The Kraals of Ulundi, page 48
Shaba nodded. Now that the contract with the American was signed, they would indeed sing.
‘It belongs to the Fat Queen, this river?’
‘It is owned jointly by the Fat Queen and by the AmaFulentshi. But the Fat Queen certainly now controls its use. A long story, but the thing was built by an iFulentshi. And when it was finished, ten years ago, it was the AmaFulentshi who had the most power here. There was a feast to celebrate its opening and they wanted a person of great importance to perform the ceremonies. Can you guess who that might have been?’
Shaba knew that this thing would follow him forever.
‘The iFulentshi Prince who died at the umuzi of Sobhuza?’ he said.
KaMtigwe seemed disappointed.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘A good guess, yet the Prince would only have been a boy then. But very close. It was his flame-haired mother, the iNkosikazi Eugénie.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday 24th October 1879
The towers of stone that rose from the fast-flowing, stinking river were nothing. Such structures were commonplace in this iLondon which, so far, had fulfilled all Shaba’s worst imaginings for its filth and smoke and chimneys. But the ornamented iron that spun in spider webs between the heads of these particular towers, which anchored them to dry land and which carried the multitudes of white folk, their crawling crowds of carriages, carts and coaches from one bank to the other, this was another thing entirely, some demonstration that their Jesucristo may indeed be more mighty than his own uMvelinqangi.
‘If we wait a moment,’ KaMtigwe said to him, ‘we shall see it open.’
‘Open?’ he said, following the line of KaMtigwe’s arm as it stretched towards the masted vessel approaching the bridge, a vessel plainly too tall to permit its passage beneath. ‘Whey!’ he exclaimed, when an unseen hand halted the bridge’s traffic, cleared it entirely, and the wrought-metal segments shifted, groaned, lifted until they were tensed forearms, raised in praise and deference of the ship as it slid between them, graciously, gratefully, smoke pumping from its iron-sister funnel, steam-whistle screaming.
Amahle and the two other Zulu warriors in their party were similarly impressed, and Shaba tried to discuss the iron magic with KaMtigwe as their own carriage rattled along the sunless stone-clad valleys through which the city’s roads were cut – badly fashioned roads too, that shook a man’s teeth loose in his head. But the other white man, the one they called Farini, who had been there to meet them when they were disgorged from their ship, seemed obsessed with the buildings themselves.
‘Farini asks,’ said KaMtigwe, as they passed yet another such structure, ‘whether you want to see this place of justice?’
It was not a particularly interesting example of English construction methods – two solid square blocks holding up a central edifice with sloping roofs, a high curved wall resembling half a cattle enclosure, a crowd gathered outside the wall’s entrance.
‘Those people are all waiting for justice from the Fat Queen?’
‘Not from the Queen, no. There are court houses like this all over the country. But this is the biggest. Dozens face trial here every day.’
‘Do they have an inyanga then? To smell out evil?’ Shaba found it amusing now to feign foolishness from time to time. To play the ignorant savage. And at first he thought it not only amusing but also educative, for he discovered that there were indeed men who must track down evil-doers, though here they were called amaphoyisa. But he paid dearly for his amusement, having to endure a lengthy explanation from KaMtigwe about the forms of crime that apparently beset this civilised nation. A wonderful and fair system, however, in which another manner of medicine man – the English words that KaMtigwe used were confusing, but the most common, to Shaba’s ears, sounded like iphetifokha – must use his skills to argue the case of those seeking justice. The guilty were then put into dark holes as punishment for debt, theft and dishonesty but without having to make reparation to their victims. Yet at least the many murderers and baby-slayers were executed, their necks broken by a rope, or strangled with it.
