by John Wilcox
‘It doesn’t matter about the names. These three range in age from about forty-three to forty-five; one, the inDluyenge, has men of about twenty-eight; another, the inGobamakhosi, has younger men, aged twenty-four. There are about ten thousand men in this corps.’
‘Where is this corps?’
‘It is kept in a special military kraal, near Ulundi. But many of the older men are allowed to live in their home kraals with their wives.’
‘And where are the older regiments - those that are in military kraals, that is?’
‘They are scattered about the country. Some are in the north, facing the Boers across in the Transvaal and the Orange country; some are in the south, guarding the Tugela.’
‘Are they armed? I mean, do they have firearms?’
Nandi laughed. ‘Oh, yes, some of them. The Zulus are very proud of their guns, those that have them. But Papa says that they could not hit an elephant in a hut. The guns are very old and have to be loaded at the end, what do you call them . . .?’
‘Muzzle loaders.’
‘Yes. They are very inaccurate and there is not much ammunition for them. The warriors know this really and prefer to fight with their spears and their knobkerries. But they are still very proud of their guns.’
Simon picked up a pebble and threw it into the stream. They watched as it sank out of sight in the green water. Somewhere on the other bank the ha-de-ha bird gave its eponymous cry. It was incongruous - no, it was downright ludicrous - to be sitting in this idyllic place talking of war with a young woman who had skin the colour of drinking chocolate and breasts like . . . Simon frowned and tried to concentrate.
‘How quickly can they be deployed?’ he asked.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Sorry. How quickly could each of these regiments go into battle?’
‘Ah. Before going to war, they would all go to the King’s kraal to be treated by the witch doctors to give them strength and protection in battle. It would take perhaps a day for the ceremony, then they would be ready to go wherever they were wanted. But, oh, Simon,’ her eyes were big in emphasis again, ‘how they can move! An impi can cover thirty to forty miles in a day and then fight a battle.’
Simon smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. I can well imagine that.’
‘So you see,’ continued Nandi, ‘it does not matter very much where they are in Zululand because they can move very quickly to launch an attack or make a defence.’
‘Nandi,’ said Simon, ‘you have a remarkable grasp of strategic necessities. Are you sure that you are not a Zulu inDuna in disguise?’
‘Oh no.’ And then she smiled, seeing the joke, although clearly a little embarrassed, both by being teased and by the unwomanly nature of her accomplishment. ‘It is just that,’ she shrugged, ‘I have to know the size of the regiments and where they are so that we can send the cattle there.’
‘Last question,’ said Simon, ‘because I don’t think my brain can take in any more. Once the warriors are committed to battle, is there any way of knowing which regiment is which - or, at least, which are the experienced men and which the young ones?’
‘Yes, there is. This is shown by the shield colours. The very youngest warriors have all-black shields and white is added as the men gain experience. Red shields show married or mixed regiments, but the whiter the shield, the more senior and more experienced the soldier.’
Simon nodded slowly. ‘Thank you very much, Nandi.’ He leaned forward quickly and kissed her, in brotherly fashion, on both cheeks. Immediately, Nandi snaked her arms around his neck and pulled him close, but he firmly disentangled himself. ‘Nandi,’ he said, looking closely into her eyes, ‘I have a lot to think about and I think we should get back. And, much as I like you, I think it would be unfair to your father if I were to . . .’ He tailed away awkwardly. ‘I am his guest here and there are rules about this sort of thing. At least there are back in England.’
The girl pouted petulantly for a moment and then gave her wide, forgiving smile. ‘Of course, Simon. We should go now.’ Then the archness came back. ‘But you must learn Zulu. You told my father that it was necessary. And I said that I would teach you, so I am your schoolmistress.’ She threw her head back and laughed, much more melodiously than the ha-de-ha bird and so infectiously that Simon joined in, so that they sat for a moment by that green pool, hand in hand, and laughing at the blue sky together.
On their return, Simon excused himself and went to his room. Neither Jenkins and James or Dunn were back, and he was glad of that because he wanted to think.
