by John Wilcox
‘If what you say is true,’ translated Mapitha, ‘then those who attacked you will be punished. We are not at war with the British people and it is not right that friendly travellers should be attacked. But if you do not speak the truth, then it will not go well for you.’
The King interrupted the old man almost before he had finished his sentence and Mapitha turned to Simon again. ‘The King wishes to know,’ he said, ‘if you have come to Ulundi only to make this complaint or if you have some message for him from your people.’
‘I speak only for myself, sir,’ said Simon. ‘I have lived in your country for several months now and I have grown to like and respect the Zulu people and particularly Jantoni and his family. I know that problems have arisen between your country and mine and I know that Jantoni is at this moment in Durban trying to understand what it is that the British want.’
After translation, one of the inDunas spoke angrily but the King gestured him to be silent and spoke quickly himself.
‘Do you know what the British want, then?’
‘No, Your Majesty. I am not a general or a politician. But I am sure that no one wants war.’ He took another deep breath. ‘Our leaders can sometimes be slow to understand other races. There is a feeling in Natal, I believe, that Your Majesty is anxious that his warriors shall wash their spears, and this is causing these harsh words to be spoken. I hope that the Zulu nation does not want to go to war with the British.’
The King now lumbered to his feet, looking huge in the light from the fire, and began talking in a low and earnest voice, keeping his eyes on Simon’s but being careful to pause so that Mapitha could interpret.
‘The King says that he does not know what power you have in the white man’s land, for you seem very young, but he will talk to you as though you were Somtseu himself. For many years the white Englishman and the Zulu have lived happily side by side. There have been many problems with the Boer Afrikaaner men but very little - except, he says, fly bites - with the English. Now the Redcoats are hitting their shields with their spears and stamping their feet. They are making it difficult for him over this Sihayo business.
‘His people do not want war. It is true that there has been no washing of the spears for many years, but Zulus do not wish to wash their spears in English blood. If the spears are to be washed - and the King will judge that - then it can be done elsewhere. The King says that he has done everything to accommodate his English neighbours. The long dispute in the north over territory that is rightfully his - this dispute he has agreed can be settled by the English Commission that has been meeting for so long. He does not argue. He will accept the ruling when it comes.’
Mapitha was now having difficulty keeping up with the King’s flow of words. ‘However, this King has power in his land just as the Great White English Queen has power in hers. He does not tell the English Queen how to rule her people. So the English should not tell him how to rule his. If the English put their Redcoats into his land, he will eat them up. He has many warriors eager to prove that they are men. There will be great wailing by the women in the English kraals.’
Cetswayo had not raised his voice in delivering this peroration, but his manner had become more agitated towards the end. The assegai was used to emphasise his points, and as he concluded, he stabbed the air with it. The inDunas grunted their approval.
Simon cleared his throat. He had one more card to play.
‘I understand all that His Majesty says and I will do all that I can to represent his point of view when I return to Natal and the Cape. But I beg him to restrain his young warriors. The British Army has modern weapons that give its soldiers far more power than their numbers. I have worked with this army and I have seen what it can do. In building their empire, these soldiers have defeated great nations all over the world. The Zulus—’
He got no further. Mapitha had been translating a phrase or two behind, of course, as Simon spoke, and as he began the warning, the King’s demeanour changed again. His features contorted with anger, he pointed at Simon’s face with the blade of his assegai and shouted a command. Immediately, two warriors seized Simon’s arms and dragged him backwards to the door of the hut. Outside, he was turned and, assegais pricking his ribs, marched down several lanes and eventually pushed down into the interior of one of the beehive huts. No one followed him in, but the hide flap to the entrance was thrown down dismissively, and as he turned, he saw that the gut strings of the flap were being wound round the door post and tied. He was a prisoner.
Simon looked around him. There was little in the interior of the hut: a low, roughly hewn table on which rested two drinking gourds and a plate, an eating knife - short, blunt and useless as a weapon - and a stub of a candle. A couple of sleeping mats hung from the central pole, as did a long shawl made of dyed wool, obviously to be used as a night blanket. He draped it around him. It covered him almost completely and in the dark, maybe, he could be taken for a Zulu. Except for the boots. In darkness or not, they betrayed him as a European - and he could not walk a mile without them.