He approved, gathered the thick woollen coat closer around him for it was cold here, their new clothing and footwear providing only limited protection. The men had been equipped at the great dwelling, shortly after their arrival, but Amahle had been taken away by KaMtigwe to some other place, returned with boxes and all manner of white woman’s attire, most of it red, and most of it being worn today. She needed it to counter a biting wind that rolled through the carriage windows as they passed into a wide and open area of emerald grassland, trees with leaves in rainbow colours that were beginning to fall and blow in swirling patterns among the many riders and walkers, who all seemed to be driven in the same direction. And the wind carried something else: the welcome scents of animal dung, wilderness noises; the distant bark of a lion. Shaba thought he must be dreaming, but the road, smoother here, curved in a great arc, until it ended at yet another cluster of dwellings.
KaMtigwe and Farini, smiling as though the Zulus were idiot infants, invited them to climb down, led them to another framework of iron where money was handed over and each member of the group was duly permitted to push through the barrier, which turned efficiently as soon as any pressure was applied. But on the other side of this barrier, they stopped, struck dumb by the sight before them.
‘Elephant!’ said Shaba. It was a stupid thing to say. Though, to be fair, it was the largest any of them had ever seen. It seemed incongruous enough to find the beast here, in the centre of iLondon. But there was something else, for this huge bull elephant, indlovu, though it bore no tusks, carried on its back a house of wood, seats for the carriage of passengers, several of them small children. And gathered closely about the animal were clusters of other people, equally unconcerned, it seemed, laughing and pointing.
‘Are they witless?’ said Amahle. ‘Do they have so many young that they can sacrifice them to the Unstoppable One? For they will surely be thrown and trampled.’
But the children seemed entirely at ease and, more, the beast allowed itself to be led up and down the path by a soldier in a black uniform.
The elephant, KaMtigwe insisted, had its own honour name. It was called Jambo and they began to follow the giant at a safe distance, until they themselves were spotted and, as had happened so many times before, became an alternative centre of attraction. Another sea of white faces, the loneliness and isolation that they engendered, stared at them. The Zulus had become the living, lost in a land of pale shades. But there was no denying the joy that the AmaZulu presence in the heart of iLondon seemed to evoke. Shaba had feared that, as vanquished enemies, they might suffer at the hands of the Fat Queen’s people, though in truth they received such praise that he might almost have imagined themselves the victors. Men appeared, as always, and apparently from nowhere, with the boxes on sticks used to capture images – an invention that Shaba had placed on his list of wonders just below the iron-magic – but which inevitably meant standing motionless for considerable periods and in a variety of locations while the boxes slowly absorbed their light.
Eventually, the box-men tired of them and they were free to go, though not without continuing to be surrounded by admiring crowds that followed them as they passed dirty lakes packed with unhappy waterfowl, and a tiny patch of hard ground from which a pair of disconsolate zebras peered curiously through some bars at their neighbour – that brown variety of the zebra clan, apparently known in all tongues by the noise it makes. Quagga. Then they turned right and came across a fearful thing.
‘What have they done?’ said one of the Zulus. ‘Are these the holes that they spoke of? The holes into which wrong-doers are thrown?’
But it was difficult to understand how ingonyama, the Master of All Flesh, could have infringed the laws of this place. And he was not alone, for behind the neighbouring bars were several females that might have been the lion’s mates.
‘And this one?’ said Amahle. ‘How is this possible?’
Another lion, yet this one stained with stripes of black and white.
‘Sorcery,’ said Shaba, and his belief was confirmed when, a little later, they discovered a wolf, this one brown, but striped also.
They strolled the grounds for a long time, saw rhinoceros, a white bear, antelope of every variety, pelican, giraffe – and a thing that somewhat resembled the giraffe, but with two huge humps in the middle of its back. There was a house of glass too, in which a forest flourished. Another filled with serpents. A third with the overpowering stink of monkey.
‘We should free them,’ Amahle said, beating her hands together, for she had been growing increasingly angered by this strange prison.
‘There is all the space outside in which they could run,’ Shaba replied. ‘But they would never be free. And is it not better that these beasts should give the white folk of iLondon at least a small glimpse of the wonders with which the Sky Lord blesses us each day in our own place? I think I begin to understand now why the AmaNgisi must always be stealing the land of others. For they have no such wonders of their own. I have been envious of their iron-power. Yet I would not trade even that great skill for any single speck of KwaZulu.’
