The Horns of the Buffalo

by John Wilcox

  ‘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, ca
lling 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.’

  Simon looked at Dunn in disbelief. ‘You mean the King knew we were here?’

  Dunn nodded, the tolerant half-smile still on his face. ‘Oh yes. I guess he must have known as soon as you crossed the Tugela. Not much goes on here without him knowing about it. What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact, we were looking for you.’

  ‘Looking for me?’ The smile dropped from Dunn’s face and his eyes narrowed. ‘You were way off track. What do you want with me, then?’

  Simon looked at the Zulus. The whole party, including the warriors who had arrived on horseback with Dunn, were squatting on the ground, all regarding the white men with interest. There was no way of knowing whether or not they understood the conversation. Certainly they were within earshot.

  ‘We have, ah, come to trade.’

  ‘Trade!’ Dunn threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You are . . . traders?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Simon with desperate dignity. ‘We wish to trade with you.’

  Dunn looked at each of them in turn for some seconds, the half-smile back on his lips. He took a breath to speak and clearly changed his mind. He shrugged. ‘Ah well. That will disappoint the King, anyway.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He thought you were emissaries.’

  ‘No, no,’ Jenkins intervened helpfully. ‘We’re English - well, at least he is. I’m from Wales, see.’

  Dunn looked blankly at Jenkins and Simon hurriedly continued. ‘Why on earth should the King think we were emissaries?’

  Dunn languidly stretched a long leg along the grass and rested his elbow on a rock. ‘Because the word came from the border kraals that two soldiers in - what d’yer call it? - mufti, that’s it, had crossed the Tugela and were heading in the general direction of Ulundi, although off the right route.’ He looked at Simon and smiled again. ‘He thought that one of you, at least, was quite an important inDuna because he couldn’t sit his saddle like the horse soldiers do. No offence, mind.’

  ‘None taken,’ said Simon stiffly. He lowered his voice so that the watching natives could not hear. ‘Do these Zulus understand English?’

  ‘Not a word. Why?’

  ‘We have come to see you and I would welcome a chance of speaking to you in private.’

  Dunn slowly got to his feet. The effect was that of a bear stretching. ‘Well, all right. But King Cetswayo wants to see you so you had better think of something to tell him that doesn’t arouse his suspicions. You don’t look like traders to me and you won’t look like traders to him.’ His voice took on a sharp edge. ‘He’s no fool, you know. You redcoats seem to think that just because he’s a black heathen he can be fed any old line. That’s just not so. He’s a shrewd, intelligent man. I think he’s a good man, too. So you’d better put your thinking caps on. Let’s mount up. The King’s waiting.’

  Dunn took the lead on his large bay and as Simon and Jenkins fell in behind, so the two Zulu horsemen, riding effortlessly with bare feet in the stirrups and with shields slung over their left shoulders, completed the party in the rear. The big man set a fast pace and pulled away a little.

  ‘What are we going to tell the King, then?’ asked Jenkins from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘We must stick to our story that we are traders. It’s too late to think of anything else credible. Above all, we must not admit that we are soldiers.’

  Jenkins smiled. ‘Well, bach sir, they’re not goin’ to think that you are cavalry, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Be quiet. People from the Glasshouse shouldn’t throw stones.’

  The party rode for half an hour, picking their way through herds of the most indolent, well-fed cattle, which Simon presumed must belong to the King, until they topped a gentle rise and looked down on the King’s kraal at Ulundi.

  To Simon and Jenkins, used to the small groupings of beehive huts that constituted the few Zulu villages they had seen so far, the capital presented an amazing sight. It stood on a gentle slope that rose from the banks of the White Umfolozi River and, observed from a distance of just under a mile, resembled a giant anthill. The kraal was defined by a thorn fence that must have enclosed at least ninety acres of land, corralling hundreds of hive-shaped structures, grouped, in turn, around a central cattle pen. Tiny black figures could be seen between the huts and spilling out beyond the thorn barrier on to the surrounding plain, where more cattle grazed. Scores of smoke spirals curled into the sky and merged with the dark blue hills in the background. Ulundi was vibrant and as alive as a termites’ nest. It was an aboriginal metropolis.

  Dunn turned around in his saddle and waited for the others to draw alongside. He nodded ahead. ‘This is the royal kraal.’ He spoke with what could be construed as pride in his voice. ‘About one third of a million people live here, and King Cetswayo has absolute authority over them.’ His mocking smile returned. ‘That means that quite a few people die here, too. So if I were you, I wouldn’t let on that I was in the British Army - if you are, that is.’

  He looked quizzically at Simon. ‘But I don’t want to give the wrong impression. The days when people were put to death on a whim have long since gone. Shaka and Dingane did that but Cetswayo does not. He’s a fair man and the ways of the Zulu can teach the people of Durban a thing or two.’ Dunn spat in emphasis. ‘The King doesn’t want trouble with the British and it’s part of my job he
re to keep him out of it.’

  Simon gestured ahead. ‘Do you live here, then?’

  ‘Good God, no. I am visiting at the moment. I’ve got a few acres of my own near the coast. I’m my own man and the King knows it. But I can be useful to him and he knows that, too.’

  The party began to trot towards a drift in the river and the city fell away from view.

  ‘Are we seeing the King now, then?’ enquired Jenkins, a trifle anxiously.

  ‘You are. I was sent to get you.’

  Jenkins pulled on his moustache. ‘I don’t fancy crawlin’ on me belly or any of that stuff,’ he said. ‘We don’t ’ave to do any of that when we meet the King, do we?’

  ‘No. Just bow your head.’ Dunn’s teeth flashed through his whiskers. ‘Just like when you say hello to Queen Victoria.’

  ‘Ah, righteo, then,’ said Jenkins, now riding straight, like a Guardsman. ‘I’ll throw in a curtsey too, if you like.’

  The horsemen cantered through thicker herds of cattle, tended by slim young boys who now watched them with undisguised interest. Simon had the impression that not many white men visited Ulundi. The kraal reappeared as they rounded a low spur and immediately they were surrounded by Zulus, who raised their spears and sticks in salute to Dunn and fell into step with the horses, forming a trotting mass several hundred strong, to usher them towards a wide gap in the stockade. Dunn rode to the central cattle pen and dismounted, gesturing to them to tether their horses to a low rail.

  ‘What about our packs and guns?’ asked Simon.

  Dunn gave him a keen look. ‘They’re safer here than in Piccadilly Circus. I’ve heard what happened to the young buck who fancied your rifle back there. You’re the King’s guests here, so no one will touch your possessions. Come.’ He gestured towards a large, low mud hut, built in rectangular European style and by far the largest dwelling to be seen.

  The big man led the way and pushed open the unpainted door. The others followed and immediately began coughing as the smoke of the interior engulfed them. Dimly, they perceived a beaten earth floor, leading to simple wooden furniture grouped on woven matting at the far end of the room. The light was poor, for there were no windows, but the glow from the fire, burning despite the heat outside, picked out a number of women of uncertain age grouped around a large Zulu who reposed on a roll of matting.