Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  ‘And now the likely successor to Mpande is Cetshwayo?’ Dallas nodded in understanding of his newfound facts.

  ‘There’s no choice really. He killed the only other contender.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘He’s a Zulu.’

  Logan’s acceptance of what sounded like murder showed Dallas how much he still had to learn. But it would have to wait. Yawning, he crawled into his bedroll. ‘How long did it take you to pick up and understand all that?’

  Logan’s face was unreadable in the dying firelight. ‘A few years. You’ll hear all kinds of versions. They can’t all be true. Listen and learn. Make up your own mind.’

  ‘I will. Goodnight.’

  Dallas was asleep within seconds. Shadowy Zulu kings leapt through his dreams, pursued by dour-faced Boers and Englishmen with fake smiles.

  Every day Dallas would take a portion of what he’d been told by Logan or Will and discuss it with Mister David. This way he was able to look at a picture without becoming lost in its colour. Having been told by Logan how Mpande didn’t actually like his son, Cetshwayo, Mister David explained why. It was a complicated tale of love, loyalty and sibling jealousy. Dallas was glad he understood the basics before tackling more intricate detail.

  When the driver finally fell silent, Dallas asked how he felt about white men explaining his people’s history. Could their knowledge ever be as profound as that of a Zulu?

  Mister David took so long in replying that Dallas was beginning to wonder if he would. Then, unexpectedly, he made a comment that seemed unrelated. ‘Do you see that tree?’

  ‘I see it.’ Dallas wondered what the man was talking about.

  ‘If you ask what it is, I can say it is a tree.’

  ‘That’s because it is one.’

  ‘Or I can tell you about how we eat the fruit, why inyanga use its bark and leaves for medicines, what birds and animals seek it for shelter or food. From me you will learn what part of the tree is useful for building our houses and whether we burn its wood for cooking. I can say how long it takes to grow and how big it will be when it is very old.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dallas said slowly, beginning to see sense in what Mister David was getting at.

  ‘Do you wish to learn these things or is it enough to know it is a tree?’

  Dallas laughed. ‘I see your point, Mister David. Remember I am new to this country. To hear first of fruit and leaves I may never learn from which tree they come.’

  His driver chewed that over before nodding thoughtfully. ‘I too can tell you it is nothing but a tree.’

  Dallas wanted Mister David to understand why he preferred most of his information diluted by white ignorance. He strove to explain. ‘Have you heard of Queen Victoria?’

  ‘The great white queen. Yes, I have heard of him.’

  Dallas let that go. Africans, he’d come to learn, often mixed their genders. ‘What do you know about her?’

  Mister David shrugged. ‘He is very powerful. Our king praises him.’

  ‘Can you tell me the name of her husband? How many children they had before he died? Who will be the next king? Where she lives? Who are her main advisers?’

  ‘Why should I know these things?’

  ‘No reason. I could tell you, though, because she is my queen.’

  The Zulu laughed. ‘My head would be too sore if you did that.’

  ‘Exactly so, Mister David. As would mine if I tried to understand everything about the Zulus. Or your tree, if you like.’

  The driver repeated, ‘I can say it is a tree.’

  ‘Yes, but you would think I already knew what it was. Let me put it this way. What if I told you that Victoria was a fine queen until she lost her beloved husband, Albert? The Prince of Wales causes her much concern?’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Oh, come. Don’t you understand? I know these things, why don’t you?’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘A Zulu might say that a great white queen lives across the big water in a place called London. He might even tell you that her husband is dead and a son worries her greatly. You would understand this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, with this knowledge, you could come to me and ask who are the husband and son and why is she worried? I would answer that her husband was Albert, who died ten years ago. The son is Edward who spends too many idle hours in pleasure and does not take seriously that, one day, he will be king.’ Dallas smiled. ‘That would answer the question and your head would not be sore because you already knew a little part of the story.’

  The African smiled back. ‘I hear you. To understand the end we must first know of the beginning. Without this we will forever look through the eyes of a child.’

