Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  ‘Have you worked as a driver before?’

  ‘Yes, master. For six years I work with Master Leslie.’

  Logan, who had moved closer, whistled and nodded. Clearly, the name meant something to him.

  ‘Why do you no longer work for this master?’ Dallas slipped subconsciously into a vernacular many Europeans used to communicate with Africans. He slowed down his speech, enunciating each word carefully, keeping everything simple. He even heard himself imitating the man’s accent.

  It was Logan who replied. ‘He’s gone missing.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Trader, hunter, explorer. Same as everyone else. One of the best. Hasn’t been seen for a while.’

  Dallas looked back at Mister David. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Tongoland, master.’

  ‘Up near Portuguese territory,’ Logan volunteered.

  ‘Why did you not go with him?’

  ‘I was sick, master. The fever.’

  Dallas threw Logan a questioning look.

  ‘If he’s spent six years with David Leslie, he’s okay,’ Logan responded in an undertone. ‘Provided the fellow’s not lying, of course.’

  Dallas replied as softly, ‘Must know him reasonably well to take on the name Mister David.’

  ‘He’ll be calling himself Mister Dallas within a day if he thinks it will get him anywhere.’

  ‘Master?’ Mister David held a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Master Leslie tell me give this to my new master.’

  It was a reference that praised the African lavishly. Logan read it over Dallas’s shoulder. ‘Looks genuine enough,’ he said. ‘David Leslie obviously thought highly of him.’

  That clinched it as far as Dallas was concerned. ‘Okay. I’ll take him on.’

  ‘First establish what tribe he’s from.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You saw the trouble this morning. That was tribalism at its best.’

  Dallas turned back to a now-standing Mister David. The other two, sensing rejection, had drifted away. ‘Are you a Zulu?’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘Mr Logan is coming with us. His skinner is a Sotho.’

  A wide grin spread over Mister David’s face. ‘No problem for me, master. My father’s sister is a Sotho.’

  Dallas registered Logan’s derisive snort. Although curious to know why, now was not the time to ask. Instead, he informed Mister David that the job was his, outlined expectations and conditions, then added, ‘I need two good boys to come with us.’

  ‘I find them, master.’

  ‘Good. Meet us back here in two hours.’

  Logan interrupted. ‘That he won’t understand.’

  The pleasant look on Mister David’s face didn’t alter. ‘I understand, master.’ He indicated the ground and, with his heel, drew a line in the dirt. ‘The shadow of that tree will be here.’ With that, Mister David ran off to the holding pen where a group of men were admiring Dallas’s oxen.

  ‘Time will tell with that one,’ Logan said darkly as they walked towards Cato’s.

  Dallas made no comment. Time would tell with them all.

  At the store, Will’s bartering and buying spree was going very well. Dallas had Logan go to the blacksmith next door with instructions and a list of supplies. He concentrated on cooking and eating utensils, medical supplies and a more suitable rifle. He would have to take advice on black powder, lead and tin for making bullets.

  The standard list prepared by Cato’s was the result of the shop having kitted out literally hundreds of similar ventures and, as such, extremely comprehensive. It included everything the men would need for their own well-being – two cases of French brandy being considered a basic requirement. In addition, through trial and error, bartering goods were in proportion to their popularity, with tobacco and beads topping the list, followed by coils of copper wire, blankets, umbrellas and bolts of cloth. With few exceptions, Will followed it to the letter and, by three that afternoon, their provisions were ready for loading.

  Spans of eighteen oxen were yoked and hitched to each wagon. Hindsight, in this instance, being both mother and father of prudence, the spare horses wore rope halters and were tethered to the sides. Additional oxen would be driven. Gregarious by nature, they kept bellowing to join their yoked companions. The chance of them wandering from the main party was small.

  The wagons had to be loaded so that each span pulled approximately the same weight, about seven thousand pounds, with essentials such as food, water, cooking pots and bedrolls easily accessible. All three African drivers proved experienced and efficient, each team working independently yet with close cooperation to spread the loads fairly.

