The Horns of the Buffalo (25 page)

She sniffed, her eyes bloodshot, and nodded.

‘Thank you, Nandi,' he said. ‘For everything you have done for me - but most of all for wanting to help your country.' He smiled, kissed her quickly again, turned and strode away to his room for his compass and rifle.

 

Once out of sight of the Dunn kraal, Simon set a course to the north-north-east and put his horse into a canter. The journey would take him a full day and he was anxious to make as good time as he could over the easy riding terrain of Dunn's land, before he met the broken ground of the north. As he rode, he looked about him keenly. He was unsure what to do if challenged by Zulus. He disliked the idea of being taken in by a patrol as a prisoner. That way there would be no guarantee that he could get to see the King or even call for Mapitha. Indeed, he might get an assegai in his stomach on sight, for nerves must be stretched to twanging point in Zululand at the moment, and if he was taken, he would have no means of explaining his mission. In any case, he wanted to arrive at Ulundi with dignity, as his own man, riding in with an important message for the King. He decided that if he met a hostile party, he would attempt to outride it - and then smiled at what Jenkins would have thought of that.

The morning was uneventful and he stopped at noon in a shallow donga to eat the cold chicken that Nandi had provided. He ate standing, with one hand on the saddle, constantly turning his head. Even so, the flash of steel that he saw out of the corner of his eye was too close for comfort. It came as sunlight reflected from an assegai blade, and the Zulus, at a distance of about 150 yards, seeing that they had been detected, rose quickly and ran towards him, fanning out to surround him.

Simon hurled away his chicken, inserted his foot into the stirrup and put one hand on the pommel of his saddle and the other on the rifle butt protruding from its holster. As he did so, the first of the throwing spears bounced off the rock at his side. The noise startled his horse and she shied, twisting his foot out of the stirrup and throwing him down. The horse whinnied and trotted away up the donga, reins trailing, and Simon found himself flat on his back but, miraculously, with his rifle in his hand. Another spear quivered in the face of the donga and Simon scrambled to his feet and turned to face the nearest Zulus, now about a hundred yards away. His brain now raced. Should he run, stand and fire, or raise his hand and attempt to parley? The decision was taken for him as a shower of spears - flung on the run and therefore erratically - clattered about him. These Zulus were out to kill.

Carefully, he took aim at the nearest man and pressed the trigger. The native sprawled forward, scattering shield and spears and tripping one of his companions. With nervous speed, Simon fumbled open a cartridge pouch on his bandolier, pulled down the ejector handle behind the trigger of his rifle and inserted another bullet. The second shot was as lethal as the first and it acted as a deterrent, for the band - perhaps eight or nine men - halted uncertainly and then scrambled up the donga and took cover. But where were the others, the horns of the buffalo?

He reloaded and cautiously poked his head above the edge of the donga. To his left, five men were trotting in a wide arc to get behind him. To his right, a similar number were doing the same. The horns were closing in. Carefully he took aim and brought down the leading Zulu of the right horn, and then his second bullet kicked up dust in front of the leader of the left. Both groups immediately dropped to the ground and took whatever cover they could find. Good. The surrounding tactic had been halted for the moment - but where now was the main group, the chest of the buffalo?

Ramming another cartridge into the rifle, he slid down the wall of the donga to the bottom and nervously approached a blind bend ten yards to his left, the direction in which the main party were heading when he last saw them. He stood for a moment and found he was trembling. He ran a dry tongue over his lips. Would they be running along the streambed, and if so, how many? He swallowed. No point in waiting. He put the rifle butt to his shoulder and sprang round the bend. The nearest Zulu was only ten yards away and running towards him, spear upraised. He caught a glimpse of a yellow eyeball and a surprised face before he fired and brought the man down. The others were trotting along the donga in a bunch some twenty yards back. He pushed another cartridge into the breech and fired into their midst but turned and ran before he could see the effect. He had no time to reload, and as he ran, he realised that this was a game with only one ending. Shrewdly, the Zulus were attacking on three fronts and, on his own and with only a single-shot rifle - however accurate - he could not hold them off for ever. Would one of the horns have doubled back and slipped into the other end of the donga? If so, he would be running full tilt into them with an unloaded rifle. There was little choice, so, sick with apprehension, he rounded a bend in the streambed - and there stood his horse, reins dangling and her eyes wide with fright at the noise of the rifle shots.

