The Horns of the Buffalo (14 page)

No Zulu spoke but their assegais, all held underhand, were pointed at Simon and Jenkins. ‘Don't touch your rifle, 352,' said Simon, quietly.

‘I thought you weren't goin' to call me 352,' murmured Jenkins.

The tallest of the Zulus, who wore a headring waxed into his short, tightly curled hair, raised his spear to Simon and spoke several words in Zulu. There was no reaction from the other natives, so Simon presumed it was a question.

He rose in his stirrups and pointed ahead. ‘We go to Jantoni,' he said. ‘We are English, not Afrikaaners. Not Boers. English.'

Slowly, the Zulu repeated the name. ‘Jantoni.'

‘Yes. We go to Jantoni. To trade.'

The leader gestured to Simon with his assegai in a motion that clearly ordered him to dismount. He did so and the Zulus immediately closed in on the two men. ‘Don't let go of the reins,' said Simon. ‘We may have to leave quickly.'

‘If we have to leave quickly, you'll fall off,' replied Jenkins, keeping his eyes on the tall Zulu.

The leader now approached them and slowly, with the end of his assegai, thrust open the leather coats of first Simon and then Jenkins. He gestured to another Zulu and gave a low order. Immediately, their saddlebags were opened and the contents scattered on the ground. They were briefly examined by the chief, who uttered another command, and to Simon's surprise, the contents were then carefully replaced in the bags, which were then buckled up again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon noticed a Zulu lay a hand on one of the rifles and begin to withdraw it from its saddle holster. Unhurriedly, Simon raised his hand and touched the Zulu's shoulder. ‘No,' he said and shook his head.

The man jumped back and raised his assegai. With startling speed the leader leaped forward and plunged his own assegai into the man's stomach, twisting the blade and withdrawing it in one smooth movement, so that it was free long before the warrior doubled up in agony and sank to the ground. For the first time, Simon heard the iklwa. Everyone stood motionless and watched as the Zulu, in grotesque silence, writhed at their feet, his hands vainly attempting to stem the blood which pumped from his terrible wound. Without a word, he curled into the foetal position and died in the dust before them. The incident had lasted perhaps only forty-five seconds.

The silence was eventually interrupted by Jenkins. ‘Fancy that,' he murmured.

The speed and gratuitous barbarity of the act had transfixed Simon. He had never before witnessed violence so brutal and final. It had happened at such speed that there had been no time to feel afraid or even threatened. Nor did he feel fear now, only curiosity at what would happen next. He looked at the Zulu chief, who returned his gaze imperturbably, with eyes black and quite expressionless.

Then the leader uttered another command and gestured and the body was dragged into a patch of scrub. He turned to Simon and spoke quickly in Zulu. Simon thought he heard the name Jantoni as the chief pointed with his red-bladed assegai in a more northerly direction than that which they had been following. It was a clear command and the party set off, Simon and Jenkins leading their horses and the Zulus, still surrounding them, setting a brisk pace, half walk, half trot.

‘I don't think I'm goin' to like this,' said Jenkins. ‘I was told we'd be cruisin', not marchin'.'

‘It will teach you to criticise my horsemanship,' replied Simon. ‘Come on. We'd better keep up if we don't want an assegai in our bellies.'

They marched for about another two hours, until the sun was brushing the low hills to the west. Then a halt was made in the trench of a donga that still contained a trickle of water. Without paying any attention to the two white men, the majority of the Zulus squatted on their haunches while three noticeably younger men, who, Simon noticed, carried no weapons, shook out a bundle and began distributing cloaks and straw sleeping mats. As the elders took snuff, the young men set about collecting dried dung and what little thorn bush kindling they could find and began making a fire, upon which they stood a blackened cooking pot containing what appeared to be mealies.

Simon and Jenkins slowly unsaddled their horses and hobbled them, making sure that their movements were unhurried and deliberate. The Zulus made no attempt to restrain or direct them, but Simon noticed that the chief rarely took his eyes off them. When wooden bowls full of mealies were handed to the warriors, the leader gestured to them and, hungry as they were, they squatted and dipped their fingers into the mess.

