Zulu Hart (23 page)

‘All I’m saying,’ said George, ‘is that it’s better to be safe than sorry. Why, all the talk in the regiment—’

‘Enough!’ said Fanny, rising from her seat. ‘I can’t listen to any more of this.’ She marched from the room, her long silk evening dress brushing on the polished floor as she went.

‘I must go after her,’ said George apologetically. ‘Please excuse me.’

He found her on the front veranda, staring into the inky darkness. ‘Fanny, whatever’s the matter?’

‘I’m surprised you need to ask,’ she replied, not looking round. ‘Since you returned from Zululand you’re a different person, much harder. I don’t feel I know you any more.’

‘I won’t pretend that the sight of that poor girl being strangled hasn’t changed the way I feel about the Zulus. It has. But I’m still the same person, just less inclined to take a romantic view of my African cousins.’

Fanny spun round to face him, her eyes flashing. ‘Unlike us, you mean?’

‘Yes … no, not exactly. But you must admit your family has a tendency to look for the good in Africans and ignore the bad.’

‘We do. And if more settlers followed our example, the more secure we’d all be.’

‘Plenty would disagree.’

‘I know, George, but what about you? Would you disagree?’

‘I …
I can’t decide.’

‘I don’t understand you, George. You’ve only been in the country for a few months. If you’d been here longer, you’d know that Cetshwayo has no intention of invading Natal — and nor, I believe, do younger warriors like Mehlokazulu, despite their bravado. And yet if Frere and General Thesiger have their way, and it comes to war, you’ll be expected to fight your
kinsmen
. How could you even contemplate such an act?’

‘Fanny, please try and understand my position. I have no desire to fight for the sake of fighting, but I certainly will if the Zulus attack Natal. When all is said and done I’m British, not Zulu, as are you and your family. I’m quite sure your father would help to defend the colony.’

‘Father would fight to protect his family, yes. But never in a war of conquest like the one Frere has in mind. I can see your mind is fixed on this matter, so I will wish you a happy birthday and bid you goodnight.’ Fanny opened the front door and was about to go back inside when she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘It might be best, under the circumstances, if we don’t see each other for a time.’

‘Fanny, please!’ he implored. ‘Let’s not allow politics, of all things, to come between us.’

‘It’s not just about politics, George,’ she said, a tear in her eye. ‘It’s about you, and whether you’re the person I thought you were.’

‘I haven’t changed.’

‘I’m not so sure. Goodnight,’ she said, closing the door behind her.

After the fiasco of his birthday dinner, George kept away from Bishopstowe and worked long hours on his uncle’s farm, helping to move the small herd of cattle from one scrubby piece of pasture to the next. With Natal in the grip of one of the worst droughts in living memory, there had been no rain for months, and the scorched veldt was all yellows and browns - not a hint of green. The spring foliage had come out small and shrivelled, the wild flowers stunted, and grazing was at a premium.

George revelled in the outdoor life, walking beneath the huge canopy of African sky, staring at the vast and beautiful landscape, thinking,
Yes
, maybe this
is
in my blood somewhere. Maybe I could feel I belong here in a way I never belonged at home. This sense of wellbeing was bolstered by the speed with which George improved his spoken Zulu by spending so much time with Mufungu, his uncle’s cowherd.

As the weeks passed, and the cattle grew thinner, he picked up snippets of news from the newspapers and from his fellow Carbineers. Sir Bartle Frere had finally arrived in Pietermaritzburg towards the end of September to supervise the long- awaited award of the Boundary Commission, though an announcement had yet to be made; General Thesiger had become Lord Chelmsford on the death of his father; and two more border incidents had taken place, one involving a surveyor from the Colonial Engineer’s Department who had been apprehended and questioned by Zulus as he inspected the Middle Drift across the Tugela River near Fort Buckingham. This incident, in particular, had enraged the settler community, and many Carbineers were describing it as the final straw.

