by Bowen, Peter
“Move,” he says, eloquently.
So, I move. I am out of the hero and brave-defender business for the moment. All hell is breaking loose behind us, and we walk like charmed men through the few yards of turf that separates this ungodly mess from the plain old earth, you know the one, the sort of place that you can plant flowers in.
Outside the ring of that ferocious violence there was calm. If I hadn’t had that bayonet three inches from my left eardrum I would have been downright bored.
The enormous nigger who had invited me along—he’d have made even Liver-Eating Jack seem downright puny. I mean, this man was so large he looked like he would eat a nice hippopotamus for dinner or some such.
“You will be treated well,” he said, in the most insufferable boarding-school English I had ever heard. And then the sonofabitch said, “Your people are a nosegay of arseholes. Sergeant Major Simeon Kambula of the Queen’s Own Natal Native Police, at your service. As you will be at Cetshwayo’s, if he don’t decide to have you skinned alive and crucified on an anthill. Or have a stake driven up your arsehole, or ...” Now I recognized him. He’d brought the nigger troops across the river. Last I’d seen him, I’d given him my spare pistol, the ungrateful bastard.
I was so tired and so disgusted—my horse, my horse—that I told him to go fuck himself, and several other impossibilities, which just made him smile. He had a voice like a bass organ, those low notes you can feel but not hear.
“Ulundi,” he said, “for we have need of you. There.”
Zulus can run, by God. He kept me at a trot until we came to the Buffalo River, and we swum across, with his bayonet never more than a foot from my ear. We run up the bank, we run past the mess at Isandhlwana—there was paper everywhere, and I could see Chelmsford with his escort down there. But Sergeant Major Kambula saw me thinking of hollering for help and gave me that big grin again, so we went on and trotted over the green hills of Zululand without a murmur from me, and I began to pass out from the heat and the exertion.
Some Zulu warriors come up out of nowhere, cursed me in their own tongue, tossed me on a shield, and carried me. I was borne on to Ulundi about half conscious. I did not remember the night.
38
I REMEMBER WAKING UP and seeing the most beautiful pair of eyes. They were large and so brown that they seemed black. She was holding a calabash of beer to my lips. I saw paintings of her in Egypt, once. She was so gentle and kind. I suppose I was foolish. I was also delirious.
The chanting Zulu warriors had dropped me at some encampment, and an old man come out of the main hut—he stank of grease and blood—and beat me over the head with a small club, which didn’t even hurt much. I suppose I just didn’t want to wake up, for I slept when I should have been thinking of escape.
I woke up again and there was that beautiful face, and she gave me some more beer and a kind of curdled cheese, and some halves of a fruit like apricots. A couple of thugs came in and dragged me back outside.
There was a cluster of warriors standing there, and one grizzled old buzzard out in front of them, he had some white ostrich plumes on his head and a batch of worse-for-wear wretches sprawled on the ground in front of him. When the old fart stopped for breath the warriors rushed forward and stabbed the men and then picked up their limp bodies and hauled them up the hill. They were back in a little while. I was much more than somewhat tired, and all in all it didn’t make as much of an impression as a lot of hangings I have attended, except perhaps my own. Well, that’s another story, makes my neck itch.
What happened next was for my own benefit, I suppose. This time the two on the ground were one man and one woman, and after the geezer had berated them for a while the warriors pounced on them and pounded stakes up their asses. They began to scream, of course, a terrible bubbling sound, and then they were thrown on shields and carried over the hill, not far enough to be out of earshot, though they were out of sight. The screaming went on all day and for the first two hours of the night, and then the screaming got choked off, started again, and finally stopped, and then there was a chorus of insane laughter from the hyenas.
Kelly, I says, I think you had best mind your p’s and q’s because your best bet is that they brought you here for something. Do think hard when you find out what.
They motioned me back to the hut.
A couple of mean-looking warriors ducked into the hut at dawn and threw me out like so much offal, and then double-timed me through the village. It was dark, and we seemed to go on forever. Apparently I had been out on the edge, and this kraal was perhaps three miles across.
We come to a hut not much bigger than the others, but it was set away from the others, and there were guards ranged around it, and several more of what the Zulus call inDunas, what amounts to their brigadier generals. My escort service flung me in the door. It was smoky in there and there was the smell of a lot of humanity in too small a place, about like New York or Chicago.
There was a small fire in the center of the room, and I could see eyes with reflections from it to either side of me. Straight ahead, across the fire, there was a huge feller, black as the inside of your pocket. He was seated on a stool, legs spread some and hands on his knees. Alone of the men I had seen here he had on a leopard-skin cloak and kilt, and he was wearing the sort of crown you buy at the place they sell elephant hangings and theatrical gewgaws.
He motioned me to come forward and I slunk past the righthand row of black faces, only one or two of them hissed. There was a small white man seated on the ground next to the King or Chief or whatever he was. Longing for company, I set myself down there, too. What with the events of the last seventy-two hours any sort of company looked good.
A sort of rumble came from the bird on the stool.
“He says welcome. This is Cetshwayo,” says the little white feller, in accented Dutch English, “and he has some questions to ask you.”
