The Kraals of Ulundi, page 8
‘Kill the whites! Kill the whites!’ chanted the warriors, and Cetshwayo made no move to still them as he led the way down to the upper section of the open enclosure, its inner gateway now guarded by a pair of seven-pounder Rifled Muzzle-Loader field pieces which had once belonged to a two-gun section of ‘N’ Battery, British Army 5th Artillery Brigade, the bones of their bombardiers still bleaching on the slopes of eSandlwana.
‘Tell him that he shall live,’ said Cetshwayo, ‘so long as he carries my message to Chelmsford.’ Scattered about his feet lay the evidence of the Zulu attempts to operate the guns, the leather harnesses with which they had been manoeuvred, a variety of different shells, the percussion caps that they had tried to use in place of the proper friction detonator tubes. Cetshwayo raised his voice, his regal demeanour restored, so that the regiments would hear him. He projected his voice in that way that McTeague so admired among these people, for it rose on the thin end of summer air, danced upon the dun-coloured slopes that set emaHlabithini in this natural amphitheatre. ‘Tell the Frenchman he must let Chelmsford know that we have the mbayimbayi. It is a great dishonour that Chelmsford should have lost them. But I shall return them as a sign of our good faith. And two hundred head of cattle. Also in good faith. Because too many of our young men have died on both sides. He will tell Chelmsford it is time to make peace. He will tell Chelmsford it is time for him to leave our lands. He will tell Chelmsford that only death awaits him if he does not do so.’
‘USuthu!’ shouted the warriors, and McTeague recognised it as the war cry of Cetshwayo’s personal followers, used when they killed in his name, but serving also as a badge of collective pride, of supremacy, of wealth and well-being.
The Dutchman relayed the King’s words and hope flared in Grandier’s rheumy eyes.
‘I will take the message,’ he croaked, as Cetshwayo’s mahogany throne was carried from the royal dwelling and set firmly between the guns, a blanket-wrapped bundle of rifles, ammunition cases also, laid alongside. The King settled himself squarely upon the seat, signalled for the noise to subside. His high councillors likewise settled around Cetshwayo. He shared some amusing observation with them, issued some whispered instruction to First Minister Mnyamana. The old fellow stood, dutifully.
‘Mayile!’ he shouted. ‘Mayile!’
And the women crowded forward, to form the beginnings of a circle and, with apparently total spontaneity, at the same time started to clap a steady rhythm, half singing a simple refrain to which the rest provided a melodious response.
Good Lord above, forgive this sinner, thought McTeague, but these are handsome beauties.
The only concession of the Zulu women to anything resembling western modesty was the piece of dressed ox-hide or cloth that they fastened about their waists. For the rest, to McTeague’s eyes, they were admirably naked. Many wore a red top-knot on the back of their heads and he believed that these were the married women, or perhaps those available for marriage. Maybe both, for some of them carried children strapped to their backs. He had a fine collection of wives already, of course. But always room for a few more, he thought. Especially when you see them like this.
Maria would not be happy. She was never happy when he took new wives. Not jealousy, of course. She thought of herself more as his bodyguard than anything else. More a business partner than a conjugal spouse. But she rejected any notion that he might genuinely love her, happily grasped the fact that his other women were more a product of his lust for them than his affection, and saw yet more additions to his household merely as an irritating encumbrance. She could generally be pacified, however, with the argument that great chiefs measured status by the number of wives that they possessed. And, while the complement of his own harem may now have surpassed a dozen, he was still sadly deficient compared to his rival, John Dunn. How many does the fellow have now? Forty? Forty-five. I’ve damn’d well lost count.
‘Tomorrow,’ Cetshwayo was saying, ‘we shall also send emissaries to the amaBalobedu. To their Rain Queen. We will ask her to send a great flood, like in your bible, KaMtigwe. A flood that will trap the red soldiers in mud. And once they are trapped…’
*
McTeague watched the warrior receive his rewards. And few others had received recognition this day. No willow wand necklaces. No regiment of note.