He tried to explain this also, to KaMtigwe and Farini, both of them disappointed that the group had not been more impressed by the visit, but they seemed incapable of comprehension. Yet the two white men rallied somewhat as the party left the grounds to find their carriage.
‘Ah,’ KaMtigwe exclaimed. ‘There. You see it?’ A large piece of paper was stuck on the wall, bright colours, painted words, and an image in the centre, a depiction of Zulu warriors. ‘Our very company.’
*
‘It is an act of unimaginable folly!’ said Annie. ‘And she might not even attend.’
If we had not come up to town for my new kit, thought Carey, I would never have been given this chance.
‘I had it on the best authority that she would be there,’ he said. Incognita, of course. But if the Empress doesn’t attend, we will at worst have wasted the price of entrance and, at best, you may be treated to a fine display of the dangers we faced from the Zulus.’
‘And what of the embarrassment, Jahleel? The ignominy of seeking an audience and being refused?’
‘Worse than this?’ he shouted, waving the note at her.
‘Please!’ Annie implored, glancing towards the door of their room.
He was tempted to say, To hell with the family! But he bit his tongue. Carey did not especially like the Kingston cousins, but they were good enough to provide lodging whenever Annie was in town. And it was her opportunity also, with the children safely in the care of Carey’s sisters at Brixham, to shop against the eventuality of their possible overseas posting. So he owed them that much, at least – these cousins of Annie, all the way from Kingston, Jamaica, to Kingston-upon-Thames. Yet they had the infuriating habit of treating everything in life as though it were an inane jest – including his own present circumstances.
‘I apologise,’ he said, softening his voice. ‘But the damn’d impertinence of them, my dear. Well, they will have my answer. We are in correspondence, after all. It is surely the most natural of things if I find myself in the vicinity of the Empress and take the opportunity of speaking with her in person. About the same matter.’
‘Except that you are not in correspondence with the Empress,’ said Annie, ‘only with her Chamberlain. And even he will not yet have received your reply.’
A note from the Duc de Bassano had arrived the previous week. It was polite in the extreme, as only the recently raised aristocracy could be. His father, the first Duke, had been Bonaparte’s war minister, elevated accordingly, and the present incumbent to the title had served the French Imperial Family, either in power or in exile, for the past sixty years.
Her Imperial Highness, the note explained, was in receipt of a letter purporting to be written by Captain Carey, on the very date upon which the tragic death of her son had occurred. Her Imperial Highness, Bassano hastened to add, had neither solicited a copy of the letter, nor wished to retain it, and would thus happily restore the letter to its author. However, the Chamberlain begged leave to point out, the Empress Eugénie had been saddened to read the newspaper reports, predominantly in the Daily News and the Gaulois, also purporting to quote Captain Carey. Plainly, there were discrepancies between the words in Captain Carey’s private letter and those in the newspaper – the latter expressing certain criticisms and condemnation of the Prince Imperial, alleging that the choice of the fatal camping ground was his alone. The Duc de Bassano was at pains to confirm that Her Imperial Highness set no store by the newspaper reports and was perfectly certain that Captain Carey must have been mis-quoted, that being a common failing of the journalistic profession. Carey was therefore invited to publish a statement refuting the comments attributed to him, since this would serve to eradicate any stain with which the Prince Imperial’s good name may have been impugned.
‘I posted my reply this morning,’ said Carey, and saw his wife shake her head in dismay. ‘His good name, indeed! Well, I have told the fellow, my dear, that I shall refute nothing. And that if they wish to publish private correspondence between myself and my wife, they should feel free to proceed. And damn them all!’
He needed no admonishment this time to remind him of the need for a more subdued tone of voice.
