Zulu Hart (20 page)

Inside, George gazed in awe at the sheer size of the place. He put the number of huts, some of them the size of small barns, in excess of sixty: these would house not only Sihayo, his wives and children, but also the families of his younger brothers, married sons and chief retainers. One of these huts, according to the son he had met in the valley, was now empty.

George was led round the brushwood perimeter of the
isibaya
to the hut of the chief’s great wife, the
undlunkulu-,
it was both the largest dwelling and situated on the highest ground, giving it a commanding view of the entire kraal and its main approach. Outside the hut, he came across a handsome, rotund man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair. Reclining on a sheepskin, he was taking snuff and calling on the women and children in the fields to stop chattering and get on with their work. He was scantily clad in a monkey-tail kilt, though his heavily beaded necklace and leopardskin headband denoted a man of substance; and, like all married men, he wore the black head-ring known as the
isicoco,
a fibre circlet about half an inch thick, which was woven into the hair and polished with beeswax, the ultimate recognition of his manhood and adult status. It could only be Sihayo.

‘Inkhosi
,’ said one of the warriors in confirmation. ‘Your son Mehlokazulu found this white man in the valley below.’

Sihayo looked up and frowned. ‘Where is my son? Why did he not escort the white man himself?’

The warrior looked nervous, almost afraid to speak the truth. ‘He’s hunting,
Inkhosi.”

‘Hunting?
Hunting where?’

‘In Natal,’ interjected George in Zulu.

Sihayo turned his glare upon the stranger. ‘Who are you? And what do you know of my son’s actions?’

‘My name is George Hart. I was sent by Bishop Colenso with news of the Boundary Commission. Last night your son and his men burst into my camp and held my party at spearpoint. When I explained who I was, he told me he was on his way to Natal.’

‘The hot-headed fool!’ exclaimed Sihayo, the blood draining from his face. ‘Didn’t I tell him to let the matter lie? Yes, but when has he listened to his father?’ He turned to the warrior who had spoken. ‘Sithobe, take some mounted men and try and intercept Mehlokazulu and his men before they do something we’ll all regret.’

‘Yes,
Inkhosi.
But he has a good few hours’ start on us and will be in Natal by now.’

‘I know that. Do what you can.’

As Sithobe left with the other warrior, Sihayo turned back to George. ‘So tell me about the Boundary Commission.’

‘Its report will recommend the border follows the line of the Blood River.’

‘A generous settlement indeed; Cetshwayo will be pleased. But how do I know you speak the truth?’

George handed Sihayo a letter from Bishop Colenso, which he had kept hidden in the lining of his corduroy jacket. The chief tore open the letter and read the bishop’s confirmation that the report would favour the Zulus.

‘Aieee,’ said Sihayo. ‘Durnford is a man of his word, after all. Who would have thought the white man would rule in favour of the Zulu?’

‘I know. It came as quite a surprise to the bishop, which is why he sent me in person. He’s anxious the Zulus don’t commit any aggressive acts that will give Frere an excuse to ignore the report. You must tell Cetshwayo of this as soon as possible.’

‘I will, but it may already be too late. Three days ago one of my junior wives, Nandi, went missing; yesterday we received word that she was living just across the Buffalo in the kraal of a Kaffir member of the Natal Border Guard. To think she would leave me, a great chief, for such a traitorous jackal! Anyhow, Mehlokazulu came to me and offered to bring her back by force. I refused. But he seems to have gone anyway.’”

‘My God!’ said George. ‘If your son crosses the border into Natal with a war party, all hell will break loose. This might be just the type of provocation Frere needs to justify a war. You must stop him.’

‘Sithobe will do his best. In the meantime all we can do is
wait
. With luck he won’t find her and no harm will be done. But if he does return with her, the
isanusi
will decide her fate.’

‘The
isanusi?’

‘The diviner of the tribe.
It’s his job to smell out evil spirits. He will decide if my wife is guilty of adultery.’

‘And if she is?’

‘She will die.’