‘But this man,’ shouted the King, ‘is Tshabanga, son of Ndabuko the Iron-Maker. When the rest of you were running away, this one stopped to use his rifle. He used it to kill a mighty induna of the red soldiers. A giant among their ranks. So, from this day forward, he shall be entitled to use the honour name, Giant Slayer. Come forward, Tshabanga, Giant Slayer, son of Ndabuko.’ The young man moved hesitantly, tall and stick-thin, with just one good eye. The other, the left, was milky, blind. He knelt at Cetshwayo’s feet, received a modern Martini-Henry rifle that the King took from the blanket. ‘You will use this to kill more of the whites,’ he continued, ‘and you shall have five cattle from the royal herd as tribute for your deeds.’
The warrior’s face glowed with pride as he stretched out his hands to receive the weapon, careful to keep his gaze averted from that of his lord and master. But as he edged backwards, returning to the short line of others waiting to receive the King’s favour, he could not resist lifting the rifle towards the sky.
‘USuthu!’ he yelled, and the regiments took up the cry.
‘There is this also,’ said Cetshwayo, ‘that our true friend, KaMtigwe, for the loyal service that he continues to give us, shall be granted another wife from those eligible for marriage. Know, People of Heaven, that he has my blessing and protection. For he has counselled well today.’
He must have been reading my mind, thought McTeague. Bless him. Need to take it steady this time though. Wife number thirteen had given him a considerable amount of satisfaction but he had paid something of a price for his pleasure. Chest pains. Excruciating. A distinct shortness of breath. Debilitated for days afterwards.
Maria Mestiza invoked some Miskito curse while the Dutchman gave him a look of such contempt that McTeague was uncertain whether it was driven by envy or pure Calvinism. Well, I shall atone to God in my usual way, he thought. And I shall, naturally, follow the requirements of Exodus 21:10. ‘If he takes him another wife, her food, her raiment and her duty of marriage he shall not diminish.’ Well, I never have. Diminished any of those things, that is. He was feeling pleased with himself and thus almost missed the heated exchange that was taking place between Cetshwayo and Chief Ntshingwayo. McTeague caught enough of the words to know that the hero of eSandlwana was complaining bitterly about the King’s decision to honour this white interloper, about the fact that it was the izikhulu, the Council of Ministers, that had been responsible for the forthcoming change of strategy, not this glass-eye and his Witch Woman. But, unfortunately for Ntshingwayo, the King recalled that he was also responsible for the disaster at eKhambule, and he waved him aside.
‘Know this too!’ Cetshwayo continued. ‘That there shall be no more useless attacks on the white men’s camps. In future, if any disobey this order, they shall see me. And I will be the last thing they shall see. In future, if we must fight them, we fight only on ground of our choosing. I hope that their iNkosi, Chelmsford, will see reason now, when we offer to return the mbayimbayi. That he will sue for peace. But, meanwhile, we shall sting them like the gnat. We will form new companies of scouts. Brave men like Tshabanga kaNdabuko, Tshabanga the Giant Slayer, taken from each of the regiments and working together. They will be chosen men. A chosen induna to lead them too. The bravest of my brave. They will follow the rivers, these swarms. And the hidden valleys. They will be always in the shadow of the whites whenever they try to move. Biting them again and again until, finally, we shall catch them in the open, spread too thinly to build their walls, to laager their wagons. On that day, if Chelmsford and his Fat Queen have not sought to make peace, we will destroy them.’
There seemed no end to the dancing, though the sky remained unblemished, not even a hint of precipitation. Perhaps when they send to the Rain Queen, McTeague mused, and wondered whether the Lord might accept a prayer from himself to supplement the dancers’ efforts. How would that go? he wondered. A prayer from the most devout of His servants to aid the Heathen. And, throughout, Cetshwayo sat still and attentive, as though he too had sprung entire from the mahogany. He only seemed distracted on the occasions when Ntshingwayo, or one of the other chieftains, ventured to engage the King in heated debate, attempted to persuade him to some alternative viewpoint on the war’s conduct.
McTeague took advantage of one such propitious diversion to move closer towards the Dutchman, leaning across Maria Mestiza so that Cornelius Vijn would hear him clearly. At the same time, he clutched the sleeve of Ernest Grandier’s tattered uniform shirt.
‘Tell him, Dutchie,’ said McTeague, ‘that when he takes the message to Chelmsford about the guns, he must take another one too.’
Vijn looked quickly towards Cetshwayo, like a nervous child afraid of being caught in another’s classroom mischief.
