The Kraals of Ulundi, page 50
‘Your Grace,’ he said, ‘you mention the word slur. Yet it is myself that has been wronged here. I have simply endeavoured to tell the truth.’
‘Of course, Captain. But which truth would that be, precisely? The truth contained in the letter to Mrs Carey – the choice of a camping ground your own responsibility? Or the truth given in evidence at your Court Martial – a simple twist of fate? Or the truth that you saw fit to impart within the newspapers – that the responsibility rested with that poor young man? A young man, I need not add, who is tragically no longer here to provide his own testimony.’
‘I feel his loss more keenly than most, sir,’ said Carey. And so he did. He understood also that, at times, there is more than one truth. No definitive certainty. What was it he had said? ‘A shame though, that we can’t take a closer look at the terrain down there. More of an adventure too, perhaps.’ Hardly a decision. Nor an instruction. But had he deliberately tempted Louis with the word adventure? He was no longer sure. And the Prince’s response? ‘Eh bien, Carey. This is such a dull place. And if we need to take a closer look, well, there is a kraal down there.’ Hardly a formal acquiescence either. But it had happened, perhaps with both of them to blame. Perhaps with neither.
‘Yes, I am certain that you must,’ said the Duke. ‘But we are speaking here of your letter, Captain. Publish and be damn’d indeed. Yet you added a codicil, did you not? To the effect that if Her Imperial Highness was satisfied with your response, perhaps she might prefer to let matters rest. Well, sir, I can tell you that the Empress is far from satisfied.’ Carey felt his heart drop. ‘But she has still come to the same conclusion,’ Bassano continued. She sees no useful purpose in exchanging further correspondence with you, and agrees that the issue should now remain mute. A reciprocal arrangement, I trust?’
Carey chewed his lip. What should he do?
‘Do I have any choice, Your Grace? I am guilty of nothing, sir. Nothing. I seek only to clear my own good name. And, by Heaven, no Carey has ever resorted to begging for mercy or forgiveness.’
‘Forgiveness, Captain?’ said Bassano. ‘For what? And from whom? Her Imperial Highness can hardly be expected to forgive the death of her son, regardless of its circumstances. But if you mean to ask whether she blames you, I can tell you that she does not.’ Relief flooded through Carey. She does not? he thought. And I may use that, so long as I do not attribute the thing? Lord be praised, I think this may be settled at last. He smiled, and Bassano raised an eyebrow. ‘She does not blame you, Captain,’ he said. ‘She absolves you. But she pities you, for she now knows that you are the sort of fellow who will cripple himself following a false crusade. Do you know Corinthians, sir? “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.” You must learn to be honest with yourself, my young friend – as honest as that warrior we just met.’
Carey took his leave, unable to continue the conversation, unsure whether they had reached a resolution. He was unsure too about the Zulu. Could it in truth be the same man? The one who had raised Louis’s sword above his head in such triumph? He should confront the fellow, surely? Or perhaps confront was the wrong word. Commune with him, perhaps. For did they not share that very twist of fate that Bassano had mentioned? It was a dizzying thought. And he was disorientated still further by the crowds pouring towards him through the theatre foyer, the audience arriving for this evening’s show – a show that Carey could no longer bring himself to watch. He would come back another time, perhaps. Speak to this Zulu as well. Find out if he was genuinely the same one.
‘My dear!’ Annie called to him. She had been sheltering from the rain that had begun to fall outside. ‘Did you have your audience, then?’
‘I did indeed,’ he said.
‘And it went well?’
‘Yes, well enough,’ he lied. ‘I think we may finally be able to put all that behind us now. But would you mind terribly if we returned to Kingston? It’s been a taxing day. And I have some further news. For I’ve heard from the Colonel. The note arrived just after you left. He’s approved my application that you might accompany the regiment to Malta and then, all being well, to India. Is that not remarkable? Imagine, Annie, a cool hill-station for yourself and the children while your poor husband suffers the heat and privations of Karachi. A new beginning for us, dear heart.’
But even as he spoke the words, a shadow clouded his mind. Surely this time the Almighty would not pull the rug from beneath him!
