Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  ‘What happens now?’ Dallas asked Mister David.

  ‘We must wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  Mister David looked reluctant to tell him but eventually obliged. ‘It is a common belief that wizards can use the dead for evil. If we bury a person after the sun has set, they cannot find them.’

  A grave was dug – about four feet deep and five long with a terrace cut into one end. ‘That is where the body will sit,’ Mister David told Dallas. ‘It is important that he faces his home.’

  Just after sunset, the dead man was carried to his resting place. It was Tobacco who stepped into the grave and placed the man and his sleeping mat on the ledge inside. Into the hole then went the driver’s wooden headrest, a snuffbox, the hair shaved from him earlier in the day and his clothes. The man’s sticks and assegais were broken and also added to the grave. A flat stone was placed on his head, another at his feet. Then river stones were piled in front of the body. Once it had been hidden from view, the grave was filled in with earth before being covered by bundles of grass. On top of this, more stones were placed, one from each of the Africans.

  ‘It is a final farewell,’ Mister David explained, handing Dallas a stone. ‘You are welcome to say goodbye.’

  ‘Is he now an ancestor?’ Dallas asked, placing the stone carefully.

  ‘No. His spirit will wander for many years before then. He must be brought home. It is a special ceremony which only family can perform.’

  Talk that night was minimal. Dallas didn’t feel like it anyway, especially since learning that words were considered to be unlucky on the day of a funeral. Even Will, who was bursting to have it out with Logan’s skinner, held his tongue. The looks he directed at the African’s fire sent a clear message that the man had some explaining to do. Seemingly unbothered, the skinner burned some elephant flesh and a few roots of some kind, reducing them to ashes. These he ate before walking off to bathe in the river.

  Logan quietly explained, ‘He has to purify himself. If the Sotho are anything like Zulus, he’s only done half a job. A full ritual needs the flesh of lion, baboon, jackal, hyena and hawk as well. Still, he’s done his best.’

  ‘What will happen to him now?’

  ‘He’ll probably take off, meaning we’ll have lost two good men. All Zulu blood belongs to their king. Since this chap’s of a different tribe any attempt to make good by bringing cattle will fall on deaf ears. He would be put to death immediately.’ A sardonic grin. ‘They’d keep the cattle, of course.’

  ‘What about our other boys? Will they take justice into their own hands?’

  ‘If one of them was a brother, he would feel morally obliged to avenge the death. Fortunately for us, these men are not related. No. It’s the king, or, at the very least, the dead man’s chief who makes those decisions. My skinner is safe enough at the moment but we’ll wake up one morning and find him gone.’

  Mister David was busy making the strengthening muthi to protect himself and the other Zulus from being drawn after the deceased. None was offered to the three white men, though all the oxen were smoked with it to keep them safe and well.

  Logan’s skinner slipped from camp two days before they arrived at the home of John Dunn, a friend of Logan’s. With the Sotho’s departure came a lightening of tension and it was a buoyed and happy party who reached their journey’s end at the mouth of the Thukela.

  Dallas had learned a great deal over the past five months. His understanding of the Zulu language was still basic, though good enough to greet and pass the time of day with others. Appreciation and respect for the native people of Natal grew proportionately to his understanding of their ways. And with that came the conclusion that while he might admire their customs, he would never be one of them. The differences were too great. Very few white men ever bridged the two cultures; those who did usually turned their backs on an earlier life. John Dunn, their host, was one such man.

  Logan had described Dunn as ‘a crabby old bastard. Thinks he knows everything. Bad enemy, good friend. Hates most people. Not shy about mentioning it, either. You get on his nerves, he’ll let you know.’

  There was no sign of a disagreeable nature in Dunn’s effusive greeting, leaving Dallas with the impression that while John Dunn might be a loner, he was also lonely. He lived as one with the Zulus. His kraal, five miles from the Thukela River, was as traditional as any umuzi. Yet Dunn plied them with fine wine, food that bridged Zulu and European tastes and mattresses on the floor of grass huts.