‘Can we trust him?’ said the Dutchman.
‘He speaks no Zulu and barely any English,’ hissed McTeague. ‘Personally, I would be more concerned about whether we can trust you, Dutchie.’
Maria Mestiza caressed the bone handle of her hunting knife.
‘The Dutchman knows,’ she said, ‘that he has more to fear from Maria Cuchilla than from a hundred Zulus. ¿Verdad, Dutchie?’
‘We are all in this together,’ said Cornelius Vijn. ‘But be quick. What is your message?’
‘Tell him,’ said McTeague, ‘to make sure Chelmsford knows that he has friends in Cetshwayo’s camp. That it is Major McTeague who will make sure his guns are returned. McTeague who will deliver Cetshwayo to him, if he wishes.’
The Dutchman looked uncertain but he whispered the message anyway, in rapid French, while the dancers finally completed their ritual and Cetshwayo returned to his hut.
McTeague eased himself to his feet, rubbed at cramped muscles, just as somebody touched his back, caught him by surprise, caused him to straighten too quickly, a spasm of pain in his spine, the monocle falling from his eye.
‘What the…’ He spun around, found himself confronted by a warrior, pinched face scarred in several places, a thin wisp of beard sprouting from his chin. But his most startling characteristic was the way in which he held McTeague’s own gaze. Like a damn’d European, he thought.
‘I see you, iNkosi,’ said the warrior, in broken English.
For a moment, McTeague thought about the message he had passed to Grandier, wondered if they had been overheard. But the Zulu’s demeanour seemed to pose no threat.
‘I am here, warrior of the Skirmishers,’ he replied. He was rewarded with a sly smile. An informed guess, for the fellow was probably in his mid-thirties, unmarried, and his shield was black cow-hide without markings. So almost certainly from the ibutho which they called uNokhenke, the Skirmishers. ‘You have excellent English,’ he continued, spreading the words slowly, like honey over bread.
‘I was raised by the Dutch,’ said the warrior. ‘But now I am indeed numbered among the uNokhenke.’ He changed idiom, spoke now in IsiZulu. ‘And is it true, iNkosi, that you can choose your new wife from any of the women ready for marriage?’
‘The Great King normally takes delight in selecting on my behalf. Naturally, he has never made a poor choice.’
Maria Mestiza spat a Miskito obscenity at McTeague, a wicked jibe at his virility, and the Zulu turned towards her, uncomprehending but averting his eyes, at least, from the Witch Woman.
‘I know a woman who is available,’ he continued. ‘A very beautiful woman. She could bear you sons, iNkosi.’
Sons, thought McTeague. There were already children, of course. Many children. Black children. So much for Maria Mestiza’s taunt, then. But no sons. Strange, yet there it was.
‘And this woman,’ he said, ‘you are sure that she is beautiful?’
‘Like the most wondrous of our Nguni cattle, Lord. A hide of golden brown. Docile yet intelligent. Fertile and free from disease.’
‘Your sister, perhaps?’
‘No, iNkosi, not my sister.’
‘Cousin then? Or a niece?’
‘Not a member of my family, Lord, though part of my household now.’
‘How so?’ said McTeague. ‘And if she is merely a member of your household, how might you prosper from this?’
‘The war will not last forever, iNkosi,’ said the warrior. ‘And when it is over, I think that many things may have changed. They say that gold may soon be more valuable than cattle. And they say that you have much gold, Lord. You will see that this woman is worth much gold. We can agree a price for her, if you wish it. The woman was pledged to me. As collateral. In a wager. A wager placed by that same fellow you saw earlier, swaggering in the light of the honour that our Great King bestowed upon him. Tshabanga the Giant Slayer. He lost the wager, iNkosi.’
Chapter Four
Wednesday 16th April 1879
Nightmare visions of Umdeni’s death returned to him every time he slept. The red soldiers. The rise and fall of the musket butt. His friend’s blood and brains upon the rocks. The valour with which Umdeni had faced his last moments.
It was Shaba’s own fault, he now realised.
