Mbopa bowed, and indicated the Fasimba to left and right, witness to his own king's esteem for his visitors.
Hervey took advantage of his newly exalted status to request that his 'royal guards' (the riflemen) be allowed to accompany them.
'It would be our honour,' Mbopa replied.
The kraal was half a mile and more across, and by Hervey's rapid estimate there were as many huts in its outer circle as there were men in a battalion of the Line – eight hundred at least, ample quarters for two thousand warriors and for all the husbandry necessary to the life of Shaka's headquarters. In turn, these encircled the central cattle-fold and another, lower palisade. At the far end of the kraal, as in the Fasimba ikhanda, were the royal quarters, the isigodlo, hedged around by the thickest thorn. Here was Shaka's ndlunkulu, larger even than the great council hut which stood outside.
As they made their way there, Hervey saw that the warriors' huts were empty. Perhaps he might have expected it (why else would Shaka send the herd boys to the Fasimba kraal to be executed?), for the campaign against Soshangane could not be waged without warriors, and even Shaka's legions were not limitless. He suddenly felt less like a fox among hounds, and more like a cock which enters the pit with a fighting chance.
At the entrance to the isigodlo the guards held up their spears in salute. Hervey told Welsh to form here with his riflemen, and then Mbopa led the rest of the party through the opening in the thorn fence and into one of the smaller huts.
This, beehive-shaped like the others, was a dozen yards in diameter, and well lit by oil lamps. Inside were several of Shaka's serving-girls holding earthen basins, his 'sisters' as he called them (or 'harem lilies' as the warriors, less reverently, knew them). The party washed their hands and then seated themselves on the rush mats in the middle of the clay floor; or rather squatted, for Isaacs had told them that to sit would give offence to their host.
More serving-girls appeared with hollowed gourds of beer, and then others with wooden trenchers and spoons. Bowls of boiled maize were brought, and sweet potatoes, mashes of pumpkins, fermented sorghum, clotted milk. Evidently, whispered Somervile, the mourning hunt, i-hlambo, the washing of spears, was over, even though the warriors were not yet returned.
They ate respectfully.
When the remains of the honoured meal were cleared away, the serving-girls (six of them, festooned with beads which expertly covered their modesty, unlike those at the Fasimba kraal) assembled in line opposite the door, as if waiting on the party's further pleasure.
'Are we to dismiss them, do you suppose?' asked Somervile.
Fairbrother shook his head. 'I think it best to wait for Mbopa to return.'
The serving-girls dropped suddenly to their knees, eyes lowered, anxious.
Shaka's silent presence was so compelling that the party rose as one.
And they were, as one, taken aback, for Shaka stood taller than any man Hervey had seen since coming to the Cape – a towering column of sinew and muscle. Even Somervile was without a word.
It was Mbopa who at length broke silence. 'Baba! Unkosi! Ndabezita! . . . Father, King, Illustrious Sir, these are the men who have come from Um Joji.'
Somervile made a deep bow, deeper than he would have made even to King George, for he did not wish any misunderstanding on so simple a business as the courtesies due to rank. 'May I present Colonel Hervey, chief of my Guards,' he began, in the little Zulu that Isaacs had been able to give him. 'And Captain Fairbrother, his aide-de-camp.'
Shaka remained wholly impassive. Hervey searched his face for something of his character, but saw nothing. The eyes, though large, were no window on what lay within. His features were regular and strong. His cropped hair was flecked with grey, which only increased the impression of hard-willed power. There was no mark or blemish to his skin. He wore a claw necklace and a skirt of leopard tails – nothing more, as if to say that in this simple garb of the warrior was all there was to know of him: no sumptuary was required to proclaim the supremacy of Shaka Zulu!
Mbopa spoke. 'Si-gi-di . . . (He who is equal to a thousand warriors) accepts these cordial greetings, and bids you take your ease before feasting with him this night, when his brothers, whom he has only moments ago received, shall be present also.'
Somervile needed only the briefest words of clarification from Fairbrother before bowing once more, and returning his answer. 'Be pleased to inform He who is equal to a thousand warriors that King George's embassy is honoured to accept.'
Mbopa's interpreter spoke quickly and surely.
But Shaka did not wait on further words, turning instead, and without letting his eyes meet any, leaving with the same air of brooding power.
The serving-girls remained on their knees even when he was gone, as if fearful that the 'Great Crushing Elephant' (one of Shaka's many praise-names) would reappear and find their temerity in rising too quickly an affront, and their lives thus forfeit.
'I think I might have a cheroot,' said Somervile, as if he were at a drawing room, taking out a silver case from his pocket and offering it to the other two.
None of them was certain of the propriety, but they soon filled the hut with tobacco smoke. The serving-girls seemed to find it pleasant, and certainly amusing.
Somervile blew a perfect ring, which rose intact to the roof. 'Finelooking fellow, Shaka. Can't but wonder what he'd make of our own esteemed sovereign.'
