‘On our way north we had to have a purification hunt. The Zulus believe that a time of mourning allows evil influences to descend on them. Before a new king is crowned they must protect him and themselves by washing their spears in blood. In the Mhlathuze Valley thousands spread out, forming a ring about five miles across. They closed in, killing everything. After that we continued on to Mtonjaneni to await the northern chiefs. It was here Cetshwayo received the first sign of ancestral blessing. His warriors cornered and killed a lion. This good omen encouraged him to proceed towards the Perfumery.’
At a questioning look from Dallas and Lorna, Dunn explained. ‘The tradition goes back to Shaka’s ancestors. The Perfumery is where kings and their immediate household were anointed with sweet-smelling herbs. During his reign, Mpande rebuilt the place and it has great tribal significance. Anyway, after a few days there we moved on to where the crowning ceremony would take place. It put us on open ground and Cetshwayo’s followers were nervous, especially when a large contingent came into view led by one of the chiefs who aspired to the throne. They formed into battle order about a mile from where we waited. As if that wasn’t enough, two more contenders arrived and we were virtually sandwiched between rival clans.’
‘What happened?’ Lorna asked, fascinated.
‘Cetshwayo remained quite calm. He sent advisers to talk with each of the chiefs.’
‘They must have had a pretty persuasive argument,’ Dallas commented with a grin.
Dunn smiled. ‘The sight of armed Zulus and about two hundred rifle-carrying white men put pepper in it,’ he agreed. ‘The rival parties came in peacefully, though it was still rather tense until Cetshwayo sacrificed some special cattle for his ancestors. After that, no-one could question his right to the throne.’
‘How were the cattle special?’ Lorna wanted to know.
‘They’d been brought from kwaNobamba – the Place of Unity and Strength. It is where the sacred ring of the Zulus is kept. In a secret ceremony the cattle had been washed, imparting spirits from the Zulu nation’s birthplace. By sacrificing them, Cetshwayo symbolically bound together his right to be king and his people’s allegiance. That tied a knot far stronger than any ambitions his rivals might have had. Cetshwayo, in the eyes of the entire Zulu nation, is now king and will remain so until his death.’
Lorna’s eyes were bright with interest. ‘It must be tedious being asked to explain that which you know so well. Thank you.’
John Dunn, whose preference for Zulu women was obvious – he’d taken forty-nine as wives – had fallen under her spell. ‘Not at all, dear lady. It pleases me greatly to see such genuine interest.’
‘Will recognition from Britain come at a price?’ Dallas asked, quietly amused by the lack of Dunn’s usual brusqueness.
‘Most certainly. I hear rumours that they want some aspects of control taken from the chiefs. If Cetshwayo agrees, as he surely will, he’ll meet resistance, possibly outright rebellion. Allow that and the respect of his people will be lost.’
‘What would the chiefs have to give up?’ Will wanted to know.
‘Specifically, the British object to what they regard as indiscriminate killing. The push is for fair trials and the right of an individual to appeal to his king for leniency. They also insist that no life be taken without Cetshwayo’s consent. There’s even talk of a fine system for minor crimes.’
‘Clever but dangerous,’ Dallas remarked. ‘So much for a chief’s authority.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘After all, the power of life and death is a pretty sure way to keep law and order. If that responsibility is Cetshwayo’s alone and he is allied with the British, the king becomes their puppet. Other tribes could rebel against what they perceive as interference with their tribal system. I wonder if that’s wise?’
‘I’ve tried to warn him. He won’t listen. Cetshwayo wants supreme power and will not entertain the idea that it could go against him. If it does, watch the fur fly. What we’ve got is a three-edged sword – Shepstone, who claims to know what he is doing; the British, who have put their trust in him; and Cetshwayo, who has no intention of allowing outsiders to dictate the way he rules. You wait. If this so-called coronation takes place and Cetshwayo agrees to the conditions, Britain will find a way to use it against him. And that can only spell disaster. They overestimate Shepstone’s so-called expertise and conveniently forget the Zulus’ pride in their nation. It will be war, my friend, and a bloody one.’