Throwing the shawl from him, Simon sat on the floor and tried to concentrate. Would Cetswayo kill him? His mouth dried again as he considered the possibilities. Surely he would have been taken away then and there and speared for offending the King, if death was an option. Or were they waiting for that patrol to return to check his story about the fight in the donga? Or would they keep him as some sort of hostage or bargaining tool if Dunn’s intervention in Durban failed? He put his head in his hands. Either way, his gamble had clearly failed - and yet what else could he have done?
He beat the ground slowly in frustration. Then, on hands and knees, he crawled to the wall of the hut at the point furthest away from the entrance and tested its resilience. The young saplings had been interwoven with grass thatching and the wall yielded easily to a little pressure. With the knife, he experimented and found that, despite its lack of edge, it could be used perhaps to cut a low opening. But what then? Even if he escaped from Ulundi, his chances of walking across the country without being discovered were slim. His only viable option was to wait until John Dunn returned and intervened with the King. If he did not - and now Simon put his head back and clenched his fists - he would not go readily to the executioner. He would fight like hell!
Chapter 11
The days settled into a pattern of boredom and discomfort. He was not allowed to leave the hut except for visits to the sanitation pit nearby. There appeared to be a guard permanently stationed outside the entrance, even at night. There was no fire and the nights were cold, so that he was glad of the shawl as well as his own blanket. He had been allowed his saddle pack but not, of course, his rifle. The days crawled by and the monotony was hard to bear. Twice he unthreaded the tent flap and demanded, ‘Jantoni,’ and then, ‘Mapitha,’ of the guard outside, but the only response was to have an assegai put to his throat. Thinking through his conversation with the King, Simon realised that he had caused offence by seeming to threaten Cetswayo with talk of the efficiency of the British Army. Damn! He had overplayed his hand and committed an act of lèsemajesté , and been thrown into captivity as a result. But for how long?
Simon carefully husbanded the little dried meat and remnants of fruit that Nandi had provided. For the first two days they helped to vary the diet of bread, mealies and milk that was brought to him three times a day, but they were soon consumed. After the third day, he began marking the passage of the days on to the central pole with the old knife he had been given. As the days passed the threat of execution began to recede. The patrol with whom he had clashed must have reported back to the King or his council by now, so his story must have been believed, but his solitude remained unbroken. His thoughts, however, were free and they soared beyond the beehive hut. He recalled his home in Brecon and his parents with a tenderness that, hitherto, had been alien to him. He attempted once again to conjure up Alice’s features, but the vision that danced before him was of dark skin, not fair, of black eyes, n
ot grey. Questions about Jenkins pressed in on him: had he been kept in Cape Town by Lamb, or - terrible thought - had he attempted to make his way back to Dunn’s kraal and met one of those spear-happy patrols?
In the days and weeks that followed he was completely ignored. He had decided that flight was better than this soul-numbing captivity when there came a life-saving break.
Simon was kneeling on his sleeping mat practising his Zulu clicks and clucks - it was a link, however remote, with Nandi - when he heard the distinctive tread of boots outside the hut. Then came a voice as welcome as it was unmistakable. ‘What, in ’ere, then?’ And crawling through the hole came a thick thatch of black hair followed by a moustache that was now badly in need of a trim.
‘Jenkins!’ he cried.
‘Good God, is it you then, bach sir? Goodness, that beard don’t suit you much.’
The two men embraced without reservation and then, somewhat shamefacedly, solemnly shook hands. They sat on the mat, grinning at each other.
‘Who’s goin’ to start, then?’
‘I think you should. You will have more to tell than I.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I suppose you ’ave bin a bit anxious like.’
Simon nodded. Jenkins settled back on the second mat and began his story. He and the boys had driven the cattle to the Lower Drift at the Tugela without incident and had ferried the beasts across, with the help of the naval brigade who were stationed there. Then they moved the cattle on to Durban where, eventually, Jenkins found a provisioning captain who took them.
