The return of the warriors to their homes provoked scenes of jubilation. Families turned out in their droves to welcome the conquering heroes and their liberated loved ones. There was some confusion at the absence of their chief but Gagola, after a quick discussion with Umbopa, took charge and addressed the entire village, her clear voice carrying to its very walls.
Mazooku gave Rider and Lazarus the gist of her speech with a knowing smile on his lips. “It was no accident that she chose Umbopa to escape the mines with us. His destiny has long been entwined with that of his tribe.”
“How so?” Lazarus asked.
“He is Twala’s nephew. Long ago, Twala murdered his brother, the previous chief, and took his place. All thought he died of natural causes but Gagola knows the truth. It is her gift to smell out witchcraft.”
“But surely Umbopa should have succeeded his deceased father,” said Lazarus.
“True, but he was just a boy and Twala was a fierce warrior. Nobody could stand up to him and Umbopa was forced to live the life of a disgraced family member. It took a plan of Gagola’s cunning to restore him to his birthright. She knew that Twala would try to kill Umbopa. In fact, she counted on it.”
“By God, she is a wily fox!” Rider exclaimed.
Lazarus could see that Rider’s admiration for the sangoma was rooted in something much deeper and the matter came to a head that night when the village was in the midst of its victory celebrations.
Rider had spent much time in serious conversation with Gagola under the eaves of a hut. Mazooku stood with them to translate. Suddenly, Rider walked violently away from them and strode across the kraal, his face rigid with bitterness.
“What’s up?” Lazarus asked Mazooku when the Zulu joined him by the fire.
“Indanda asked Gagola to marry him,” he replied.
“Marry him!” Lazarus exclaimed. “Has he lost his head?”
“I fear so. He loves her, I am sure of it and perhaps she loves him too but such a union is impossible. Sangomas are forbidden to take a man.”
Lazarus decided to offer Rider his company and joined him at the wall of the kraal where they looked up at the stars together.
“It can’t be helped, old boy,” Lazarus told him. “You and her, I mean.”
“I offered to take her to London,” Rider replied. “I didn’t expect her to remain a witch finder here for the rest of her life. I could have given her something better.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want anything better. You know how these people are when it comes to fate and destiny and all that. Not to mention tradition.”
“Do you know what she told me? She said that the sun may not mate with the darkness nor the white with the black. That’s a bloody cheek, don’t you think?”
“I know many white men who would express similar sentiments, though not as poetically. What would people think back home if you returned with an African bride?”
“I don’t give a damn what people think! I’d stay right here in Africa for the rest of my life if that would have pleased her. But she’s made her opinion clear enough. Damned harlot! Leading me on like that! I always thought there was something sinister about her, like she was a soul from a distant past, survived to work her magic on men generations after she was born. Who knows, maybe I am right? She may call herself a witch finder but if there was ever a witch on God’s earth then it is that woman!”
Lazarus did not argue with him. He could see that his heart had been broken and knew that it would be futile to try and make him see sense; that Gagola was a good woman who had saved her tribe – through cunning, yes – but she was no witch. But Rider’s damaged pride and his bitterness would never allow him to see her as anything but a wicked creature who had thrown his love for her back in his face.
VI
Lazarus wanted to head back to Great Zimbabwe immediately. Henry had probably returned and would deserve an explanation. Rider talked him into returning to Pretoria with him first. He said that as he had been working for the government it was necessary that he was debriefed. Besides, he could always pick up supplies in Pretoria before heading back to the site.
Chief Umbopa had provided them with a new ox wagon and plenty of food and water. They made good time but upon their arrival in the Transvaal it became clear that important events had been unfolding in their absence. There was a significant military presence that had not been there previously and British refugees from the east were arriving in droves, their possessions piled on top of their wagons with talk of returning to England on their lips. Rider hailed somebody he knew and demanded to be informed of what had transpired.
“King Cetshwayo has refused to stand down his warriors and defies Frere’s ultimatum,” the fellow told them. “Lord Chelmsford marched the army into Zululand two weeks ago but his center column was wiped out at Isandlwana!”