  Dallas noticed that Will’s driver and Logan’s skinner, both bandaged yet each working steadily with no outward show of discomfort, took great care to remain as far away from each other as possible. No words, or even eye contact, passed between them. If resentment still simmered, neither allowed it to show. Despite this, Dallas had the uncomfortable feeling that he was watching a volcano in its initial stages of preparing to blow.

  The Africans recruited by Mister David proved to be willing and cheerful. One, a handsomely proud yet fierce-looking fellow, with teeth so perfectly white and square they didn’t seem real, was called July. The other, equally impressive in appearance, had his good looks marred by a walleye. He, if Mister David could be believed, answered to the name Tobacco. The three worked well together and even Logan commented that Dallas seemed to have a good team.

  They were standing back watching the loading. ‘Tobacco! What a name.’

  Logan laughed. ‘He will have chosen it himself. Most natives adopt an English word to use when working with us. I once had a boy called Nostril.’

  ‘Why do they do it?’

  ‘It’s quite normal for them to have more than one. At birth, they are given an igamu. That’s their great name, but usually they pick up a pet name as well. Believe it or not, some even receive what’s called a fancy name, one that is supposed to keep alive the memory of whoever first fancied the word. There are names devised by peer groups – through the various stages of a boy growing up.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘At around five they become herd boys, tending the cattle during the day. They give each other names. When they’re a bit older they learn stick-fighting. That brings another one.’

  ‘So, they’re like nicknames?’

  ‘Sort of. They only get really serious about it when they join their fighting regiment. As a man gets older, provided he’s brave of course, he can also earn a variety of praise names. One of Nostril’s was Ihloboshi-eli vimbe-esangiveni-kwapungula; umakazi-abantwana-ba-ya-kupuma-ngopi-na.’

  The words rolled easily off Logan’s tongue. He grinned at the expression on Dallas’s face. ‘It means “Adder which obstructs the doorway in the village of Phungula; by what way then shall the children go out?”’

  ‘What does all that mean?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea. It was a hell of a lot easier to call him Nostril. Besides, one is never quite sure of the significance in a name. Some can only be used by certain members of the family or by men of the same fighting regiment. You have to be a bit careful, so it’s usually safer to use the one they give you.’

  Will joined them. ‘We should be under way soon. Won’t get far tonight but I know a good place we can set up a camp. Plenty of grass for the horses and cattle. Water, too.’ He looked at Dallas. ‘That’s important. Best to give the stock as much of a head start as possible; country gets rough soon enough. Shelter, too. Storm could come in later. If we protect the team –’

  ‘What the hell are you going on about?’ Logan demanded suddenly.

  ‘Boy’s got to learn,’ Will defended himself.

  Logan bit down on his cigar, shifted it sideways in his mouth and growled, ‘He’ll do that without your help. Probably faster.’ He glanced at Dallas. ‘We outspan, my boy. That’s the word here. “Outspan”. When we pack up and
leave, it’s “inspan”. Got it?’

  ‘I think so,’ Dallas said, grinning. ‘When we come in for the night, we outspan. Go out for the day, we inspan. Simple, really.’

  ‘Told you.’ Will sounded triumphant. ‘You can’t expect him to know these things.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Logan stomped away, unconvinced. ‘The boy’s no fool.’

  Logan and Will had already had a difference of opinion on the best route to take. Logan wanted to get into Zululand quickly, by the coast road. Will argued for inland, saying that way saw few, if any, traders which meant better potential. Neither, because their interests were so diverse, would budge. Dallas could see the sense of travelling a lesser-used route and his decision to take Will’s advice had Logan grumbling at every chance he got.

  ‘There are better resting places along the coast.’

  ‘Good ones inland, too.’

  ‘The going is easier.’

  ‘The rivers might be up.’

  ‘Better feed for the oxen.’

  ‘Sour grass.’

  ‘Your way will take longer.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘To find elephant, man. They’re all up north.’