‘Where would that leave you?’
‘Interesting question. I see no choice. Circumstances change. One way or another, I’d have to leave Zululand. The British insist I do and the Zulus make it plain what will happen if I don’t.’ He smiled, and in his eyes there was a terrible sadness. ‘I may be allowed back in time. My future here lies in the heart and soul of some, in the greed of others.’ Dunn threw up his hands. ‘So be it.’
‘You and every white face this side of the Thukela would have to leave,’ Will predicted ominously.
‘Not at all,’ Dunn contradicted. ‘I would have to leave because of my close friendship with the king. I couldn’t fight for him, much as I might like to, in a war against my own people. Those who have settled here, especially the farmers, would be left alone. The Zulus have little quarrel with them.’
Lorna leaned forward. ‘I know you have no crystal ball but seeing you mention settlers, there is land between the Thukela and the Nsuzu that interests us greatly. It belongs to Zululand, does it not?’
‘Correct. And your interest is well justified. It’s good country.’
‘How would we go about acquiring some?’
‘You’d live there? Even after hearing what you have this evening?’
‘Yes.’
Dunn’s eyebrows went up. ‘Well,’ he said reflectively, pulling at an earlobe, ‘the king would have to grant you the use of it. These days, I’m afraid, he usually seeks weapons in return. Even then, there’s no guarantee that once you supply them he’ll honour the deal. If he did, you’d never own it outright. I’d advise you to look elsewhere for land.’
Lorna’s eyes met Dallas’s, seeking support.
John Dunn laughed. ‘A determined young lady. I like that. Very well, I’ll speak to the king. You’ll have to meet with him. Are you prepared to travel back here if I send word?’
‘Of course,’ Dallas answered.
‘He may say no,’ Dunn warned.
‘We can but ask,’ Lorna pointed out, remaining positive.
‘Indeed,’ John Dunn smiled. ‘And I wish you success. All I can do is repeat your request. I have no influence in this regard.’
Word came from Dunn ten days after they returned to Durban. Cetshwayo was prepared to discuss a trade. A grant in return for rifles. The king claimed that he needed guns to keep the ever-encroaching Boers off Zulu territory. ‘I can arrange rolling block Snider conversion Enfields,’ Dunn had written. ‘It remains only a matter for your own conscience.’
‘What does he mean by that?’ Lorna asked.
‘If Britain and the Zulus go to war they would be used against our troops.’
‘But the Zulus become better armed by the day. If they don’t get guns from us, there must be many others ready and willing to provide them in return for favours or land. Why, even John Dunn admits to supplying Cetshwayo.’
‘I know. My conscience remains clear. I find it difficult to imagine a confrontation. Cetshwayo actively promotes good relations with the British.’
‘So, do we do it?’
Dallas smiled. Lorna’s enthusiasm remained a constant delight to him. ‘I’ll go and speak to the king. See what he wants and what land he proposes to trade.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
‘My darling, that would not be wise.’
Warning signs crossed her face. ‘Why not?’
‘You are nearly seven months with child.’
‘So what? Mister David can give me some muthi to help with the birth. I’ll be fine.’
Da
llas took her in his arms. ‘And, my dearest, you are a woman. Have respect for these people. Your presence would be an affront to the king.’
Lorna closed her eyes, knowing he was right. ‘Are you suggesting that I stay here, alone, and have our child while you go gallivanting around the country having a good time?’
‘I’ll be back well before the baby arrives.’ He tightened his arms and kissed away the frown. ‘Promise.’
‘It’s not fair.’ Lorna stamped her foot, though there was little anger in the gesture, merely disappointment.
‘A pity Mr Buchanan is no longer here. I’d feel happier if you had reliable company.’
The Zulu Bruce Buchanan tried to train had proved lazy and unreliable. In the end, it was agreed that Mister David be offered the position of groom. ‘Later, if we are granted land, we’d like you to come with us. There will be much work and I’ll need a man I can trust.’
‘Where is this place?’
When Dallas told him of the area he hoped to farm, Mister David’s face split into a broad grin and he fingered the love letter around his neck.