*
McTeague had made a terrible rod for his own shoulders. He could hear the crowd filling the auditorium but here, back-stage, the Zulus remained as intransigent as ever.
‘Is it true, or not,’ Amahle’s brother was asking, ‘that another of these showmen has offered us a better contract?’
McTeague turned to his wife. ‘My dear one,’ he said, ‘you must assist me. I have already explained this several times. The offer has not yet been confirmed. It is unhelpful to press the thing at this point.’
‘Then perhaps your words were better unspoken,’ said Shaba. ‘But in truth they make little difference. We will not perform for the American tonight unless he writes another of his papers, this time promising more gold. And also to give back the white men’s clothes. He will not treat us either like slaves or children.’
‘Brother,’ said Amahle, ‘I think my husband is correct. Better to perform this night and then negotiate.’
‘Have we not learned,’ Shaba said bitterly, ‘that there is no way to trust them? We will see the gold and the clothes first, perform later.’
The stage-hands were busy with their preparations, placing scenery and equipment, though with little enthusiasm, their attention focused more on the Zulus.
‘Get on with your work, damn you!’ Farini hissed at them, making an enraged entrance, Behrens at his back, up the wing stairs.
‘Ah, Bill!’ said McTeague. ‘I was just explaining that if the chaps perform tonight, we can perhaps discuss their grievances in the morning.’
‘They have a contract, Major. They will perform. There’ll be no grievances. And what’s that fellow saying?’ Farini pointed at Shaba. He had still not heeded McTeague’s many warnings that such a gesture was impolite in the extreme.
‘He’s suggesting that they should use the legal system to settle the matter. Let one of the Fat Queen’s judges decide. Those were his actual words.’
‘Decide what?’ said Farini. ‘This nonsense about better offers again?’
‘The question of their pay,’ said McTeague. ‘They seem to think they’re being short-changed.’
‘The wages are fair, Major,’ Behrens stepped forward. ‘And these others who now seem so desperate to have their own Zulu shows. Who are they? Sanger’s? The Gaiety? The Oxford maybe? Well, none of them troubled to go out to the Cape themselves, did they? And I explained those contracts fair and square before we ever left Zululand. Then set them in writing on the ship. Remind them of that, Major.’
McTeague did so, though he chose his own placatory words carefully.
‘And what is your view, husband?’ said Amahle. ‘After all, it was you who brought us word of these new offers.’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That is true. And right is clearly on our side here. But I fear that the English courts would not find in our favour.’
The Zulus hummed like a hive of angry hornets.
‘Then where is the Fat Queen’s justice?’ said Shaba.
‘What are they saying?’ said Farini. ‘Dammit, Major, we’re paying you good money here to sort out this kind of thing. I had it on the best authority that you were the man for this job.’
‘It seems to me that some form of compromise may be necessary, sir,’ McTeague replied. ‘Just so we can get the show on the road. And it does no harm to excite these fellows a little. Just imagine how fearsome they’ll seem, taking the stage in this mood.’
‘Compromise, Major? Here’s my compromise. If anybody wants to go back to the Cape, I’ll pay their passage gladly. If anybody else wants to stay in London but leave the show, that’s fine by me too. Not without them signing a new contract though, to the effect that they won’t work in any other theatre. For those that stay, there’ll be no more pay than I’ve already offered. But if the show’s a success, and we take it on to America, why sir, that’s the Land of Plenty and I’ll guarantee them a new deal before we go, an extra ten percent.’
McTeague explained to the Zulus.
‘And the clothes?’ said Shaba.
‘He wants to know about the outdoor clothes, Bill,’ said McTeague.
Farini nodded, though his mouth was twisted by reluctance and suppressed anger.
‘Then we will perform,’ said Shaba. ‘For the choices are poor. The journey home would be dangerous for any travelling alone. And they say that those left on these streets of iLondon are led only to the house of work that we saw yesterday, where they are left to die, even your women and children. We do not like the promises of more gold tomorrow, KaMtigwe. But my sister says we should trust these men. For now, at least.’
