by John Wilcox
Then he stiffened. Across the flickering firelight he observed Jenkins, almost directly opposite him. At least, it was Nandi who caught his attention first. She had taken Jenkins’s right arm in her left hand and the wrist of the young Zulu on her right in her other. Her face was animated and she was talking quickly to Jenkins while seemingly straining to keep her companions’ hands from reaching across her. But neither Jenkins nor the Zulu was looking at Nandi. They glared across her, in confrontation, their faces contorted with expressions of mutual antagonism. As he watched, Simon saw Jenkins snatch his hand free and grab the necklace of wooden beads around the Zulu’s throat. It snapped, and with a roar that caught everyone’s attention, the Zulu sprang to his feet and smashed his beer gourd on to the glistening black head of Jenkins.
Simon scrambled upright, but not before Dunn had rushed across the circle and pulled the Zulu back from the Welshman, who, on hands and knees, was desperately trying to stand. As Dunn stood before the young warrior, addressing him sternly, Simon hauled Jenkins to his feet. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he hissed. The beer on the Welshman’s breath hit him like an odorous wall.
‘Look you, bach’ - Jenkins’s Welshness had, it seemed, increased in proportion to the beer he had drunk - ‘this black bastard has been layin’ hands on Nandi, see. She didn’t like it and neither did I. An’ I’m not ’avin’ it.’
‘Please, Simon,’ Nandi looked at him imploringly, ‘it was nothing. Nkumo here,’ she nodded at the Zulu, who was speaking fast and low to Dunn, ‘is a friend of my brother, James. It was nothing. He has had a little too much beer, that’s all.’ She glanced across at Jenkins. ‘I think they both have.’
Simon was aware that the entire gathering had now fallen silent and was watching events with mute interest. He sensed, however, an antagonism towards Jenkins, the white foreigner. Most eyes were on the Welshman and there were more scowls than smiles.
Dunn left the Zulu and turned to Simon. ‘Look,’ he said, with anger in his voice, ‘this is serious. This man says that Jenkins was pawing my daughter and that he tried to stop him. He says that he has been insulted by the white man.’
‘Rubbish, Mr Dunn, sir.’ The slight slur had now left Jenkins’s speech, and the glazed look had gone from his eyes. His head was now thrust forward, and although he spoke to Dunn, his eyes never left the Zulu’s face. ‘This boyo did the pawin’ and now ’e’s doin’ the lyin’, like. ’E ’ad ’is ’and on your daughter’s knee, see - an’ not on the outside but on the inside.
Now that wasn’t bein’ respectful, so I told ’im to lay off. He didn’t, look you, so I gave ’im a slap across the wrist.’ Jenkins narrowed his eyes. ‘It was only gentle, like, but ’e seemed to get a bit upset and ’it me with that bowl thing. Now, sir, that’urt a bit and I don’t take kindly to it - nor ’im tellin’ lies about me, see.’
Before anyone could move, Jenkins took two seemingly unaggressive steps forward and then, coolly and with accuracy, spat into the Zulu’s face. Immediately a growl went up from the Zulus watching. Beginning as an involuntary grunt, it swelled up the register until it ululated like a war cry.
The warrior slowly wiped the saliva from his face, his eyes on Jenkins. Then he spoke quickly to Dunn, turned and left the circle.
Jenkins’s smile lit his face and he turned to Simon and Dunn. ‘There you are, then, gentlemen. That chap ’as no guts. Men who are in the wrong never ’ave no guts, do they?’
John Dunn sighed. ‘I am very much afraid, Mr Jenkins,’ he said, ‘that it will be you who won’t have any guts in a minute.’ He went on as Jenkins tried to interrupt. ‘I mean that literally. He has gone to get his assegai. He won’t get one for you because he will presume that you have one already. By spitting in his face, you’ve just invited him to fight you to the death.’
Jenkins regained his smile. ‘Well, there’s friendly for you, isn’t it? Ah well, I’ll just ’ave to teach the young feller a lesson.’
Simon grabbed Jenkins’s shoulder and swung him round. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Jenkins. I’ll have no fighting here. It could upset everything. You will apologise to that man when he returns. And that’s an order.’