  Despite Logan’s description, Dunn was not old. A man in his late thirties, he dressed as a Zulu, which emphasised his thin and gangling physique. But piercing dark eyes and a full beard gave him a presence, his authoritive manner compelling. Tough, colourful and a total non-conformist, John Dunn had, to his intense irritation, become a legend. Dallas was fascinated by him.

  Born in England, Dunn was only two years old when his family emigrated to Africa. His father bought a farm and, for ten years, young John Dunn lived happily and well, mixing with Zulu and Xhosa labourers to the extent that his command of both languages and understanding of their traditions was formidable. At the age of twelve, everything changed. His father was trampled to death by an elephant. Four years later, his mother died. John was seventeen when he took to the bush, hunting elephants and hiring out his services as a guide in the Thukela Valley.

  If any man knew the future Zulu king, Cetshwayo, it was Dunn. The events leading to their friendship were strange yet typical of the Zulu ways Dallas had come to understand. Before he ever met Cetshwayo, Dunn had been friendly with his archrival for the throne of Zululand, a half-brother called Mbuyazi. A confrontation between Cetshwayo and Mbuyazi was considered inevitable. John Dunn, who had been offered land in return for his services, agreed to command a motley collection of Natal native border police to assist Mbuyazi in an attempt to rid himself of his most persistent competitor.

  Cetshwayo had been expecting such an act of rebellion and massed about twenty thousand men to support him. Mbuyazi had only seven thousand. Confrontation between the rivals began on an unseasonably cold and misty morning in December 1856. Dunn was quick to see that Mbuyazi was seriously outnumbered and urged the Zulu to withdraw. Mbuyazi, however, with pride and ambition burning inside him, refused. In any case, it was too late by then. Cetshwayo’s warriors pushed Mbuyazi back towards the Thukela River which, after recent storms, was swollen and raging. Many of his supporters who were not killed in the fighting were drowned trying to cross the muddy brown water, their bodies washed out to sea. John Dunn escaped in a boat which he’d prudently arranged to have waiting for him.

  Considered an enemy by the prince regent, it might be expected that Cetshwayo would place a price on Dunn’s head. However, this was not the Zulu way. As was custom, the spoils of war included an enemy’s cattle. In the rounding up of these, some one thousand head belonging to various European traders were mistakenly taken by Cetshwayo.

  John Dunn volunteered to try and get them back. First he went to Mpande. The old king was so afraid of Cetshwayo that he would only speak with Dunn in the centre of a cattle kraal where they could not be overheard. On hearing first-hand detail of the battle, Mpande was overcome with emotion at the loss of a son, yet he remained grateful to Dunn for his assistance. ‘Go to the Mangweni kraal. Tell Cetshwayo I demand the return of any white man’s cattle.’

  The prince was well aware of Dunn’s involvement with Mbuyazi but didn’t mention it. The cattle were handed back with no fuss and Dunn was paid a reward of £250 by the grateful traders. With this money, John himself began trading in Zululand. He met Cetshwayo several times over the ensuing few years and a friendship developed between the two. Cetshwayo needed a white man he could trust to advise him, one who could write and read letters to and from the British. He offered the job to Dunn, who accepted and moved to land granted him by Cetshwayo. There he built a house and married Catherine Pierce, the daughter of a white father and mixed-race mother. As time went by, he a
lso accumulated forty-nine Zulu wives. Some regarded Dunn as a white tribesman. The residents of Durban treated him as a disreputable outcast. Zulus respected the man, some even acknowledging him as their chief.

  Once talk around the fire turned to Zulu politics, Dallas was content to listen and learn. ‘What you have to understand about Cetshwayo is that he doesn’t really have an allegiance to anyone but his own people,’ Dunn told them in response to a question from Will about the Zulu heir apparent. ‘He’s a traditionalist. He’ll go against other tribes but has no real desire to fight the white man.’ He pulled a burning stick from the fire and relit his cigar.

  ‘We’ve not heard much of him lately,’ Logan said. ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘Biding his time mainly,’ Dunn replied, sipping a particularly fine red wine he’d acquired from somewhere. ‘I assume you’ve heard that Mpande has accepted the fact that Cetshwayo is his heir.’