‘That's sociable, like, then, isn't it?' said Jenkins, settling himself against the side of the riverbed. ‘It looks as though they're not goin' to open up our tummies just yet. They wouldn't be wantin' to waste good food now, would they?'

‘No. But I can't see why they should want to kill us anyway.

We're not at war with them and killing white men is not Cetswayo's style, from what I've heard.'

Simon mused for a moment. He nodded to the leader. ‘I think he's taking us to Dunn,' he said. ‘But the way he was pointing was not the direction we were given for Dunn's kraal. It was too far north.' He pondered. ‘I wonder if Dunn is with the King and we are being taken there. Now that would be a stroke of luck.'

Jenkins raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh yes. Oh yes indeed. What a great stroke of luck. I can hardly wait. We'll probably be served for the royal breakfast.'

‘Rubbish. Zulus aren't cannibals. In their own way, they are very civilised people, although I must confess-I don't much like the chief 's way of restoring discipline.'

The two men had been sitting half in, half outside the circle of Zulus, and speaking quietly, although the warriors paid no attention to them. Simon regarded the chief covertly in the gathering dusk. Apart from his headband - no one else wore one - there was no obvious sign of rank, although a few flecks of grey could be seen above his ears. He was about forty-five years old, the oldest of the group by far, and his comparative age had not seemed to impair his easy, loping stride. He sprawled now, not ungracefully, the firelight flickering along his blue-black skin and illuminating his round face. Simon noticed that, although the nose was flattened and negroid, the jaw was firm and the eyes were well set apart. Even in repose, his manner exuded dignity and authority.

Simon climbed to his feet slowly and unhurriedly walked to where the saddlebags lay, near the horses. A guard had been posted at this point, and as he approached, Simon saw the young warrior look quickly at his chief. However, no instructions seemed to be conveyed and the Zulu stepped back to allow Simon to rummage in his pack. He found what he was looking for and sauntered back to the circle, squatting near the chief. He produced a silver flask and, looking expressionlessly at the chief, took a draught of the whisky inside. Wiping the neck of the flask, he reached out and offered it to the chief. The Zulu sat upright and gingerly took the flask and smelled the contents. He looked at Simon and the big round face slowly broke into a smile, revealing two rows of even white teeth as big as tombstones. He tossed his head back and drank deeply from the flask.

Simon smiled and gestured to the north-east. ‘Jantoni?' he asked.

The chief nodded. ‘Jantoni,' he affirmed. He reached for a stick and began speaking slowly and distinctly as he drew in the dust. The language was meaningless to Simon but he thought he detected the word ‘Ulundi'. The chief drew a large circle with many tiny beehive-shaped symbols within it. Outside the circle he scratched numerous crosses, tailing them impatiently as though extending them into infinity. Then, with practised strokes of the stick, he outlined the shape of a bullock or buffalo's head, complete with horns. Turning to Simon, he gestured with his hand to the ground on which he was sitting, then to the circle in the dust, and held up two fingers.

Simon frowned for a moment and then understanding came flooding in. He pointed to the circle and asked, ‘Ulundi?'

The chief nodded and held up his fingers again.

‘Two days' march,' said Simon and nodded. He turned to Jenkins. ‘Dunn is with the King at the royal kraal at Ulundi and he's taking us there. It's two days' march from here.'

Gravely, the chief wiped the top of the flask and handed it back to Simon. The Englishman nodded and solemnly took another draught, wiped the neck and once more handed it back. The ritual continued with great formality until Jenkins could stand it no longer.

‘If what's in that flask is what I think is in that flask, bach sir, I could do with just a wetting of it myself, if you think that's in order.'

‘Certainly, Jenkins.' Simon ceremoniously handed the flask to the Welshman, who raised it, nodded to the chief and Simon and drank. Grimacing in appreciation, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned the flask to Simon, who, in turn, wiped the top again and handed it to the Zulu.

‘Bloody 'ell,' exploded Jenkins. ‘Don't be wastin' good liquor like that on an 'eathen. We shall need every drop of that before we've finished this trip.'

‘Don't talk like that,' said Simon evenly, smiling at the chief. ‘He may not speak English but he can understand your tone. So smile, damn you. This is a good investment, Jenkins, and anyway, I've got two more flasks full.'

