Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Help! I’ve been shot.’

  A man stood with both hands pressed to his head, blood seeping through spread fingers.

  ‘Shit!’ Dallas heard Logan’s loud expletive over the shouts of others. He watched, rooted to the spot as his partner moved to examine the wound. Logan blew a breath of relief from puffed cheeks and said in a voice clear for all to hear, ‘You haven’t been shot, man. Looks like you’ve been hit by the knife.’

  Logan’s words caused a fugitive mirth but it was short-lived. In pendulous mood the crowd swung. They had wanted blood, even been prepared to bet on it. What they’d seen hadn’t been enough, there was no clear winner. The African observers turned away, an air of resignation, or even dissatisfaction, clear in their expressions. What was nothing more to them than a matter of honour had been thwarted by ignorance, something they were learning to live with as their contact with whites increased.

  Those betting on the outcome had a different outlook. Instead of taking a cue from the Zulus, they turned on Dallas.

  ‘Just who do you think you are?’

  ‘I bet good money on this little scrap.’

  ‘Interfering bastard!’

  ‘Where’s me shilling then?’

  ‘This is a setup.’

  ‘What say we take it out of your hide?’

  ‘Give us our money back.’

  ‘Where’s Will?’

  The anger was growing. Dallas, an outsider who dared to interfere, had cost them hard-earned money. In the centre of an outraged phalanx he was the obvious medium for a quid pro quo. Rat-like cunning was essential. The mention of Will gave him an idea. Pointing in the first direction that came to mind, Dallas yelled, ‘There he is. Will’s got your money.’

  Unfortunately, and purely by coincidence, Will was, at that very moment, sidling quietly towards his horse. Dallas had pointed directly to him. The crowd swarmed like African bees and had Will surrounded in seconds.

  With any immediate danger to his person temporarily out of the way, Dallas wanted to see what had become of the two men who had been fighting. He knew both were injured and would require medical attention. ‘Oh, bloody hell’s teeth!’ Will’s driver sat astride Logan’s injured skinner and, ignoring the pain of his own wounded arm, was squeezing his neck with grim enthusiasm. The other’s eyes were bulging as he struggled feebly, banging his heels on the ground and squirming. The Zulu was not about to let go.

  There was no time for finesse. Nor was Dallas in the mood for it. The adrenaline of a few moments earlier had been replaced by frustration and anger. Striding to them and swinging the barrel of his rifle, Dallas belted Will’s man on the side of his head. He was not knocked out but the blow was sufficiently hard for him to lose interest in throttling the Sotho.

  Gripping his skinner by an arm, Logan hauled the man to his feet. Dallas did the same with Will’s driver. Propelling the dazed men in front of them, they shoved and pushed both to where the horses waited.

  ‘Leave this to me,’ Logan gritted.

  ‘Gladly. I’ll see if Will needs a hand.’

  Having retrieved their money from the hapless Yorkshireman most of the crowd were making off, some still muttering under their breaths. Will, a little dishevelled though otherwise unscathed, flinched when he saw the look on Dallas’s face. However, there was still enough bluster in him to complain. ‘What did you go and do that for? I had upwards of ten quid in me hand.’

  Ten quid! What price a man’s life? The thought pushed Dallas’s anger to bubbling point. He grabbed Will’s shirt in both fists and shook him roughly. ‘Give me one good reason not to fire you.’ The words ground out. ‘Just one will do.’

  ‘I didn’t mean no harm. Those boys were going to fight anyways. All I did –’

  ‘You could have stopped them.’ Dallas shoved and Will fell back against his horse.

  ‘Not me,’ Will babbled, shaking his head and pulling at his rucked shirt. ‘You didn’t see them. They was like madmen.’ His look turned sly. ‘Anyways, what’s best? Get it done with now or have trouble on the trip? Those two haven’t finished, not by a long shot. You don’t know the natives like I do. They’ve started something and neither will rest until it’s over. Better sooner than later if you ask me.’