Hervey had expected something rather more ambassadorial by way of opinion. He smiled nevertheless. 'We must hope he is not acquainted with the portraitist's art of flattery.' One of Shaka's presents was a print of Sir Thomas Lawrence's portrait of George IV, which Hervey knew, from direct observation at Windsor only six months before, was no longer – if it had ever been – a faithful likeness.
'It would not do for Shaka to be put in mind of his fat halfbrother,' said Fairbrother.
Isaacs had spoken much of Shaka's half-brothers during yesterday's ride – their character and which of them would succeed to the throne. Dingane thought of nothing but women, a milksop; Mhlangana was a fine warrior but no statesman; Mpande was fat and self-indulgent; Ngwadi, Nandi's son by a commoner, was beloved of Shaka, but lived many miles distant, and had a lesser claim on the throne than any. Was there truly no son, a son of which even Shaka might be unaware? To which Isaacs had replied that if there were such an heir, and his name were to become known, his life would soon be at an end, for Shaka had a most unnatural fear of sons, and the inevitable challenge of the young buck. And even if his identity were to escape Shaka's knowledge, he would not long survive Dingane's spears.
Mbopa now returned, and with him a woman of about Hervey's age, tall and severe, though handsome. The serving-girls paid no formal respects, except for their glances, one to another.
'Pampata?' suggested Fairbrother, his voice lowered confidentially (Isaacs had spoken of – warned them of – Shaka's favourite).
They rose.
Unlike the serving-girls, Pampata wore the sidwaba, the longer, hide skirt of the betrothed or married woman, with a necklace of plaited cow-hair and feathers between her high, unsuckled breasts. Her hair, like Shaka's, was cropped, and stood proud. Her eyes were bright, active, intelligent. She spoke in a slow, measured way, lower in pitch than a white woman. Her bearing was one of dignity, if not authority, and at once commanded all attention.
Mbopa's interpreter said that she wished to greet them, and that Shaka, despite saying nothing directly to them, was much pleased by their arrival.
Somervile bowed, saying that he perfectly understood the king's greeting, that it was most gracious of him to leave his ndlunkulu to come to them at this hour, when affairs of state must be pressing (he presumed the visit of the brothers to be such), and that they waited on his pleasure with complete ease.
Pampata turned and spoke to Mbopa in a way that denied them hearing. His face betrayed disquiet. He spoke some words by return, but Pampata was insistent.
He stepped back, gave her a long and sea
rching look, and then withdrew, followed by the interpreter and the serving-girls.
Hervey moved to Somervile's left side, allowing himself a free hand to draw his sabre. Somervile merely smiled encouragingly.
Pampata looked each of them in the eye, searching perhaps a little longer in Fairbrother's, and then addressed Somervile directly. How she knew that any of them would understand, Hervey could not suppose, save perhaps that she had been observing them discreetly.
'Shaka is a great man and a great king,' she began, almost defiantly. 'You are, I know, repelled by the sights of death all about.'
Fairbrother made sure that Somervile and Hervey had understood.
Hervey had, but again he wondered how she knew their minds. Perhaps, though, she too was repelled by the sights of death.
'But let not your unknowing of our ways deceive you: without Shaka there is no nation, and with no nation there is no peace. When Shaka accomplishes his purpose, which will be soon, there will be peace throughout all the land.Without Shaka there will only be war.'
This took longer for Fairbrother to translate, and he was not sure that he did so entirely faithfully, but the essence of it at least was clear – as much by the speaker's inflection.
Somervile felt able to reply, if in a distinctly unpolished mix of Xhosa and Zulu. 'Madam, why do you say "without Shaka"? By what means would the nation be without its king?'
'I do not fear the white man.'
Somervile narrowed his eyes, and looked at her intently. 'I would not have you fear us, madam. Who is it that you do fear?' He glanced at the door to suggest what he meant, his voice lowered.
Pampata stood proud, despite the peril in her words. 'I fear Shaka's brothers. They are not his true brothers but only the sons of his father. And I fear Mbopa. None of this I fear for myself but for Shaka and his people.'
'Why do you speak with such . . .?'He could not find the word, and turned to Fairbrother: 'Urgency?'
Fairbrother looked at Pampata, shaking his head. 'Sheshile?'
She nodded. 'Because the people are tired, they do not understand why they must mourn for Nandi so much, and Shaka's brothers would take advantage of that. Even now, as we speak.'
Somervile realized that here was a course he had not considered. What was His Majesty's interest in such an eventuality as Pampata was suggesting? His India instinct was to see advantage in the overthrow of a ruler who did not wholeheartedly support the Company. 'What do you wish me to do, madam?'
'Shaka sends his guards away, believing himself to be in no danger, as if tempting a hand to move against him, so that he himself might stay it. While his brothers are here he is in the greatest danger. You have warriors enough to protect him from harm.'
Hervey struggled to understand the exchanges, needing Fairbrother's whispered translations, but he caught the essence of what Pampata wanted, and he reeled at the thought of it. 'Somervile, I must counsel—'
His old friend shook his head; he had understood her well, and would have her reveal more. 'Who is Shaka's legitimate heir?' he asked, his voice lowered almost to nothing.