So the drinking continued until, to show good faith, Simon upended the flask to allow the last drop of liquor to disappear into the dust at their feet. Without a word, the chief rolled over, pulled his cloak over his head and fell asleep instantly.

Simon rose to his feet rather unsteadily. ‘I think that the bar is now closed, 352,' he said, conscious that the rest of the Zulus were watching him with a new interest. He walked to the saddlebags, replaced the flask and pulled out two blankets. ‘I shall have a thick head in the morning but I think that, on the whole, it has been worth it.'

The two men slept soundly and the party was on the march well before dawn. As the day wore on, there was even less attention paid to the two white men, the Zulus' mile-consuming gait setting a pace that soon had Simon and Jenkins lagging well behind. It was punishing for them, for they had to lead their horses down each donga, picking their way through stones over which the Zulus hopped quite unconcernedly. The sun was hot but it was the humidity that caused the most discomfort, rendering their shirts rags of wet cotton as the day progressed. Simon felt that he dared not remove his leather jacket and be parted from the important letter sewn into the lining. At one point, he and Jenkins mounted their horses to catch up with the main party, but seemingly within seconds, they were surrounded again and gestured to dismount.

They camped once more that night and were up again at sun-up. Now the country they traversed was easier. They moved across vast paddocks of grassland where herds of big horned cattle, tended by lithe adolescents, munched disinterestedly as they passed. The hills that broke up the horizon were lower, although still rocky and stark. Great clouds of pure white cumulus bunched together against the blue, reminding Simon of languorous August school holidays back home at Brecon. The humidity was easier now that they were further away from the coast, but the pace was unrelenting.

The longed-for midday snuff break had just ended when the warrior at the head of the party raised his assegai and gestured ahead, calling to his chief. Simon lifted his head and saw the tiny figures of three horsemen descending a mound about a mile away, raising dust as they rode towards them. The chief grunted and increased the pace to a jog to meet the riders.

‘It must be Dunn,' said Simon, the perspiration running down his chest and darkening his shirt at the waist belt. ‘Few Zulus have horses. He's come to meet us.'

‘Very kind of 'im, I'm sure,' panted Jenkins. ‘Now perhaps we can ride these blasted 'orses instead of pullin' 'em along.'

Very soon the dots took shape into the figures of two black riders, looking like Zulus but carrying distinctive red and black shields, flanking a tall European. The horsemen reined up in a flurry of dust and the European dismounted and addressed the chief in fluent Zulu. He was a big man in his late forties, deeply tanned and with a full beard covering the front of his hunting shirt. Old cotton trousers were tucked into fine leather boots and a Boer-type slouch hat hung between his shoulder blades from a thong around his throat. Simon noted with interest that a modern army Martini-Henry rifle was slung behind his saddle. If the newcomer's appearance was raffish, his manner exuded confident authority and it was clear that the chief was treating him with respect. Simon and Jenkins waited diffidently as the two men talked. Then the big man turned and strode towards them.

He held out his hand. ‘G'day, gentlemen,' he said in a voice that carried the nasal twang of a native Natalian. ‘Dunn. John Robert Dunn.'

‘How do you do,' responded Simon awkwardly. ‘Simon Fonthill. This is my, er, associate . . .' With a surge of embarrassment, he realised that he did not know Jenkins's Christian name. ‘My associate, ah, Mr Jenkins.'

The brown eyes of Dunn betrayed no sign of surprise. ‘G'day, Mr Jenkins.'

‘Glad to meet you, Mr Dunn.'

The tall man's gaze travelled quickly over their horses and packs and took in their dishevelled appearance. ‘Rough journey, then, eh?'

‘The Zulus prevented us from riding,' said Simon. ‘And it's been rather warm.'

Dunn smiled in a not unfriendly way. ‘So it has.' He gestured to them to sit down and lowered himself easily on to the coarse grass. ‘You seemed to be wandering a bit, so the King sent this inDuna . . .'

‘InDuna?'

Dunn looked at him sharply. ‘Yes, inDuna. It means chief or commander in Zulu.' He smiled again. ‘I guess you could call me one. Anyway, the King sent this party to get you, since you didn't seem to know exactly where you were going. You might have got into a bit of trouble. Some of the kraals are a bit touchy just now.'