Hervey 10 - Warrior (30 page)

Hervey looked at him, almost perturbed. 'Beneath my breath, or so I'd thought.'

'We have known each other for a long time.'

'Indeed.' He broke into a smile.

Somervile shook his head as he turned once more to the prospect before them. 'A charnel house. Was there ever such a processional! I confess it troubles me.'

'You are not contemplating withdrawal?'

Somervile paused before answering. 'I am not. I am merely contemplating the meaning of it.'

Hervey was accustomed to the frequent ellipses in his old friend's manner of speaking. Ordinarily he was not troubled by it, but in the face of a potentially hostile multitude, he was not inclined to humour him long. 'Do I have your permission to deploy the troop into line?'

'Do you need it?'

Hervey sighed again, and with some consternation. 'I do not need it when it is a matter of military necessity, but I see no cause to deploy if you are to tell me you have no intention of proceeding!'

Somervile did not answer immediately, looking long at the kraal. 'I do not wish you to come in with me,' he said abruptly. 'Eggs, baskets . . .'

'Insupportable,' replied Hervey at once.

The lieutenant-governor turned to him. 'I need hardly add that I may make it an order. You shall have it in writing if that is what troubles you.'

Hervey blinked. 'Somervile, you're speaking to
me,
not to someone new-come from the Horse Guards!'

'I know that,' replied his old friend calmly. 'That is why I cannot have you come into the kraal with me. If anything should happen . . .'

'May I remind you that it is on the assumption that something might happen that you are furnished with an escort, which I have the honour of commanding. And strictly speaking, I'm not sure that any but General Bourke could relieve me of that duty.'

Somervile began to look resigned. 'I had merely thought . . . I have Emma, and the children, you are but new married, and . . .'

Hervey cursed. Did Somervile not imagine that he, too, had such thoughts from time to time? But then he chided himself: Somervile had so often shown both appetite and aptitude for the soldier's art that it was too easy to imagine he was of the profession.

'Come,' he said, resolved. 'Let my dragoons make a bit of a splash along this ridge, and we shall walk under their gaze into the lion's den.'

Somervile turned and looked at him, studiously. 'The lion's den?' Hervey returned his gaze, but quizzical. 'A not uncommon figurative expression. And that is what his name means, does it not?
Shaka
– lion?'

Somervile's brow furrowed beneath the peak of his straw hat, but his eyes displayed his incredulity just as surely. 'Where did you learn that?'

'I don't rightly recall. I . . .'

'I'm disappointed, Hervey. As a rule you have such a facility with native tongues.'

Hervey sighed, conceding his error. 'Evidently not in that of the Zulu.
Shaka
is not a word for "lion"?'

'Intestinal beetle.'

He laughed. Campaigning was a hard business, but not always grim. '
Beetle?
'

'Shaka was born out of wedlock, which many believe to have been his driving shame – that and the harsh treatment of his mother. When Nandi appeared to be with child she protested that it was merely
I-Shaka,
the beetle which suppressed the menses.'

'I wonder he did not change his name to something nobler.'

'He had no need. The Zulu have a custom –
hlonipa,
which, if you do not know it,' (he said this with a certain wryness) 'means "modesty" – whereby they devise another word for the everyday where it is also the name of a warrior of rank.'

Hervey shook his head in mock disbelief, and in admiration of Somervile's learning. '
Huzoor,
do I have your leave to carry on?'

'Carry on.'

He turned in the saddle to see where was Brereton, but he was not in his place at the head of the troop. He beckoned forward Cornet Kemmis instead. 'The troop leader?'

'He fell rear, Colonel; to speak with the sar'nt-major.'

Hervey frowned. There was nothing so very wrong in Brereton's falling to the rear, except that if he wanted to speak with the serjeant-major he could as well have summoned him forward. And when they halted, he ought to have come forward again at once in expectation of orders . . . 'Have the troop form line. We shall make our approach from here. You understood the design?'

'Perfectly, Colonel.'

Hervey nodded, then turned forward in the saddle again. Kemmis's answer was confident, and one in which he, Hervey, at once had confidence. A cornet not long out of the military college possessed of a more natural air of command than his captain, ten years his senior – these things were unaccountable.

Up came Welsh. 'Riflemen all ready, Colonel.'

By which he meant loaded. The dragoons, on the other hand, would have more time to make ready their carbines, and so Hervey intended keeping them unprimed; there was no more damnable a business than having to draw unused charges, or risking accidental discharge (this was no time for a spark in the brushwood, literally or otherwise).

He gave the executive order.

The troop fronted with impressive speed, and the riflemen formed skirmish line at the foot of the rise, dismounting and standing steady, waiting for the lieutenant-governor's party to begin their procession to the
sango.

Hervey nodded, well pleased. He reckoned that
any
observer would be impressed by the handiness of his little force. The Zulu had their regularity, the feathers, the animal skins, the cowhides of the war shields, but a line of blue coats and white-covered shakos: altogether different. And if they had heard of Umtata, how they must respect the rifle, the sabre, and the fleetness of the horse.

Somervile's party advanced without speaking.

The skulls of two gigantic bull elephants atop crudely carved baobab pillars marked the saluting point. A guard of honour – Fasimba – lined the swept path to the entrance.

Shaka's chamberlain, Mbopa, shorter by head and shoulders than any of the Fasimba, and markedly stouter, came out from the kraal.

The party dismounted.

Fairbrother, with only a little assistance from Mbopa's interpreter, a man of indeterminate but very mixed blood, presented the King's respects, and explained that they brought with them but small tokens of that esteem in advance of many more substantial ones.