Breathless, but his heart singing with relief, Simon approached her with care. He took a precious moment to pat her flank to reassure her, then he was in the saddle. Which way? He could not put the horse to the steep side of the donga - better to turn and gallop the way he had come, and with the element of surprise, perhaps he stood a chance of riding down the smaller of the three parties. He hauled on the left rein and dug in his heels. The mare took off in a flurry of stones and rounded the bend at a gallop to meet some six Zulus running towards her only a few yards away. The sight of the big horse thundering towards them in the confined space of the donga was too much for the Zulus and the party split, three flattening themselves to one wall and three to the other. Simon was through them in a flash, his head down, his heels beating a tattoo on the horse's flanks. He zigzagged at perilously high speed along the bed of the donga until he found a drift where he could pull out and up on to the plain.

There he reined in, his heart pounding and perspiration running down his cheeks, and stood in the stirrups to look around. The plain was deserted. There was no sign of the Zulus. It was as though they had never existed and the whole frightening clash with them - which had only lasted about four minutes - had been a figment of his imagination; some hangover from the lonely games he had played as a boy, back in Brecon. Simon swallowed hard and dug his heels in again. He lost no precious time in consulting his compass; he just wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and that war party.

He rode as fast as the terrain allowed, heading towards the sun and to the right. After a while, he pulled out the compass and adjusted his direction somewhat, so that he returned to his north-north-east course and trotted through broken ground, every fold of which he knew could conceal scores of Zulus. But he met no one until, as the sun was sinking, he began riding across billows of well-grassed country, containing herds of cattle under the care of the inevitable Zulu boys. They watched him with curious eyes and he realised that he must be nearing Cetswayo's capital.

Simon fumbled for his watch. If his encounter with the Zulus had taken place at noon, that was about six hours ago now, and fast as they moved, they could not possibly have beaten him to Ulundi. Good. He must have time to reach the King before the news got to him that some of his subjects had been shot by this ‘trader'. How many had he killed? Three . . . four?
Killed!
The thought made Simon sit up suddenly in the saddle. Although he had served the Queen now for more than three years, this was the first time he had killed a fellow human being. He let the mare find her own pace as his mind pondered the enormity of it. As a soldier, he had always known the time would come when he would have to take life, and in the recesses of his being, he had always wondered whether he would have the guts to do so. Well, it had happened and he had shot instinctively and with effect. It wasn't a question of guts, he reflected wryly; it was more a matter of kill or be killed. There had been no time for moral debate - or for fear, for that matter. Yes, he had trembled. But he had not been afraid.

The thought gave him satisfaction, but as the growing number of cattle showed that he was nearing Ulundi, his mind now turned to how Cetswayo would treat him when he heard - as he was bound to, sooner or later - that Simon had fought like a soldier. Simon shrugged. Better, perhaps, to tell him exactly what had happened and trust to what Catherine had said about the King. What was it? ‘A wise ruler and not a bloodthirsty man.' He gulped. Well, he just had to hope that that was true.

Simon sighted Ulundi just before nightfall and he rode through the Zulus who now milled around him without hesitation, fearing that to slow down or stop would lead to him being pulled from the saddle. At the entrance to the vast stockade, however, he was forced to halt as two giant Zulus left their posts and barred his way, their assegais pointed up at him.

He stood in his stirrups and said clearly, ‘Mapitha. Mapitha.' He gestured. ‘Bring Mapitha here.'

One of the Zulus frowned and spoke to him quickly in his own tongue. It was clearly a question. Simon shook his head and repeated, ‘Mapitha.'

