Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  They left the railway station, a most attractive building of red brick with cream stone and decorative cast-iron lacework, the latter a predominant feature throughout the town as Probyn was to find out during his march to the garrison. An utterly charming place, Pietermaritzburg bore not the slightest resemblance to any town at home, being laid out in the colonial style of blocks which to this Yorkshire lad made much more sense than crooked medieval lanes and made it easier to get one’s bearings. Never had he seen such exquisite buildings, even the tiniest dwelling graced by a lace-adorned verandah, the town itself embraced by wooded hills and tranquil countryside. For a brief spell in these dignified surroundings he forgot how terribly humid it was, how damp and uncomfortable his uniform, and the terrifying insects, saw only the pristine streets devoid of coal dust, the sunshine and the colourful saris of the Indian women – for, as usual, wherever they went the local population was out to observe their march past. Here the crowd was a mixture of whites, kaffirs and Indians, their transport brought to a temporary halt for the occasion, although one rickshaw runner seemed determined not to lose his fare, the Zulu weaving his way in and out of the marching blocks of soldiers in an effort to be past them.

  On arrival at Fort Napier on a hill overlooking the town they were given a hearty meal then allowed a few days to settle in, during which they explored their new territory. Back from a souvenir hunting expedition in the market square, Probyn imbibed a great chestful of the pine-scented air and declared to his fellows, ‘I’m going to like it here.’

  ‘Pity you’re not stopping then,’ said Sergeant Faulkner in passing.

  ‘What, where we off, Sarnt?’ A flabbergasted Probyn called after him.

  Faulkner did not stop. ‘Eshowe! A, D and H Companies to train in mounted infantry.’

  With a look of horror at his pals, Mick exclaimed, ‘Horses! God help us, I can’t abide the bloody stupid creatures!’ Running after the informant he tried to protest that he was not fitted to such duties but was sent packing, his only redress being to pour forth more grumbles to the others.

  Rook said he did not like horses either. ‘They frighten me.’

  Probyn was more impressed, affecting to be an experienced horseman already through his work as a pony driver in the mine. ‘Nay, you’ve just got to show ’em who’s boss. I reckon it’ll be a lark, get us out into the real Africa.’

  Mick dealt him a grim nod. ‘Aye, with lions and turkeys and things.’

  ‘Turkeys?’ giggled Queen.

  ‘Those things with the red googly necks.’ Mick shuddered. ‘They make me want to puke.’

  ‘Eshowe.’ Probyn lifted his head as if suddenly recognizing the name. ‘Wasn’t that under siege during the Zulu War?’

  Queen laughed at Mick’s face. ‘Oh blimey, don’t put the wind up him any more than it is already.’

  ‘Nay, nowt to worry about,’ comforted Probyn in mature fashion. ‘We sorted them out good and proper. It’s the same as with horses. Long as you teach ’em who’s boss they won’t give you any trouble. Anyroad, I reckon it’s the Dutchmen you have to look out for. I trust them a lot less than I trust the Zulus. I mean you expect the niggers to be uncivilized they don’t know any better, but white chaps?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like the Boers at all. They’re the one thing that spoils this place. They never crack their faces, do they? And you can feel their antagonism. I tell you, if I’d been in charge in ’eighty-one they wouldn’t have their republics. They’ve had one go at us, I wouldn’t put it past them to have another. I don’t know, you only have to turn your back and if it’s not them it’s the Germans or the dagos nibbling away at bits of our Empire.’ Suddenly aware that he sounded just like his father, he checked his flow, concluding that, ‘Our grandfathers fought to build it, we owe it to them to maintain it.’

  ‘My grandfather was a church organist,’ admitted a sheepish Barnes.

  ‘Well, I’m sure he played his part in building the Empire,’ answered Probyn. ‘I don’t exactly come from a military background meself.’

  Rook was looking thoughtful. ‘My granddad once had an organ.’

  ‘Well obviously or you wouldn’t be here,’ quipped Private Queen.

  Chuckling despite his abhorrence of vulgarity, Probyn announced over the raucous laughter, ‘I’m trying to be serious! I intend to hand on the Empire intact to my kids.’