‘Mind you,’ he said, grinning at the memory, ‘ ’e wasn’t anxious to. Oh, he wanted the best all right. They was good stock, I could tell that, an’ this young captain, look you, was’avin’ trouble f indin’ meat for the army what was buildin’ up out there - more about that in a minute. But ’e didn’t ’ave no authority, see, to buy at that price. Oh, bach sir, ’e was a little man who was frightened of ’is own shadow.’ Jenkins shook his head reflectively. ‘Anyway, I waved the letter you gave me, throwin’ in Colonel Lamb’s name all the time, an’ ’e agreed to’old on to the cattle till I got to the Colonel in the Cape and ’e could telegraph authority, like.’
Jenkins’s moustache twitched and he looked round the gloom of the hut. ‘No beer in ’ere, then, is there, sir?’
‘Sorry, no. We get a gourd of milk at midday - at least, I do. But do go on. Did you get to see Lamb?’
‘All in good time, bach sir. Well, I catches the packet to the Cape from Durban.’ Jenkins’s eyes rolled. ‘What a voyage that was! Them waves was as ’igh as—’
‘Oh, I don’t want to know about the damned weather. Get on.’
‘Well, with respect, sir, you do, because I was so ill that they threw me off the boat at a little place called Port Elizabeth and I ’ad to wait another four days to pick up another boat.’ Jenkins’s face beamed. ‘But you’ll be glad to ’ear that the weather was much better for the second bit and I eventually reports to headquarters in Cape Town. I’m treated with a great deal of suspicion - me, dressed like this, see, askin’ to see the Colonel Chief of Staff. An’ I wouldn’t tell ’em who I was, except that I’ad come from Zululand and ’ad a special message for the Colonel. Anyway, I’m waitin’ in a corridor, see, an’ guess who walks up?’
‘Not Colour Sergeant Cole again?’
‘No. Not this time. It was our very own Colonel. Our CO, Mr Bloody Covington, excuse my disrespect, sir. Well, ’e’s goin’ to walk by me, but he stops, stares an’ says, “Don’t I know you?” Then, before I could say anythin’, he says, “You’re Fonthill’s man.” I reckoned ’e wasn’t askin’, he was tellin’, so I didn’t say anythin’, see. So ’e glares at me and shouts, “Speak, man, speak.” So I speaks and says, “The very same, sir.” ’
Jenkins rocked back and chuckled at the memory. ‘So he asked me what I was doin’ there, and I says waiting for the Colonel, and he says why and I says, it’s very confidential, sir, so ’e gets very, very angry, so I ’ave to tell ’im that I’ve got a message, look you, from you to the Colonel, an’ he says, let me’ave it, and I says, no it’s for the Colonel’s eyes only, and ’e shouts, don’t be impertinent, man, give it to me and that’s an order, and I says no, so ’e ’as me arrested then and there.’ The little Welshman beamed across at Simon, his great moustache spread across his face.
Simon waited for a moment and then said, ‘You’re not going to sit here and tell me that’s as far as it went?’
‘No, but I thought it was a good spot to take a breath, see.’ Jenkins, thoroughly enjoying the tension he was creating, looked around the hut. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve still got that little flask thing, ’ave you, bach sir? My mouth’s like the bottom of one of them dongler things.’
‘No, I haven’t. If you remember, I gave it to the King.’
‘Ah, so you did. So you did.’ He wiped his mouth sadly. ‘Anyway, so I’m thrown into the guardhouse for three days, no less. An’ I’m not brought up on a charge, mind you, durin’ this time, which, accordin’ to Queen’s Regulations, is quite out of order.’
‘Yes, yes. Do get on with it.’
‘Right. All the time these orderly officers - obviously under instructions from the CO - are tryin’ to wheedle your letter out of me, but I won’t let ’em. Now,’ Jenkins swayed forward in emphasis, ‘it’s obvious that they can’t keep me in the jug and bottle for ever without chargin’ me, so eventually I’m hauled up before Colonel Covington and charged with disobeying an order and bein’ impertinent to an officer.’
