Zulu Hart (25 page)

‘Your
duty\
What
about your duty as a Christian? I’m shocked that you, Anthony, of all people, would help to prosecute an unlawful war.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Fanny, but it’s not for me, or any soldier, to decide whether a war is justified. We must be above politics.’

‘Yes, but not above morality. Or else you’re nothing more than mercenaries.’

‘Please, Fanny,’ said Durnford, frowning, ‘if I thought for a minute that my resignation would change anything, I would tender it today. But I suspect that war is inevitable, and it will be better for all concerned if it’s short and successful.’

‘You mean for the British?’ asked Fanny.

‘And the Zulus too.
Everyone suffers in a long war.’

Fanny snorted. ‘Why can’t you be honest with yourself? I saw the look of triumph in your eye as you told me of your appointment. You welcome this war as an opportunity to prove yourself, and to remove the doubts about your military competence that have persisted since the death of those poor Carbineers at Bushman’s River Pass.’

‘How can you think that? I wasn’t responsible for their death. It was just bad luck.’

‘I’m sure it was, but most of the settler community here don’t see it like that, do they?’

‘I’m sorry you can’t be happier for me,’ said Durnford bitterly as he replaced his hat. ‘I’ll leave you to your cosy tete- a-tete. I’ve got duties to attend to. Do give my regards to your family.’

‘I will. But I don’t imagine any of them will take pleasure in your news.’

Durnford nodded and left.

‘Are you all right, Fanny?’ asked George, secretly exulting that his rival had been given such short shrift.

She wiped a tear from under her eye. ‘No, I’m not all right. How could he, after all he’s said and done to try and prevent war, take such pleasure in his new appointment? If he fights, I don’t know how I’ll be able to forgive him.’

‘So where does that leave me? I joined the Carbineers knowing that war was possible.’

‘Yes,’ she said sadly, ‘don’t remind me. But you have at least some excuse. I know you were deeply affected by your trip to Zululand, and that you’re convinced change is necessary. But you must know in your heart of hearts that war rarely changes things for the better.’

‘I suppose I do. But it needn’t come to war if Cetshwayo is prepared to make concessions.’

‘What exactly do you mean?’

‘I can’t say, but all will be revealed in a fortnight.’

Lower Drift of the Tugela, 11 December 1878

Swollen with the recent rains, the broad river was running fast and strong between the steep green banks of the Lower Drift, just a few miles north of its egress into the Indian Ocean. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, George watched with fascination as, slowly but surely, the small ferry was worked back across the broad stretch of water by bluejackets of the Naval Brigade, their faces red with exertion as they hauled on the ropes attached to the near bank. Squatting nervously in the centre of the boat was a small group of Zulu chiefs and their retainers, members of the delegation that had come to hear the announcement of the long-awaited boundary award. A single white man sat among them.

George was standing with his detachment of Carbineers on a narrow ledge overlooking the drift. Above and behind them, atop the bluff, was the recently constructed earthwork known as Fort Pearson, named after the local British commander; to their left, beneath the sharp shadow of a large awning that had been slung between two fig trees, sat the British deputation that would make the announcement: John Shepstone, Bernard Fynney, the local border magistrate who would translate for the Zulus, and Colonel Walker of the Scots Guards, Frere’s military secretary. George and his troop of Carbineers had escorted Shepstone and Walker down from Pietermaritzburg.

George knew what was coming, and had spent much of the three-day march through the waterlogged terrain of north

eastern Natal trying to decide what to say to the Zulu delegates if he had the opportunity. He wanted to emphasize the futility of taking on the might of the British Empire. Whether they, or more importantly Cetshwayo, would listen to him was another matter.

With the pont safely secured on the Natal bank, the Zulu delegates and their white companion disembarked and began to climb the dirt road that led to the meeting place. Minutes later they appeared over the rise to the left of awning, prompting the officer in charge of the naval guard of honour to bellow, ‘Attention!’

