The Horns of the Buffalo (16 page)

As Simon's words were relayed, Cetswayo's expression hardened and he fell silent. Only the sound of the flies buzzing in the smoke disturbed the quiet. Eventually, the King spoke.

‘The King wishes to know if you have seen Somtseu and if you bring any message from him.'

For the first time, Simon was wrong-footed. ‘Somtseu?' he repeated.

Dunn became impatient. ‘You really don't know much about this country, do you? Somtseu is the Zulu name for that pompous old bastard Shepstone. He used to be Secretary for Native Affairs in Natal. He knows the King well - as a matter of fact, he crowned him.' Dunn snorted. ‘Although he'd got no right to. Now he's in the Transvaal, stirring up more trouble. But the King knows he is important and I suppose he is.'

‘No. Please tell the King that I have never met Shepstone. We are just traders.'

The King had been growing impatient at the exchange between the two white men, and when the translation was made, he got to his feet and, with an irritable gesture of his assegai, indicated that the audience was over. The trio bowed and made for the door but Cetswayo called Dunn back and spoke to him quietly for a moment as the others thankfully stepped into the clean air outside the building.

‘You did well, bach sir,' exploded Jenkins. ‘I didn't think that you could be such a good liar.'

‘Thanks, but I am not sure that the King believed me. We've just got to rely on Dunn to keep us out of trouble. If he is on our side then I think we will stay alive. But I must talk to him - I can't fathom him out yet.'

Within a minute Dunn joined them. ‘Can we talk?' asked Simon anxiously.

‘I think we'd better,' said Dunn, striding on. ‘But not here. Follow me.'

The big man led them through a rabbit warren of lanes between the conically shaped huts. The kraal teemed with Zulus: men, obviously of various warrior castes, judging by their ages, lying in the shade, smoking or taking snuff; while the women ground grain or bustled by carrying loads, always busy. Children were everywhere, playing in the dust, fighting with sticks or - the smaller ones - crawling over patient male adults. Simon noticed that the children always seemed to be indulged, and found, in the four-minute walk to Dunn's hut, not one man who seemed to be employed. Everywhere the women seemed to be toiling while the men lay resting. Dunn was clearly known and drew respectful nods as he strode by. Jenkins and Simon, on the other hand, were objects of great interest. The Zulus made no effort to conceal their curiosity and the children gaped in wonder as the strange trio, in their layered clothing and heavy boots, walked by.

They came to a beehive that was a little larger than the others and set slightly apart. Here Dunn gestured and dropped to his knees so that he could crawl through the low opening. The others followed and found that they were in a cool dwelling made of a light framework of woven saplings and grass thatching. It was supported by a central pole, but to Simon's relief, there was no fire. The floor had been beaten to a polished surface of clay and cow dung and mats hung from pegs in the walls. There was no sign of formal furniture.

A young girl stood as they entered. She approached Dunn and they exchanged a few words in Zulu before she kissed him lightly on the cheek, European style. As Simon's eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw that she was taller than most Zulu girls and considerably lighter in colour. As they had scrambled through the entrance, he had caught a glimpse of naked breasts, but she had covered herself with a simple cotton garment, although her legs and feet were bare, apart from tufts of grass worn, Zulu-style, above her calves. Her hair was Zulu black but long and straight and not crinkled close to the scalp. Her features were open and un-negroid. Only her style of dress, her coffee-coloured skin and a fullness of her lips betrayed her half-caste origin. She smiled at the visitors without shyness.

‘This is my daughter, Nandi,' said Dunn.

‘How do you do,' said Simon, taking the hand that was thrust confidently towards him.

‘Very pleased to meet you, miss,' echoed Jenkins, sounding very much as though he meant it.

The girl gave no word of greeting but smiled at them warmly, revealing rows of strangely small, white teeth behind the full lips. Dunn spoke to her in Zulu and she immediately left the hut. Simon could not help noticing how tight were her buttocks under the shift as she crawled through the entrance.

‘Nandi,' repeated Simon. ‘Is that a Zulu name?'