Relief followed McTeague as he took his place in the box reserved for the management team, though he had the thing to himself when the show began, Farini needing to make the necessary appearances on stage, and Behrens preferring to be down there too, in the thick of the action. So he surveyed this impressive hall. The roof of glass and iron. The palm trees and fountains. The thirteen enormous tanks that gave the Aquarium its name, even though they had never actually been filled with the exotic sea creatures for which they were intended. Seating for seven hundred, every seat filled tonight. Every single seat. And Farini played each of them for all it was worth. He employed a questionable Spanish accent – he was now fully in the part of Guillermo Antonio Farini – into which he had even lapsed in the presence of the Empress Eugénie. Well, why not? thought McTeague. The dear lady is Spanish by birth, after all.
At the climax of the show, Farini promised, he would walk the tightrope above their very heads, from balcony to balcony, carrying a fully-grown-man on each shoulder. But first there was the female human cannonball, the beautiful Zazel. And La Niña Farini – acrobatic miracles performed by Guillermo Farini’s own daughter. How shocked they would be, mused McTeague, to discover that this lace-frilled nymph with the shapely legs is really a lad? He had never quite fathomed the nature of the strange relationship, for the boy was certainly no natural kin to Farini, and Behrens refused to be drawn on the subject. But the audience sat restlessly through it all. For this was not specifically what they had come to see.
McTeague, too, was impatient for the Zulus’ performance. He prayed to the Almighty that nothing else might go wrong, that Amahle’s brother was behaving himself down there. Will he ever get over his hatred for me? he wondered. He liked the fellow, was pleased that he could claim surrogate credit, through Maria Mestiza, for improving Shaba’s eyesight. And then the lights went down, the hall falling to silence that spun on until a red sun finally rose in the distance to silhouette a thorn bush, a trio of giraffes that moved ponderously from right to left against the background noise of crickets, a dim drumbeat and, finally, the familiar sound – to McTeague’s ears at least – of spear shafts on shield hide, far away, but drawing closer, a locomotive rattling across points, the first strains of native voices in harmonious singing, becoming louder until, finally, the sounds trailed away. There was silence again. Then, suddenly, the Zulus were among them, a group on each flank of the hall.
‘Ji! Ji! Ji!’ they cried, and stamped forward until they were almost among the terrified spectators.
They stopped.
‘USuthu!’ they yelled, all together, raising their stabbing spears in salute towards the now invisible glass ceiling, then towards the stage. And here came Amahle, in a swirl of diaphanous red, of multi-coloured beads, black hide kilt and scarlet top-knot, leaping and spinning while the warriors danced forward along the side aisles to join her on the stage. McTeague was filled with pride. Well, he thought, she has recovered at last from the voyage. She even seemed to be gaining some weight once more. And no bad thing!
The show was going well, the stage-hands now bringing archery targets from the wings. They had debated using uniformed mannequins but finally decided that this might exceed the boundaries of good taste. But the spear-throwing was impressive enough as it stood, each of the warriors demonstrating his deadly skill until the performance reached its climax. The part McTeague dreaded. For two of the Zulus dragged Amahle forward. The singing stopped and there was a pretence at tying her to the target, her arms spread apart.
There were gasps from the audience as Shaba crossed to the very farthest edge of the stage, across from McTeague’s vantage point.
‘Ji!’ shouted the warriors as Shaba’s first throwing spear rose, vibrated and hummed, buried itself in the straw.
McTeague could not see from here exactly the margin by which the blade had missed his wife, but he knew from the rehearsals that it would only be a matter of inches. Probably just as well, he thought, that the Empress did not stay to watch after all. He had wondered whether there might be some profit for him in divulging to her that the warrior she seemed determined to eventually seek in Zululand was, in fact, already here. But he had decided in the end to keep Shaba’s secret safe – for the time being, at least.
More gasps, a few screams, from the front stalls.
‘USuthu!’ the warriors yelled.
