of delay. ‘Nonsense,’ he replied firmly, from the saddle. ‘What have we got to fear? We’re not at war with the Zulus, so let’s keep going. Another half an hour should do it.’

And it might have done in daylight, but the track was so hard to follow in the failing light, the broken ground so uneven, that George eventually gave up and told a smug- looking Snyman to outspan and set up camp. They followed their usual drill: Samuel turned the oxen loose to graze, while Snyman put up a small two-man tent in the lee of the wagon and George collected wood for a fire. Within twenty minutes they were sitting snug round a blazing campfire, drinking black coffee and eating dried biscuit and boiled ham.

‘Any game to be seen hereabouts?’ asked George, as he stared nervously into the inky blackness.

‘No big game, if that’s what you mean,’ replied Snyman. ‘It was all hunted out years ago. But you still get the odd antelope.’

As if in confirmation, a twig snapped behind them, beyond the wagon. George’s raised eyebrows were met with a Boer shrug.
‘Probably one of the oxen.’

‘Take a look, Samuel,’ said George to the young African.

Samuel got up and disappeared into the darkness. There was a scraping sound and what appeared to be a muffled cry. George turned to look and froze. By the light of the fire he could just make out a large group of warriors, armed with shields and assegais, advancing steadily towards them at the crouch. On seeing George, the leader cried, ‘Jee!’ and dashed forward.

‘Zulus!’ shouted George, springing to his feet and reaching for the pistol in his waistband. He was too late. As his hand closed on the wooden butt, a Zulu shoulder caught him full in the chest, driving him backwards on to the scrubby ground. A heavy body was pinning him down; the smell of sweat, animal skin and clay was overpowering. George looked up, gasping for breath, and saw two rows of white teeth smiling above him. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could also see the tip of an assegai poised an inch from his chest. He kept perfectly still.

‘Have you secured the other two?’ George’s assailant asked his men.

‘Yes,
Inkhosi.’

‘Good.’

George was hauled to his feet. ‘Who are you?’ asked the leader, ‘and why are you camping on my father’s land without permission?’

‘You’re Sihayo’s son?’ asked George.

‘Answer the question!’

George thought of declaring his kinship, in the hope it would relieve the tension, but the bishop had advised him to reveal neither his identity nor his mission until he was in Sihayo’s presence. Instead he said, ‘My name’s George Hart. I’ve brought goods to trade for cattle. I mean no harm.’

‘Why, then, were you creeping around like thieves in the night?’ asked his interrogator, his handsome face cocked to one side, as though he were more amused than angry. He was powerfully built with broad shoulders and muscular arms, and was naked apart from a loin covering and what looked like bunches of white oxtails round his neck, wrists and knees; his hair was set high on his head in two domed ridges, giving him the appearance of being taller than he really was.

‘We weren’t creeping anywhere,’ replied George indignantly. ‘We were hoping to reach your father’s kraal before dark, but lost our way.’

‘I don’t believe you, white man. I think you and your accomplices are masquerading as traders; I think your true intention is to survey this territory for the Natal authorities.’

‘Why would we do that?’

‘To prepare the ground for an invasion.
You and I both know the Boundary Commission will rule against the Zulus and that war is likely. You’re spies, and the penalty for spying in Zululand is death.’

A chill ran up George’s spine. He could not believe what he was hearing. Yes, he wanted to scream, I am a spy but not in the way you think. But would this fiery young warrior, related to him by blood, accept the true version of events? He suspected not, which is why he had to tread very carefully.

‘Would it change your mind,’ said George, ‘if I told you we were related?’

The son roared with laughter. ‘How can you, a white man,’ he said between chuckles, ‘be related to
me?’

‘I’m Ngqumbazi’s grandson. You have heard of Ngqumbazi?’

The son’s laugh faded to a scowl. ‘That dung beetle! We don’t speak her name. You say you’re her grandson? Then your grandfather must have been the white soldier who seduced her and shamed her in front of her family.’

‘I was told her family had forgiven her. That’s why she left the baby, my mother, and returned to Zululand.’

‘The family
never
forgave her,’ said the warrior without pity. ‘How could it, and still be respected by its people? She returned, yes, but remained an outcast.’

‘What happened to her?’ asked George.

‘She was banished to a small kraal in the hills, well away from the family. She died there about ten years ago.’

George could feel his anger rising. Cousin or no, he could happily have killed the implacable warrior before him. To think his grandmother had given up her only child to be with her people and they had treated her like this, shunned her like a crazed dog. Try as he might, he was finding it difficult to feel a common bond with this hard, cruel race. ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

The warrior stood to his full height. ‘Mehlokazulu kaSi- hayo, my father’s first-born. It means “Eyes of the Nation”.’

‘Well, “Eyes of the Nation”,’ said George with an edge to his voice, ‘are going to take me to your father or not?’

‘No. I have work to do in Natal, but I will leave two men to guide you in the morning. Your wagon can stay here; it’s too big to make the climb.’

He turned, spoke briefly to two warriors, and disappeared into the night, the bulk of his men trotting after him.

George spurred Emperor on, urging him up the steep path that led to Sihayo’s eyrie. They had left at first light and, with the two warriors acting as guides, it had not taken them long to reach the magnificent sight of the horseshoe gorge; but the climb was a different prospect, and not for the first time George wondered how an attacking force would fare over ground littered with large rocks and monkey-rope creepers. At last the ground began to level out and there, nestled up against the blood-red cliff face,
lay
Sihayo’s kraal, kwaSox- hege.

Like all Zulu homesteads, it consisted of a circle of thatched beehive-shaped huts built on sloping ground around a central cattle enclosure known as an
isibaya.
Security was provided by an outer perimeter of stakes and thorn trees, with the main entrance at its lowest point. As George entered the kraal on foot, flanked by his escort, he noticed the neighbouring mealie and vegetable fields were full of half-naked women and children, their modesty covered by small rectangles of beadwork and animal skins. So Witt was right again: menial work did not agree with Zulu men.