  Despite a near overwhelming desire to pick Will up and hurl him under a passing span of oxen, Dallas realised he spoke some truth. But there was still the matter of taking bets.

  ‘Someone was going to run a book,’ Will went on, reading his thoughts. ‘Why not me?’

  Immoral? Indecent? Not the done thing? Oh Jesus! Dallas was unsure. His idea of principles seemed meaningless in this part of the world, yet he found himself deeply affronted by Will’s actions. Unable to adequately express his feelings in a way that would be understood by the little trader, Dallas sought rationale through authority. ‘If they wish to kill each other I can’t stop them. If you choose to run a book on the outcome, I can’t stop that either. But by God, sir, you will not do it while in my pay. There is no place on this team for ill will. If your boys start trouble I expect you to stop it. Fail and you are no use to me. This is the only warning you’ll get. Do I make myself understood?’

  Will nodded. ‘Are you going to tell him that?’ He jerked a thumb towards Logan.

  ‘I think you’ll find, if you last that long, that my feelings on this matter will be clear to everyone before the hour is out. There is no need to trouble yourself with thoughts of favouritism. Now, do we have all that is needed for fetching the oxen?’

  ‘I think so.’ Will was taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

  ‘Well, do we or don’t we?’

  ‘I’ll check.’ Will’s expression was guilty.

  ‘Can you control your driver?’

  ‘Yes.’ Will looked sullen.

  ‘Good. See to his arm and make sure we have enough medicine to treat him until it heals. And when you have done that, please explain to your men the rules of this expedition. They are to be left in no doubt that my word is law and at the first sign of trouble, not only do they lose their jobs but you lose yours as well. Any questions?’

  Will shook his head.

  ‘Then kindly get to it.’

  Dallas turned and let out a slow breath. Now for Mr Burton.

  Logan was letting rip in Zulu and cuffing heads none too gently. Will walked past, snapping his fingers, and his driver and two others trotted after him. Dallas watched briefly, hoping the man had taken his threat seriously. He addressed Logan. ‘Tell your men we leave today. If your skinner is badly hurt he’ll have to stay behind. That decision is between you and him. If he comes with us make sure his wound is kept clean. It will be your responsibility to tend him.’

  Surprised by the tone but making no comment, Logan spoke briefly to his Africans before turning back to Dallas. ‘That was one hell of a shot. Was it a fluke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Because I’ve told my boys that if there’s any more fighting you’ll shoot their cods off just as easily as that finger. Talk about being shit-scared of you. What with your face looking the way it does and now this, they’re saying you are a man who never walks from trouble. You’ve certainly got their respect, old boy, you’ll have a praise name before you know it.’

  Dallas had no idea what Logan was talking about and in no mood to ask. ‘Terrific!’

  ‘They also think you’re bewitched.’

  Dallas got down to the point he wished to make. ‘I’ve straightened things out with Will, so now it’s your turn. If you don’t like it, feel free to leave.’ He treated the man to ninety seconds of ire.

  To his surprise, Logan took it on the chin. ‘Fair enough,’ he said when Dallas fell silent. ‘So long as you mean it.’

  ‘Every word.’

  Dallas had assumed that their oxen would be young and male. For a start, they were larger and stronger than females. Pregnant cows and newborn calves would not, he believed, be a good idea on such an arduous trip.

  For
once in accord, Logan and Will had different reasons for including cows.

  ‘We can trade any calves for ivory,’ Will said.

  ‘Won’t need to,’ Logan countered.

  ‘Then why take females?’ Dallas asked. ‘Surely it’s better to have castrated bulls?’

  ‘And when they die, as some will? Or are stolen? What then?’

  Will added, ‘We trade some things for native cattle but they are wild. No good for working as a team. Logan’s right. It’s best to have back-up.’

  ‘Calves born will be too young,’ Dallas protested.

  ‘Yoke them behind their mothers and you’d be surprised how well they work,’ Logan persisted. ‘Isn’t that right, Will?’