Mbopa assured them that Shaka was aware of the King's respect, and that they would enjoy his hospitality for as long as they wished it. They would first eat and drink, and then be brought into his royal presence.

Somervile spoke a few words in return, all politeness, intending to convey the dignity of the Crown and the confidence of the embassy, and presented Hervey as the King's military representative.

Mbopa bowed, and indicated the Fasimba to left and right, witness to his own king's esteem for his visitors.

Hervey took advantage of his newly exalted status to request that his 'royal guards' (the riflemen) be allowed to accompany them.

'It would be our honour,' Mbopa replied.

The kraal was half a mile and more across, and by Hervey's rapid estimate there were as many huts in its outer circle as there were men in a battalion of the Line – eight hundred at least, ample quarters for two thousand warriors and for all the husbandry necessary to the life of Shaka's headquarters. In turn, these encircled the central cattle-fold and another, lower palisade. At the far end of the kraal, as in the Fasimba
ikhanda,
were the royal quarters, the
isigodlo,
hedged around by the thickest thorn. Here was Shaka's
ndlunkulu,
larger even than the great council hut which stood outside.

As they made their way there, Hervey saw that the warriors' huts were empty. Perhaps he might have expected it (why else would Shaka send the herd boys to the Fasimba kraal to be executed?), for the campaign against Soshangane could not be waged without warriors, and even Shaka's legions were not limitless. He suddenly felt less like a fox among hounds, and more like a cock which enters the pit with a fighting chance.

At the entrance to the
isigodlo
the guards held up their spears in salute. Hervey told Welsh to form here with his riflemen, and then Mbopa led the rest of the party through the opening in the thorn fence and into one of the smaller huts.

This, beehive-shaped like the others, was a dozen yards in diameter, and well lit by oil lamps. Inside were several of Shaka's serving-girls holding earthen basins, his 'sisters' as he called them (or 'harem lilies' as the warriors, less reverently, knew them). The party washed their hands and then seated themselves on the rush mats in the middle of the clay floor; or rather squatted, for Isaacs had told them that to sit would give offence to their host.

More serving-girls appeared with hollowed gourds of beer, and then others with wooden trenchers and spoons. Bowls of boiled maize were brought, and sweet potatoes, mashes of pumpkins, fermented sorghum, clotted milk. Evidently, whispered Somervile, the mourning hunt,
i-hlambo,
the washing of spears, was over, even though the warriors were not yet returned.

They ate respectfully.

When the remains of the honoured meal were cleared away, the serving-girls (six of them, festooned with beads which expertly covered their modesty, unlike those at the Fasimba kraal) assembled in line opposite the door, as if waiting on the party's further pleasure.

'Are we to dismiss them, do you suppose?' asked Somervile.

Fairbrother shook his head. 'I think it best to wait for Mbopa to return.'

The serving-girls dropped suddenly to their knees, eyes lowered, anxious.

Shaka's silent presence was so compelling that the party rose as one.

And they were, as one, taken aback, for Shaka stood taller than any man Hervey had seen since coming to the Cape – a towering column of sinew and muscle. Even Somervile was without a word.

It was Mbopa who at length broke silence. '
Baba! Unkosi! Ndabezita!
. . . Father, King, Illustrious Sir, these are the men who have come from Um Joji.'

Somervile made a deep bow, deeper than he would have made even to King George, for he did not wish any misunderstanding on so simple a business as the courtesies due to rank. 'May I present Colonel Hervey, chief of my Guards,' he began, in the little Zulu that Isaacs had been able to give him. 'And Captain Fairbrother, his aide-de-camp.'

Shaka remained wholly impassive. Hervey searched his face for something of his character, but saw nothing. The eyes, though large, were no window on what lay within. His features were regular and strong. His cropped hair was flecked with grey, which only increased the impression of hard-willed power. There was no mark or blemish to his skin. He wore a claw necklace and a skirt of leopard tails – nothing more, as if to say that in this simple garb of the warrior was all there was to know of him: no sumptuary was required to proclaim the supremacy of Shaka Zulu!

Mbopa spoke. '
Si-gi-di
. . . (He who is equal to a thousand warriors) accepts these cordial greetings, and bids you take your ease before feasting with him this night, when his brothers, whom he has only moments ago received, shall be present also.'

Somervile needed only the briefest words of clarification from Fairbrother before bowing once more, and returning his answer. 'Be pleased to inform He who is equal to a thousand warriors that King George's embassy is honoured to accept.'

Mbopa's interpreter spoke quickly and surely.

But Shaka did not wait on further words, turning instead, and without letting his eyes meet any, leaving with the same air of brooding power.

The serving-girls remained on their knees even when he was gone, as if fearful that the 'Great Crushing Elephant' (one of Shaka's many praise-names) would reappear and find their temerity in rising too quickly an affront, and their lives thus forfeit.

'I think I might have a cheroot,' said Somervile, as if he were at a drawing room, taking out a silver case from his pocket and offering it to the other two.

None of them was certain of the propriety, but they soon filled the hut with tobacco smoke. The serving-girls seemed to find it pleasant, and certainly amusing.

Somervile blew a perfect ring, which rose intact to the roof. 'Finelooking fellow, Shaka. Can't but wonder what he'd make of our own esteemed sovereign.'

Hervey had expected something rather more ambassadorial by way of opinion. He smiled nevertheless. 'We must hope he is not acquainted with the portraitist's art of flattery.' One of Shaka's presents was a print of Sir Thomas Lawrence's portrait of George IV, which Hervey knew, from direct observation at Windsor only six months before, was no longer – if it had ever been – a faithful likeness.