‘For God’s sake, man.’ It was Dunn’s turn to get angry and he thrust his head a few inches from Simon’s face. ‘Don’t you realise that you are not on the parade ground now? You don’t have any soldier boys over the hill waiting to ride to the rescue. You’re in Zululand.’ He gestured to the warriors, who had now approached, forming a loose circle around the three white men. ‘This is their country and their customs. This bloody fool has caused offence and there’s no way an “I-am-very-sorry-I’msure” is going to get him out of it. He’ll have to fight or just be speared on the spot as a coward.’
Simon swallowed hard. The thought of losing Jenkins was frightening. Drunkard or not, he was his friend, mentor and vital companion on this mission. He took Dunn’s arm in appeal. ‘Look. I can’t risk losing Jenkins. He is important to my work. Besides which, he is a good man really and he thought he was protecting Nandi. Can’t you do something?’
Dunn shook his head. ‘Sorry, Fonthill. The fool will have to fight or be killed - probably the same thing in the end, I fear.’ He turned to Jenkins. ‘I’m sorry about this, man, but you’ll have to fight. I’ll get you an assegai.’
‘No thank you.’
‘Don’t be a fool. You’ll not be allowed a rifle and bayonet, even if you have one.’
Jenkins spoke evenly, all trace of drunkenness now gone. ‘I’ve got no bayonet, Mr Dunn sir, which is a pity, because I could have handled this boyo better with one. But I want no’eathen spear - beggin’ your pardon, sir, that is. No, I’ll just’ave to use me ’ands, see.’
‘For God’s sake, 352,’ Simon implored. ‘You can’t fight a spearman with your bare hands. And you can’t fight anyway, dammit. You’re drunk.’
For the first time, Jenkins showed real mirth. ‘Ah, bach sir,’ he said. ‘You don’t really know me, do you?’ He spoke now slowly and with emphasis, as though explaining something complicated to a child. ‘It’s the way for me to fight, see. The drink gets me dander up. Now don’t worry about this black lad. I’ve bin fightin’ since I was three an’ nearly always with me bare ’ands, look you. Lads with bayonets, knives, pickaxes, shovels, hay forks: I’ve fought ’em all. And, see, I’m still ’ere. So don’t you worry. I’ll try not to ’urt this feller too much.’
In despair, Simon turned again to Dunn, but the big man shook his head silently and walked away, his arms held wide, talking in low, urgent tones to the onlookers and making them form a wide circle away from the fire. As they did so, Nkumo entered the ring. He had stripped away the body decorations that he had put on for the feast and wore now only a loincloth, and cow tails hanging from his biceps and calves. He carried his war shield and a short stabbing assegai. He looked in puzzlement at the unarmed figure of Jenkins, who walked over to join him in the ring.
The combatants looked an incongruous mismatch. The Zulu stood about six feet tall and was muscular across the shoulders and in his thighs. He was young - about twenty-one years old - and he wore no isiCoco, of course. But his posture was one of quiet fury and he faced Jenkins with a confidence only slightly confounded by the unusual appearance of his opponent. Jenkins looked somehow shorter in the firelight than his five feet four inches and proportionally squatter and broader. He was wearing his old corduroy breeches tucked into his riding boots, but he had put on, Simon noted sadly, his best cotton shirt for the feast. He stood now facing Nkumo, his body well balanced on legs slightly apart, his weight thrown forward on to the balls of his feet and his arms hanging quite motionless by his sides.
Simon caught a glimpse of Nandi on the edge of the crowd, her eyes wide in apprehension. Next to her was Catherine Dunn, her face quite expressionless. How many times, he wondered, had she seen scenes of this kind of brutality since she had first crossed the Tugela with John Dunn? His reverie was broken by Nkumo speaking to Dunn.
/>
Dunn turned to Jenkins. ‘He says he can’t fight you unless you have an assegai.’
‘I could fight ’im with a straw,’ replied Jenkins, keeping his eyes fixed on the Zulu. ‘But I’ll tell you what, Mr Dunn sir. As I ’aven’t got a spear an’ ’e ’as, like, it might make it a bit more fair if he does without that shield thing. But he can keep his spear.’
Dunn translated and Nkumo frowned for a moment and then threw his shield to one side. He stepped a little closer to Jenkins, who moved not a muscle.