  ‘Kids, is it?’ scoffed Mick, wafting at flies. ‘And how are yese going to father them stuck out in the middle of nowhere?’

  Probyn was unfazed. ‘Stop wittering! We won’t be in Africa forever you know. You should enjoy it while you can. I’m off to.’

  * * *

  It was a bold statement when he had no idea what Zululand might offer, and for one moment as he surveyed his new environment upon arrival he considered he might have been rash. Set high in the hills, surrounded by primeval forest and girded by mist, the village of Eshowe seemed on first appraisal an eerie place, the vapour lending a haunting quality to the birdsong.

  But later with its veil lifted, the striking white turrets of Fort Nongqayi standing out against a cerulean sky, and a soft breeze whispering through the towering ironwoods, rippling palm fronds and shirt sleeves, it emerged as a much pleasanter venue than the lowlands.

  The fact that it was to rain almost constantly throughout the following days detracted somewhat from the charm of the place, but between downpours with the hot sun to evaporate the moisture in their sodden tunics and native servants to attend their every comfort the soldiers considered themselves to be advantaged over their friends at HQ.

  ‘They’ll never believe me at home when I tell them I’ve got a servant.’ Probyn grinned at his pals and thanked the young black boy Gideon for the dry tunic. He felt somewhat embarrassed to have another at his beck and call and preferred to keep his requests to a minimum. Naturally there were those who took liberties, kept Gideon forever on the run. Mick was one and Ingham another, both content to lie on their cots and let the youngster work himself into a frenzy, as they were doing now.

  Probyn made scolding observance of this as he himself sat cleaning his rifle, the smell of gun oil helping to overpower that of male sweat. ‘Of course there are always folk who’ll take advantage. Tut! If the poor devil could go to the privy for you you’d have him doing that an’ all.’

  ‘What a splendiferous idea,’ smirked the recumbent Mick.

  ‘He’s a little shit,’ quothed Havron, flicking Gideon’s rump with a towel as the boy travelled between the cots delivering items. ‘That’s all he’s fit for.’

  Stung by the blow, Gideon effected to skip past on the way back but Havron caught his arm and held it tightly.

  Probyn squinted down the inside of his barrel, checking for cleanliness, but not too preoccupied to issue a warning. ‘Leave him.’

  Havron ignored him and continued to torment the boy, calling him a little heathen.

  Greatly offended, Gideon objected, ‘Sir, you wound me! I am as good a Christian as yourself!’

  ‘What – comparing yourself to a white man?’ Havron shook the prisoner vigorously, knocking him off his feet. ‘I’ll show you what for!’

  Setting aside his rifle, Probyn jumped up and approached Havron. ‘And I’ll show thee an’ all, now let him go, you bully!’

  Others joined the protest. ‘Aye let him go, Havron, he’s nobbut a bairn! Stop being so bloody mean!’

  With everyone ganging up on him Havron was forced to release the child. ‘I weren’t serious! Bloody hell you’d think I were going to murder him.’ And he rubbed a rough palm over Gideon’s tightly curled head before shoving him away.

  Holding his arm, Gideon was about to walk away when Mick called, ‘Before ye go, sonny, would ye fetch me a—’

  ‘Fetch it your blasted self!’ chastised Probyn, signalling for the boy to go. ‘You lazy article. Poor little devil’s run off his feet.’

  Mick heaved a sigh. ‘What’s the point of having him here if not to work?’

/>   ‘I’m sure the captain holds that same sentiment when he looks at thee,’ came the sarcastic response from Probyn, who went back to cleaning his rifle, to the accompaniment of outraged exclamations from his pal.

