The Horns of the Buffalo

by John Wilcox

  He rose as they entered and Simon regarded him closely. He was as tall as Dunn - about six feet two inches - broadly built and clearly had possessed a fine athletic stature in his youth. Now, in early middle age, he had developed a large stomach, and rolls of fat followed the contours of what had once been sharply defined pectoral muscles in his chest. His legs were finely proportioned and he stood with an air of erect nonchalance, a handsome shawl thrown over one shoulder and a brightly coloured cotton cloth wound round his waist. His feet were enormous, with widely splayed toes and the gaps between almost white. The King’s face was round, with wide-set eyes and a snub nose under a broad forehead, which was topped by a ring waxed firmly into his short black hair. His beard and moustache were neatly clipped short and bore no hint of grey. His expression was serene as he observed the newcomers.

  Cetswayo made no movement as Dunn approached. The Natalian bowed his head and spoke quickly in low, guttural Zulu. The King raised his hand languidly and Dunn turned to Simon and Jenkins. The two intuitively took two paces forward and bowed their heads in unison. ‘Your Majesty,’ said Simon.

  The King regarded them with obvious interest and spoke slowly and quietly. ‘The King says that you are welcome to Ulundi,’ Dunn translated, ‘as are all men who come in peace.’

  ‘Please thank His Majesty and tell him that we certainly come in peace,’ responded Simon. ‘We have nothing but respect for him and his people. We did not expect to meet him so have no gifts worthy of his status. But . . .’ Simon fumbled in the small haversack at his hip, ‘if he will accept this small and inadequate token of our respect we will be highly honoured.’ And he handed Dunn his small silver hip flask.

  Dunn bowed, translated and handed the flask to the King, who slowly unscrewed the cap, smelled the contents, replaced the cap and expressionlessly handed the flask to one of his women attendants.

  ‘You should have consulted me about that,’ said Dunn evenly without taking his eyes off the King. ‘He doesn’t drink much alcohol but silver is a good idea. You could have insulted him, but as it is, I think you have got away with it.’

  The King spoke again and, with a small movement of hand and head, gestured for them to sit on a mat that was unrolled at their feet. A chair was brought for the King, who lowered himself into it, picked up an assegai and toyed with it as he addressed them.

  ‘The King would like to know,’ said Dunn, ‘what you are doing in his country. As a matter of fact,’ he added, his eyes twinkling, ‘so would I.’

  ‘Good luck, bach,’ murmured Jenkins softly without moving his lips.

  Simon looked the King firmly in the eye and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘We are traders,’ he said. ‘We have come to your country to trade.’

  Dunn’s face was expressionless as he translated. Not so the King’s. Immediately he frowned and spoke with animation, jabbing the assegai towards the two men in emphasis.

  ‘The King says,’ Dunn relayed, ‘that he cannot understand how you can be traders when you come to his country without knowing it - that was clear because you seemed to be avoiding kraals but were going in no clear direction - and without knowing the language of his country. He also says that you do not look like any traders he has met before.’

  Simon had not relaxed his eye contact with the King. ‘We are new to the ways of this country because we came to South Africa only two months ago,’ he said. ‘We wish to set up a business trading cattle in Natal but we need stock. We heard in Cape Colony that Jantoni in Zululand had good cattle and we came to find him and buy cattle from him.’

  The King considered this for a moment and then his eyes narrowed as he addressed Dunn. ‘The King wants to know why you don’t want to buy cattle from the Zulu people. The King himself has the best herds in the whole of Africa.’

  Simon swallowed but maintained his gaze. ‘We do not have the Zulu tongue, so we could not talk to Zulu people in their kraals. And we did not presume to think that we could buy from the King. We know he is not a trader.’

  Dunn allowed one eyelid to drop. ‘Smart answer, sonny,’ he said before turning back to the King.

  King Cetswayo nodded at the reply but his bearing remained stiff as he sat in his wooden chair. His movements were no longer languid and he fidgeted with the assegai, one thumb constantly rubbing the edge of the blade. He was clearly disappointed in his visitors. He began speaking again.

  ‘If you are traders,’ translated Dunn, ‘how is it that you have the very latest army rifles, the Martini-Henry. He knows that the army does not sell them.’

  Simon did not hesitate. ‘We bought them in England before we set sail - directly from the manufacturer. Anybody can do that if they have the money. Please point out to the King that not everyone who has a Martini-Henry is a soldier. Jantoni has one and he is not a soldier.’

  Dunn shot him a quick glance. ‘You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that,’ he said, before relaying the answer.

  Immediately, the King’s expression of annoyance changed and he spoke quickly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Dunn. ‘If you can get rifles that easily, the King is happy to trade with you. He will sell you as many cattle as you want in return for rifles. But he is anxious to tell you that these will not be used for aggressive purposes, particularly against the British, whom he regards as his brothers. He wants them to defend his people against the Boers, who are trying to take his land in the north-west.’

  Simon took a deep breath and this time addressed the white man directly. ‘Mr Dunn, you know that the authorities in the Cape will not allow the trading of guns with the Zulu.’ He took a calculated risk. ‘Although I believe that there have been exceptions in the past and you have been involved in them.’ He saw Dunn’s eyes flicker and presumed that his guess had been correct. ‘But it is something with which we could not be involved. We trade in cattle. We do not sell guns.’

  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.’<
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  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.’