‘Very much so,' said Dunn. ‘I named her after Shaka's mother in tribute to the Zulus. The King was pleased. He took it as the compliment it was meant to be.' He unhooked a mat and threw them mats of their own. ‘You might as well know. I've got twenty-four children, so far, and she's the brightest of them. I've also got ten wives - also so far - and all of them are Zulu, except one, the first.'

He began to fill a pipe and looked across at them. ‘You shocked?'

‘Er . . . no,' said Simon. ‘Not at all.'

‘No, bach,' said Jenkins readily. ‘My da had four wives. Mind you, he had them one at a time, like . . .' He tailed off. ‘That was in Wales, see, and I suppose things are different'ere.'

Dunn smiled easily. ‘I suppose they are. They say in Durban that I've gone native. So I have and I don't care a pot of buffalo dung what they think of me there. I left what I suppose you would call civilisation about twenty-five years ago, crossing the Tugela with Catherine. She was fifteen and I wasn't much older. She was the half-caste daughter of my father's old associate. Both of our parents were dead and I'd been cheated out of wages by a Dutchman. So I took off to live with the Zulus.'

Dunn put a match to the tobacco and drew on the pipe. ‘It wasn't easy at first but I built us a kraal and broke in oxen for a living. Later I traded cattle and gradually built a herd. I kept myself to myself under the reign of old Mpande, Cetswayo's father, but I backed the wrong horse for a time when the family was brawling for the succession.

‘I just about escaped with my skin when Cetswayo crushed the iziGqoza at Ndondakusuka in '56.' He smiled at the memory. ‘In fact, I only got across the river by holding on to the tail of my horse.' His face hardened. ‘Jehovah! There was killing that day. The skeletons are still there. They call it the Mathambo, the Place of Bones.'

He sat up. ‘But enough of this. What do you want of me?'

Simon leaned forward. ‘Is it safe to speak here?'

‘As long as you're not going to break into fluent Zulu at the top of your voice, it is.'

‘Very well.' Simon took off his jacket and slipped the tip of his knife into the lining and withdrew the letter. He handed it to Dunn - and then paused in embarrassment. ‘Forgive me,' he said, ‘but you do . . .?'

‘Yes, I do,' said Dunn, taking the letter. ‘I haven't gone
that
native.' With broad fingers he tore it open and his eyes went immediately to the signature at the bottom. His lips pursed and he whistled noiselessly. ‘From the Governor himself, eh? I must be becoming important. I half feared that it was another note from old Somtseu - and
that
would have gone the way of all the others.'

Dunn read the letter silently. Eventually he looked up and frowned. ‘I don't like this. I don't like this at all. You know what this says?'

Simon nodded.

‘Well, it's nonsense. I am supposed to harbour you both while you gather information about the King, his army and his intentions. There are several things wrong with that.' Dunn slapped a broad forefinger into the palm of his left hand. ‘First, you can't speak the language, you don't know the country and you can't just go blundering around Zululand.' He scowled. ‘Second, the King needs persuading that you are traders and not spies, so he will be watching you - and, dammit, I shall have to sell you some cattle to make you look genuine.'

This clearly pained Dunn as much as, if not more than the other factors and he sat silently for a moment in glum contemplation. Simon opened his mouth to speak but Dunn silenced him with a gesture.

‘Third, all of this sounds as though the authorities are preparing for war, and that's the bit I like least of all.'

‘No,' said Simon eagerly. ‘I believe that you are wrong about that.' He checked himself. ‘At least, I am not privy to policy, of course, but it could well be that the information we supply will lead to a peaceful solution to all this.'

Dunn continued as though he had not heard a word. ‘And why do I like it least of all? I'll tell you.' He leaned forward on his crossed legs and his brown eyes burned into each of them. ‘There are two reasons.

‘The first is that the redcoats in Durban and the Cape have no idea what they will be taking on if they clash with the Zulus. This is not just a bunch of Cape Kaffirs, you know. This is a highly disciplined, well-trained military nation.' Dunn rocked back. ‘The Zulus have the biggest and best standing army this side of the Equator - perhaps in the whole of Africa . . .'

‘How many men?' Simon enquired quickly.

‘Never you mind that for the moment. Take my word for it, the Zulu army is huge and it hasn't washed its spears for some years now. There are hotheads who would just love the chance. And they would be formidable. Ask the Boers about that.'