‘Ah!’ Dallas smiled back. ‘I see the idea pleases you.’
‘That is the tree,’ Mister David replied gravely. ‘It has many branches. Some you will learn of, most are none of your business.’
Dallas’s smile grew wider. ‘Fair enough, Mister David. But for now, I wish you to remain here and take good care of the madam.’
‘It will be an honour, for he is a good madam.’
‘I should be back in two or three weeks.’
‘You will find me here, master.’
‘Thank you. Tell Tobacco and July there will be work for them too, if they wish.’
Dallas travelled light back into Zululand, taking the quicker coastal route. The roads were dry and most rivers easy to cross. He reached John Dunn’s kraal four days after setting off. His host was brusque. ‘You have made good time. We leave in the morning. The king is expecting us.’
That night Dallas found he was full of excitement and hope. To live in such beautiful country with Lorna and their children promised everything he could ever have hoped for. He did not regret having to end his trading days. They’d been fun, sometimes dangerous and richly rewarding, but with a family he could not continue in that way of life. Dallas had learned a great deal about the Zulus and their country, enough to live and work comfortably beside them. A war between native and European might never happen. Even if it did, Dallas was not going to allow mere speculation to prevent him from carving out a future in his adopted land.
FOURTEEN
The meeting with Cetshwayo had gone well. The Zulu king granted him use of the land he asked for and, while Dallas could never own it, for as long as he respected and nurtured it, the land was, to all intents and purposes, his to use as he pleased. After the meeting, Dallas had spent several days with John Dunn who proved to be most helpful, providing advice on where to buy the best cattle, what Zulu workers he would need, how to deal with Chief Gawozi, who ruled that part of the country, and many other issues that would require Dallas’s attention.
For five years now, Dallas, Lorna and their ever-expanding family had lived in peace with their Zulu neighbours. And now, the rumblings of war threatened this idyllic lifestyle. Dallas and Lorna had seen it coming but tried to convince themselves it was nothing more than sabre rattling. Until this morning when a letter arrived, making it impossible to misinterpret British intentions.
Squabbling voices cut through Dallas’s concentration and he frowned, trying to ignore them. It was the fourth time he’d read the letter and still found its contents impossible to take in. Britain had declared war on the Zulu nation and he was expected to volunteer his considerable knowledge as interpreter, scout and guide.
Dallas had been anticipating a polite request, not a demand. As a resident of Zululand, he did not qualify for the obligatory call to arms that adult male colonists living in Natal received. The strongly worded recommendation that he ‘remember his duty to Queen and country’ came as something of a surprise. Dallas didn’t need reminding that his Queen and country of birth probably still had a price on his head. Joining a volunteer unit would put him perilously close to official British red tape and he doubted that his real identity would remain a secret for long. If he had to serve – and Dallas didn’t particularly want to – he’d be better off joining one of the small commando groups made up mainly of Boers who offered their services out of a basic dislike of all African races. Even this held little appeal. Dallas didn’t hate the Zulus, but had profound respect for them and a genuine liking for the nation founded by Shaka.
The clamour outside had grown in volume to the point where he had to investigate.
‘You did that on purpose.’ Cam.
‘Did not. You got in the way.’ Torben.
‘No, he didn’t. I saw you.’ Ellie.
‘Mama! Cam is bleeding.’ Kate.
Something was more amiss than usual. Dallas sighed and rose, leaving his official summons on the kitchen table. Lorna was nowhere to be seen – probably attending to the baby. He stepped out onto the deeply shaded stone stoop to be confronted by four sets of eyes – one defiant, one pain-filled and two indignant. ‘What happened?’
He should have known better. Everyone spoke at once, until he held up a hand for silence.
‘Cam, how did you cut yourself?’
‘Torben hit me with the bat.’
Dallas turned his gaze to the accused.
‘It wasn’t my fault. Cam moved too close.’
‘He did not.’ Ellie was only five but a mature sense of fair play meant that her parents usually looked to her for the truth. ‘Torben hit him on purpose.’