  * * *

  To Mick’s further chagrin their induction to mounted infantry was to begin almost immediately. For one who could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning it came as extra burden to look after a horse too, and to tuck it up at the end of the day even before he had attended his own needs. Though mocking these grumbles, Probyn was suffering in silence. Riding a horse was not as easy as it looked and, after hours in the saddle, his thigh and buttock muscles were screaming for relief, and they had not yet even ridden beyond the confines of the forest. On foot, this would have been a pleasant jaunt beneath the canopy of giant trees, through dappled glades where orchids peeped, a kaleidoscope of birdlife presenting itself for their entertainment. Atop a horse possessed of more endurance than its rider, with chafing thighs and paralysed rump and under constant deluge, it was anguish. Try as he might to imagine himself in an English wood on one of Aunt Kit’s picnics, his tortured muscles dragged him back to reality, his only desire being to fall upon his bed and snuggle up against the icy cold nights.

  In due time though, his body became attuned to the contours of his mount and he was able to endure longer periods in the saddle, then, the treks began to stretch further afield in the great undulating spaciousness that was Zululand. Under skies that went on forever, splashing through rivers whose banks grew thick with yellow flags and mallow and forget-me-not, an escarpment of sugar loaves and plateaux turned violet by the setting sun, he began to enjoy every moment.

  ‘But what’s the point of it all?’ demanded Mick, still at odds with his equine partner after two hours in the saddle on yet another early morning trek. ‘I’d like to be able to tell my arse that there’s good reason for the calluses it’s collecting. All we seem to do is drift aimlessly about the countryside.’

  Rook had the answer. ‘I suppose it’s like a dog what goes round pissing up trees, we’re marking our territory, letting the niggers know who’s in charge.’

  Sergeant Faulkner, moving past them to catch up with the captain, overheard the conversation. ‘Very good, Private Rook, I couldn’t have put it so eloquently myself.’

  ‘Eh, look at that whatsit over there!’ Alert for wildlife, Probyn had spotted a dog-like animal balancing on its hind legs atop a termite mound, and now gave an amused laugh. ‘It’s stood up like a little man. Eh, Sergeant, what is it?’

  Sergeant Faulkner turned in the saddle as the little tawny sentinel alerted others of its kind to the presence of intruders and all gathered to watch the soldiers’ passing, quivering excitedly. ‘Meerkats,’ came his answer.

  Intrigued by the little watchers, the soldiers were pleased to respond to the order to stop and rest the horses, swinging down from the saddle and arching their backs.

  One of the meerkats was bolder than the rest, with tail erect it came right up to where they stood. Probyn broke into his rations and, squatting, threw it a morsel of bully beef. To his and others’ delight it ran up almost to his feet and snatched the offering, not in the least afraid. The soldiers gathered round to watch as more bully beef was imparted, trying to coax the rest of the meerkats to join their companion. Gideon, here along with other native bearers, moved closer to watch the proceedings. The meerkat seemed to take great exception to this and, in a skittering rush, nipped the boy’s toe, drawing blood and causing him to dance about in pain. The soldiers thought this a huge joke.

  ‘Ooh, he doesn’t like thee, Gid!’ cackled Ingham and tried to shove Gideon forward for the meerkat to have another bite.

  Gideon was having none of it, rushing away hoppity skip, leaving other native servants to be tormented by the soldiers who tried to provoke the little animal into biting them until the scrimmage grew too much for it and it ran off to join its companions.

  Still grinning over this happy interlude, their horses rested, they continued on their trek.

  For once the rain held off and they were to see more wildlife that morning: a band of monkeys with long stiff tails and, a while later, a long-limbed spotted cat which pelted away across the savannah before they could draw their rifles. Towards midday they headed for a group of trees under which to eat their lunch and came upon a dozing leopard, its limbs straddling one of the branches. Disturbed, the startled animal leapt down from the tree and began to run. With quick response, the captain drew his rifle and brought the cat down. As native bearers ran to retrieve the kill, an excited Probyn and others galloped ahead to view it, making envious comments on the accuracy of Fitzroy’s musketry.

  The captain ordered the animal to be skinned. It would make handsome decoration for his quarters.

  After dinner they moved off again into the hot afternoon, the air shrill with cicadas. Not long afterwards they were to see, atop a grassy hill overlooking a valley, a Zulu village and made their way there. Probyn felt a sense of excitement that he was to come amongst these renowned warriors, though there was little hint of warring today, the scene a pastoral one. Outside the kraal grew native maize and sorghum, and in the valley a large herd of cattle grazed, white egrets at their feet.