‘And the second reason?' asked Simon quietly.

Dunn reflected silently for a moment. ‘The second reason is the most difficult part for me. You see, these are my people now. Even though I backed his brother against him twenty-two years ago, Cetswayo never held it against me. He gave me land, he allowed me to have my own men - the red and black shields you saw this morning - and he let me live my own life in his country.' He gestured with his pipe. ‘Of course he used me. I've been a kind of link with the Europeans, and once - you were right-I was able to get him rifles. But it was only a hundred and sixty and Shepstone knew all about it. The fat farmers of Durban think I smuggle guns all the time into Zululand. But that's not true.

‘No. The King has been good to me and I don't want to betray him. Anyway,' he looked up defiantly, ‘if there is a war and the British win it - which is by no means certain - then I lose all I have built up here.'

A silence hung for a moment and was broken as Nandi crawled through the entrance, this time awkwardly because she was pushing before her a tray holding three gourds and a large bowl of liquid. Dunn's face brightened.

‘Let's have a drink,' he said. ‘My mouth's dry after the ride and you must be thirsty too.'

‘That is very, very true, sir,' said Jenkins, scrambling to his feet, taking the bowl from the girl and giving her one of his huge, face-breaking smiles. Simon noticed the ‘sir' and reflected that Dunn had won Jenkins's respect, anyway. He accepted a gourd and, following Dunn's example, dipped it into the bowl.

‘What is it?' he enquired.

To his surprise, the girl answered, in perfect and accent-free English. ‘Zulu beer,' she said, smiling politely and offering the bowl to Jenkins.

‘Nandi made it herself,' said Dunn with obvious pride. ‘She's a good beer-maker. All Zulu women have to make beer; it's absolutely essential. But some of them do it less well than Nandi. Try it.'

Simon sipped obediently. It tasted blessedly cold, slightly sour, but not unpleasant. Jenkins sucked his moustache and nodded his approval. ‘Jenkins here is an expert on beer,' Simon said with a smile. ‘If he likes it, it must be good.'

Dunn turned to the Welshman. ‘What exactly do you do in this outfit, then, Jenkins?' There was a touch of condescension in his voice.

‘With respect, Mr Dunn sir, I'm Jenkins to Mr Fonthill but
Mister
Jenkins to anyone else. What do I do? I look after the Lieutenant, here.' Jenkins's eyes narrowed. ‘But I also kill people for a living. I'm a soldier, see.'

The two men regarded each other silently for a brief moment, then a slow smile crept over Dunn's face. ‘Very well, Mr Jenkins,' he said. ‘I think we understand each other.'

Simon took a deep breath and leaned towards the South African. ‘Mr Dunn, as I have said, I have no inside knowledge of the British Government's attitude towards the Zulus. I do know that their militant state causes concern to the Governor and his staff in the Cape, but, as I expect you are aware, the Foreign Office and the Horse Guards back home have their hands full at the moment with the Afghans to the north-west of India and I cannot conceive that they are planning a full-scale war with the Zulus.'

Dunn listened impassively and took a deep draught of beer, so, with a little more confidence, Simon continued. ‘You are wrong, by the way, if you believe that the army underestimates the Zulus. The same views you have just expounded about their strength were expressed to me by the Chief of Staff in Cape Town. In fact, it is the very respect in which they are held that has prompted my mission here. You see, not enough is known about them, their military capacity and their intentions. And every command must have this sort of information at its fingertips. It does not necessarily mean war. In fact, it can mean the opposite. The very efficiency of the Zulu military structure, when it is known and digested, can be a safeguard against border blunders, for instance, leading us unintentionally into war.'

Simon suddenly became aware that his audience was more than Dunn and Jenkins. Unnoticed, the girl had sat quietly against the wall of the hut and was watching him now intently, black eyes unblinking. Presumably she could understand every word. Simon inwardly cursed himself for speaking so freely - here, in Cetswayo's kraal, of all places! One cry could summon enough warriors to drag them away to the stake. He gulped - but he couldn't stop now. He looked closely at Dunn. The man's face was quite expressionless. Simon decided he had to play his main card.