‘Was the letter not mine then?’ said Annie. ‘It was addressed to me, was it not? And if you sent it to me, if the letter was my own, was I not entitled to some discussion about its fate? The contents don’t bother me one iota, Jahleel, but the idea that you should agree the publication of our intimacies without consideration of my feelings…’
‘But the time is ripe, dear heart,’ he interrupted her. ‘Do you not feel the tide turning in my favour? Oh, Chelmsford may have been sweet enough to my face, but in the end it was His Lordship who had personal responsibility for Louis. Not Harrison. Not me. But he has fudged it, just as he fudged the blame for Isandlwana. I may have made mistakes, Annie dearest, but they are surely eclipsed by Chelmsford’s own folly. The public knows it too. All those music hall parodies. Open hostility in the newspapers. Why, I read a piece yesterday that claimed the invasion of Zululand an act of piracy.’
‘That seems a terrible condemnation of all those souls who sacrificed their lives.’
‘The whole thing was badly planned, my sweet,’ he said. ‘If you had only seen how ill-prepared was the army for conditions there.’
‘I think I’ve heard you say as much about each and every campaign,’ said Annie. ‘And now what? The newspapers say we should never have fought the Zulu after all? Then what was it all for?’
‘There was jubilation,’ said Carey, ‘when I arrived in Durban. Jubilation that, with the Zulus now broken, their economy shattered, the Cape would finally have all the labour it needs for the mines, without having to import yet more Hindus and coolies. Was that what it was all about, after all? But the cost, my sweet. The Boers in Durban were talking quite openly about the weakness of our army. So many defeats. They will be the next to challenge us out there, mark my words. And then what? The Russians again? Germany perhaps?’
‘And you blame Chelmsford?’
‘Not just me, Annie. It’s said that Disraeli will not even entertain a meeting with him. Oh, the Queen and Horse Guards may still protect him. But the people, dearest. Public opinion. The majority, I think, now with me. And that’s why, sweet one, I must seize the day. Carpe Deum, my dear. You must trust me on this. A meeting with the Empress may be the very thing.’
‘You will do as you think fit, I suppose’ Annie replied, ‘yet I fear that you are destroying yourself, husband.’
*
‘And how did your blacks take to such a long sea voyage, Major?’ asked one of the journalists. They were fighting each other at the hotel’s entrance in their eagerness to press him with foolish questions.
Fortunately, his charges were now safely ensconced with Farini in their quarters at the Westminster Palace, ideally sited for their needs, with the venue – the Royal Aquarium Theatre – literally across the road on the other side of Tothill Street. McTeague, however, holding the journalists at bay on the front steps, could look comfortably over their heads, past the corner of Victoria Street to the façade of the Westminster School and, to his left, the column memorial to the fallen of the Crimea. Beyond the column, the Abbey itself, in all its glory.
‘In truth,’ he said, ‘one might have believed that they were seamen born and bred.’
‘No sickness then?’
‘None,’ said McTeague, though it was a lie. Poor, sweet little Amahle, how ill she had been. At least she had grown accustomed to the motion by the time they reached Suez, yet the sickness returned with a vengeance both in the Mediterranean and then across Biscay. But he had stayed with her throughout the voyage since she had steadfastly refused to entertain any involvement with the ship’s doctor. And McTeague had to admit that, apart from a genuine desire to care for her, he had been glad of a reason to maintain a safe distance between himself and her brother. For there had been time without number when, in catching Shaba’s eye, he had seen death staring back at him.
‘Since you mention seamen, Major McTeague, there is apparently a rumour,’ said a fellow from the Daily News, ‘that these are not truly Zulus at all – that they are simply black seamen enlisted when you returned to England.’
‘A scurrilous rumour too, sir,’ McTeague retorted. ‘My associate, Mister Behrens, had the foresight to compile a statement detailing the names and description for each of our eight Zulus. It was signed, gentlemen, by every single passenger and crew member on board the Balmoral Castle.’
‘And could you describe, Major,’ cried another, ‘the mail packet’s reception at Southampton?’
‘I can only tell you,’ said McTeague, ‘that one of your colleagues – from the Portsmouth Evening News, I believe – estimated the spectators on the quayside at more than twenty thousand.’