A double row of boots crashed to the floor as the sailors, in blue tunics and white helmets, stiffened to attention. Behind them stood more sailors, a mixture of black and white, manning two nine-pounder field guns and a single US-made Gatling machine gun. But they were not part of the guard of honour and remained at ease, as did George and the Carbineers, their Martini-Henry carbines cradled in their arms.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ said John Shepstone, his moustache bristling as he rose to greet the Zulus.

‘Hello, John,’ responded the white member of the delegation, his handsome, nut-brown face wreathed in a smile as he strode forward to shake Shepstone’s hand. ‘It’s been a long time.’

A fine-looking, powerfully built man, he was wearing a beautifully cut tweed suit and could have been mistaken for an English
gentleman
on the Yorkshire moors, but for his large wideawake hat and the brace of pistols at his waist.

‘Who’s that?’ whispered George to his neighbour, a young trooper by the name of Walwyn Barker.

‘Why that’s John Dunn, the White Induna. He’s chief of the large district across the river, and a great favourite of Cetshwayo. They say he has forty-nine Zulu wives and yet lives in a European-style house with furniture from London.’

‘Extraordinary. How did he end up in Zululand?’

‘He began as a border agent and actually fought against Cetshwayo in the fifties. But he later switched sides and has served the king faithfully ever since as an advisor. He’s now one of the richest chiefs
in—’

‘Silence in the ranks!’ shouted Sergeant Bullock, their thickset NCO. Barker shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

George turned back to see Dunn and the leading Zulus squatting down in a rough semi-circle in front of the trestle table; behind them, bristling with spears and knobkerries, sat their retainers. Not above fifty men in
all,
and no match for the firepower the British had assembled.

Shepstone began proceedings by slowly reading the details of the boundary award, pausing after each paragraph so that Fynney could translate. ‘The high commissioner,’ began Shepstone, ‘has graciously confirmed the Zululand- Transvaal border as following the Blood River to its main source in the Magidela Mountains and thence in a direct line to a round hill between the two main sources of the Phongolo river in the Drakensburg.’

As Fynney completed his translation of this crucial first passage, the Zulu chiefs murmured appreciatively. They were less impressed when Shepstone went on to confirm Boer ownership of existing farms in Zululand, while denying Zulu claims to property on the Transvaal side of the line, on the grounds that Boer law did not allow Africans to own land. But the first overt signs of dissatisfaction, in the form of angry muttering, began when Shepstone stated that Cetshwayo was to relinquish all claims to land north of the Phongolo
river
. On hearing this, Chief Vumandaba, the portly leader of the delegation, sprang up and shouted in Zulu, ‘What is this? The British have no right to dictate terms on the Phongolo. It is between us and the Swazi.’

George’s grasp of the Zulu language had come on in leaps and bounds, thanks to long conversations with Mufungu, his uncle’s cowherd, and he understood the gist of the chief’s angry words. He was surprised, therefore, when Shepstone’s noncommittal response - that any Trans-Phongolo claim would have to be submitted to the British government - seemed to smooth the chief’s ruffled feathers.

Shepstone further mollified the Zulus by announcing a break in proceedings so that a freshly slaughtered ox could be cooked and eaten. The Zulus were delighted, and used their assegais to carve strips of meat from the carcass, which they washed down with liberal quantities of maize beer. The mood of the delegation seemed relaxed and jovial, and George took the opportunity to speak to a young induna who was squatting on the fringes of the main group. ‘
Sakubona!
‘ said George, raising his hand in greeting.

The young chief looked up at George with a quizzical expression on his broad, handsome face. He was naked but for a genet loincloth, and powerfully built with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His assegais and large rawhide shield, black with white spots, lay close to hand.

George introduced himself as a cousin of Chief Sihayo. The Zulu raised his eyebrows. ‘How can you be Sihayo’s kin? You’re a white horse soldier.’

‘A soldier, yes, but not entirely white.
My grandmother was Sihayo’s sister.’

‘How can that be?’

George tried to explain but the chief looked unconvinced. At last, a smile spreading across his face, he rose to clap George on the shoulder. ‘It’s so unlikely it must be true. I’m Kumbeka, son of Chief Vumandaba, good friend of Sihayo’s son Mehlokazulu. We’re both junior indunas of the Ngoba- makhosi Regiment.’

