by Wilbur Smith
“He’s a terrifying monster of a man,” Louisa corrected him. “That is why he and Jim get along so well together.”
“Not true.” Jim chuckled. “It was not I who won him over. It was Louisa. He had never seen hair like hers, or anything to match this cub to whom she had just given birth. Beshwayo loves cattle and sons.” They both looked down fondly at the child in his arms. George had not been able to stay the course. The comforting warmth of his father’s body and the sound of his voice was always a powerful soporific and he had fallen into a deep sleep.
“By this time I had learned enough of the Nguni language from Inkunzi, to be able to converse with Beshwayo. Once he had changed his warlike intentions, and prevented his warriors attacking the wagons, he set up his kraal close to us and we camped together for several weeks. I showed him the delights of cloth, glass beads, mirrors and the usual trifles of trade. These he enjoyed, but he was wary of our horses. Try as I might, I could not prevail on him to mount one. Beshwayo is fearless, except when invited to take part in equestrian activity. However, he was fascinated by the power of gunpowder, and I was required to demonstrate it to him at every opportunity, as if he needed further convincing after watching the elephant hunt.”
Louisa tried to lift George out of his father’s arms and take him to his bed, but as she touched him he came fully awake and let out a bellow of protest. It took some minutes and the reassurances of the entire family to quieten him again to the point where Jim could resume his tale.
“As we came to know each other better, Beshwayo confided in me that he was having his differences with another Nguni tribe called the Amahin. These were a cunning, unscrupulous bunch of rogues who had committed the unforgivable sin of stealing several hundred of Beshwayo’s cattle. This sin was compounded by the fact that in the process they had murdered a dozen or so of his herd-boys, of whom two were his sons. Beshwayo had not yet been able to avenge his sons and recover his cattle because the Amahin were ensconced in an impregnable natural fortress, which the erosion of the ages had carved from the sheer wall of the escarpment face. Beshwayo offered me two hundred head of prime cattle if I would assist him to assault the fortress of the Amahin. I told him that as I now looked upon him as my friend, I would be pleased to fight alongside him without payment.”
“No payment, except the exclusive right of trade with his tribe,” Louisa smiled softly, “and the right to hunt ivory through all the king’s domain, and a treaty of alliance in perpetuity.”
“Perhaps I should have said little payment, rather than none at all,” Jim admitted, “but let us not be pedantic. I took Smallboy and Muntu and the rest of my fellows and we rode with Beshwayo to the lair of the Amahin. I discovered that it was a massif of rock detached from the main escarpment and secured on all sides by sheer cliffs. The only avenue of approach was across a bridge of rock so narrow that it would allow the passage of only four men at a time. It was overlooked by the Amahin from the higher ground on the far side, and they were able to shower rocks, stones and poisoned arrows on any attackers who attempted to force the passage. Some hundred or so of Beshwayo’s men had perished already, shot with poisoned arrows or their skulls crushed by rocks. I found a place on the face of the main escarpment from which my fellows were able to fire upon the defenders. The Amahin proved a doughty lot. Our musket balls served to dampen their ardour a little, but did not prevent them sweeping the attackers off the exposed bridgeway as soon as they ventured on to it.”
“I am certain that at this stage you conceived the solution to the insoluble, great military genius that you are.” Mansur laughed, and Jim grinned back at him.
“Not so, coz. I was at my wits’ end, so naturally I did what we all do in these cases. I sent for my wife!” All three women applauded this gem of wisdom with such merry laughter that George was startled awake again and added his voice to the uproar. Louisa picked him up, helped him find his thumb and he collapsed back into oblivion.