  ‘Does he have a choice? The prince has murdered all opposition.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Dunn puffed life into his cigar before going on. ‘A couple escaped. Mind you, Zululand will be better off under Cetshwayo. At least he has the interests of his people at heart.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Logan asked.

  ‘The Boers are grooming one young heir to the throne. The British another. Think what that could mean.’

  ‘Land-grabbing. We know the Boers want Zululand for themselves.’

  ‘It’s a well-established practice already. They encroach, the Zulus drive them off. Doesn’t stop them coming back, though.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Logan said carelessly, ‘I thought both sides acknowledged Cetshwayo as the next king.’

  Dunn smiled thinly. ‘Don’t be so gullible, old friend. The two princelings may never get a chance to challenge Cetshwayo. The Boers and British both know that. Then again, they might. Nothing is predictable save for one thing. The issue of land. It doesn’t go away and never will. Mpande cultivates the Dutch, Cetshwayo prefers our countrymen. Do you think either has Zulu interests at heart? Only fools would say so. There is a dark cloud looming which cannot be ignored. This land has little time left. And, let me tell you, nothing will be resolved around a table. It is on the battlefield that the future of Zululand will be decided.’

  ‘Does this come from Cetshwayo? Are you saying that the Zulus are preparing to fight?’

  ‘The Zulus?’ Dunn seemed surprised. ‘Not yet, but yes, of course they will defend what is rightfully theirs. What would you expect them to do? They can’t possibly win, although I doubt there’s a man among them who would admit it. No, my friends, I’m referring to something more serious than that. An all-out confrontation between Boer and British. You mark my words, this country will run with the blood of us all, Zulu, English and Dutch alike. Make the most of this place while you can. I give it another ten years at best.’

  ‘That’s a bit pessimistic,’ Logan objected.

  Dunn waved his arm to indicate their surroundings. ‘Look around you. Ever seen such fat cattle, such lush crops? This is God’s own country.’

  In a lull of contemplation that followed this comment, Dallas leaned forward. ‘What is Cetshwayo actually like?’

  Dunn’s eyes twinkled. ‘You have no idea,’ the man said, smiling, ‘how often I’m asked that.’ Realising that Dallas was about to retract his question he held up a hand. ‘No. If you are to make your life here, you should know.’ He paused a second, then continued. ‘For a Zulu, he is considered handsome. Quite a shy person or, at least, reserved. A man who speaks softly and is also able to listen. When it is required of him, he will speak out and is not afraid to challenge the opinions of others. More important than anything, however, is his belief in maintaining those principles which formed the Zulu nation.’ Dunn shrugged his shoulders. ‘I respect the man. He can hold his own with most whites and is not fooled by political machinations. Cetshwayo is generally well liked. What more can you ask of a future king?’

  ‘And Mpande?’

  Dunn chuckled. ‘To European eyes he is a joke. All they see is an enormously obese man, too fat to walk. He is wheeled around in a little wagon. The king is fond of talking with traders and hearing their gossip. His people show respect, sing his praises and he is much loved, but we all know that the real power is Cetshwayo. Mpande will be remembered mainly for his peaceful reign, though, in the early days, he was more than capable of showing himself as a fine warrior.’

  ‘Cetshwayo has a son, doesn’t he?’ Logan asked.

  ‘Correct. Dinuzulu. He’s already been named as his father’s successor.’

  ‘Will he get the chance to rule, do you think?’

  ‘Nothing is certain save that the Zulus will always have a king. How much power he will wield beyond his own people is debatable.’

  Logan glanced up at his friend. ‘Where does all this leave you?’

  John Dunn laughed. ‘Me? I’ve known the best of Zululand. Younger men like Dallas here will see it for a while yet but, mark my words, his sons won’t. The next Zulu king could well be the last. Oh, there’ll be others, but it’s my guess that in Cetshwayo we’ll see the beginning of the end.’ Dunn frowned. ‘And let me tell you something else. It won’t be the Zulus’ fault.’

  ‘What will you do if that happens?’ Logan asked. ‘Can’t see you settling in Durban.’

  ‘Ach, man!’ Dunn reacted impatiently. ‘Don’t be stupid. What would I do in a town? I will stay. I’m more Zulu than English now. With luck, I won’t live to see it end.’

