The Kraals of Ulundi, page 10
‘USuthu!’ called Shaba as the fellow released his grip on the pommel and was propelled forward for several steps, though quite dead, by his own momentum.
To Shaba’s left, the warriors that Mnukwa had sent to act as the left horn were coming up fast, trying to join the fray, to head off the last of the retreating horsemen.
But it was all over.
*
The riders, those that had survived, bolted down the far side of the narrow valley, leaving their dead behind them. Five of them. The fellow killed by Mnukwa’s throwing spear. One shot through the neck. One killed by Langalabelele. The one with the iklwa buried so deep in the body that Shaba could not easily pull it free. And the red-coated induna. Though this latter was not dead. He was curled tight on the ground, making a noise as though he were straining with the belly gripes, gripping his right arm with left hand just above the place where the spear shaft, slender and quivering, had impaled the limb, pinning the soldier to the ground when he fell from his horse. The AmaSwazi stood over him, prodding the officer’s side with the points of their own spears, laughing, taunting him. One of them lifted his weapon, intent on finishing him off, but Shaba brought up the barrel of his rifle to prevent him.
‘Stop!’ he said. ‘The Great King has ordered that we should take prisoners. We will take this one.’
Shaba would have been equally happy to kill the white man too, but he saw another opportunity. The prisoner would be his. One white induna shot by the Giant Slayer at eKhambule. Another taken captive here. He would become a legend.
‘Whey, Zula,’ replied the warrior in his own language – but the form of IsiSwazi employed by those along the border, closer to Shaba’s own dialect than the true siSwati spoken elsewhere in that neighbouring and troublesome kingdom. ‘It was we that the red soldiers were chasing. This one’s soul belongs to us.’
‘You would all be dead,’ snarled Mnukwa, ‘if we had not intervened. It would have been this red soldier claiming your soul. This is the land of the Great King, Cetshwayo kaMpande. And everything in this land belongs to him. Including this thing.’
‘You mean everything in the land that the red soldiers have not pillaged from you,’ said the Swazi. ‘And we carry tidings to your King. We could take this thing with us if you truly want him as a captive.’
‘Tidings?’ said Mnukwa. ‘To where would the bakaMswati be carrying their words?’
‘To oNdini.’
‘To the capital? What can be so important that you make such a journey?’
‘The tidings are evil,’ said the warrior. ‘For our Prince, the Blessed Mbilini kaMswati is dead.’
These were evil tidings indeed. The Prince was admired throughout the Kingdom for his deeds, his loyalty to Cetshwayo though he was not of his kinfolk.
‘How?’ said Mnukwa. ‘How, dead?’
The Swazi smiled.
‘As a Prince should die,’ he replied. ‘Fighting these white invaders.’
He put his foot on the red soldier, pressed downwards so that the officer screamed with pain.
‘Leave him,’ said Mnukwa. ‘And you men…’ The induna nodded towards Shaba and Langalabelele. ‘…Pull him free. See what you can do with that wound. We need to keep him alive if it’s possible.’
Shaba looked at his companion, who shrugged, bent to grasp the spear shaft while Shaba himself knelt at the white man’s side, setting down his shield and rifle.
‘We will take this out,’ he said, knowing that the soldier would not understand yet speaking slowly and trying to sound reassuring. He pulled the thin wooden snuff spoon from his hair, placed it between the man’s teeth so that he could bite down on it. His father had carved it for him. It was a sad loss. But as he went to place his hands on the man’s arm, the fellow spat out the spoon, kicked hard, caught Shaba on the knees with his metal-studded boots, sent him sprawling backwards. At the same time, the soldier’s left hand reached under his body, grasped the revolver that had fallen beneath him and twisted onto his back, even though his other arm was still spiked to the ground. For a moment, Shaba thought to speak to him. Perhaps his reassurances had not been sufficiently persuasive. To tell him that Cetshwayo would care for him as he had done for the hapless Frenchman. Such a foolish thought.