He had to take the risk of committing Nandi’s information to paper. An oral message could so easily be distorted by the time it reached Colonel Lamb. Somehow he would have to smuggle a written report back to Durban, for onward transmission to the Cape. But how? And could he remember all Nandi had told him? The names of the regiments were impossible but the overall content of the message was clear. The Zulus had around 50,000 men available, nearly twice as many as suspected by the British; their army was structured on a basis similar to that of European forces, with regiments and corps; it was stationed to cover the invasion routes into the country, with strong support which could be deployed quickly; and the shield marking system would show in battle where the main points of inexperience - and therefore weakness - lay. He could not return with this information himself, because he still lacked the main nugget he needed: how likely Cetswayo was to resist the British demand for annexation.
Nandi could not help here. And goodness knows, she had been helpful enough already! The sequence of his thoughts brought him to his own role. He put his head in his hands and stared hard at the floor. He had misled the girl, there was no doubt about that. Did he really believe that giving information to the army about the enemy’s size and deployment would reduce the chance of invasion by the British? Well, perhaps up to a point, but no further. After all, the main reason for his presence in Zululand was to prepare the British so that they could more easily destroy the Zulu army. Simon mused on this for a while then sat up and squared his shoulders. It couldn’t be helped. He was a soldier and he had taken a vow to serve the Queen. The kind of detail that he must now smuggle back to Lamb could save British lives. The feelings of an eighteen-year-old girl could not be taken into account. With a sigh, he threw himself on to the bed and dozed fitfully.
Dunn returned in the middle of the next morning. He rode in at some speed and sent Benjamin to find Simon and Jenkins. They found him sitting on the edge of a cane chair in the large drawing room, sipping from a native-style gourd.
‘Beer?’ he offered as they came in.
As they sipped, he began to speak. ‘I have returned earlier than I expected,’ he said, ‘because I have heard that an inDuna from the King, with a number of warriors, is on his way to see me. They should be here in the late afternoon.’
‘What do they want?’ asked Simon, unable to keep a note of anxiety from his voice.
‘Could be you.’ The bearded face was expressionless. ‘The warriors would be needed as an escort to take you back. But I doubt it. More likely the King wants to know whether I have made up my mind about you yet - whether you are traders or British Army spies.’
‘So you are being forced to make up your mind, then?’ enquired Simon softly.
‘I am and I have.’ Dunn stood up and leaned with one hand on the low mantelshelf. ‘I had hoped to have a few more days to think it all through.’ He smiled. ‘I hate to be rushed on important decisions, but there’s no choice now.’
He seemed bigger than ever as he looked down on them. ‘I am sure that you realise just how compromising your arrival is to me?’ They both nodded. ‘The obvious thing is for me to hand you over to the King and simply tell him that I’m not sure about you. I doubt very much that you would end on the impalement stake. He wouldn’t want to upset the British. No, more likely he’d take you to the Buffalo or Tugela, push you over and tell you never to darken his doorstep again. But, anyway, I am not going to do that.’
&n
bsp; ‘Thank you, Mr Dunn,’ said Simon.
‘Much obliged, I’m sure,’ nodded Jenkins.
‘I am not going to do that for two reasons,’ continued Dunn, as though they had not spoken. ‘Firstly because I can’t afford to upset the Governor, who, after all, has made a direct appeal to me. Secondly, because I am British - although nearer Irish than English, I suppose - and I certainly won’t put people of my own kind into danger. So I shall lie to the King and say that you are traders.’ He sucked on his pipe. ‘Now, this gives me certain problems. The obvious one is that if the King discovers I have been lying to him, I will lose all influence here and probably my land and possessions too. The second is: what do I do about you two?’
The question hung on the air. Simon felt that it would not be opportune to intervene. Dunn had made up his mind on a course of action. Best to hear him out.
Dunn hitched up his trousers, as though he was gathering all his resources to answer the question. ‘If I say you are traders, you have to be seen to trade. So that means you will have to buy some of my stock - at my price, mind you, because I didn’t seek to trade - and drive the cattle back to Natal. But, of course, you are soldiers and have your duty to do, so you will try and gather the information that you were sent here to obtain. Right?’