  ‘Yes, but a mother teaches her young in a manner she knows they will understand. Too much talk and the child will become confused.’

  ‘There is much truth in what you say. Very well. The white man can tell you it is a tree. That is the beginning. When you ask me about that tree I will know your ears are open.’

  Mister David nodded slightly and returned his attention to the oxen. Dallas was only just beginning to realise how wide a cultural gap existed between whites and blacks. Could any European come close to bridging it? From what he’d seen, there were Africans willing to help close it. Unfortunately they seemed to be the only ones braving the chasm.

  They’d been on the road for just over a week when they reached the Howick Falls. It was midafternoon and threatening skies brooded away to the south. The waters of the Mngeni River were muddy brown as they swirled past to plunge three hundred and fifty feet into the gorge below.

  ‘Been some rain in the Berg,’ Will commented, referring to the Drakensberg Mountains which appeared on their left like a great purple wall of basalt rock.

  Logan shielded his eyes as he searched the opposite bank. ‘No flag,’ he grunted. ‘We should make it.’

  Dallas eyed the ford with some concern.

  ‘They fly a red flag if it’s too dangerous,’ Logan explained.

  ‘It doesn’t look very safe to me,’ Dallas replied.

  Will pointed to the other side where a white man had approached. He was carrying a piece of red material. ‘Looks like the river’s rising.’

  The man saw them and waved their wagons over. With sign language he indicated that more rain had fallen and they should hurry.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ Will urged. ‘Any messing about and we could be stuck here for days.’

  The three drivers did not question his wisdom. One at a time, whips cracking, they put their nervous oxen at the ford. Several beasts stumbled but being yoked, the others carried on, momentum allowing the fallen to regain their footing. The spare horses danced and shied with no option but to go along. One wagon, the last to cross, kept slightly further from the edge and tilted crazily as two wheels slipped off a rock shelf that formed the crossing. Only a few feet away, the rushing water disappeared into the abyss below. Ignoring risk to life and limb, half-a-dozen Africans were quickly to hand and disaster was averted. Loose cattle baulked, bellowed and hesitated before being encouraged from behind with sticks. One of Will’s Zulus slipped and rolled twice before scrabbling fingers took hold and he was able to drag himself to safety.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Logan shouted. ‘Don’t think about it.’ He heeled his horse forward, a look of grim determination on his face.

  ‘This is madness,’ Dallas muttered, following without hesitation. Tosca plunged gamely into the flow, hooves slipping as she strived to stay upright. Instead of wading, his horse preferred to rear up and, with a thrust from both hind legs, surge forward. In this manner, they reached the other side. Will was right behind.

  Logan and a group of onlookers, children mainly, were waiting for them. ‘River’s coming down tonight. We’ll be the last to cross.’

  The track sloped gently away from the falls to an open area with good grass and water. Knowing the animals would benefit from a rest, Dallas decided not to press
on further. The horses and oxen needed no second bidding when Logan selected a suitable area to outspan for the night. Even if the river did flood, they were well clear of any danger. Two Zulus, armed with assegais and knobkerries, were posted as guards. Several others were busy setting up camp, washing clothes and preparing food for the night.

  Will had shot a buffalo that morning. They’d salted and rolled the skin before loading it onto a wagon. Four Africans were busy cutting most of the flesh into strips to make biltong, a process which required the meat be rubbed with salt before soaking overnight in a mixture of spice and vinegar. Then it was strung to dry in the sun. Each wagon would be festooned with drying strips of meat until an outer crust formed and then, depending on personal preference as to how moist or dry one preferred biltong, eaten as snacks.

  Mister David had been charged with the making of extra reims. Strips of animal skin had to be stretched, twisted, unravelled and then greased. It was not a complicated process but very time consuming, because it took several days of repeating it over and over before the skin had the strength yet softness needed to restrain the oxen’s movement without rubbing. Most of the reims would be sold for about two shillings each when they reached a town.