The gathered warriors all took a couple of defensive steps backwards. The revolver fired. Once. A bullet to the Swazi’s chest that bowled him backwards. Twice. But failed to find Langalabelele, his target. Then the soldier lifted the thing and placed it to his own head. Shaba moved snake-fast despite the throbbing of his knees, reached across the man and swiped his hand away. The revolver spun across the dirt. The red soldier glared at him, shouted some form of curse, then rolled back on his side and gripped the impaled arm once more. Perhaps he did not understand that we were trying to help, thought Shaba.
‘Damn him!’ said Mnukwa. ‘But at least we still have a prisoner.’ He put a restraining arm across the other two Swazis who were plainly intent on revenge.
Shaba rose painfully to his feet, picked up his rifle. He realised that he was full of self-recrimination. He felt stupid. Guilty at the same time. This man was an enemy. An invader. He deserved nothing. But they had tried to save him, albeit at the behest of the Great King. And this was how they were repaid. Then he thought of Umdeni. That last time he had seen his friend. Shaba lifted the rifle, gripped it with both hands. And before induna Mnukwa could stop him, he brought the butt crashing down into the red soldier’s face. Red. Red. Red.
*
He listened as the surviving AmaSwazi told the story of Prince Mbilini’s death.
‘After the fight at eKhambule,’ one of the pair said, ‘the Prince gathered our people together again. Until we had enough to form an impi of our own to strike back at the whites. Then he led us up the Bhivane Valley to attack their farms. Most of the whites had fled. But we caught some and killed them. We also took many of the cattle that they’d left behind.’
‘And the red soldiers,’ said Mnukwa. ‘Did you see their army?’
‘Their main force is still at eKhambule,’ replied the other Swazi. ‘But their camp is even bigger now. There are more of them. And the Prince took some prisoners of his own. Some of the Basuto slave-boys who run with them. And a few of our people fighting for the whites.’
The warrior spat upon the ground.
‘What did the Prince learn?’ said Mnukwa.
‘That the white iNkosi – the one they call Wood, who led them at eKhambule – has orders to gather still more men, then march to oNdini. They plan to attack Cetshwayo with a beast of their own. Chelmsford with the chest and loins. The others forming the left and right horns.’
‘When will this be?’
‘We did not learn this thing. But it cannot be long. They are already dismantling the camp at eKhambule.’
Mnukwa nodded.
‘So what happened to the Prince?’ he asked.
‘He had sent many men away with the cattle we had taken, but we continued to raid. Then we found horses. A lot of horses. We were driving these home too when the red soldiers attacked. The Prince was shot. Here…’ He pointed to the top of his right shoulder. ‘But it came out again here…’ He patted his left hip. ‘A terrible wound. And the thing must have ripped through his innards as it went. He was in such pain.’
‘Then he did not die straight away?’
The Swazi laughed.
‘You did not know Prince Mbilini kaMswati well then, Zula?’ he said. ‘Or you would certainly not have asked such a foolish thing. With such a wound, you would certainly have been dead. Any of us would have been. But the Prince lived for a full seven suns more. Travelled all the way back to Mbongweni. To die with those that loved him.’
They all fell silent for a while until, finally, Mnukwa looked towards the west.
‘There is still work to do here,’ he said, ‘and the shadows grow. Those horsemen will bring more red soldiers if we stay here too long.’
The warriors knew it. Shaba knew it.
There were four of the AmaSwazi dead. And six of Mnukwa’s Swarm. The ten bodies were therefore laid together in a depression near the side of the stream, their shields covering them, stones placed loosely on top. The souls would be placated this way, at least for a while. Then there were the whites to deal with. It was generally accepted that they had not fought well, not like the lions they had faced at eSandlwana. So there was little enthusiasm for the ukuhlomula – the honour cuts – on this occasion, though there were a few who thought it worthwhile to stab the red soldiers again, even if only to show that their killing was a collective achievement. But, valiant or not, if left untreated the souls of these devils would be trapped there, unable to find their way safely to the afterlife. And if they were prevented from making that journey, the spirits would surely remain to haunt whoever had been responsible for the killings.