‘Oh no.’ Simon put his hand to his head. ‘Are you telling me that Colonel Lamb never received my message?’
‘Now, bach sir, you’re gettin’ very impatient.’ Jenkins leaned across and tapped his companion’s boot reprovingly. ‘It seems to me that we shall probably ’ave quite a bit of time on our’ands ’ere, isn’t it, so you can ’ear me out properly now.’
‘Sorry, my lord. Do take your time.’
‘Very good, then. So there I am, standin’ in front of this firin’ squad, so to speak, an’ I’m gettin’ a bit annoyed, see. I mean, I don’t mind bein’ busted for drinkin’ an’ fightin’ an’ all that, but ’ere I was doin’ my duty, see. So I says, “I’m within my rights in demandin’ to see the superior officer who I’ve got a confidential message for.” An’ I quote the proper passage from Queen’s Regulations, see.’ Jenkins chuckled again at the memory. ‘Well, the Adjutant is sittin’ next to the CO, an’ ’e leans across an’ whispers somethin’ in ’is ear. The Colonel doesn’t like it, look you, but ’e ’as to accept it because the old Adj knows the Queen’s Regulations like I do, see. So that’s ’ow I got to see Colonel Lamb,’ Jenkins finished triumphantly, his button eyes glowing, his air that of a master raconteur waiting for applause.
Simon nodded his head slowly. ‘Very good, Jenkins,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s see. You manage to get thrown off the boat at Port Elizabeth and lose four days there, then you are insubordinate to our CO and get thrown into the guardhouse and lose another three or four days - all before you get to deliver the letter to Colonel Lamb.’
Jenkins’s eyes widened in innocence. ‘None of my doin’, sir, was it?’
‘All right. You gave Colonel Lamb the letter?’
‘Oh yes, sir. ’E read it with great interest. You needn’t ’ave worried about him not gettin’ the code, like, ’cos ’e understood that right away. ’E asked me a lot of questions about what we’d done, where we’d been and so on - ’e was particularly impressed that we’d seen the King - and ’e made a lot of notes. Course, I ’ad to tell ’im why I’d been ’eld up gettin’ to ’im, see, and I could tell ’e didn’t like that one little bit. ’E made a note or two about that, too. There’s one other thing ’e didn’t think much of, I’m afraid, bach sir.’
‘What was that?’
‘The price old Dunn made ’im pay for the cattle.’ Jenkins grinned. ‘Gave ’im a bit of a shock, I’m thinkin’. Still, they was
good meat an’ I told ’im so. Anyway, the Colonel finished up as good as gold. ’E told me ’e was Welsh ’imself and that we’d done a good job. ’E allowed that the charges against me would be dropped and reminded me to say that if either of us got into what ’e called “further misunderstandings with the army” we was still seconded to his staff until further orders.’
Simon threw back his head in exasperation. ‘Yes, but what about those further orders? Did he give you any?’
With mock annoyance, the Welshman clicked his fingers. ‘Ah, I knew I’d forgotten somethin’.’ He slipped off his jacket. ‘They took my knife. ’Ave you got one?’
Impatiently, Simon threw him the kitchen knife and Jenkins hacked away at the lining of his jacket until, with a careful look at the hut entrance, he produced a letter and handed it to Simon. It was addressed to ‘Simon Fonthill Esquire’, and on uncrested paper, from an address in central Cape Town headed ‘George Lamb & Son, Cattle Dealers’, the letter ran:
Dear Mr Fonthill,
I have received your consignment of cattle purchased from Mr Dunn and have today forwarded to Durban a draft in his favour for the sum agreed, which, by the way, I felt was very high. The money has been deposited in Mr Dunn’s bank there.
The information sent to me about the type of cattle available and the possibility of further purchases I have received with interest and gratitude. It will have a bearing on our further business plans. I doubt, however, whether we shall be making further purchases in the near future. Although any further news about availability and the vendor’s inclinations towards selling would be valuable, I would suggest that your buying mission in Zululand is complete. I would further suggest that you return, with your associate, to Cape Town as soon as is convenient.
I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