  As the afternoon shadows lengthened, and listening to the conversations in Zulu as the Africans worked, a feeling of contentment settled on Dallas. Exile might have been a harsh word but in reality, despite a few minor problems along the way, life wasn’t all that bad. All being well, he would make money from this trip. His companions were experienced even if they did squabble like children. He had a driver who spoke English and was willing to talk about the lifestyle and culture of his people. It was all so different. The weather would be hell once they reached the Thukela Valley, but this part of the country was high enough to avoid the worst of the heat. Days were hot, not humid, with nights cool and crisp as fine champagne. The country, soft sometimes yet dramatic in its beauty, rising to a horizon of distant, weather-sculptured peaks.

  Dallas hadn’t expected such diversity. Africa, if he’d thought about it at all before coming here, was steamy jungles, wild rivers and savage animals. The area around Howick was not unlike parts of Scotland, if one discounted the cacophony of sounds that filled the air, especially at night. In a very short time, he had learned that most had a reassuring explanation.

  Strange and once frightening noises were less threatening when they could be identified and understood. Dallas had heard lion roar at night, often quite close and terrifyingly savage. Already he could detect differences in the sound. Some, he had discovered, were inquiring grunts to the rest of a pride. Other sounds told of territorial disputes, sexual frustration or contentment, even just plain making a noise because they felt like it. The proximity of predators didn’t necessarily mean danger. Dallas learned to watch and take his cue from the cattle. They either ignored the presence of lion or became extremely nervous. He also learned how to judge their distance from camp.

  ‘Have a guess, double it and double it again,’ Logan told him. ‘Sound travels out here.’

  Dallas put the theory to Mister David. ‘I do not understand how you measure distance,’ his driver admitted. ‘The ngonyama we heard last night would take as long to reach as a morning from sleep to the road.’

  That tallied. They could break camp within thirty minutes. Dallas, using Logan’s method, had already worked out that the lion must have been about four miles away. He was becoming familiar with myriad strange sounds heard in the darkness. The nyaaa ya ya ya ya howl and yip of jackal. A fiery nightjar’s call that sounded like good-Lord-deliver-us. The warning waa-hoo bark of baboon or the hoarse, high-pitched scream of hyena at dusk. He could tell the difference between a common river frog – krik-krik-krowww – and the shy bubbling kassina – quoip – that sounded like a large bubble bursting. Dallas learned to recognise the docile yet deadly puff adder and aggressive, venom-spitting cobras. Despite the nightmarish look of some, he soon relaxed at the unexpected appearance of spiders. Only one could kill a man and that was the female black button spider, seldom found outside of the Cape Colony. With knowledge grew acceptance. Each day became a classroom with Will, Logan and Mister David acting as his teachers.

  The major worry was conflict between Will’s driver and Logan’s skinner. They kept their distance from each other and never exchanged a word, but with gestures and body language, the animosity was clear to all. Twice, Will had to speak sharply to his driver, who listened, nodded polite acceptance then went straight back to deliberate, yet silent, provocation. Of the two Africans, the Sotho skinner seemed best able to keep his feelings under control.

  This did not reassure Logan. ‘I know him well. He can’t keep this up. He’ll strike. When he does, no-one will see it coming.’

  Dallas knew there was little he could do to prevent trouble. Logan and Will acted as though it was inevitable and, in the main, appeared unconcerned. He’d have to take his lead from them.

  His musings were interrupted by a sharp outburst from Logan. ‘What’s that bloody fool up to?’

  Dallas, so busy with his thoughts, had neither seen nor heard two approaching wagons. The lead team was being urged on by a white man. Next to him sat two women. The wagon behind was driven by an African. Neither showed any sign of slowing down.

  ‘Wait,’ Logan shouted, scrambling up from a position next to the fire and waving his arms. ‘There’s a red flag flying.’

  The driver of the first wagon had no option but to stop. ‘I can see that.’ He was probably in his early fifties, well dressed and spoken. ‘We must get across today.’

  Logan shook his head. ‘Our wagons came over more than an hour ago and it was difficult enough then. The river has risen nearly a foot since. You have women with you. Don’t be a fool, man.’

