The Horns of the Buffalo

by John Wilcox

  ‘Not at all,’ said Simon.

  ‘Fascinatin’,’ said Jenkins. They both meant it.

  Gratified, Dunn continued. ‘Well, the old enmity between the Zulus and Boers goes back, of course, to Dingane, Blood River and all that. But it’s been revived over the last few years. There’s a dispute which has been rumbling for ages over a large tract of land east of the Blood River to the north of here.’ He gestured over his shoulder.

  ‘The Transvaal Boers claim that it was ceded to them by Mpande, Cetswayo’s father. The King denies this and is looking to the British and his old friend, Somtseu, to back him up. So far, they have, but . . .’ Dunn let a pause hang in the air for a moment. ‘If Shepstone wants to buy the Boers’ friendship for annexation of Transvaal, then he could switch sides.’

  He looked at Simon. ‘That’s why the King was so tetchy when he met you. He thought that maybe Shepstone had sent you to reassure him. There is a rumour that some sort of commission is going to sit in London to sort out this land business. But I’m worried about it all. As I’ve said, there are many of Cetswayo’s warriors who have never washed their spears. If this tribunal thing goes the wrong way, that could give them the excuse. And then we could all be involved.’

  Simon nodded silently. Listening to the big man’s fears, his thoughts had fled back to that darkened room in Cape Town and Colonel Lamb’s talk of confederation and conquest. Either way, it was difficult to see how the future could deny the King’s impis the chance to earn their manhood. He needed to think.

  The pessimism in Dunn’s voice had settled like a pall over the table and even Jenkins could think of nothing to say. Simon pushed back his chair. ‘I am most grateful to you, Mr Dunn, for your clear account of events.’ He turned and bowed to Catherine. ‘And to you, ma’am, for a most delightful dinner.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ growled Jenkins.

  ‘Oh, don’t go yet,’ said Dunn. ‘Mr Jenkins, you must have another brandy.’

  Jenkins beamed. ‘Well, I don’t mind if—’ he began. But Simon cut in quickly.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I think we should retire. It’s been a long day.’ Bowing again to Mrs Dunn and to Nandi, Simon led the way to the door.

  As they parted at their bedroom doors, Jenkins beamed at Simon. ‘I’m not sure what exactly is goin’ on ’ere, bach sir,’ he said, swaying slightly on his feet, ‘but for the moment, I rather like this postin’.’

  ‘Well, don’t get to like it too much,’ hissed Simon, ‘because I don’t know what’s happening either. But I don’t like the sound of any of it. We could still be dropped like a hot potato by Dunn - and straight into Cetswayo’s lap. And here.’ He grabbed Jenkins’s arm and pulled him close. ‘Where on earth did you learn all that stuff about champagne? Were you making it up?’

  Jenkins withdrew his arm with unsteady dignity. ‘Cerdenly not,’ he said. ‘As smadder of fact, I was officers’ mess corporal in the 1st Battalion and me an’ old Captain Talbot used to do all the buyin’, see. I got to know the merchant very well.’ He smiled reminiscently. ‘As smadder of fact, I got to know some of the wines as well.’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘To be honest, bach sir, that Bollinger ’65 wasn’t as good as I made out, see. He’s bought the wrong year. Now the ’67 . . .’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, 352, and go to bed.’

  ‘Very good, sir. As you say, sir.’ Jenkins executed an immaculate about-turn, crashed into the doorpost and fumbled his way into his room.

  Simon was in a deep sleep when a steady, insistent shaking dragged him back into consciousness. A fresh-faced Jenkins, his black hair slicked down and his eyes bright over the bristling moustache, was beaming down at him. ‘Better get up, sir. The sun’s been up for nearly an hour and Mr Dunn’s ridden off somewhere. Everyone’s up an’ about. I’ve done my best with your boots but I can’t get ’em to shine ’ere for some reason.’

  ‘To hell with the boots. I don’t want to look like a guardsman here. Why on earth didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir, as you probably just noticed, like, I’ave woken you.’

  ‘No, you fool. I meant earlier.’