Simon nodded, thinking guiltily of Nandi.
‘Right. I cannot throw you out to let you roam around the Zulu kraals, camping out, trying to gather that information. You will be picked up in no time and find yourself back in Ulundi, and that will reflect on me. So, you must stay here. But there has to be a time limit - let us say three months. There is one more thing.’ The long, bearded face looked pained. ‘I will lie to the King to protect you, but I will not help you to gather information that could bring about his downfall. I cannot do that to a man who has been so good to me. The Governor must understand that. So you must do your dirty work without my help, although I will provide shelter and food for you. I do not wish to know what you do.’
The concentration demanded by his unaccustomed eloquence had led Dunn to neglect his pipe and he now made a great fuss of relighting it. Simon was not sure that this was the time to intervene, and he laid a warning hand on Jenkins’s knee as the Welshman stirred to speak.
The pipe alight again, Dunn looked over the glowing embers and, for the first time, spoke in a lighter tone. ‘All I can say to you is this: for God’s sake, don’t get caught! Now, do you accept, for if you don’t you had better clear off now before the inDuna from Ulundi arrives.’
‘There is no question of that, Mr Dunn,’ said Simon, getting to his feet. ‘I understand well your position and we accept your terms.’
Dunn put out his hand and both men shook it in turn.
‘There is one last, small point,’ said Simon, hoping that he was not blushing. ‘We would have less chance of getting into trouble if I had at least a rudimentary knowledge of Zulu. Nandi did offer to teach me. Would this, er, be acceptable to you?’
Dunn showed his teeth gripping the stem of his pipe. ‘I have no problem with that,’ he said. ‘I doubt if you taking lessons in Zulu from my daughter will bring this great nation crashing down. Anyway’ - was there a glint in his eye at this point? - ‘I think that Nandi might find it amusing.’
Chapter 8
The Zulu party trotted in about an hour before they were expected and Simon watched them from the window of his room. There were about twenty of them, all carrying assegais and shields, and all - Simon noted with care - with black and white hides, except the inDuna, who wore the isiCoco in his hair and carried an all-white shield. They all looked as though they had been out for a Sunday afternoon stroll.
‘Is it a hanging party, do you think?’ Jenkins had entered silently and observed the Zulus from over Simon’s shoulder, his chin almost resting on it. His breath lay heavily on Simon’s cheek.
‘What the hell have you been drinking, 352?’
‘Only keepin’ young James company in a bowl or two of beer, sir. He’s a nice enough boyo, though he doesn’t say much. I thought I might get him to talk a bit, see, an’ learn somethin’.’
Jenkins had the grace to look uncomfortable at the obvious lie. His eyes were bright - brighter than Simon had seen them before. They glistened like black coals in the gloom of the room. But he held Simon’s gaze steadily enough, even, perhaps, with a touch of truculence.
Simon pulled back from the window. ‘Look,’ he said, taking Jenkins’s arm and turning him around. ‘We’re living on a knife edge here. We are very much on active service even though we are not wearing uniform. There’s to be no drinking beyond the dinner table.’ His grip tightened on the Welshman’s arm. ‘Is that clear?’
A half-smile played around Jenkins’s mouth but it did not reach his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, bach sir. I can hold it, you know. You’ll see.’
The two men stood for a second or two longer, each holding the other’s gaze. Simon noticed for the first time an absence of the friendly jocularity that was never far from the surface in his relationship with his comrade. He remembered Jenkins’s reputation for drinking and then getting into trouble. The sour odour of the Zulu beer hung like a cloud between them.
Simon spoke quietly. ‘It’s not a question of holding it. It’s a question of not taking it at all when we are on duty. Is that understood?’
Slowly, unsmilingly, Jenkins nodded. Then he turned on his heel and left the room. Perturbed, Simon returned to the window and saw John Dunn talking quietly with the inDuna, while the remainder of the Zulu party squatted on their heels. As he watched, Nandi and two other Zulu girls - if they were half-sisters, they lacked her distinctive colour - approached carrying empty gourds and three large pitchers. Smiling and chatting to the warriors, as if with old friends, they dispensed the beer to them.