‘Chief, you can’t let that happen. Recovering a Zulu refugee from Natal by force is bad enough, but if you kill her, the people of Natal will be in an uproar.’

Sihayo waved his hand dismissively. ‘Why should they care? It’s happened before and nothing came of it.’

‘Yes,’ said George, ‘but this time it’s different. The high commissioner is looking for any excuse to declare war on the Zulus and you mustn’t give him one.’

‘I can’t interfere with the customs of our people. Let’s talk no more of this. We have good news to celebrate. Come.’

George followed the chief into his hut, crouching low through the entrance, and found himself in a dark, windowless room, supported by wooden cross-struts and pillars, with a fireplace at its centre. There was no chimney, and the hut smelt strongly of wood-smoke and cow-dung, a liberal quantity of which had been mixed with clay from white anthills and polished with ash and bullock’s blood to produce the smooth mahogany-coloured floor. Sihayo was busy pouring a thick dark liquid from an earthen pot into a smaller clay vessel. This he handed to George, who, unwilling to offend, took a long draught and promptly choked on the heady brew of what tasted like a very strong beer, complete with half-fermented grains. Sihayo laughed and clapped him on the back.

‘Sit,’ he directed, spreading out a grass sleeping mat. ‘Will you share a pipe with me while we wait for my son to return?’

George nodded and Sihayo fetched what looked like a hollowed-out cow’s horn, half filled it with water and placed inside it a small bowl containing some dried leaves. A burning coal was put on top of the leaves, and as smoke began to appear, Sihayo clamped the open end of the horn to his mouth and inhaled deeply. Wide-eyed, he handed the horn to George, who followed suit and at once collapsed in a fit of coughing, his eyes streaming tears. ‘By Jove,’ spluttered George, lightheaded. ‘That’s strong stuff. What is it?

‘Insangu
,’ replied Sihayo. ‘It grows wild. Do you like it?’

‘I’m sure I could get to like it. But I fear I may need a clear head when your son returns. Are those,’ asked George, pointing to a bundle of spears, ‘Shaka’s famous stabbing assegais?’

‘They are.’

‘Mind if I take a look?’

‘Of course not,’ said Sihayo, detaching one from the bundle and handing it to George. ‘We call it the
iklwa
because that’s the sound it makes as it’s withdrawn from human flesh.’

George grimaced, but could not help admiring the workmanship of the fearsome weapon in his hand. Its shaft was made of burnished wood, about thirty inches long and slightly thicker at its base to prevent it from slipping from the user’s grasp. The heavy, flat iron blade was a further ten inches long and two wide at the shoulder, tapering to a rounded tip. George tested it with his thumb and immediately drew blood.

‘Careful,’ said the chief. ‘It’s very sharp. Let me show you how to use it.’

He took the spear from George and gripped it in his right hand, midway down the shaft. His left arm he held in front of his body, as if he was holding a shield.

‘We hook the shield behind that of our enemy and sweep it to the left, so uncovering the exposed flank. Then we move in with the
iklwa,
aiming for the chest.’ Sihayo turned his shoulders and demonstrated the underhand stabbing motion. ‘Once the enemy is down,’ added Sihayo with a smile, ‘we slit open his stomach to release his spirit. If we do not, the spirit will haunt us.’

George shivered inwardly. The thought of taking on a Zulu armed with the
iklwa
was not something he wished to contemplate. ‘What other weapons do you use?’

‘The longer throwing assegai, which is usually released before we close in on the enemy, and the
iwisa,
which white men call a knobkerrie, and is best used as a club but can also be thrown.’

‘What about firearms? Do many Zulus own one?’

‘Some do, but they’re mainly old models bought from Portuguese traders. Most Zulus prefer to fight at close quarters.’

George was quite enjoying the conversation. Then Sihayo replaced the spear in the bundle. ‘One thing still troubles me. You say Sobantu sent you. Fair enough. But what’s in it for you? Won’t the white settlers regard you as a traitor?’

‘They might, but they’re not
my
people.’