  ‘Ah well. I felt that we both deserved a bit of a lie-in, after all that ridin’ an’ all.’

  Scowling, Simon pulled on his clothes, washed his hands and face in the china bowl on the washstand and hurried into the kitchen, with Jenkins scurrying behind. There, they were given eggs, bread and bowls of coffee by a huge Zulu woman who was obviously mistress of the kitchen. As they finished their coffee, a smiling Nandi appeared, her hair tied back, looking as fresh as the morning.

  ‘Father has had to leave,’ she said, ‘but he has asked me to say that you are free to do as you please. Except that he does not think it wise for you to ride further than, say, ten miles from the house.’ Her smile grew wider. ‘But I thought, Mr Fonthill, that it would be a good idea if we begin the Zulu lessons right away.’ She turned to Jenkins. ‘And my brother James is happy to take you, Mr Jenkins, with him to herd some cattle, if you would like that. It would give you a chance to see more of the country.’

  ‘Good idea, Jenkins,’ said Simon, as the Welshman opened his mouth to protest. ‘Get to know the country and all that.’

  ‘Oh, if you say so.’ He turned sullenly to Nandi. ‘I rather thought that I would like to learn Zulu too, look you.’

  ‘Some other time, Jenkins,’ said Simon. ‘Now just go and get to know the country like a good chap.’

  After Jenkins and James had ridden off, Simon was surprised to find that Nandi had provided two saddled horses for them, too. ‘Don’t we go to the schoolroom?’ he asked.

  Nandi shook her head gravely. ‘Oh no. I know a nice place away from the house where we will not be troubled. It is not far and we can concentrate there.’

  They rode through pleasant, undulating countryside, well watered and grassed. Simon reflected that Dunn had carved out for himself what surely must be some of the best grazing and sugar-growing territory in Zululand. He speculated that they were not far from the coast, and although the humidity was higher than at Ulundi the sun was not too hot. For once, Simon thoroughly enjoyed being on horseback. He followed Nandi, who sat in the saddle with supreme confidence, riding with her bare feet thrust forward in the stirrups. They spoke little.

  They followed a small stream until it widened out into a dark green pool beside a hollow that was covered with moss and coarse, springy grass. ‘This is my favourite place,’ said Nandi as she dismounted. ‘Come and sit under this tree.’

  They tethered their horses to a low branch and then sat under the tree’s cool shade, Simon beginning to feel slightly disconcerted by the intimacy of the surroundings, but intrigued by the matter-of-fact assurance of the young girl.

  ‘Now, Mr Fonthill,’ said Nandi, once they were sitting together.

  ‘I think you should call me Simon, if you would like to.’

  She clapped her hands girlishly. ‘Oh, Simon! Simon. It’s such a lovely name. So . . . English.’

  ‘Is it? I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Yes, it sounds very . . . what is the phrase? Anglo-Saxon. Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Anglo-Saxon! Nandi, where did you learn your excellent English? Surely not here, in Zululand?’

  ‘Oh no. Papa sent me to boarding school in the Cape when I was very little. I was taught in a convent.’ Her face clouded over for a moment. ‘I hated that and I was glad to come home when I was sixteen. Father sent James away too - we are the two oldest, you know - but he disliked it as well, so now, although he has a lot of money, Papa doesn’t bother to send any of the other children away. I try and teach them here.’ She chuckled ingenuously.

  ‘May I ask . . .’ began Simon nervously. ‘You are not, I think, Catherine’s child?’

  Nandi shook her head. ‘We are all Catherine’s children in that she is the head wife - and she is good to us all. But she and Papa never had children. My mother was the second wife and I think
Father loved her very much. She was of very fine and pure blood and was the daughter of an inDuna.’ She dropped her head. ‘But she is dead now.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

  Simon looked at the face before him, now dappled by the shade. Nandi’s skin was the colour of coffee after a dash of cream has been added to it and there wasn’t a wrinkle or a line to be seen. Her hands were cupping her cheeks now, and the fingers were slender, not splayed at the tips as with many Zulu women, and he noted that she had polished her nails. Simon could clearly see the hard protuberance of her nipples as they pushed against the shift she was wearing. He wondered if she went bare-breasted when there were no visitors at the house.

