Zulu Hart (26 page)

The Zulu delegation listened in shock as, one by one, the harsh terms were translated. Taken together they amounted to nothing less than the total emasculation of the Zulu state, and were clearly unacceptable. George glanced across at Kumbeka. He was shaking his head, his face a mask of proud defiance. His portly father, wearing a splendid headdress of blue crane feathers with leopardskin earflaps, was the first to speak. Rising to his feet, his face quivering with emotion, he denied the coronation laws had been broken. ‘Nor can I understand,’ he added, ‘the need to disband an institution as ancient and necessary as the army.’

‘Because,’ replied Shepstone, as though he was talking to a child, ‘it poses a serious threat to the subjects of Natal, whereas Cetshwayo knows the British government presents no threat to the Zulus.’

‘What about them?’ asked Vumandaba, pointing towards George and the armed
escort.

‘They are for defence, and are only here because of Cetshwayo’s actions.’

Vumandaba snorted in derision. Shepstone, he realized, would not be swayed by argument and further discussion was pointless. After conferring briefly with Dunn and the leading indunas, he asked Shepstone for an extension to the deadline. ‘Thirty days,’ he implored, ‘is far too little time for the Royal Council to discuss and respond to these demands. On matters as important as these, no time limit should be set. We ask, too, that a British representative is present when these demands are presented to the king so that he can verify their accuracy.’

Shepstone was unmoved by what he saw as a feeble attempt to deflect Cetshwayo’s anger by allowing a Briton to deliver the bad news. ‘I have no authority to agree to such a request,’ he said coldly, ‘or to alter any of the terms of the ultimatum.’

Declaring the meeting over, he strode forward and handed copies of the boundary award and the ultimatum to John Dunn, who was squatting next to Vumandaba. ‘Can you make sure Cetshwayo gets these?’ said Shepstone. ‘And can you tell him that the thirty-day limit is final. There will be no extension.’

‘I will tell him, John. But you do know he can’t comply. If he does, he’s finished in Zululand.’

‘Which is exactly what he’ll be if he doesn’t. Make sure he knows that.’

Dunn nodded, made a sign to Vumandaba and, as one, the Zulu delegation rose to its feet and began to depart down the track to the drift.

George knew it was now or never. ‘Sir,’ he said to Lieutenant Scott, ‘permission to fall out and relieve myself.’

‘Yes, go on, then. The fun’s over.’

George ducked behind a nearby thicket, found a path that seemed to be heading down to the drift and followed it. He was just in time. As he emerged from the scrub on to the flat ground that led to the river bank, the first of the Zulu delegates were climbing aboard the pont. Fortunately Kumbeka, the man he had come to talk to, was at the rear of the group. As George ran towards him, still clutching his carbine, one of the Zulu
escort
misread his intention and sprang forward, assegai in hand, to bar his path. He was young and
fit,
the muscles of his chest tensed in anticipation, and clearly determined that George would not pass. In his left hand he clutched the distinctive black shield with white spots of the Ngobamakhosi Regiment; in his right a stabbing assegai. With George just yards away and the warrior poised to strike, Kumbeka glanced round and shouted at the warrior to lower his weapon. He did so, leaving George to sprint past and come to a breathless halt in front of Kumbeka, the other Zulus eyeing him warily.

‘I must speak with you,’ said George, bending forward to ease the pain in his stomach from running.

‘What is there to say?’ replied Kumbeka. ‘Your chiefs are determined on war, and war they shall have. Cetshwayo cannot agree to their demands. If he does, he shames not only himself but the nation. The army is his strength, the only thing keeping the more powerful chiefs in order. If he disbands it, he might as well kill himself, because others surely will.’

‘I understand that, but the alternative is far worse for the Zulus. If you take on the British, you will lose. Many warriors will die and the country will be eaten up by the white man. Cetshwayo must put his people first. If he doesn’t agree to at least some of the demands, Zululand will not survive.’

‘There is much sense in what you
say,
and I will try, through my father, to make Cetshwayo understand. But it won’t be easy. The more hot-headed of his advisors and warriors will demand he stands firm.’

‘Of course, but he must ignore them.’ George leant forward and grasped Kumbeka’s hand. ‘Tell my cousin Mehlokazulu that if he and his brother give themselves up to the British, Sobantu will do everything he can to secure their early release.’

‘I will tell him.
Sala kahle,
brother, and thank you,’ said Kumbeka, as he waved the last of the Zulu delegates into the pont.

‘Hamba kabler
replied George, unconvinced he had done anything more than delay the inevitable.

Bishopstowe, 30 December 1878

It was a baking hot day and George and Bishop Colenso were sitting in easy chairs on the front veranda, drinking glasses of lemonade. The air was heavy with the scent of lemons and tropical flowers. It was an idyllic scene, but George had little time for his surroundings. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, John,’ he said, after the black
maid
had left them, ‘but I’ve just heard from my friend Major Gossett that war is imminent.’

‘But when you called a week ago,’ said the bishop, ‘you said that your advice to Kumbeka might have done some good, and that Cetshwayo had offered to surrender Sihayo’s sons, pay the cattle fine and submit the other ultimatum demands to his advisors.’

‘It’s
true,
he did make that offer in a letter to Frere. But he also said he needed more time and Frere has refused to give him any. He’s warned Cetshwayo that if the men and cattle aren’t handed over by the first deadline tomorrow he’ll order Chelmsford to invade, but not take any hostile action until the expiry of the thirty-day deadline. He’s not leaving anything to chance. He knows the recent rains have made it almost impossible for Cetshwayo to hand over the cattle in time. He also knows that early January is the best time to invade because the rivers are at their height and
it’s
harvest time.’