  ‘Yes.’ Will sounded doubtful. ‘Their main use, though, is for trade.’

  A squabble erupted but, since each man saw the sense of what the other was saying, soon petered out.

  ‘Do others take cows?’ Dallas asked.

  ‘Some do, some don’t.’

  It wasn’t much of an answer, but with no experience behind him, Dallas had to accept his two partners’ advice.

  Although they’d been unable to buy as many oxen as Will insisted would be needed, seventy-six looked a formidable number as the herd boys brought them together. The Africans had identified three that might prove troublesome but, by and large, all were obedient and easy to move. Dallas was impressed by the calm confidence and soft words the Zulus used in their handling of the animals. Logan saw his appreciation and explained the ritual significance of cattle.

  ‘They’re not just meat and milk, old chap. A man’s wealth is measured by the number of cattle he owns. He pays debts with them, trades for wives, swaps some for favours. Sure, they have practical applications – clothing, body decorations, shields, that sort of thing – but there’s an even greater value than any economic considerations. The Zulus believe that cattle are their link with ancestors. At all important tribal ceremonies when ancestral blessings are sought, a beast is always sacrificed. It’s one of the ways they make contact with the spirits.’

  As Logan spoke, Dallas watched the men working the oxen with renewed interest. It wasn’t just experience the Africans used. There was respect too. And the cattle responded to it.

  ‘It’s only the men,’ Logan went on. ‘There are all kinds of taboos preventing women from having anything to do with cattle. For example, they believe that should a woman go near the herd when it’s her time of the month cows will suffer a loss of milk, become sick and even die. If you ever see a woman in the cattle kraal, chances are she’ll be quite old and probably the most important female of that family.’

  ‘Kraal?’ Dallas queried.

  Logan raised his eyebrows. ‘Sorry. You make me realise how much I take for granted. Zulu families live together within a circular stockade. It’s called a kraal. Inside that is another circle where cattle are kept for the night.’

  ‘The cattle kraal?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Will rode up to them. ‘What did I tell you? Aren’t they beauties? Strong and healthy. The boys are already naming them.’

  At a questioning look from Dallas, Logan explained. ‘Nothing fanciful about it. Translated, you’d find the names describe a particular feature, like colour or horn shape. It’s how the Zulus identify their cattle. If the boys are naming this lot it means they are prepared to look after them as their own.’

  ‘Not like personal possessions, I hope.’ Dallas had visions of his oxen mysteriously disappearing.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Logan assured him with a laugh. ‘That’s another taboo. They wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘What’s to stop them?’

  ‘The old spoor-law. Where the tracks of stolen cattle stop, so too does the life of whoever lives there. Cattle theft is punishable by death and Zulus take the crime seriously. If your cattle went missing, these boys would turn themselves inside out to find them, if for no other reason than to prove their own innocence.’

  ‘But you said the oxen could be stolen.’

  ‘Not by our boys, they’re responsible for them. There’s nothing to stop others, though. It’s a way of life for these people. A crime it might be, but if they think they’ll get away with it, they’ll try.’

  Dallas couldn’t understand how relaxed Logan was over what could be a catastrophe.

  The older man saw his confusion and laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Zulus don’t usually steal from other Zulus. If we leave their territory, that’s when we have to be careful. Other tribes are not bound by Zulu laws.’

  Dallas had to accept the flimsy explanation but he didn’t like it much. The pitfalls for the inexperienced that Will had spoken of were more serious than he had imagined.

  Will rode on ahead to open the gate of a holding pen at the back of Cato’s store. The oxen walked sedately through as if they’d been doing it all their lives.

  With the cattle secure, spare horses in an enclosure nearby and the wagons waiting outside Cato’s, all that remained to do was buy supplies and stock up on goods they could trade. Here, Will came into his own, even Logan being content to let him take charge. There was only one slight altercation over how many bags of coffee they’d need – Will said one, Logan wanted three and Dallas decided to split the difference.