The two guards exchanged words and then, with a puzzled backward look, one of them loped away. Simon sighed with relief and sat his horse expressionlessly, attempting to disregard the crowd of natives who now pressed in on him, causing his horse to paw the ground nervously and to shake her head, scattering some of the Zulus who put tentative hands on her flanks. The remaining guard gave a guttural order and, with a wave of his assegai, dismissed those who came too close. Simon swallowed nervously. God, this was a gamble! Would he emerge alive from it - and what if Mapitha was not in the kraal? How could he explain his uninvited intrusion on the King? The smell that engulfed him from the people, perhaps a hundred or more, who surrounded him was alien and disturbing. It was a mixture of oil, sweat, spices and goodness knows what, and it added to his nervousness, bringing a dryness to his mouth.

Then, a buzz in the crowd signalled the arrival of a dignified, elderly Zulu, the isiCoco waxed into grey, tightly curled hair and a shawl thrown across his shoulders. He walked through the crowd and stood looking impassively at Simon, leaning on a staff as tall as himself.

Simon inclined his head. ‘Are you Mapitha?' he asked, furious inwardly that the dryness of his mouth made the words emerge like a croak.

‘I am Mapitha,' said the inDuna, in low, clear tones. ‘What do you want of me?'

‘I was given your name at Jantoni's kraal.' Simon tried to keep any emotion from his voice. It seemed the Zulu way. ‘I am a trader who has been living with Jantoni for two months now, doing business with him. I heard today of the demands being made on the King by the British and I have come to talk with him, because I think I may be of service to him.'

‘You have come to talk to the King?' There was a hint of surprise now in the Zulu's tone. ‘Why has Jantoni not come with you?'

‘He is in Natal. I have come alone because the matter is urgent. But I do not speak the Zulu tongue and I need you to interpret for me, if you will do so.'

Mapitha looked at him steadily. ‘What is it that you have to say to the King?'

‘I am sorry, but that should wait until I see him.'

The Zulu stood in silence, holding his gaze. ‘Very well. I will see if the King will receive you. Get down from your horse, do not touch your gun, and follow me.' He gave an order to the guard who had fetched him, and the latter waited for Simon to dismount and then walked closely behind him as they followed the old man.

They made their way towards the great hut that stood by the central cattle kraal. The last time Simon had trod this path there had been a feeling of indolence about the place: children playing, men lying lazily, taking snuff and smoking, only the women working. There had been no hurry. Now, warriors were striding purposefully in the lanes between the beehive huts, the children had been tucked away and there was a general air of bustle. Was it, Simon wondered, preparation for battle? They came to the unpainted door and Mapitha gestured to him to wait, while the old man went inside. He was back within a minute and courteously held open the door, European-style, for Simon to enter.

The thick smoke fumes hit Simon like a wall again and he halted in confusion. It was a moment before he could focus on the group of men - no women this time - who were lying on mats at the far end of the room. Seven inDunas of varying ages, but mostly with grey-flecked hair, were ranged at Cetswayo's side, all facing the door. Simon bowed and then, with slight pressure on his arm from Mapitha, walked towards the group, halted and bowed to the King again. He looked carefully into Cetswayo's face. The mild eyes were regarding him without any obvious sign of interest, although one eyebrow was cocked - interrogatively? There was no invitation to sit and the King waved a finger, presumably an invitation to speak.

Simon turned to Mapitha. ‘Please tell His Majesty that I bring him greetings and that I am grateful that he has allowed me to live in his country for so long.'

On translation, the King gave the slightest of nods but made no reply. Simon licked his lips. This was not going to be easy.

‘The King will wonder why I have asked to see him. I do not wish to trade, for I have made my trade with Jantoni and am waiting at his kraal only until my associate returns before going back to Natal, perhaps with more cattle, perhaps not.'

At the reference to Jenkins, the King smiled and turned to his inDunas, who all nodded. He spoke a few words.

‘The King says he has heard of your friend,' translated Mapitha. ‘They call him One Who Fights With His Hands. He seems to the King as though he is a warrior, perhaps a soldier?'