George himself was too upset by Fanny’s rejection, too preoccupied with his work, to pay much attention to politics. With not enough grazing for the cattle to survive, every day brought the discovery of another carcass. As a last resort, George rode into Pietermaritzburg to buy fodder with his uncle’s last few pounds. He was horrified to discover there was none to be had; it had all been bought by the new Lord Chelmsford’s commissariat. There was only one conclusion to be drawn. The Colensos had been right all along: the authorities were preparing to invade.

He returned home with the grim news, and was astonished to hear his uncle not only confirm his suspicions but add to them. ‘While you were out,’ said Patrick, ‘a friend of mine called Will Eary dropped by. He’s a member of the Buffalo Border Guard on the stretch of the river that includes Rorke’s Drift, which, as you know, is a potential point of invasion for either side. Anyway, Will told me some interesting things about his superior, Henry Fynn, the border agent for the district. Apparently Fynn’s been telling his men that war with the Zulus is certain, and that when it comes he will settle his differences with a border chief called Matshana who once refused to sell him some of his best cattle because Fynn was offering below market price. When Fynn lost his temper, Matshana ordered him off his land - and ever since Fynn has vowed one day to get his cattle and not pay a penny.’

‘He sounds a nasty bit of work,’ said George, shaking his head. ‘But, even so, how would
he
know that war was inevitable?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure. But, according to Will, he’s had at least three long meetings with Colonel Crealock, Chelmsford’s right-hand man.’

‘Crealock?’ said George, his heart racing at the mere mention of the name. ‘Is your friend certain?’

‘Yes. He stood guard at one of the meetings, but has no idea what they discussed.’

‘More’s the pity. I’d have liked to have been a fly on that wall.’

‘Well, it may not be too late to find out.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The reason Will is in the area is that he’s just escorted Fynn to Pietermaritzburg for a meeting, not just with Crealock but with Chelmsford and Sir Bartle Frere also. It sounds to me very much like a council of war.’

‘To me too.
When and where does the meeting take place?’

‘In the Plough Hotel at two this afternoon.’

George pulled out his watch. ‘It’s just gone noon. If I leave now, I should have plenty of time to locate the meeting room and find a place to eavesdrop.’

‘George, is that wise? If you’re discovered, they’ll throw you out of the Carbineers, and possibly worse.’

‘I know. But I owe it to the Colensos to at least try and find out what the authorities are planning.’

Shortly after one, George strode into the lobby of the redbrick Plough Hotel and almost collided with Major Gossett.

‘Hello,’ said Gossett, ‘what are you doing here?’

George trotted out his cover story. ‘Thank goodness I’ve found you. My uncle’s cattle are dying of hunger and I’ve been told your commissariat has bought all the available fodder. Can you tell me why?’

‘It’s just a precaution, George, in case the Zulus attack. The general wants to be able to move at a moment’s notice, and he can only do that if he has adequate transport.’

‘Are you sure that’s all there is to it?’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘Well, there are rumours you’re planning an invasion.’

‘All stuff and nonsense, George, but I won’t deny we have to prepare for all eventualities in case it does come to war.’

‘So nothing’s been decided one way or another?’

‘No, absolutely not.
The general’s meeting Sir Bartle this afternoon to discuss security arrangements for the colony.
Nothing more.’

‘Will you be present?’

‘No, I’m too junior. My job is to see the room’s supplied with water, notepaper, that sort of thing.’

‘I’ll give you a hand. It will give us a chance to catch up properly.’

Gossett nodded his assent, and led George upstairs to a large room on the first floor that was empty but for a long oak table and chairs. George could see at a glance that the only place to hide was in a solid wardrobe in a small ante-chamber off the main room. Crucially the two rooms were not separated by a door.

While he helped Gossett lay out the notepaper, pencils and water glasses, he asked about the award of the Boundary Commission. ‘All I know,’ said Gossett, ‘is that Sir Bartle is still considering it and will make his announcement in a fortnight at the latest.’