Shaba had heard terrible stories of warriors who had not taken steps to free the spirits of those they had slain, how those demons had entered the warriors’ own bodies, first causing nightmare visions, then total madness and, finally, a swelling of their stomachs. Bigger and bigger until they burst apart. He had not been able to observe this necessary ritual in relation to the rancid fat soldier he had slain at eKhambule, nor the red soldiers’ iNkosi that he had shot there, and he had indeed been afflicted for some days afterwards while he was staying at the cleansing houses until his treatment by the izinyanga was complete. The medicine men had told him that his affliction would have been much worse if the spirit of Umdeni had not been watching over him. So he was careful to follow all the ceremonies today, to begin the process afresh of cleansing both body and mind. For, until the cleansing was complete once more, his companions would be in fear for their own souls, in fear that they might somehow also become infected by the spirits of Shaba’s dead.
Thus he went first to the fellow he had stabbed in the back, stood on him and used both hands to retrieve his spear. Then, after they had stripped the coats and shirts from all five whites, he went to the dead officer, used the blade of his iklwa to open the man’s stomach, dragged the point upwards until it jarred upon the rib cage, and thereby freed the red soldier’s essence. The innards were beautiful – purple and blue, crimson, grey and pink. They reminded Shaba of life renewed. The colours of birth. The colours of calving. So he swept away the instantly gathered flies, touched the spear tip into the renewed trickle of blood, lifted it to his lips and, though his own tongue remained swollen, numb, he savoured the taste of the white man’s iron mingling with his own, mingling also with the metal of his father’s blade. Blood of my foe, he thought. Body of my foe.
He repeated the process with the other that he had killed, knowing that while he himself would remain fouled by the day’s blood, he would have done enough to protect his own essence until the war doctors could complete the process. Meanwhile, until that purification could take place, he might ward off further evil by observing the zila, by taking and wearing something belonging to his slain. But what shall it be? he wondered. He despised the white men’s scraps of cloth, their coats and shirts. Yet he must wear something.
In the pockets of the officer’s trousers he found that large square of white cloth which, it was said, these dirty folk used to collect the snot from their noses. It was a ritual that nobody understood and, normally, such rags were left untouched. But this one seemed entirely clean, so Shaba fastened it among the civet tales of his kilt. The other soldier was more difficult, but he eventually pulled off the man’s boots to reveal the woollen things that the whites wore inside their shoes. In this case, they were a sad discovery, holed in several places and smelling foul. He amused the others, momentarily, by lifting the civet furs and pulling one of the woollen things over his plaited penis sheath, although Mnukwa upbraided him both for delaying them and for making a mockery of the zila. So Shaba, suitably shamed, decided that they would have to suffice, and the objects were soon also attached to his cow hide belt. He thought of Amahle, of course, and became ashamed all over again.
‘Now,’ said Mnukwa when each of those who had killed completed their ceremonies, ‘these bakaMswati must be sent onwards to oNdini. To the Great King. To tell their story. Somebody needs to go with them. To show them the way. To confirm that the Frenchman has been released. And to take word of those things that Prince Mbilini learned of the red soldiers’ plans. The rest of us will continue to shadow their army here in the north. Until we receive fresh orders. I can see no reason why it should not be you, Giant Slayer. Then you can also inform the Great King that he would have had a second prisoner. A red soldier induna. Except that one of us killed the captive when there was no need. Tell him that, Shaba. And try to sound remorseful when you break the news. Try to avoid sounding as though you cry with one eye.’
‘But iNkosi,’ said Shaba, lifting a finger to his left cheek, the sightless socket, ‘do I not always cry with just one?’ And his companions laughed.
Chapter Five
Friday 25th April 1879
‘I can’t remember the last time we had such terrible rain,’ said Griffin. ‘It’s unseasonal, sir. Unnatural.’