“Fire away,” says I. “Be of any service that I can.”
“You’d better,” says the little feller. “The King is not in a good humor.”
Someday I hope to meet a king who’s in a good humor. Met King Edward the VII once, and all he was was stupid, which didn’t count.
I won’t give you the back and forth, just the gist of what the King wanted to know. It was the same thing that Red Cloud wanted to know, and a lot of other chiefs I have talked to. What in the pluperfect name of all that is right and good are you bastards doing here? We didn’t invite you. We scrupulously have observed the terms of the treaty. I could have said something to the effect that they was sitting on perfectly good land, they was black and those who wanted it was white, and if they was looking for justice or even common sense they’d be wiser to go get drunk or something else fun.
Cetshwayo launched into a two-hour harangue, and his amen chorus grunted happily from time to time. The little feller—his name was van Rijn—translated for me.
First off, Cetshwayo was bewildered by the fact that he had got an ultimatum from Governor Bulwer of the Cape Colony, saying in effect that the Zulus would turn over all of their cattle and disband their army and await eagerly any more absurd instructions. Cetshwayo was aware that there was something called the Cape Colony, which was fine by him, but he wanted to know how the English was different from the Boers. The Zulus had been fighting the Boers for fifty years and had agreed to a boundary over somewhere west and in order that there be no misunderstandings had made sure that the Boers placed the first stone on the beacon cairns which marked the border. Cetshwayo had met quite a few Englishmen, and thought that they had their uses, but preferred that immigration be limited to a few folks bearing useful items of trade.
I couldn’t think of much to say to that.
The real reason that I had been brought to the royal kraal here at Ulundi finally came up.
“The King has a responsibility to his people,” said van Rijn. “You invaded Zululand. The army had been eager to come to grips with the invader. It would be difficult to exp
lain to the army that they were not to do that. The army went off, and attacked one of your armies, and wiped out most of it. In doing so, three thousand or so were killed outright, and many more so badly wounded that they will not live. The King feels that a few more victories like that and the Zulus will be no more. Whom does he negotiate with? You had three armies, and now you have two. Whom does the King send messengers to?”
Of course. The King gets messages from Bulwer, and that ass Shepstone, and he hears rumors that there is some general who he can parley with, but he don’t know the man’s name or which of the three columns the general is with. Or was he killed in the attack on the main camp at Isandhlwana?
Thinking quickly in spots like these is why I am still here to tell you about them, prevarication and outright untruth being in my survival kit. On top.
“His name is Chelmsford,” I said, “and he’s with the column over to the west of here.”
There had been a muttering growing behind me, and now a feller of about thirty-five sits halfway up and rumbles along for a bit. Cetshwayo listened for a while, and nodded.
The feller sat down, and then another started in, and Cetshwayo spoke to him pretty sharp and the hut got real silent.
“The King’s brother, Dabulamanzi,” says van Rijn. “He had you brought here and he thinks that you are lying. He suggests dealing with you harshly.”
“Tell the King that Chelmsford was with the column, but he left that very morning, seeing that they had got safely launched into Zululand,” I says, not mentioning that by leaving the camp in the command of that incompetent Pulleine he done the Zulus’ work for them, too. “Chelmsford is on his way to the western column and that is where he can be found.”
Cetshwayo pondered for a while.
“You will guide my messengers,” he said finally.
There was a fine uproar at this, with a lot of suggestions being made about how to dispose of Luther and I am sure general comments upon my character, all of which van Rijn was kind enough not to translate.
Me and three Zulus left at first light. One of them was the fierce old buzzard who had clubbed me when I first arrived, and a couple of hard boys who were obviously going to chop me up the first time I made motions of escaping.
There was another escort, who would keep with us until we was in sight of the western column.
They give me a horse, one with a British army brand on it, and two of the warriors held a rein on each side, while another held the rein that they had around my neck. Nice British army saddle, too.
The Zulus trotted along, tireless—which was truly amazing since they had run down to wipe out the central column, and Dabulamanzi and friends had trotted a good deal farther to fight at Rorke’s Drift, and then home again, carrying me. I wasn’t sure that the horse could outrun them, even if I could wiggle out of the prudent extra precautions that they had taken.
We covered nearly fifty miles by nightfall. We slept for four hours, until the moon rose, and then the whole bunch went on.
Late the next day we come near on the place where the scouts for the western column would be.
I went on with my three companions. A patrol spotted us, and charged us, there being only four of us. I run out in front, screaming.
“I have messages for Chelmsford,” I said. “Hold your fire.”
They was part of the Irregulars. They circled us for a while, checked out the tracks of the group who had brought us, and then we walked at a slower pace onward. A couple of riders had gone on ahead. One returned with a spare mount for me.
“These messages are from King Cetshwayo,” I says.
I was wholly exhausted. I rode on at speed for the camp.
I babbled something to a sentry when I come in, and then I fell off my horse. I was stuck in a hospital wagon for the night. I must not have made any sense. Someone asked me questions, but I don’t know who.