‘Why has it taken so long?’

‘No idea. Presumably Sir Bartle didn’t approve of the commission’s recommendation.’ Gossett glanced around the room. ‘Well, I think that’s everything.
Like to join me for lunch?’

‘No, but thank you.
I’d better get back to the farm.’

They parted company with a handshake in the lobby. George left the hotel, and gave Gossett enough time to get settled in the dining room before retracing his steps to the first-floor conference room. He made straight for the wardrobe in the anteroom — a heavy oak affair with a looking-glass on the door—and climbed inside, arranging the hanging overcoats as best he could to cover him. It was stuffy and cramped, with not enough room to stand up straight, but he was unconcerned. Hearing the conversation was all that mattered.

With an hour to wait, George closed his eyes and dozed. He was woken by a deep, authoritative voice he did not recognize. ‘… and so my strategy is this: when the Natal authorities announce the award of the Boundary Commission in early December, they’ll also present the Zulus with an ultimatum. And you’ll be glad to hear,
gentlemen, that
Sir Henry Bulwer has at last agreed to drop his objections and sign the ultimatum.’ He guessed it was the Cape governor speaking, and soon had confirmation.

‘That’s wonderful news, Sir Bartle,’ said a voice that sounded like the general’s. ‘However did you manage to persuade the lieutenant governor to change his mind?’

‘I simply told him that it was foolish to allow King Cetshwayo to keep up a perpetual army of thirty to forty thousand disciplined warriors, and that we could not simply withdraw our troops from the border without doing irreparable damage to our imperial prestige. All of which is true. I added that the ultimatum did not necessarily mean war, which is also true, but highly unlikely. We’re demanding nothing more or less than the total dismantling of the Zulu military system. If Cetshwayo agrees, he will no longer pose a significant military threat and will almost certainly be deposed; if he doesn’t, we’ll declare war and invade. Either way the Zulus will, in a few months’ time, no longer be an obstacle to confederation and - dare I say it, gentlemen?
- progress.’

‘May I congratulate you, Sir Bartle,’ said a third voice, Crealock’s, ‘on a masterly achievement. The general and I were convinced that Sir Henry would not budge, yet you have him eating out of your hand.’

‘Not quite, Colonel. Let’s just say that Sir Henry, like most men, knows what’s good for him. But enough of that; tell me about your plans if, as he’s bound to, Cetshwayo rejects the ultimatum and decides to fight.’

‘May I answer, sir?’ Crealock asked his chief.

‘By all means,’ said Chelmsford.

‘Thank you. Soon after we arrived in Natal in August, Sir Bartle, I drew up a contingency plan, which I have here. It’s called “Invasion of Zululand, or Defence of the Natal and Transvaal Colony from Invasion by the Zulus”, but the second part of the title was merely a sop to placate Sir Henry. The plan was always to take the offensive by invading Zululand with five separate columns, each consisting of at least one battalion of British infantry. The intention is for these columns to converge on Ulundi, the Zulu capital, from five different directions. That way we hope to flush the Zulus out into the open, much like driving pheasants. Our chief worry is that they won’t fight, and that we’ll be forced to withdraw because of supply difficulties.’

‘May I take a look?’

‘Of course.’

There was a pause while Frere read the document. ‘I see that each column will be composed of British infantry, mounted volunteers, artillery and native levies. Will that be enough firepower to stop the Zulus if they concentrate all their force against a single column?’

‘Without doubt.
Each column will have a minimum of a thousand British rifles, not to mention the supporting troops. They’ll be more than a match for anything Cetshwayo can throw at them.’

‘How many native levies?’

‘None, until yesterday, when Sir Henry finally gave us the go-ahead to train and equip three regiments of native infantry, six troops of native horse and a force of pioneers. We’ll have seven thousand in total, split between the columns.’

‘Under whose command?’

‘Colonel Anthony Durnford of the Royal Engineers.’