Three-year-old Kate removed a thumb from her mouth, nodded vigorously, causing golden curls to bounce around her face, and sidled closer to her older sister as if seeking protection.
‘Inside,’ Dallas said sternly, alarmed by the volume of blood running down Cam’s face and dripping onto his bare chest. Two wolfhounds and a bull terrier – family pets of such soppy personalities that their breeds sounded like a joke – were busily cleaning up any drops fallen onto the stone floor.
The four children trooped past.
Dallas had two choices of assistant. Torben or Ellie. Kate, though willing, was too young. Torben would be reluctant. He looked at his older daughter, who gazed calmly back. ‘Ellie, your mother is busy so you’ll have to help.’ Despite her extreme youth, Ellie could be relied on to make ready whatever was required. He turned to his eldest son. ‘Up onto the table, young man.’
Cam, taller than most boys his age, vaulted backwards, landing on the smooth stinkwood surface with a resounding plop. Still the blood flowed down his face.
‘Will it need stitches?’ Ellie asked, filling a dish with water from the kettle. She placed it on a tray, alongside a bottle of iodine, some cottonwool, gauze, a bandage, tweezers and a safety pin and carried it carefully to where her father waited.
Dallas dipped a wad of cottonwool in the lukewarm water and gently wiped Cam’s forehead. Despite copious bleeding, the wound was superficial – a wide but not deep gash. ‘I think we’d better amputate his head,’ Dallas informed everyone, winking at his patient.
At seven, the joke was appreciated by Cam, who grinned. ‘Is it that bad?’
Kate asked, ‘What’s apootate mean?’
‘Amputate, silly. And it means cut it off,’ Torben said with malicious enjoyment.
Kate’s soft heart melted and she began to cry. Ellie put an arm around her and glared at Torben.
‘Papa is only joking,’ Cam told Kate. ‘Don’t cry.’
Alerted by the continuing commotion, Lorna appeared supporting six-month-old Duncan on one hip. ‘What happened?’ she asked, taking in the scene and accurately guessing who had done what to whom. Handing Duncan to a hovering nanny, she moved swiftly to the table and confirmed that the injury looked worse than it really was. ‘Iodine please, Ellie. And some
. . . Oh, I see you’ve already got everything. Good girl.’
Looking as pleased as she felt at the compliment, Ellie moved closer to watch her mother dab at the slowing flow of blood. The older their first daughter became, the more it was obvious to Lorna and Dallas that Ellie had a fascination for blood and guts. When animals were slaughtered or game shot, a farm worker injured, even after an incident like today’s, Ellie’s nose was inevitably as close as she could get, her solemn eyes missing nothing. She displayed a clinical detachment that many a trainee doctor or budding Florence Nightingale would have given anything to develop. Irrespective of the severity of a wound – once she had minutely inspected the burns, welts and charred flesh of a young Zulu boy who had been killed by lightning, a sight that had brought Dallas close to nausea – Ellie’s interest seemed more concerned with anatomy than a macabre fascination. ‘You missed a bit,’ she informed Lorna.
‘So I did. Would you clean it, dear, while I prepare a dressing?’
Lifted onto the table, Ellie efficiently took over. Cam remained composed, showing no outward sign of discomfort.
Kate looked up at the table, tears of compassion in her large blue eyes. Unlike her older sister, she took any adversity to heart, suffering almost as much as the victim. A little hand crept up to hold one of Cam’s, who looked down at her serious expression and smiled. ‘It’s not sore.’
‘It will sting.’
‘Only a little.’ He could not prevent a wince as the iodine did its worst.
‘There.’ Lorna deftly bandaged his forehead and straightened from her task, dropping a light kiss on Cam’s head, pronouncing him a brave little warrior who would probably live to tell the story of how he killed a lion with his bare hands.
Jumping from the table, and ignoring Torben, who stood against the Welsh dresser, arms folded and a bored look on his face, Cam suggested to the girls that they might like him to read them a story. The three traipsed off together towards the sitting room. With the drama over, the girls were so impressed with their brother’s bravery they had bestowed on him the status of temporary hero.
Shadows in the Grass Page 43