Shaba’s second spear hammered into the narrow gap between Amahle’s knees, and McTeague saw her glance over her shoulder, searching for him. He knew she could not see him, but there was fear in her eyes that seemed to exceed that which the drama required. Amahle’s brother was backing across the boards, readying the third spear, while the rest of the troupe chanted encouragement. My memory is failing, thought McTeague. Or perhaps it’s the heat in here. The curse of old age! For he could not recall this element from the rehearsals. It was familiar enough, however. A piece of praise poetry to old Cetshwayo.
‘UCetshwayo kaMpande!’ cried Shaba.
‘UMahlangeni Khumalo!’ the others chanted back.
And then this? Their hymn to the iNkatha, surely.
‘iNkatha yeSizwe yaKwaZulu!’ they sang in harmony.
McTeague saw Shaba take three quick steps, almost running, towards the orchestra pit, ignoring Amahle entirely. The warrior halted, pointed the narrow blade towards McTeague’s box.
Bless the boy! he thought. He’s saluting me.
‘USuthu!’ Shaba yelled, and drew back his throwing arm.
McTeague half rose from his seat.
Surely not…
There was that damn’d tourniquet around his chest again. He sat down once more, heavily, the vibrant colours of Amahle’s costume swimming to a faded grey beyond which his vision failed to focus. But there seemed to be foliage all about him, dripping wet and steaming. Where was he? Honduras, perhaps. Yes, there was no question. For Maria Mestiza was there too. ‘Why not Amahle?’ he pleaded to the Almighty. A tear cooled his burning cheek. He did not want to be here without Amahle. It was too empty. He was too alone. Too afraid. But beggars, he knew, could not be choosers. And there, at least, was Maria. On the crest of the steep slope above him. He tried to climb towards her, for there was a patch of clear sky just above her head. But the jungle was too dense. It raged inside his head, like pounding surf. He wanted to give up, surrender to that leafy embrace. “It is God that girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect.” He felt the Holy Spirit fill him, and he began to claw his way upwards, kicking against that damp earth. I shall break free, he thought.
A voice behind him provided the welcome excuse to rest, for the pain beneath his armpits was almost intolerable now. Yet he knew he could not rest for long. There was something he had to do. Climb out! Climb out! McTeague looked back, saw the man far down there, at the bottom of this interminable slope. It took a moment to recognise the cove but, when he did, it was with some relief. Yes, Honduras. Of course. And here is Commissioner Rhys come to find me.
As quickly as he had felt the Holy Spirit fill him, so it emptied him again. Some warm gush of his soul down the back of his legs. The surf pounded still louder, and McTeague fell backwards, knowing that this time there would be no coming back. He kept on falling, down into the jungle dark, until the patch of sky above Maria’s head grew smaller, smaller yet, then closed. And closed forever.
*
It was worth it, thought Shaba, to see the fear on the white man’s face. KaMtigwe had stayed there, fixed, motionless, throughout the final moments of the performance. He could have thrown, of course, skewered the fat fellow. But it was enough to frighten him a little. And he needed time to think, in any case. For the truth was that Amahle’s news had shaken him somewhat. There would be a child to consider now, and regardless of his views about KaMtigwe, his commitment to the Great King, to ensure that the white man paid for his betrayal of the iNkatha with his life – the price of Amahle’s acquittal from blame, of course – it was another matter to leave her babe fatherless. Even a worthless white father, he reasoned, must be better than no father at all.
So he had sprung backwards, into the leopard leap, cast the spear in mid-turn, so that it quivered into the target just beside Amahle’s ear. And the crowd had erupted, shouting and screaming, slapping their hands together until they must surely have bled. Yes, he thought, I enjoyed that. It was a good moment. The Americans led them from the stage, talking loudly but unintelligibly. They needed KaMtigwe to translate but he had not come down yet, so the man who called himself Nat, the large American, took them out through a side door. Yet even here there were people swarming around them, men with small blocks of paper, the writing pencils too, who shouted all at the same time, shouted at the man, Nat.
‘Are you happy, brother?’ said Amahle.
‘I see you, sister,’ he replied. ‘And yes, I am happy. I think the Americans can easily be persuaded to pay us more gold after this. We will have great wealth to take back with us.’