The chief frowned. ‘Are you not British like them?’

‘I have white blood, it’s true. But if you look closer, you might see something else.’

Sihayo stared intently at George’s handsome face. There was nothing in his narrow, slightly crooked nose and luxurious black locks, swept back from a side-parting, to suggest African blood. But wait. Were not those lips just a little too full for a white man? Could he not detect a hint of colour in that glossy skin?

‘What are you saying?’ asked Sihayo.

‘I’m saying I have African blood, the same blood that’s running through your veins.’

Sihayo’s eyes widened to the size of small saucers. ‘I don’t believe you …’ He looked again at the face before him and realized it bore more than a passing resemblance to his own. ‘It can’t be true. It can’t be …’

‘It is. I’m Ngqumbazi’s grandson, your great-nephew. I only found out myself a few months ago.’

The chief sat there as if in shock. At last he spoke, tears in his eyes: ‘I loved her, you know. She was my favourite sister. But after her disgrace I never saw her again.’

‘I just don’t understand,’ said George, shaking his head. ‘She gave up her child, my mother. Wasn’t that punishment enough?’

Sihayo’s face hardened. ‘No. She had been promised to another man, the son of Chief Buthelezi, but of course he wouldn’t have her when the truth got out. She was tainted, as was the rest of the family. The only way to make amends was to banish her and pay over a dowry as if the marriage had gone ahead. It cost Father one hundred cattle and almost broke his heart. We couldn’t forgive her after that. If you were truly a Zulu, rather than a white man with a few drops of Zulu blood, you’d understand well enough.’

George was loath to admit it, but he suspected the chief was right. He had been brought up to think like a British officer and a
gentleman
, and he was beginning to realize that the recent knowledge that he had Zulu forebears was not going to overturn years of social conditioning. He might admire the achievements of the Zulus, even sympathize with their political predicament, but he would never be one of them. That was not to say that he had ever felt — or been allowed to feel — entirely comfortable in the role of an English
gentleman
; the bigots at Harrow, Sandhurst and his regiment had seen to that. But when all was said and done, it was the only role he knew. Perhaps he was destined always to be an outsider, but for all that he would still have to choose sides.

He was about to respond when shouts sounded from outside the hut.

‘It must be my son,’ said the chief. ‘Come!’

From the entrance to the hut they could see Mehlokazulu and two of his warriors drag a semi-naked woman into the
isibaya
and dump her without ceremony in the small stone enclosure reserved for calves. The warriors stood sentry while Mehlokazulu left the
isibaya
and made his way round to his father’s hut.

‘Greetings, Father,’ he said, ignoring George. ‘I’ve brought back what’s rightfully yours.’

‘You fool!’ exploded Sihayo. ‘How dare you take a war party across the Buffalo without my
permission.
Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The whites will see this as an act of aggression. It could lead to war.’

His son looked unconcerned. ‘I didn’t ask your permission because I knew you wouldn’t give it. Anyway, all I did was recover a runaway. I even spared her lover. If that leads to war, then so be it. Zululand has been at peace for too long. The army is growing stale and the younger warriors need to prove themselves. Most of my own regiment, the Ngobama- khosi, have reached the age of twenty-four years, and yet none of us has washed his spear in blood. In Shaka’s time we would all have been veterans by now.’

‘And dead too, no doubt,’ interjected George. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re up against? You can’t possibly win a war against the British. If they lose one army, they’ll send another, and another, until Zululand lies in ruins. Even your king knows that.’

Mehlokazulu turned to face George. They were about the same height, with the same broad shoulders and narrow waist, but the young Zulu was more physically imposing, his muscular chest glistening with sweat. ‘Cetshwayo is not the warrior he was,
cousin,”
he said with a sneer. ‘He’s getting old and jumps at the slightest shadow. Ever since he allowed himself to be crowned by the British he’s been in thrall to you. Only the younger generation can save the country’s honour. Take this business with Nandi. If she remains unpunished, other wives will follow her example. The Zulu people will tear apart.’