‘A ringless regiment, I see,’ said George with a grin, gesturing towards the absence of an
isicoco
in Kumbeka’s hair.’

‘Sadly, yes. But we’re still young, and live in hope that our king will permit us to marry once we’ve proved ourselves in battle.’

‘Fighting anyone in particular?’

‘Who knows? We have many enemies: the Boers, the Swazi and soon, depending upon the outcome of these talks, maybe even the British.’

‘That’s what I wanted
to—’

‘Trooper Hart!’ barked a voice behind George, who turned to see his red-faced troop officer, Lieutenant Scott, striding towards him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

George frowned. He had never heard Scott, a quiet man with a droopy moustache and a penchant for amateur
dramatics,
raise his voice in anger before. ‘I was just trying out my Zulu, sir. May I present Kumbeka, son of Chief
Vumandaba.
’

‘No, you may not. You weren’t given permission to fraternize with the Zulu delegation.
Kindly return to the ranks.’

George was about to respond but the cold, angry look on Scott’s fine-boned face deterred him. Instead he raised his hand in farewell to Kumbeka and strode back to the other Carbineers. It had to be a bad sign, thought George, when the mild-mannered Scott began to treat the Zulus as if they were already the enemy.

With lunch over, the Zulus returned to their places in front of the trestle table so that Shepstone could read out Frere’s ultimatum. This was the moment that George had been dreading. ‘The Zulu king,’ intoned a grim-looking John Shepstone, ‘has not kept the promise he made at his coronation in 1873 to introduce laws for the better government of the Zulu people. The military system, moreover, is destroying the country by not allowing men to labour for themselves and to live in quiet and in peace, with their families and relatives. And the army was not for self-defence but an instrument for the oppression of the people.’

This was too much for Kumbeka to take, and he growled, ‘Have the Zulus complained?’

Ignoring him, Shepstone continued in his deep baritone voice, ‘While Cetshwayo keeps such a huge standing army, it is impossible for his neighbours to feel secure. The British government has been forced to keep large numbers of imperial troops in Natal and the Transvaal to guard against possible aggression by the Zulu king, and this is a state of affairs that cannot be allowed to continue.’

Shepstone paused before reading out Frere’s demands. He knew there would be no turning back and the Zulu delegates seemed to sense it too. Their angry murmurs had died away and they sat there stony-faced, expecting the worst. George could hardly bear to listen.

‘Her Majesty’s high commissioner,’ resumed Shepstone, ‘has now, therefore, to require that the Zulu king will forthwith send in to the Natal government, for trial under the laws of the colony, for the offence committed by them in the colony, the persons of Mehlokazulu and Mkhumbukazulu, the sons of Sihayo. They must be sent in and delivered over to the Natal authorities within twenty days of the date that this demand is made. A fine of five hundred cattle must also be paid by that date.’

But worse, far
worse,
was to come. ‘It is necessary,’ said Shepstone, ‘that the military system which is at present kept up by the king should be done away with, as a bad and hurtful one; and that the king should, instead, adopt such military regulations as may be decided on after consultation with the Great Council of the Zulus and with representatives of the British government.’

No sooner had this general clause been translated by Fynney than the Zulu delegation erupted in a storm of protest. Shepstone raised his hand to still the cries and, when they had subsided, continued with the specifics: the Zulu army to be disbanded and the men returned to their homes; all able- bodied men would still be liable for military service in the defence of their country, but until then to be allowed to live quietly at home; no man to be called up without the sanction of the Council of Chiefs and British officials; every man to be free to marry ‘when he pleases’; no Zulu to be punished for a crime unless convicted by a court of ‘properly appointed indunas’; no one to be executed without a fair and open trial and the right of appeal to the king; a British resident to reside in or near Zululand to enforce the terms of the ultimatum; and missionaries and Christian converts to be allowed to return to Zululand. The deadline for meeting these demands was thirty days.