  The wagoneer’s expression set stubbornly. ‘I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head, sir.’

  Next to him, a woman of similar age kept both eyes averted. A girl on the other side of her, around seventeen years old, with pale blonde ringlets and an impatient look in her wide blue eyes, leaned over and clasped the man’s arm. ‘Come, Papa. Do not delay.’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, miss.’ Will stood suddenly, whipping his hat off as he spoke. Frizzy strands of dark red hair straggled around his face. ‘Mr Logan here is right. It’s far too dangerous.’

  The girl tossed her head but the man jumped down from his driver’s seat. ‘Jack Walsh.’ A hand extended in greeting.

  ‘Logan Burton.’

  Walsh nodded. ‘I’ve heard of you.’

  Logan introduced Dallas.

  ‘Delighted.’ Walsh’s handshake was firm.

  Then Will.

  The newcomer inclined his head but did not offer his hand. The snub was not lost on Will who glared sourly back.

  ‘If your boys could help we can still make it.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Will challenged. ‘It’s not worth the risk.’

  Another girl, similar in age to the first, poked her head from behind the second wagon. Deep russet ringlets framed her heart-shaped face. ‘It doesn’t look safe, Uncle Jack. Perhaps we should wait.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Sarah,’ snapped the other girl. ‘I must get to Pietermaritzburg.’

  ‘There, there, calm yourself, Caroline,’ the middle-aged woman soothed.

  Caroline shook off her mother’s hand.

  Jack Walsh smiled. ‘My daughter is getting married there, gentlemen, hence our determination to cross.’

  ‘It looks dangerous,’ wailed the girl called Sarah. ‘Please, Caroline, can’t we wait?’

  The flagman had put in an appearance and overheard. ‘There have been big rains in the Berg. The river could be up for days.’

  ‘Please, Papa.’ Caroline sounded tearful. ‘The wedding is on Saturday. There’s still so much to do.’

  The girl’s concern left Logan unmoved. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, young lady, better to delay your wedding than be swept over the
falls.’ Logan smiled as he spoke.

  His charm and words of advice were to no avail. Caroline ignored both. ‘Send Thulani ahead. Then we can see how deep the water is.’

  Jack Walsh smiled indulgently. ‘Such is the impatience of youth. My daughter is determined.’ He called to an African and spoke to him in Zulu.

  The man eyed the river fearfully.

  ‘Go, Thulani,’ Caroline insisted. ‘You will be quite safe.’

  Dallas could see the Zulu was terrified and he spoke without thinking. ‘Your servant seems to have more sense than you, Miss Caroline. To cross now would be foolish in the extreme.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ Caroline snapped. ‘Don’t any of you understand?’ She leaned over and snatched up the whip. Before anyone could stop her she flicked it expertly, urging the team towards the swollen river.

  Jack Walsh jumped onto the rolling wagon. ‘You and Thulani stay here,’ he yelled back to Sarah. ‘I’ll call you over if it’s safe.’

  Will scratched his head. ‘Bet ya a florin they come to grief.’

  With no guiding hand to reassure the team, wagon and all were more than likely to do just that. Reaching the rock ledge directly above the falls, Walsh’s oxen stopped dead in their tracks. Without waiting to think, Dallas ran towards the river and straight into the raging water.

  ‘Come back, you bloody idiot,’ Logan yelled.

  But Dallas didn’t hesitate, forcing his way forward until he reached the lead beast and grabbing the reim. Hanging on grimly as the team tossed their heads in terror, he pulled with all his might, encouraging them to cross. To his intense relief, first Mister David, then July and Tobacco appeared. Slapping, whistling and tugging, they got the team moving again. The surging water came up to the men’s hips, its force so great that it was difficult to stay upright. Once rolling, the oxen were as keen to leave the river as were the men helping them. They surged towards the far bank and hauled the wagon clear. Flanks heaving, eighteen exhausted animals stood trembling on dry land.

  Jack Walsh looked grim and angry but made no comment to his daughter. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Dallas. ‘We were afloat for a moment there.’