‘And how long have you farmed here, Mister Griffin?’ Carey asked.
He was sitting on the verandah of Griffin’s white-washed house, watching through a metallic mesh of drizzle to the sloping fields of cowering sugar cane which slowly filled with reluctant Indian labourers, ankle-deep in a sluicing terracotta sludge.
‘Twelve years,’ Griffin replied. ‘We took advantage of the Scheme once the cane industry began to develop. Moved up-country. Built the house.’
It was similar to many that Carey had seen on the journey, built of sun-dried brick. Fifty feet in length, with three main rooms –a central living area flanked by two bedrooms. This wooden verandah around all four sides provided both shade and shelter, although the front porch had been altered by the addition of two smaller rooms, one at each end. The roof was steep, double-pitched, hipped and rough-thatched. Outside, and just to the rear, stood the separate cookhouse and, on the eastern side, a cluster of outbuildings with a narrow barracks from which, even at this distance and despite the weather, there emanated the rank odour of latrine laced with grease and garlic.
‘I don’t know how the crops survive,’ said Carey. ‘It’s a miracle they’re not washed away.’
‘The advantage of using the hillsides, Lieutenant. If you pick the right ones, that is. Many of the neighbours down on the flat have been flooded. But the dongas here carry most of the water away. Most of it. And we stuck with the hardy varieties. Bourbon Purple and Natal Green. They yield about four tons per acre. Bad slump in the early years but it’s recovering now.’
‘You’re a canny farmer then, Mister Griffin. In your blood, I expect.’
Though he did not match Carey’s image of a traditional farm owner. Griffin was in his late fifties, stocky, a full beard, but his face showing few traces of exposure to the elements. The man snorted.
‘Pa tried his hand at it for a while but it didn’t come easy to him. He was a gunsmith by trade. They came out with Bailie’s party on the Chapman in ’Twenty. Brought five children with them. Then had another four of us when they settled. On the Great Fish River. Sixty-four one-acre lots, Lieutenant. Cuyler Town.’
‘The Cape Emigration Scheme,’ said Carey.
‘As you say, Lieutenant. Pa accepted the land grant, set down his deposit and picked up his supplies. But after a couple of years, he and Ma had their fill of it and built a small store in Port Elizabeth.’
‘Back to his old trade?’
‘No,’ laughed Griffin. ‘Set himself up as a shoe-maker.’
‘And you learned the trade too?’
‘Not exactly. Pa was keen that we should all make something of ourselves. They came from Whitechapel, Lieutenant. Most of Bailie’s party were the same.’
‘That’s why he named his settlement East London.’
‘Of course. Anyway, I trained as an accountant. Good at it. Married Janey. Thirty years next year. Moved to Durban. Ten kids. All survived. Little Charlie will be ten soon. But Durban’s overcrowded now. And when this came up…’
Here is a man, thought Carey, who understands what it means to take life by the heels and shake forth its bounty.
‘But I’ve never seen so many Hindus, Mister Griffin.’
‘More Indians in Natal than whites now, Lieutenant. It’s the problem with the Zulu, d’you see? Thinks himself too good to be doing honest manual work. Too high and mighty. Not a decent labourer among them. Damned blacks. So we had to bring in these fellows. All indentured. And their families too, of course. I expect it will bite us in the arse one day, but what can you do?’
‘They live over there?’ Carey wrinkled his nose towards the barracks.
‘Yes,’ said Griffin. ‘Sorry about that. Wind in the wrong direction today. We’ve got used to it, I suppose.’ Carey made a quick calculation. The number of men he could already see – just about – in the fields. Doubled the figure to allow for their families. Measured the result against the size of the barracks, barely twice the size of Griffin’s own house. ‘Anyway,’ the farmer continued, ‘it’s the reason we need you fellows, isn’t it? Lick those bloody kaffirs into shape. Now, won’t you join us for our reading?’