‘The whole thing’s monstrous,’ said the bishop, his mutton- chop whiskers quivering with indignation. ‘Frere planned this from the start, I’m sure of it.’

‘So it would appear,’ said George, though he knew only too well the truth of the bishop’s words. ‘I’m sorry, I truly am.’

‘Don’t apologize. You did what you could, and for that I’m grateful. I just hope it’s over soon, with as few casualties as possible on either side.’

‘I hope so too. And if I can do anything to prevent unnecessary suffering, I will.’

‘Thank you, George. You have a good heart.’

‘Well, I must be leaving,’ said George, rising. ‘I’m on duty at first light and have a long ride ahead of me.’

The bishop stood and embraced George. ‘God bless you,’ he said, ‘and keep you safe. Wouldn’t you like to say your farewells to Fanny? She should be back from town about now.’

‘I … don’t think that’s a good idea, under the circumstances. I’m sure she’ll understand. Goodbye, John.’

‘Goodbye.’

George had barely reached the bottom of the veranda steps when a
lady
trotted into view riding sidesaddle. It was Fanny, causing George’s heart to skip a beat, as it always did when he saw her.

He walked over to hold the horse while she dismounted.

‘Thank you, George,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘And you. I wasn’t expecting to see you before …’

‘Before?’

‘… I leave for the front.’

‘What front?’ said Fanny, her pretty face screwed in
consternation.
‘Father told me that Cetshwayo was trying to negotiate.’

‘He is, but Frere won’t give him any more time. He means for us to invade on or soon after New Year’s Day.’

Fanny buried her face in her hands. ‘That monster,’ she sobbed. ‘We had such hopes the boundary award would bring peace. But now it seems Frere only allowed the commission to distract the Zulus while he gathered his forces.’

That’s not the half of it, thought George as he tried to comfort her by placing his arm round her shoulder. ‘Please don’t,’ said Fanny, pushing him away. ‘You’ve got your war. Just go.’

‘That’s not fair. I didn’t want this war, and tried hard to prevent it. But if some some good comes out of it - like the destruction of Cetshwayo’s brutal system of rule — then it won’t have been entirely in vain.’

‘You’re so naive, George. When has
good
ever
come out of war?’

‘It does occasionally, Fanny. Some wars
have
to be fought.’

‘I don’t believe in “just wars”, George. And even if I did, this certainly isn’t one.’

‘No. I’m not denying the cynicism behind it, but the outcome might just be positive for the Zulus in the long term.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘Yes I do. It may not be obvious to you, but I feel a strange affinity to this land, and genuinely care what happens to its people.’

‘Then why fight against your own kind?’

‘Because they’re not my own kind.
Do I look or sound like a Zulu to you? No, because I’m not. I may have a little Zulu blood in my veins, but all my instincts and prejudices are those of a British soldier.’

‘Who are you trying to convince, George? You say you feel an affinity to Africa, and that’s because part of you
is
African.’

‘Maybe you’re right. But I’m also a British soldier and my duty now is to fight.’

Fanny shook her head slowly. ‘Anthony said the same thing, but at least he’s got the excuse of a long career.’

‘Fanny, please! I don’t want to part on bad terms. It may be …’ His voice tailed off.

Fanny snorted contemptuously. ‘What? The last time we see each other? It might well be. And whose fault is that? Why can’t you admit you’re excited by the prospect of war? All men are.’

George knew there was some truth in what she said, but he was loath to admit it. ‘I know you don’t want me to fight. But please believe me when I say I’ll try to do the right thing.’

‘The right thing is not to go.’

‘I can’t resign again. Soldiering is in my blood, and it’s the only way I know how to make a living. And, though I haven’t told you this, I desperately need money to support my mother.’

‘There are other ways to earn money.’

‘Not for me.’

‘I’ll say no more, George. You know my feelings.’

George nodded. ‘Fanny, I appreciate this isn’t a good time to ask, but I may not see you again for a while and I have to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘Whether there’s any hope for
us.’

Fanny stared intently at George’s face, as if consigning it to memory. His clean-shaven complexion was much darker now, his hair longer, but the colour of his eyes was as she remembered: light brown with flecks of green and amber, much like a ripe hazelnut.

‘I prefer you without a moustache,’ she said quietly.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘There’s always hope, George, but
it’s
fading fast.’

The rain fell steadily as George walked Emperor towards the Central Column’s huge tented camp at Rorke’s Drift on the Zulu border. It had moved there from Helpmekaar two days earlier, on 8 January, and was situated on the flat, thorny scrub that lay between the river and Witt’s mission station, which, with the invasion imminent, had been taken over by the military, the church reverting to a store and the house converted into a makeshift hospital. Witt had elected to stay on to guard his property, though he had sent his wife and children to stay with friends at Umsinga, twenty miles to the south.

As he rode, George mulled over events since the expiry of the first deadline on 31 December. Lord Chelmsford had been forced by a lack of transport to modify his original plan to invade with five columns, and would now use just three: the Northern, Central and Southern Columns under Colonels Wood, Glyn and Pearson respectively. He would accompany Glyn’s - the largest of the three, to which George was attached — but it, along with Pearson’s, was not scheduled to invade until after the expiry of the second deadline that evening. Wood’s column was already in Zululand, having crossed the border on 6 January. The plan was still for all three columns to converge on the Zulu capital of Ulundi, hoping to bring the main Zulu army to battle in the process. This much George had learnt from his good friend Major Gossett, who had arrived in camp with the rest of the headquarters staff a week earlier.

George had been out since dawn, scouting the river bank to the south for any sign of a Zulu ambush, but had seen only civilians gathering wood. With luck the crossing of the river, scheduled for the following morning, would be unopposed.

‘Who goes there?’ barked a voice in the murky drizzle.