  ‘Rubbish! I was talking to someone only the other day who said he’d seen herds numbering hundreds on both sides of the river near Umvoti.’

  ‘Pah!’ Logan dismissed the comment. ‘These rumours always fly.’

  Will went on undaunted. ‘The elephants up north are skittish.’

  Dallas could not offer an opinion but he was heartily sick of the constant bickering. ‘We’re going inland.’

  ‘Where there are no tracks and probably no elephants either.’ Logan was determined to make his point. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Will wanted the last word. ‘If we follow the river there’s villages and elephants aplenty. You’ll see.’

  ‘Why take this risk?’ Logan was wavering. ‘Don’t know of anyone who heads for the midlands either to trade or shoot. You’ve heard the stories. Our black brethren up there are none too friendly.’

  ‘Is that what you’re afraid of?’

  ‘Afraid! Me? How dare you, sir.’

  The argument flared again, ranging back and forth until Dallas, exasperated, asked Mister David if they were wasting their time going inland to reach Zululand.

  ‘No, master. There are a lot of villages. Master Green is right, they do not see many traders. Some of the tribes fight each other but you they will welcome.’

  ‘And elephant?’

  ‘The meat is much valued, master. You will be shown where to find them.’

  Dallas was itching to get on the road. Logan and Will continued arguing. After a final check that everything had been securely tied down, Dallas swung onto Tosca’s back and, with his horse prancing in nervous excitement as she sensed they were about to move off, shouted, ‘Let’s go.’

  Mister David smiled widely, flicked his whip and the yoked team, as one, leaned into their harnesses. Straining against the weight they pulled, powerful muscles bunched with effort. Once rolling, all eighteen oxen settled to a leisurely pace as the spoked wheels turned freely on heavily greased axles.

  Dallas brought Tosca alongside. ‘Tell July to help with the cattle.’

  Mister David translated and one of the Zulus dropped back.

  As he rode, Dallas was aware of stares from passers-by. Most men showed envy, others admiration, while a few shook their heads in apparent disapproval, of what he had no idea. Women smiled and waved. Children ran alongside. No-one, it seemed, remained indifferent to the sight of a young man setting off into the wilderness to face whatever danger, hardship or excitement that might come his way. In Scotland Dallas had enjoyed life to the full, but never once had he felt so completely alive as he did now.

  After five minutes a quick check behind confirmed that both Will and Logan had their wagons rolling. Spare cattle, controlled by several men including July, brought up the rear.

  Will saw Dallas looking back, raised his hat and waved it cheerily in acknowledgment. Obviously, the anticipation of adventure had him in fine fettle. Dallas was glad to see the excitement did not diminish with repetition.

  He was too intoxicated by a cocktail of feelings to stay in one place for long. From point, Dallas turned Tosca and rode back at a full gallop, easing only when he reached the last wagon. ‘You’ll wear yourself out at that rate,’ Will warned, though his own eyes were alive with enthusiasm.

  ‘Does it always feel this good?’ Dallas wanted to whoop with joy.

  ‘Aye, at first. Short-lived it is too.’

  Dallas didn’t need to hear anything negative right at that moment and was quickly off again to rejoin Mister David. He had only felt such excitement once before – on his first train journey from Edinburgh to the unknown city of London when he was fourteen. Then, parents were on hand reminding him not to fidget, to sit up straight or adjust his cravat. Now no-one could tell him what to do. This was one expedition where he could do what he damned-well pleased.

  The euphoria waned as they climbed clear of town. It didn’t disappear completely and a sense of well-being remained as Dallas used those first few miles to check equipment, man and beast for signs of weakness. He was well pleased with his inspection.

  At the rear, three Africans easily managed the twenty-two unharnessed oxen. In front of each spanned team, another Zulu walked ready to lend a hand in difficult terrain. The nine spare horses, tethered on short ropes to the wagons, had no option but to follow where they were led. They seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. The loads were well packed, rattled little and barely shifted when the ground became uneven. Pots and gridirons lashed to the rear frame of each wagon swung wildly but did not impede progress. Also slung under the wagons were chicken coops.