  Leaving Will haggling over the price of beads, Logan and Dallas went outside to evaluate the ever-present throng of Africans in search of work. Dallas needed a driver and two others. ‘It’s important that you get a more senior man for the wagon because he’ll be in charge,’ Logan advised as they approached a group of maybe forty men.

  ‘Will any of them speak English?’ Dallas asked, beginning to feel frustrated by being at someone else’s mercy in order to communicate.

  ‘Not many.’ Logan called out in Zulu and three men stepped forward.

  ‘They claim to. Try them out.’

  All three had crouched and were looking up at Dallas with unreadable expressions. He sensed that the next few seconds were critical, his authority judged by words and actions, a first impression which, once formed, nothing he could do would change. An empty effort to impress was not going to work. The lack of interest on their faces was in contrast to an evident tension in each motionless body. They reminded Dallas of a theatre audience – quick to show contempt if an actor let them down.

  ‘I need an experienced wagon driver.’ When in doubt, state your case and be done with it. Dallas had learned a thing or two watching his father deal with tenant farmers on their estates in Scotland.

  One of the men smiled. ‘Yebo.’

  Another thumped his chest with a clenched fist and announced, ‘Jesus.’

  The third clapped his hands together softly as if drawing attention to himself. ‘I can drive.’

  ‘We will be away for three to six months.’

  Yebo repeated himself. ‘Yebo.’

  Jesus grinned, revealing teeth like old headstones.

  The one who said he could drive nodded. ‘I am ready.’

  It was no contest really. Yebo might have some knowledge of English but it was scant. Jesus had none. Besides, the third was well presented while the other two were ragged and none too clean.

  Dallas turned to him. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Mister David, master.’

  The other two were given one last chance. ‘Your names, please.’

  Blank stares met his request.

  Dallas drew Logan to one side. ‘I’d say it was obvious. What do you think?’

  Logan looked resigned. ‘If you insist.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He sounds mission educated.’

  ‘Surely that’s better than the alternatives?’

  ‘Not necessarily. They’re often resented by the others. Look, I understand why you want him – you haven’t much option, really – just as long as you know they can cause trouble.’

  ‘I’ll have to take that chance. There’s no point employing someone if we don’
t understand each other. The other two don’t seem to speak English at all, despite any claims to the contrary.’

  ‘I agree, but you’ll have to learn some Zulu pretty damned fast.’

  ‘I will. In the meantime, I’ll take Mister David. At least I know he can drive. Lord knows if the others can.’

  ‘Ask them.’

  ‘You speak the language. Would you do it for me?’

  ‘You’re employing them. They expect to be questioned by you. If you leave it to me, they’ll think I’m in charge and you’ll have the devil’s own job getting them to obey you.’ Logan glanced over at the three squatting Africans. ‘Whichever one you choose, don’t take the others. Let your man select the rest.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Two reasons. Discipline.’

  Dallas waited but Logan had finished. ‘That’s one.’

  ‘Two, actually. The natives know you pick a boss boy first. Those three put themselves forward for the job. The man you decide on would have his work cut out telling the others what to do since they consider themselves as equals. Secondly, your head boy will pick men he can control, not necessarily those with experience. That’s the way it works. Some of the best boys are those who only know how to take orders. It’s a hierarchy system and very efficient.’ Logan waved to someone walking past then went on. ‘Pick your head man wisely and you’ll have a smooth-running expedition. Choose a wrong’ un and you’ll have nothing but grief for the entire trip.’

  ‘Well, who would you take?’

  ‘In your position I’d take my chances with Mister David. If he’s no good you can always get rid of him.’

  That was what Dallas had already decided for himself. He went back to the three waiting men. ‘Mister David, your English is very good.’

  ‘Thank you, master.’

  ‘Where did you learn it?’

  ‘At the mission, master.’

  Dallas heard Logan mutter, ‘Sweet Jesus, I thought so. That’s all we need.’ The African must have heard too but showed no sign of having done so.