  To his amazement, he heard himself asking the question.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Nandi, quite unfazed. ‘It is much easier when working. Most Zulu women do. And I have good breasts. Look.’ In a smooth, fluid movement she pulled her shift over her head and proffered her breasts. ‘They are quite firm,’ she said. ‘Men like to touch them, though Papa doesn’t like it and has told me that I should wear a dress when men are present, like white women do. But I don’t mind you touching them, if you would like to.’

  The invitation hung limpidly in the air as Nandi sat perfectly still facing Simon, a smile playing on her lips. A cavalcade of emotions flashed across Simon’s brain: surprise, embarrassment, lust and then a dull warning of danger.

  He licked his lips. ‘As a matter of fact, I think it’s French,’ he said weakly.

  She frowned. ‘What is?’

  ‘The origin of Simon.’

  ‘Oh, really. How interesting! Are you part French, then, as I am part Zulu?’ The breasts stayed tantalisingly close, beautifully formed, tip-tilted to the nipples and still, so to speak, on offer. He wondered if she was teasing him. The little smile was still there, now more in the eyes than on the lips. If she was quite innocent, some sort of noble savage, then those black eyes would surely not twinkle so. She had moved almost imperceptibly closer.

  Slowly, Simon leaned forward, his mouth slightly open. Then he stopped. With a sharp inward breath he sat bolt upright and turned his face upwards and stared desperately at the blue sky framing the tracery of leaves.

  ‘I think you had better put your dress on again, Nandi,’ he croaked.

  ‘All right,’ she responded cheerfully. ‘You are quite right. I did not bring you here for ukuHlongonga - although, Simon, that would be very, very nice, you know.’

  ‘Uku . . . what? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I will tell you another day. Now.’ She had been kneeling but now she crossed her legs underneath her and sat upright in a businesslike kind of way. ‘I have something important to say to you, Simon.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The Zulu lesson.’

  ‘No - although you must begin to learn and I will teach you, because you cannot do your work here properly unless you know the language. But first there is something more important.’

  Simon made an effort and tried to look at her dispassionately. He did not know how old she was - perhaps seventeen, eighteen? - but the serious expression she had now adopted made her look even younger. She was, he realised forlornly, quite remarkably beautiful. She was also probably quite primitively amoral. And, most importantly, she could ensure quicker than any other factor in this complicated equation that Jenkins and he would end up with assegais in their stomachs. But now Nandi was talking and he composed himself to listen.

  ‘When you spoke to my father in Ulundi about information that you needed, were you serious about it not being used for war but, in fact, to stop any fighting?’

  ‘Of course. But why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I think that I have most of the information that you need.’ She frowned earnestly. ‘Not about the King’s intentions. I don’t know about that. But I do know roughly how big the army is and where the impis are.’

  ‘Good lord, Nandi. How do you know all this?’

  Her smile was back now and she was very aware that she had Simon’s full attention. ‘Well, you see, my father sells cattle to the King. Papa has some of the finest beef in the country and the King buys from him regularly to feed his army. The King cannot supply the impis properly from his own herds because many of them are made up of ceremonial cattle that he cannot kill. So he buys from Papa.’

  Nandi began rocking to and fro as she spoke, so that the dappled sunlight moved across her face and gave a magic lantern effect. ‘As well as teaching the children,’ she threw back her head and laughed loudly, ‘at least, some of the time, I help Papa with this business. This means that I have to keep records for him because he does not like that side of it at all. He does not have to pay - what do you call them - taxes, yes, but he must be careful when he trades with the King. I write down which cattle go to which regiment and where they are living in our country. Soooo . . .’ she drew the word out teasingly and gazed upwards at Simon through her lashes, ‘I know very well how the army is made up and where it is.’

  Simon blew out his cheeks in astonishment. ‘Nandi, you continue to amaze me. But why should you want to give me this information and why cannot your father supply it?’