It was clearly disconcerting for the Zulu. From childhood he had been taught to fight, first with sticks and then with assegai, but always against an opponent who was similarly armed. To face a man who had no weapon was unbalancing, somehow, and it was clear that he did not know how to begin the combat. Eventually he held the assegai over his shoulder with a downward, stabbing grasp and made a few passes across and down Jenkins’s face, but narrowly out of range.
The Welshman did not flinch and made no obvious movement to defend himself. Keeping his eyes fixed on those of Nkumo, he almost imperceptibly swayed backwards, making the Zulu’s movements seem perfunctory opening gambits - which, of course, was what they were. The crowd made a low hissing noise and Simon had no idea if they were applauding or showing disapproval. Whatever the motive, it seemed to stimulate the Zulu, who suddenly changed to an underhand grip on the assegai and lunged towards Jenkins, thrusting towards the chest in two lightning feints and then, for real, to the stomach.
With remarkable grace, Jenkins pirouetted on his toes like a matador, moving his arms across his body stiffly, as though holding a cape, but not moving them up in defence. The last, meaningful stab passed his arms by some six inches and Jenkins, as light on his feet as a cat, slipped away out of reach and stood waiting, as before.
A communal gasp rose from the crowd, followed by, this time, an undoubted murmur of approval. Dunn looked across at Simon and drew his eyebrows up in surprised admiration.
Provoked, Nkumo whirled to the attack again in a flurry of stabbing motions. This time the Welshman extended his left hand towards his attacker’s spear, as though to judge its distance, and danced away from the thrusts again, his feet a twinkle of movement in the light from the flames.
‘Well done, 352,’ cried Simon involuntarily and then fell silent, realising that he sounded like a prep-school spectator on the touchline. This was no game. Jenkins was concentrating like fury to stay alive.
The combat had only lasted for a couple of minutes yet both gladiators were perspiring. The young Zulu, his wide eyes showing yellow in the half-light, was glistening all over. Jenkins’s hair, already drenched in beer from the gourd, was plastered to his forehead and the big black moustache had half disappeared as the Welshman sucked it below his lower lip in deep application.
The problem for the Zulu was how to circumvent his opponent’s probing left hand, thrust forward almost like a bargaining counter, to get close enough to stab before the little man danced away. Even so, it was a one-sided contest, for Jenkins could make no aggressive move and it could only be a matter of time before the assegai found flesh.
It did so as Nkumo attacked again, this time feinting towards the body and then deliberately aiming the sharp point towards the extended left arm. Even then, Jenkins’s reactions were almost a match for the thrust. As the spear tip sought his forearm, the back of his fingers deflected it so that it tore along his biceps, sending a spurt of blood along the ground. Jenkins stumbled on to one knee with the force of the thrust, his right hand touching the ground and his bleeding left arm held up, as though in surrender. Quickly Nkumo swung his spear arm back for the fatal jab. As he did so, Jenkins suddenly transformed into the aggressor. Rising from the crouch, he flung a handful of dust into the Zulu’s eyes, momentarily distracting him, and then, ducking inside, delivered a short punch with his good hand into the black man’s stomach. With frightening speed, he head-butted his opponent just below the ribcage and swung a sideways back-handed chop into the Zulu’s throat as his head went back.
With a sigh, Nkumo collapsed completely, thumping on to the sandy ground with a force which left him prostrate and, it seemed, completely unconscious.
Immediately, Jenkins leaped astride the fallen figure and, with his left arm streaming blood, attempted to lift the head as though to deliver one more, mortal blow.
‘No,’ cried Simon, rushing forward. ‘Don’t, Jenkins. Don’t kill him.’
‘Kill ’im be buggered,’ gasped Jenkins, trying to work his injured hand underneath the black head. ‘Quick, help me. Get his head forward and his tongue out. I think he’s swallowed it and he can’t breathe.’ He looked up at Simon and went on, conversationally: ‘They tend to, y’know, when you ’it ’em in the throat. It can kill a chap. That’s it. Get ’old of the tongue and pull it out.’
The little Welshman, kneeling across his victim with sweat pouring down his face, looked across at the crowd. ‘Hey, you silly buggers, can someone bring some water? Or better still, beer. We’ve got to get ’im swallowin’ again. Nandi . . .’
Dunn quickly gave orders and a gourd of beer was brought. Gently, Jenkins lifted Nkumo’s head and began to pour a little of the liquid into the unconscious man’s mouth. The beer spilled down the Zulu’s chin but, almost immediately, he began to gulp and splutter and then opened his eyes. The two erstwhile opponents stared at each other across a distance of about seven inches.