  Probyn tensed as a Zulu came to meet them, remaining in awe as the coal-black figure, a handsome and respectful man with noble bearing, saluted the visitors, his hand and arm lifted above his head. Captain Fitzroy dismounted and, to Probyn’s admiration, returned the greeting in the same language, accepting the invitation for them to enter.

  Leaving their horses to be tended by the bearers, the soldiers followed their officer into the kraal. ‘I wonder how Fizzer knows their language,’ muttered Probyn with obvious veneration.

  ‘Maybe got a touch of the tarbrush himself,’ sneered Havron.

  ‘Going the right way to find yourself on a charge, soldier!’ Sergeant Faulkner had overheard. He then explained to Probyn that most self-respecting Zulus would speak no language other than their own.

  Probyn decided that he must emulate the captain’s linguistic skills and listened carefully, though it was very hard to decipher what was being said. Besides which, it felt rather intimidating to be surrounded by tribesmen.

  Inside the enclosure were the distinctive beehives with round roofs of straw that extended to the ground, exquisitely made. Probyn was murmuring his respect for this craftsmanship to his fellows, when a young woman came by carrying a pitcher on her head, her body decorated with beads and brass ornaments and little else save for a leather apron. Jaw agape, he immediately blushed scarlet and turned away, yet his eyes were constantly dragged back to her magnificent breasts. A glance at his fellows revealed delighted expressions as they watched her move past, and when she had crawled on hands and knees into a hut there were smirks and the odd lascivious comment until Captain Fitzroy noticed and called, ‘Enough!’

  There were to be more such sights, of native women brewing beer, their dark gleaming eyes darting shy looks at the soldiers. Trying hard not to stare, Probyn turned his attention to an emaciated dog who fawned and cringed around the visitors, bending down to pat it, but even whilst he did so taking furtive peeps at the barely-clad women. When he straightened he found himself the object of others’ curiosity, inquisitive children coming to gather wide-eyed around him, their clothing little more than a leather thong or a fringe of beads. Here was a very different breed to the African with whom he had dealt in Cape Town. Beside them even Gideon appeared most civilized in his khaki outfit.

  The women appeared to be enjoying some banter, one of them looking at Probyn as she spoke, her mouth splitting like a ripe purple plum as she burst into laughter. Sensing that he was the butt of their hilarity he blushed again, hoping the ruddy tan would hide his embarrassment, but the woman came towards him extending a bowl of beer. Examining the muddy brew he shook his head quickly but was told by the sergeant not to give offence and so he took a tentative drink, getting a heady whiff befor
e passing the bowl to the next man who knocked it back without complaint. Still disquieted under the unwavering gaze of the young Zulus, for something to do he whipped off his pith helmet and planted it on the nearest child. On such a tiny head it came right down almost to the shoulders, causing the other children to scream with laughter and dance around all trying to grab the helmet and take their turn with it, others jabbing their fingers at Probyn’s auburn hair which against his rubicund face appeared as a beacon. Marvelling that these savages could enjoy the same humour as the white man, and feeling safer now that he had discovered common ground, Probyn and his young friends began to relax.

  Provided with more beer they were invited to sit down and be entertained with a war dance. This was a most exciting affair, the participants dressed in baldrics of spotted catskin, with white fur rings around their knees, ankles and wrists, ebony torsos gleaming with gold and silver wire, drumming on shields with sticks festooned with white feathers, stamping feet coated in ochre dust, drumming and stamping faster and faster still, infecting the native bearers and causing them to leap and join in, only Gideon maintaining reserve until inevitably he too was helpless to suppress the urge and sprang up to join the dancers, their frenzied display reaching a crescendo and finally ending with a unified roar as everyone fell flat on the ground to a loud burst of applause.

  Thanking the headman for his hospitality, the captain said they must now be moving on. Slightly tipsy from the native beer, their bearers still under the influence of the dance, the soldiers remounted and moved off in much cheerier mood towards the valley.