  His words sobered everyone until Will changed the subject. ‘We head south from here. Our wagons are full. It’s been a profitable trip. The Zulus still need to trade.’

  John Dunn was not inclined towards optimism. ‘Make the most of it,’ he advised. ‘Once the English or Dutch get their hands on this place there’ll be no room for traders. They’ll tame this land with roads and towns and the Kaffirs will have no need of you.’

  Dunn’s words stayed with Dallas all the way to Durban. He’d enjoyed the trip and wondered if Will and Logan would be prepared to join him for another. If the man regarded as a white Zulu was right and his predictions proved true, they might as well make as much money as they could while the opportunity still existed. Two nights out of Durban, he put the question to them.

  Logan flatly refused. ‘Don’t take this personally, old chap, but I operate a hell of a lot better on my own. We’ll clear enough with this load for me to pay you back and have some left over. I’m heading north.’

  Disappointed, Dallas turned to Will.

  ‘Who’ll shoot elephants if he doesn’t come?’ Will asked.

  It was a good point. Logan’s expertise with a gun had brought in considerably more ivory than trading for it.

  ‘I assume that means no.’ Dallas tried to hide his feelings. ‘Then I’ll go on my own if I must.’

  Logan grunted amusement. ‘I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it if I were you. It should take Will about three days to find himself broke again. He’ll be with you.’

  ‘Not this time.’ Will shook his head vehemently. ‘I’m going to finance my own trip.’

  ‘And go where?’ Logan challenged.

  ‘South into Pondoland.’ Will grinned. ‘I hear it’s wide open to traders.’

  ‘Well,’ Dallas said expansively, ‘when you two run out of money, you’ll know where to find me. I’m heading back to the Thukela Valley.’

  ‘Fancy yourself as another John Dunn, do you?’ Logan teased.

  ‘Could do a lot worse,’ Dallas replied soberly. ‘I like that country.’

  ‘So do the Zulus,’ Will reminded him. ‘And they got there first.’

  ‘A man’s got to have a plan,’ Logan put in. ‘Just don’t tell God about it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Will was, surprisingly, quite a religious man.

  ‘It makes him laugh.’

  They spent the best part of a morning at Cato’s warehouse laying out tusks and haggling over prices. The wagons went fo
r repairs and were promised to be ready for use within two weeks. Dallas would keep two, the other having been bought by Logan. Oxen and the other cattle and spare horses were sold. ‘More trouble than they’re worth. Best to get rid of them and buy more when you leave.’

  For once, Logan agreed with Will.

  Mister David said he was going home for a visit. ‘In ten days,’ he told Dallas, ‘if you need a driver, I will be outside the store waiting for you.’

  Dallas felt a keen sense of separation as he said goodbye to each man who had been with them.

  It was late afternoon when he mounted Tosca and turned towards the Berea. Mrs Watson’s boarding establishment may not have a room for him, but with a bit of luck there would be letters from home. Eager as he was to hear from family, Dallas hoped above all that Lorna had written. A forlorn hope, he knew. She must hate him now.

  Keeping Tosca at a steady walk, Dallas reflected on all he had learned since first arriving in Durban. Initial impressions had been tinged with anxiety and doubt. Now the sights seemed quite familiar and he felt at home. He’d been away nearly six months and the knowledge he’d acquired along the way far exceeded that which most people would pick up in a lifetime. When first setting foot on this land he’d been ignorant, awed and intimidated; now he was learning to love it.

  In good humour – Dallas had more than doubled the monies outlaid at the onset of their trading expedition – he reined in outside Mrs Watson’s gate. He paid scant attention to a fine-looking carriage drawn up outside. Anxious to see if there was any mail, Dallas hurried to the front door.

  Mabel, the African maid, opened it and he greeted her in Zulu. Giggling with delight, she asked him to wait.

  Ann Watson’s expression alerted Dallas that something was amiss. ‘Well now,’ she said stiffly, blocking the doorway. ‘A fine pickle you left behind. I’m surprised you have the nerve to show yourself after such scandalous behaviour. Did you think the whole thing would just blow over?’