‘There, that’s better, boyo,’ said Jenkins soothingly. ‘Nice old fight, wasn’t it, then? You did very well for a beginner, like. Sorry if I ’ad to ’it you a bit ’ard but I ’ad to end the entertainment because you was gettin’ a bit good at it, see.’ He looked up at Dunn. ‘Is there a drop more of that beer left, then, d’you think? I’m a bit dry.’
Wordlessly, Dunn handed Jenkins another gourd. The Welshman was about to drain it, but he paused, looked up at Simon and then took a couple of gulps before passing the rest to the Zulu, whose head he was still cradling. Nkumo drank quietly, his wide eyes never leaving Jenkins’s face. The Welshman then put his other, good hand around the black man’s shoulders and, with Simon’s help, raised him to his feet. The big Zulu stood for a moment, gulping and swaying and looking around him with a puzzled expression. He spoke a few words to Dunn, who smiled and replied equally tersely.
‘Is he all right?’ asked Simon. ‘What did he say?’
The Natalian nodded. ‘He’s going to live all right,’ he said dryly. ‘He wanted to know where the white man kept his knobkerrie. I told him he had no club. He just used his hands. Nkumo can’t quite work it out, I think . . .’
‘This lad’s trouble,’ interjected Jenkins, anxious to be helpful, ‘was that he didn’t watch me eyes, see. You ’ave to watch the eyes. It gives an idea of what’s goin’ to ’appen next - what a feller’s goin’ to do, like.’
Simon shook his head in resignation. ‘Jenkins, do shut up. I don’t know whether to put you forward for a court martial or for a medal. No. I do know. It has to be a court martial. You were drunk.’ He turned to Dunn. ‘Has any lasting harm been done, do you think?’
Dunn looked around him. The ring of onlookers was breaking up into animated, gossiping groups. No one paid the slightest attention to Nkumo, who stood where he had been raised, feeling his throat and still swaying slightly. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said the big man, pulling his beard. ‘To be honest, I think that that was the best show these fellers have seen for years.’ He turned to the Welshman. ‘So, Mr Jenkins, I reckon that you’ve got away with it this time. But I do recommend that you go easy with our beer and keep your temper under control. You’re quite a battler. But an even-tempered fighter is always better than one who loses his rag. And a sober one is best of all.’
Jenkins opened his mouth to remonstrate but Simon cut in quickly. ‘You are absolutely right, sir.’ He turned to Jenkins. ‘We’d better see to that arm. You’ve got a big job to do in the next few days, although, after what I’ve seen tonight, I
’m damned if I know if you’re up to it.’
For the first time Jenkins looked concerned. ‘Well, I’m sorry, bach sir, if I stepped out of line for a minute there. I ’ad to defend myself, look you, though perhaps I did ’ave a tiddle too much liquor. I’ll make sure it doesn’t ’appen again on this postin’, though. With great respect, though, sir, I don’t think you would ’ave much of a chance with a court-martial charge. See, we was on active service and this black chap was the enemy, wasn’t ’e? Queen’s Regulations say—’
‘To hell with Queen’s Regulations. We’ve got more to think about than that. Come on.’
But Catherine had now materialised with a bowl of water and a cloth, and with a crestfallen and ruefully silent Nandi in attendance. As Nandi held the bowl, her eyes downcast, Mrs Dunn began wiping the blood away from Jenkins’s arm.
‘Very kind, I’m sure, ma’am,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s only a scratch - but ’old on a minute, if you don’t mind.’
He stepped to where a still shaky Nkumo was stooping to retrieve his assegai. ‘Hey, Oomkoomi, feelin’ better then?’ The Zulu half flinched as the Welshman extended his hand. ‘Come on. Let’s shake on it. Like Englishmen do.’ The little man’s teeth flashed from beneath his moustache. ‘Though you’re a Zulu and I’m Welsh.’
The Zulu stood puzzled and motionless, so Jenkins took his hand and shook it vigorously. Then he turned to stand side by side with Nkumo and raised their clasped hands high above his head. Facing the Zulus, who were now drifting back to the fire, he shouted: ‘Hey, fellers. Give a hand to the champion and the gallant loser then, hey?’