“Wiped out?” exclaimed Rider in astonishment.
“It’s a scandal! Whitehall is demanding an explanation. Chelmsford has had to pull out and more troops arrive by the day. There is nothing for it now, we are at war with the Zulu!”
Rider was to meet his contact in the private room of a tavern with sawdust floors and timber walls. Lazarus took a drink at the bar while Rider underwent his debriefing. Various rough types came and went. The tavern had been built by an Englishmen after the annexation and most of its patrons were English farmers and gold prospectors but there was a marked Boer element which did not seem to be resented. Now that the Zulu war had begun, old white enemies were more inclined to share bar space with each other, at least for the time being.
Eventually Rider emerged and told Lazarus that ‘the old man’ would see him now. Lazarus went in and sat down at a table upon which stood a glass of very fine cognac.
“Wet your whistle a little,” said the bewhiskered gentleman in the gray business suit who occupied the room.
Lazarus wouldn’t have called him old exactly, but understood that the term must be one of affection from an underling to his superior.
“I’m Morton,” the gentleman said, extending his hand.
“How do you do?” said Lazarus, taking it and wondering at the lack of a surname.
“I must say I am very impressed with what Agent Haggard has been telling me. Withstanding torture? Taking a life in the name of Her Majesty? These are qualities that are in short supply these days.”
Lazarus shrugged. “I merely did what I had to out of necessity. Rider… sorry, Agent Haggard, did no less.”
“But he is a trained agent. You are, what? An archaeologist? Your military record is adequate of course, but still, you have proven yourself a very worthy subject of Her Majesty and a valuable tool of her government. How would you feel about the prospect of full-time employment by my department?”
Lazarus wasn’t quite sure he understood. “Do you mean become a…?
“An agent. Like Rider. There would be further training and quite extensive tests of course, but I feel you have what we are looking for in our recruits.”
Lazarus was flattered but floundered in the face of such responsibility. “I’m afraid that I am a very busy man. I am engaged in an expedition as we speak and I have already taken a significant leave from it.”
“I understand,” Morton replied. “You have your academic pursuits. But when this expedition of yours is at an end I do hope you will drop by my office in London to discuss my offer further.”
He slid a white business card across the table. Lazarus picked it up. It bore the name ‘Morton’ along with an address in Whitehall.
“And of course, this is yours,” Morton continued, sliding an envelope across.
Lazarus peeked inside. Roughly five-hundred pounds in bank bills were nestled within.
“Payment for a job well done,” said Morton.
“But what has been gained by all that occurred?” Lazarus asked. “Apart from the removal of the Boers from their mining claim?”
“Precisely that,” said Morton with a smile. “We may be
at war with the Zulu but the Boers remain a threat. We cannot allow them to gain any advantage over us or we will lose all that we have strived for here. And besides, the coordinates Agent Haggard has provided me with tell us where this great wealth lies, ready to be claimed by the British Empire.”
“I’m not sure the tribe that lives in those parts will fall for a white man’s scheme to take the place of their ancestors away from them again,” said Lazarus.
“Leave that to us. The tribes of the Zimbabwe Plateau are vassals of King Lobengula of the Matabele. Now that the Boers have disgraced themselves in his eyes perhaps he will be more open to British investments in his country. I am sure that some sort of agreement can be arranged.”
Lazarus left the tavern with mixed feelings. He had played his part in a battle that had seen a tyrant overthrown and a sacred place returned to its people, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that it may all have been for nothing. Africa was a continent of infinite treasures and the spears of the tribes that protected them were a poor defense against white man’s greed.
He turned away from the tavern and, with the envelope of bank notes bulging in his breast pocket, went in search of a corral where he might purchase an ox and wagon that would take him back to Great Zimbabwe.
Author’s Note
I hope you have enjoyed this short entry in the chronicles of Lazarus Longman. It is but a prelude to longer and more exciting adventures in an alternate 19th
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