When I got up in the morning the first thing that I saw was the three messengers, swaying in the morning breeze. They’d been hung from a gallows improvised from the raised tongues of two wagons.
39
BULLER WAS ANGRY. BULLER generally was angry, but now he was really mad. Seems that after sending me in, the leader of the Irregulars—good old Browne, and one of the worst bastards ever spawned—had reported to say that they had rescued me in dire peril and that he had hung three spies. Fortunately for Browne, Buller was asleep, and an aide took the report. Browne also prudently took off while Buller was still asleep.
Buller did a lot of roaring and found out that Browne had been aided by some of the Boer conductors—they was the ones put up the wagon tongues and no doubt heaved on the ropes.
Buller finally got calm enough to think—at least as well as he ever did—and sent for me. I repeated what Cetshwayo had told me. Buller had it all copied down neat and sent it off to Evelyn Wood, the General Commanding, who, as soon as he had heard of Isandhlwana had turned on his heel and headed back for Kambula, which wasn’t a town, just a small tavern some distance from Dundee. Buller was withdrawing the last of the wagons and some of the scouting parties who had been staying out for two or three days at a time. They was close to the crossing at Landman’s Drift and there was signalers between where we was and the encampment who would light beacons if help was needed.
It took two days for us to crest the last rise and see the Buffalo—another slow track—but scouts reported no Zulus in the area.
Browne come in and Buller raged at him for a while and then sent him on, under guard, swearing that he’d court-martial him. Nothing ever came of it, of course, it never does. I figured that Cetshwayo would give up on trying to talk now, since his messengers couldn’t get through, except to get hung.
I recovered pretty quick, and was sent on swift as I could ride to Chelmsford, who questioned me thoroughly for an hour and then dismissed me.
Then he sent for me again, and he looked pale and as angry as I have ever seen a man. Now he wanted to know about Rorke’s Drift and my version of Isandhlwana. He was a shrewd and kind man, under a lot of strain, and when I finally pointed out that the only folks who could verify the truth of my story had been hung some days before, he sighed deeply and gave me a glass of port.
“I have to destroy their army and capture the King,” he said wearily.
“You ever hear of General Crook?” says I.
He nodded.
“Well, he told me that fighting Indians was bad enough, but the worst thing that he found of it was that it was wrong. They were there first. It’s their land. They seem to like how they live well enough.”
Chelmsford shot me a sharp look.
“You Americans don’t know how to think imperially.”
“The hell we don’t,” I says. “We just don’t have much of a navy, and besides that we haven’t been at it long enough.”
He looked at me again. He threw back his head and laughed.
“If every man in my forces who had enlisted under an assumed name was thrown out I would not have much of an army, Mr., uh, Adendorff. Both Buller and Harford say that you have given good service, and I have more pressing problems than finding out who you really are. You are to return to your unit and resume your scouting duties with young Harford.”
I began to sputter—I could imagine what would happen to me if I got caught once again by the Zulus. “Your troops hung the messengers of the King who I was escorting in to parley.”
“Since you are the only survivor of capture I doubt it would be much worse than the general run of luck,” he says. He looked at me for a long time, again.
Finally he spoke, and spoiled my day something good. “Do you know a George Hanks, a correspondent for one of your American newspapers?”
“Never heard of him,” I says.
“That will be all,” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I said, saluting smartly.
Chelmsford began to chuckle, and waved me away.
Well, suddenly Buller and Harford didn’t seem to be such a
bad idea—I was not eager for the British to hand me over to the Americans who would be investigating the matter of the disappearance of the Duke. (Jack did a good job, he was never found.) I would do a little skulking and spying and maybe contrive to be brave once or twice in front of an officer senior enough to recommend me for such, and then I would damn well leave Durban on the first boat and right during the celebrations of the victories over the Zulu nation. Wouldn’t even hang around to collect the medals and the thanks.
So off I went, back up to Kambula.
I had ridden maybe five miles along the track when I began to get a prickling on the back of my neck. Someone was staring at me. My neck prickled for about ten minutes. I saw to my rifle and took the thong off the hammer of my revolver. I rode slowly around a curve in the torn-up road. There was a huge blue gum tree to my right. I looked real hard at it, waiting to see some movement on either side of the trunk.
Well, I should have been looking up. Someone landed with a thud on my horse right behind me and put their arms around my neck. I damn near pulled the horse over backwards.
It was little Marieke. She started laughing as soon as she got a little wind back.
“EEEEE Kelly,” she shrieked. “If I was someone else you would be dead. Hah.”
I was furious and more than a little embarrassed. This wench had made a fool out of me—fairly easy to do—and I ain’t got the best of tempers. I started swatting at her but she’d just wriggle out of the way.
A little light-colored nigger with tight peppercorn hair come out from behind the tree. He had a long slender bow in his hand and some arrows in the other and all he wore was a sort of little apron of greasy leather. The little bastard was laughing like hell, too, but to be polite he at least had his hand over his mouth.
“Enough,” I roared, throwing my leg over the back of the horse and sweeping little Marieke off. She slid over, twisted in the air, and landed on her hands and bounced to her feet.