“I had never heard of a Roman testudo until Louisa explained it. She had read of it in Livy. Although many of Beshwayo’s men carried shields of rawhide, their use was frowned upon by the king as unmanly. Each warrior fights as an individual and not as part of a formation, and in the moment of greatest danger he is wont to throw aside his shield and hurl himself unprotected upon his enemy, relying on the fury of his charge and his fearsome aspect to drive his enemy from the field and carry him through unscathed. Beshwayo was at first appalled by such cowardly tactics as we suggested. In his view only women hid behind shields. However, he was desperate to avenge his sons and retrieve his stolen cattle. His men learned swiftly how to overlap their shields and hold them above their heads to form the tortoiseshell of protection. My men kept up a lively fire on the Amahin, and under their testudo Beshwayo’s impis charged across the bridge. As soon as they had a foothold on the far side, we galloped across on the horses, firing from the saddle. The Amahin had never seen a horse before, nor had they faced cavalry, but by now they had learned of the power of our firearms. They broke at our first charge. Those Amahin warriors who did not leap from the cliffs voluntarily were helped to do so by Beshwayo’s.”
“You will be pleased to know that the Amahin women did no jumping. They stayed with their children and most found husbands among Beshwayo’s men soon after the end of the battle,” Louisa assured Sarah and Verity.
“Sensible creatures,” said Sarah, and stroked Tom’s head. “I would have done the same.”
Tom winked at Jim. “Take no notice of your mother. She has a good heart. The only pity is that it does not match her tongue. Go on with the story, lad. I have heard it before, but it’s a good one.”
“It was a rewarding day for all those who took part,” Jim resumed, “except the Amahin warriors. Apart from a score of cattle that the Amahin had killed and feasted upon, we recovered the rest of the stolen herd and the king was delighted. He and I shared millet beer from the same pot, but only after we had diluted it with our commingled blood. We are now brothers of the warrior blood. My enemies are his enemies.”
“Having heard that account, there is no doubt in my mind that I should leave the defence of the swamps between here and the Umgeni river to you and your blood-brother Beshwayo,” Dorian told him. “And God help Herminius Koots when he tries to find his way through.”
“Just as soon as the wagons are made ready I shall leave to find Beshwayo and enlist his support and that of his spearmen,” Jim agreed.
“I hope, husband, that you do not intend to leave me here, while you wander off into the blue yet again?” Louisa asked sweetly.
“How can you think so poorly of me? Besides, I would meet with a cold welcome at the kraal of Beshwayo if I did not have you and Georgie with me.”
Bakkat went out into the hills to summon Inkunzi. The chief herder and his helpers wandered at large with the cattle herds, and no one else would have been able to find him as readily as the little Bushman. In the meantime Smallboy greased the wheel hubs of the wagons and brought in the draught oxen. Within five days Inkunzi had come into the fort with two dozen Nguni warriors and they were ready to leave.
The rest of the family stood on the palisade and watched the wagon train head for the hills. Louisa and Jim rode ahead on Trueheart and Drumfire. George was tucked into the leather carrying sling on his father’s back. He waved one chubby little arm at them. “Bye-bye, Grandpapa! Bye-bye, Grandmama! ’Bye, Uncle Dowy. ’Bye, Manie and Wepity!” he sang out, and his curls danced and sparkled to Drumfire’s easy canter. “Don’t cry, Grandmama. Georgie will come back soon.”
“You heard your grandson,” said Tom gruffly. “Stop blubbering, woman!”
“I am doing no such thing,” Sarah snapped. “A midge flew into my eye, that is all.”
Bin-Shibam had warned Dorian in his report that it was Zayn’s intention to set sail from Muscat as soon as the south-easterly kusi winds swung round the compass and became the kaskazi, blowing steadily out of the north-east to wing his fleet do
wn the coast. That time of change was only weeks away. However, there were worrying signs. Already the black-headed gulls had arrived in their dense flocks to set up their nesting colonies on the heights of the bluff. They were the harbingers of an early change in season. For all Dorian knew Zayn’s fleet might already be at sea.
Dorian and Mansur sent for their ships’ captains. They studied the chart together. Although Tasuz was illiterate he could understand the shapes of islands and mainland and the arrow symbols of winds and currents, for these were the elements that guided his existence.