He had wished for too much. He had been greedy, like Gingile the Hunter in the story from his childhood. Kwasuka sukela… Once upon a time, Gingile had heard the call of Ngede, the Greater Honeyguide, and – as was the custom – followed the little bird when it led him to a great fig tree where it settled on a branch. The bird cocked its head, singing. ‘Chitik, chitik, chitik,’ it cried. ‘Come now! Here it is.’ So Gingile made a fire stick, climbed with it to the hive, used the burning brand to drive out the bees and, when they had left, drew out heavy handfuls of the dripping honeycomb full of grubs. Juicy and white.
Ngede the Honeyguide waited patiently on the branch for its normal reward, since hunters – human or otherwise – always left the little bird an offering. Some of the waxy comb, full of the larval bees. It had always been thus. But on this particular day, Gingile had simply taken all the spoils, laughing at Ngede’s protests and returning to his homestead.
Then, weeks later, Gingile had once again heard the call of the Honeyguide, remembered the sweetness of the honey he had gathered, and watched as the bird settled in an umbrella thorn to sing its tune. He made a fire stick once more, gripped it between his teeth so that he could climb into the tree, while Ngede sat and watched him. But there was no buzz of bees this day, so Gingile climbed higher and, as he did so, he came face to face with a leopard sleeping in the branches. Gingile screamed, woke and startled the beast. The leopard swiped at him with her paw, claws slicing across his forehead so that he fell backwards out of the tree.
Gingile had been lucky that the leopard could not be bothered pursuing him, so he managed to drag his broken body back home. He would carry the scars upon his forehead forever more, and would never again follow the Honeyguide. But his children, his children’s children, all the way down to Tshabanga kaNdabuko, would hear the tale and learn respect for the little bird. They would know that, when there is honey to be harvested, you should never be too greedy, you should always leave a little to share with those to whom you owe your fortune, to give them the thanks they deserve.
Well, he thought, as soon as we have taken this white man back to his friends, and I have received the cattle from the Great King, I will make an offering to the ancestors, take home my new wealth and give one of the beasts to my father.
*
He did not understand the whites at the best of times, but he understood this one even less. He belonged to the AmaFulentshi, a tribe that were neighbours to the English and Dutch – great rivals and often at war with each other, though Shaba could discern little difference between any of them.
‘They say that they were nearly a great people,’ he said to the others around him while they shared porridge as the awakening sun smeared carmine streaks against the last grey clouds of night.
‘Creatures like that one?’ said the Company’s induna, Mnukwa.
‘Perhaps he is a bad example,’ Shaba replied. ‘A stunted calf. Like those produced when a bull is kept for too long, and covers his own daughters.’
‘And who says they were nearly great?’ said another of the warriors, Langalabelele. He spoke with the slow drawl of his district. ‘These AmaFulentshi.’
‘It was the German preacher, Volker,’ said Shaba. ‘He came to Hluhluwe, six winters ago. Seeking followers for his iNkosi, Jesucristo. He said that the AmaFulentshi had recently fought a war against his own people. The AmaFulentshi had been beaten very badly. It was the end of them. The preacher, Volker, said that the AmaFulentshi are finished now.’ Shaba suddenly regarded their captive in a new light. Some sense of empathy. He pitied him. ‘But he told us,’ he continued, ‘that their King, who was called Napole…’ – Shaba pronounced the strange word with great care, ‘…that he was the nephew of another with the same name who had been King long before. That this other was a great legend. Who always wore an enormous hat. Who had only one arm. But who had led great hordes of warriors in blue coats that swept all before them, conquered many lands.’
‘But not the lands of the AmaZulu,’ said Mnukwa.
‘No,’ said Shaba. ‘Not these lands.’
‘And did this preacher for Jesucristo find many followers at your homestead, Giant Slayer?’ asked Langalabelele.
‘Not many,’ Shaba replied. Though he found a few, he thought. And he remembered the one who had become a kholwa, changed his name to Joseph, later accused of being a poisoner by some of the old women in the village. They had dragged the fellow out one day when the missionary was visiting. So he could see, they said, the evil of the Jesucristo followers. And they had burned him with fire sticks – like those used by Gingile to frighten the bees – until Joseph had confessed his crimes. The preacher had offered them cattle in exchange for Joseph’s life and it had seemed that the offer would be accepted. But while the missionary was negotiating with Shaba’s father, the women had dragged Joseph to the river, thrown him to the crocodiles, calling him ‘kaffir’, the way the whites did whenever they sneered at the People of Heaven – and all the other folk of these lands.