  Nandi frowned. ‘I know Papa very well and he is not very - how shall I say it? - decisive. He will not want to get involved with you in this way. He may give you little bits of information to be polite and keep in with the British but he will want to stay on the fence, as the English say. I heard what you said about knowledge preventing a war and I would like to give you that knowledge, if it will stop the war. Will you promise me that, Simon, if I give it to you?’ There was no coquettishness in her eyes now as they looked into Simon’s. Simon realised that she was completely in earnest.

  He took a deep breath. ‘Nandi, I am not in a position to give you guarantees or even assurances. I am not a general, only a very humble lieutenant. It is the generals who take the decisions. I only carry them out. But I can promise you one thing. If you can help me, I do believe it will reduce the risk of war and I will do everything in my power to make sure that the information is used for peace.’

  The girl stared at him silently for a moment. ‘But do you yourself really believe that information about the Zulu army would, as you said, reduce the risk of some silly accident - at the border, say - setting off a war? I ask this because I know these people and that is just what might happen.’

  Simon became aware that he was on the edge of a moral maze and disliked the feeling. Yet he was committed. He had to go on.

  ‘Yes, I do. If the size and preparedness for war of the Zulu army is known and if, as I suspect, those facts are impressive, then I do believe that it could make hot-heads on our side, at least, think twice and three times before they commit the army. You see,’ and now he felt on surer ground, ‘our government in London is far more concerned about the threat to India from the Russians who are stirring up trouble in Afghanistan. I cannot see them starting a war in South Africa against a nation they know to be well prepared militarily.’

  Nandi looked relieved. ‘Very well, Simon. Then I shall tell you all I know. But you must not make notes. That would be very dangerous. You must remember everything I tell you.’

  ‘Oh dear, Nandi. That will be difficult. But I take your point. No notes. Right. First of all, how many men are in the army - in a state of readiness, that is?’

  The girl frowned. ‘Well, as you probably know, the Zulus have the same basic structure as the British Army - divided into regiments, and that sort of thing. So there are thirty-three regiments serving the King now. That is just under fifty thousand men.’

  Simon whistled. ‘As many as that?’

  ‘Yes. I do not know about readiness but not all of them would be very good in a battle, I think. About seven of the regiments date from the days of Shaka and Dingane and the men in them are too old to frighten anyone. But,’ she looked at Simon with wide eyes, ‘they would fight. Every man is trained to fight, from the time they join their iNtanga groups as boys. When the boys of various i
Ntanga reach military age, they are formed into regiments from the same age-group and district. The number of warriors in a regiment might vary from, say, five hundred to six thousand, but I suppose the average is about fifteen hundred.’ Nandi leaned forward. ‘Do you know about celibacy?’

  ‘A little, but tell me.’

  ‘Well, Shaka said years ago that the first duty of young warriors is to protect the nation, not to marry and grow fat. They could do that later. So that has been the practice ever since: warriors must stay celibate either until they are about forty or until they have proved themselves in battle. Of course . . .’ and here Simon could have sworn that Nandi blushed, ‘there is ukuHlongonga. But that doesn’t matter for now. The point is,’ and she regarded him again with that frown which made her look like a schoolgirl relating a lesson, ‘all the young men who do not wear the isiCoco - that is the circlet of fibre woven into the hair which a man is allowed to wear when he takes a wife - all of them are anxious to wash their spears to gain it. And, Simon, there has been little chance of washing spears in recent years, so there are many men anxious to go to war.’

  Her eyes were wide in their anxiety to impress. Simon wanted to kiss them.

  ‘Er . . . how many celibate warriors would there be, then?’ he asked instead.

  Nandi frowned in concentration. ‘About eighteen of the thirty-three regiments consist of married men, but these include the seven made up of the old men I told you about. But the King mixes these regiments up to give the young men the support of the experienced ones. For instance, the Undi corps consists of five regiments, three of which - the uThulwane, the Mkonkone and the Ndhlondhlo—’

  ‘I shall never remember these names,’ said Simon despairingly.