  ‘We eat a few and trade the rest,’ Will explained.

  ‘What do they eat?’ Dallas asked.

  ‘Whatever they find. We let them out once we’ve outspanned for the day.’

  He sounded so matter of fact that Dallas didn’t comment on how, in his experience, chickens didn’t take kindly to being rounded up. He’d just have to wait and see.

  An innovation all found extremely convenient was the addition of square canvas bags that hung along each side of the wagons and were packed with day-to-day essentials. This had been Will’s suggestion. Each sling was secured snugly against the timber, allowing hardly any movement.

  The wagons themselves were solid and strong. Dallas had expressed concern over their somewhat basic harnesses but, as Will reassuringly explained, accidents would happen regardless. What they had was the result of much trial and error by explorers and traders who had gone before. Once away from civilisation, irrespective of any modern equipment they started with, the sun and rain would take their toll. Running repairs relied on materials available in the bush. The length of trek chain which held everything together was the only part that would be difficult to replace. Will had taken a long time to choose theirs, examining each in minute detail and rejecting several he thought had weak links. Everything else could be improvised until they reached a town.

  Yokes, fitted at intervals along the chain, were as thick as a curtain pole and about five feet in length. Saplings could easily be substituted for them. Skeis, wooden pegs slipped through holes at either end of every yolk, were used to fasten a reim under the neck of each beast. Replacements could easily be fashioned. The reim itself was made of raw hide, soft to touch yet dried to the strength of rope. They carried an extra four in case some broke before any game was shot for the cooking pot. Once they’d done that, a night-time task would be to make more reims from the animal skins.

  Oxen were yoked together in pairs, the trek chain running between them joining to the düsselboom, a stout pole in front of the wagon and behind the last two beasts. There were no reins with which to steer. In hard-to-negotiate conditions, an African would walk with the yoked oxen guiding them from in front, with a small reim att
ached to the trek chain for that very purpose. At all other times, the driver’s shouting, whistling and liberal use of his whip seemed to be the way it was done.

  For a young man fresh from Britain, inexperienced in trekking, out of his depth in unfamiliar territory, surrounded by dangerous animals and strange inhabitants – both black and white – Dallas felt he was pretty well prepared.

  Under a sky dark with sultry storm clouds, the air was close and clammy as they turned onto the Old Dutch Road. Dallas could smell rain. Gulls wheeled and screeched overhead, a sign that the weather had turned bad out to sea. It certainly looked impressive, as if a massive grey wave was boiling its way inland.

  They’d been travelling for perhaps an hour and a half when Will rode up alongside Dallas. ‘Storm’s coming in fast. Best we outspan for the night and get the oxen settled. We should turn off here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘See those trees? There’s good feed and water.’

  Dallas glanced at the sky. It had turned a threatening purplish black and the wind was getting stronger by the minute. ‘Good idea.’

  Will rode ahead, beckoning the three drivers to follow. They quickly formed a semicircle, sheltering on the open side of an overgrown tangle of wild figs. Even so, the wind picked up and pounced. The horses twitched and fidgeted nervously and oxen bunched together against the windbreak of trees.

  ‘It’s going to dump on us at any minute,’ Logan predicted. He shouted something in Zulu and the Africans ran to stretch tarpaulins over the wagons, pegging each into the ground to prevent them blowing away. Everyone huddled under the canvas, waiting for nature to vent its fury.

  Within minutes the heavens opened. Dallas had never seen a storm like it. The rain came as a solid wall of water whipped in all directions by a wind determined to shred their flimsy cover. Thunder rolled and crashed with barely a break. Low clouds, tumbling and boiling, almost touched the ground as they rolled past, thrown into relief by lightning that danced incessantly across the sky in crazy, skittering patterns of raw power. Trees, weighed down by rain, were flung back and forth, branches whipped to breaking point. Daylight turned to dark in a matter of minutes.