“At first, when the enemy leave Oman they will keep well offshore, to pick up the kaskazi wind and the main flow of the Mozambique current,” Dorian said, with certainty. “It would take a large fleet to find them in that great expanse of water.” He spread his hand on the chart. “The only place that you will be able to waylay them is here.” He moved his hand southwards on to the fish-shaped island of Madagascar. “Zayn’s fleet will be forced through the narrows of the channel between the mainland and the island, like sand through the hourglass. You will guard the narrows. Your three ships can cover the inshore passage, for such an assembly of war-dhows will be spread out over many miles. You will also be able to enlist the help of the local fishermen to help you keep watch.”
“When we discover the fleet should we attack them?” Batula asked, and Dorian laughed.
“I know you would enjoy that, you old shaitan, but you must keep your ships well below the horizon and out of sight of the enemy at all times. You must not let Zayn know that his advance has been discovered. As soon as you sight his fleet you will break off all contact and hurry back here as fast as wind and current can bring you.”
“What of the Arcturus?” asked Ruby Cornish, with a peeved expression. “Am I also to act as a guard dog?”
“I have not forgotten you, Captain Cornish. Your ship is the most powerful, but not as fast as the Sprite and the Revenge, or even Tasuz’s little felucca. I want you here in Nativity Bay and you can be sure that when the time comes I will have much employment for you.” Cornish looked suitably mollified, and Dorian went on, “Now, I want to go over the plans to engage the enemy as soon as they show themselves in the offing.” They spent the rest of that day and most of the night in conclave, going over every conceivable eventuality.
“Our fleet is so small, and the enemy so numerous, that our success will depend on each ship working in concert with the others. At night I will use signal lanterns and, during the day, smoke and Chinese rockets. I have drawn up a list of the signal codes we will employ, with copies for Batula and Kumrah written out fair in Arabic by Mistress Verity.”
In the dawn the three little ships, Sprite, Revenge and Tasuz’s felucca, took advantage of the ebb of the tide and the offshore wind and sailed out of the bay, leaving only the Arcturus at anchor under the guns of the fort.
Beshwayo had moved his kraal fifty miles further downriver, but Bakkat had no difficulty in leading them directly to it, for every footpath and all the cattle tracks fanned out from it like the strands of a web, with King Beshwayo, the royal spider, at the centre. The lush and rolling grasslands through which they rode were heavily populated by his herds.
Regiments of the king’s warriors were guarding the cattle. Many had fought with Jim against the Amahin. They all knew that Beshwayo had made him his blood-brother, and their greetings were enthusiastic. Each regimental induna detached fifty men to join the escort that led the wagons towards the royal kraal. The swiftest runners raced ahead to alert the king of their imminent arrival.
Thus Jim’s entourage was several hundred strong by the time they crossed the last ridge and looked down into the basin of hills where Beshwayo’s new kraal stood. It was laid out in an enormous circle, divided internally into rings within rings like an archery target. Jim guessed that it might take even Drumfire almost half an hour to gallop around the outer circumference.
The kraal was surrounded by a high stockade, and at its heart was a vast cattle pen in which all the royal herds could be contained. Beshwayo liked to live close to his beasts, and he had explained to Jim how the inner enclosure also served as a fly trap. The insects laid their eggs in the fresh cattle dung where they were trodden under the hoofs of the milling herd and could not hatch.
The outer circles of the kraal were filled with the closely spaced beehive huts that housed Beshwayo’s court. The king’s bodyguard lived in the smaller huts. The larger huts of the king’s numerous wives stood within an enclosure of woven thorn branches. In a separate smaller enclosure were fifty elaborate structures that housed the indunas, Beshwayo’s councillors and senior captains, and their families.
All these were dwarfed by the king’s palace. It could not, by any stretch of semantics, be called a hut: it stood as tall as an English country church—it did not seem possible that sticks and reeds could have been built up so high without collapsing. Every single reed used in its construction had been selected by the master thatchers. It was a perfect hemisphere.