Fairbrother had to try several constructions before he was certain she understood.
Pampata glanced at the entrance, and then turned back to Somervile. 'There is a child, a boy-child,' she replied, almost inaudibly. 'Nandi has called him "Little Bull-Calf".'
'Your child?' whispered Somervile.
She shook her head, seemingly with a most intense disappointment. 'I cannot say more now.'
Somervile nodded. 'But if Shaka will not have his own warriors guard him, he will surely not permit us to?'
'You are here in the ikhanda, already.'
'But—'
Mbopa returned. They fell silent.
He eyed them warily. 'Lady, Si-gi-di, He who is equal to a thousand warriors, commands your presence.'
Hervey wondered how much he had overheard. Did he use that praise-name to warn them that their own little force was ineffectual?
Pampata ignored him for as long as she dare, her eyes on Somervile still, almost beseeching.
Somervile held her gaze for as long as he dared, rapidly turning over in his mind this new intelligence. At length he bowed. 'Madam, we are your servants.'
XVI
THE MOUNTAIN FALLS Next day
'Bugle'Roddis sounded reveille at the first intimations of daybreak, the little darts of sunlight that shot up in the eastern sky like fire-works at a fête.
They had camped a quarter of a mile from the kraal – on favoured ground, said Mbopa. But it was to the west, so that the rising sun was in their eyes. Hervey had not supposed that this was coincidental. Half an hour before reveille, therefore, as the troop and the riflemen quietly stood-to-arms, a dozen of the most trusted dragoons, with Fairbrother, had slipped out in pairs, beyond the pickets, to scout for any Zulu using the shadows and the favourable light to make a stealthy approach.
But as the sun's full face slowly revealed the ground to the watching dragoons and riflemen, Hervey saw not warriors but women and children. They had gathered as spectators, just as the Spanish and Bengali peasants used to gather. A camp of soldiers was a thing of universal fascination.
They might have been decoys, even innocent decoys, to distract them from the manoeuvring of the warriors around the flanks. But it was to detect such manoeuvring that he had sent out Fairbrother and the picked men. Had he truly expected to be attacked? To a soldier the question was pointless: expectation and possibility required the same precautions. But if he had been asked, he would have said 'no'. The threat to Shaka's life, which Pampata had pressed upon them, had proved empty: his brothers had left Dukuza for their own kraals before nightfall, and Shaka himself had walked peaceably abroad, observing his visitors from a distance in the manner of one who was merely intrigued by the appearance of something new. The discipline of the field, however, the stand-to-arms dawn and dusk (which too many of his acquaintance derided as slavishness), was a rule of life as that of any religious.
And he thought of Sister Maria. She would be on her knees at this hour. How he wished he had been able to return and speak with her. She had pointed the way at their convent meeting, but there was so much he would have asked about the twists and turns of the path he knew he must take. Nothing had been resolved, but it had, at least, been a beginning.When he was returned to England he would be able to take up these things again. There had been nothing he could do about Kat; there had been nothing he could do about Kezia – nor Georgiana, nor Elizabeth – but he knew his relief on embarking for the Cape had been almost indecent.
'Leave to stand-down, sir?'
He woke; he had not seen Brereton come to his side, with the captain of the Rifles. He cleared his throat, and made a show of putting his telescope under his arm. 'By all means. General parade at . . . ten.'
It was a generous allowance for breakfast and mustering, but Hervey saw no reason to put on a display any earlier. In any case, they waited on Shaka's word for what would happen next.
Somervile now appeared, looking discomposed. 'My servant did not wake me. Why did not the picket officer?'
Hervey kept his smile to himself. 'My dear Somervile, there was no need of your presence. Your sleep is more valuable to us than your pistol.'
'Yes, yes, that's all very well; but I am quite put out. You must not take these things upon yourself so.'
Hervey frowned. 'If I am not to take the simplest of decisions, how do you expect me to take the important ones? I must, with the very greatest of respect, remind you that I command your escort.'
Somervile looked at him with a combination of dismay and affront.
But Hervey was adamant. 'It simply will not do if you insist on being the soldier. I cannot have the responsibility.'
Somervile shook his head. 'I wished only to see the sun come up on the kraal. I had no intention of usurping your command.'
'Then I will be sure to call you tomorrow.' Hervey knew he traded on their long years' acquaintance, bu
t he was certain of his point: he could not discharge his duty if Somervile were given leave to range.
Private Johnson came up, saluting both of them. 'Would tha like some more tea, sir?' He addressed his remarks to Hervey, who had enjoyed his first at stand-to. 'An' you an' all, Sir Somervile?'
Whether Johnson's incorrect form was intended or not (he could be distinctly perverse in such things), neither Hervey nor his friend thought fit to remark on it. Hot tea was ever worth a breach of etiquette.
A steaming brew of best Bengal filled their canteens.
Hervey's brow furrowed as he drank, in no measure of distaste, rather of mystification.
'Summat up wi'it, sir?'
'Johnson, there's milk in this tea. Where did you get it?'
'From one o' them 'erd boys, last night.'
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