Later, Dunn came to Simon’s room. He sat on the edge of the bed and smiled reflectively.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve done the dirty deed. I’ve told the inDuna that I am satisfied that you are who you say you are and that I’m prepared to trade with you.’ He pulled out his empty pipe and sucked it. ‘That means we’d better round up some cattle for you to show that this is serious and you had better make some arrangements to get them back to Natal before the King smells a rat. The inDuna will take my message back to Ulundi, but make no mistake about it, the King will be keeping an eye on you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dunn,’ said Simon. ‘I appreciate very much what you have done.’ He thought for a moment. ‘If you will draw up a proper document of transaction for the sale of the cattle, Jenkins can take them back to Natal, if you will be kind enough to lend us some of your youngsters to act as herdsmen.’ He smiled. ‘Jenkins was brought up on a farm, so he should be able to handle cattle.’
Dunn rose to his feet. ‘Very well. I will break out two hundred head for you. They are going to cost the Government five sovereigns each, my boy. There’ll be no haggling. I don’t want to sell, so it has to be my price. Understood?’
Simon shrugged. ‘We are in your hands, Mr Dunn.’
‘Good. Now, we are giving a bit of a feast for our visitors and of course you must join us.’ He gave his resigned half-smile, as though in apology. ‘No champagne tonight, though. We’ll be squatting round the fire and drinking beer. In about half an hour. Right?’
‘Right.’
As Dunn left the room, Simon raised his eyebrows fatalistically and sighed. So now he was in the cattle business! How would Colonel Lamb react to having to pay one thousand of the Queen’s sovereigns for cattle that, no doubt, he did not want? Simon had been in the army long enough to be under no illusion about the fuss this would cause. Better to shoot two hundred Zulus out of hand than to buy two hundred cattle without authority! Oh lord! He put his hand to his head. But there was no way out - and the cattle did provide a genuine excuse for dispatching Jenkins back to Colonel Lamb with the information he had been able to gather so far. He reached for his saddlebag and withdrew paper, pen and - carefully wrapped
and plugged-a horn of ink.
Wrinkling his brow in concentration, he began to write. He decided that, as a last defence in case Jenkins was accosted, he should disguise his message somehow. After explaining the purchase of the cattle and - here he winced as he wrote - the price that had to be paid, he devised a crude method of referring to the size of the Zulu army in terms of cattle numbers and its disposition within Zululand by equating the regiments to cattle herds. The ages of the various army units, and therefore their potency in battle, he linked to the colour of the beasts’ hides, and he explained that these herds could be moved very quickly around the country. He closed by saying that he was still attempting to determine the King’s propensity to sell further cattle - in other words, fight invaders.
He read it through with dissatisfaction. He was sure that Lamb would understand the references - in fact they were probably not obtuse enough to save Jenkins if he was captured and the message read. But the risk had to be taken. He licked the envelope and sealed it down firmly.
The feast for the visiting inDuna and his escort was certainly that. It was clear that Dunn kept a good table whoever the guests were. Two cows had been specially slaughtered and the visiting Zulus sat around in a circle, mingling with Zulus from Dunn’s own kraal, as the meat was roasted on spits. Simon was put on Dunn’s left, while the inDuna sat on the big man’s right. Catherine Dunn sat on Simon’s other side and Jenkins had been placed, Simon noticed with annoyance, next to Nandi across the other side of the gathering. In all, about forty people sat out of doors, talking and drinking beer as the fat fell sizzling and steaming from the meat carcasses on to the flames. The smell was delicious, and although he tried not to drink too much from his beer bowl, Simon felt a warming sense of well-being creep over him. The inDuna displayed no interest in him and mostly exchanged monosyllabic grunts with Dunn, while Catherine, after a few desultory words about sugar growing, was now talking on her left to a middle-aged Zulu from the visiting delegation, who seemed to have some rank. Simon smiled at the incongruity of it all: it was just like a dinner party at home. The pecking order of seniority had been strictly observed, and here he was once again, looking around with affected ease but feeling awkward in reality, because neither of his partners was free at that moment to converse with him. He could have been in Brecon or London.