“It looks like the egg of the roc!” Louisa exclaimed. “See how it catches the sunlight.”
“What’s a roc, Mama?” demanded George, from the sling on his father’s back. “An’t that the same as a stone?” He had picked up that form of negative from his grandfather, and clung to it stubbornly despite her protests.
“A roc is a huge and fabulous bird,” Louisa answered.
“Can I have one, please?”
“Ask your father.” She smiled sweetly at Jim.
He pulled a wry face. “Thank you, Hedgehog. No peace for me for the next month.” To distract George he touched Drumfire with his heels and they trotted down the last hill. The escorting warriors burst into a full-throated anthem of praise to their king. Their voices were deep and melodious, stirring the blood with their magnificence. The long column of men, horses and wagons snaked down across the golden grassland, the warriors keeping perfect step. Their headdresses waved and nodded in unison; each regiment had its own totem, heron, vulture, eagle and owl, and they wore the feathers of their clan. Around their upper arms they wore the cow tails of honour, awarded by Beshwayo for killing an enemy in combat. Their shields were matched, some dappled, some black, others red, while a few of the élite regiments carried pure white ones. They beat upon them with their assegais as they approached the kraal across a parade-ground. At the far end of this wide expanse the imposing figure of Beshwayo waited for them, seated on a carved ebony stool. He was stark naked, displaying to all the world the proof that the dimensions of his manhood exceeded those of any of his subjects. His skin was anointed with beef fat and he shone in the sunlight like a beacon. The captains of his regiments were drawn up behind him, his indunas crowned with the rings of authority on their shaven heads, his witch doctors and his wives.
Jim reined in and fired a musket shot into the air. Beshwayo loved to be saluted thus, and he let forth a bull bellow of laughter. “I see you, Somoya my brother!” he shouted, and his voice carried three hundred yards across the parade-ground.
“I see you, great black bull!” Jim shouted back, and urged Drumfire into a gallop. Louisa pushed Trueheart up alongside him. Beshwayo clapped his hands with delight to see the horses run. In the sling on his father’s back George was kicking and struggling with excitement to be free.
“Beshie!” he yelled. “My Beshie!”
“You had best let him down,” Louisa called across to Jim, “before he does you or himself an injury.”
Jim hauled the stallion to a skidding halt on his haunches, lifted the child out of the sling with one hand and leaned out of the saddle to lower him to the ground. George took off at a run straight at the Great Bull of Earth and the Black Thunder of the Sky.
King Beshwayo came to meet him half-way, picked him up and hurled him high into the air. Louisa gasped and closed her eyes in trepidation, but George shrieked with delight as the king caught him before he hit the ground, and sat him firmly upon his gleaming muscular shoulder.
“Manatasee!” Beshwayo encouraged Jim. “Tell me again how you killed her. Tell me how her head sailed up into the air like a bird.” He demonstrated with an extravagant sweep of his arms.
Louisa had heard the story repeated so often, for it was Beshwayo’s favourite, that she pleaded the duties of motherhood as an excuse to leave the royal presence. She carried George, protesting sleepily, to his cot in the wagon.
Beshwayo listened to Jim’s account of the battle with even more pleasure than the first time he had heard it. “I wish I had met that mighty black cow,” he said, when the tale was told. “I would have put a fine son in her belly. Can you imagine what a mighty warrior he would have been, with such a father and mother?”
“Then you would have been forced to live with Manatasee, the raging lioness.”
“No, Somoya. After she had given me my son, I would have made her head fly even higher into the sky than you did.” He roared with laughter and thrust the beer pot into Jim’s hands.
When at last Jim came to join her in the cardell bed, Louisa had to help him climb over the afterclap. He collapsed on the mattress, and she removed his boots for him. The next morning it required two mugs of strong coffee before Jim announced dubiously that, if she nursed him well, he might just survive the day.
“I hope so, my darling husband, for I am sure you recall that this very day the king has invited you to attend the Festival of the First Flowers,” she told him, and Jim groaned.