Shadows in the Grass

by Beverley Harper

  Dallas was anxious to leave Durban, craving the order and simple commonsense of Zulu company. He longed for solitude in the Thukela Valley, the purity of a star-studded sky, the honesty of animals and the earthiness of other traders. Anything would be better than staying with Sarah and her anxious eyes, which he trusted no more than the words she spoke.

  In those ten days before he left, Dallas spent more time than was necessary in town, most of it frequenting grog shops and taverns seeking the company of strangers who asked no questions because their lives were no better than his and didn’t need the burden of another’s woes. In one such establishment he encountered Jeremy Hardcastle. The former first officer was full of resentment; Dallas, of anger. Both had been drinking rum. The inevitable fight was shambling but vicious, Dallas winning the encounter by breaking Hardcastle’s jaw.

  Police arrived to arrest the sailor who had managed to elude them since being erroneously released after his previous attack on Dallas. Knowing he would be shipped back to France to face charges for breaking his contract, Hardcastle again slipped away and could not be found. Nobody looked very hard for him. The case was of little relevance in Africa and besides, British and French relations were strained to say the least. Dallas received a warning for public brawling and Tosca, who was growing used to returning home with him sprawled across her neck, obliged yet again.

  Dallas knew he was behaving badly. He could barely bring himself to speak with Sarah. She tried hard to please, keeping the house clean, preparing meals that, more often than not, he was too drunk to eat. With the physical work being done by the gardener, she established a small vegetable patch and tried hard to elicit Dallas’s approval when she proudly showed him the neat rows, each identified by a stake bearing a description of what lay under the soil. He stared at it, shrugged his shoulders and returned inside. Each night she timidly intimated that if he wished to enter her bed she would make him welcome. He seldom bothered to reply and always slept alone.

  He wrote a short letter to Lorna, agonising over every word.

  My dearest love,

  Once again, circumstances conspire against us. I cannot bring myself to explain. It is best that you forget me for I am, indeed, unworthy of your love and respect.

  Know this, my darling, I have always loved you and always will. The miles that so cruelly lie between us make little difference. My heart breaks for that which we cannot have. It is my heartfelt wish, however, that you will, one day, find the happiness you so richly deserve.

  Oh, that I could hold you and our child in my arms. It cannot be.

  Yours forever,

  Dallas.

  On the morning of Dallas’s departure he was hungover and silent.

  ‘When will you be back?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘How long do you think?’ she persisted.

  ‘Four to six months.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Why so surprised? Some traders are away longer.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘But nothing. This is what I do. Get used to it.’

  Sarah bit her lip. ‘Do you mind if my mother stays here? At least until the baby’s born?’

  ‘I mind everything about your parents. What you do while I’m not here is up to you. Just make sure she’s gone before I get back.’

  ‘Dallas, can you not at least leave in friendship?’

  ‘I offered that. Look where it got me.’

  Sarah flushed and her eyes slid away.

  Dallas touched his hat. ‘Farewell.’ He turned Tosca and rode away. It was conscience that had him stop and look back. Sarah still stood, just outside their gate, watching his departure. Dallas returned to her side. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I resent being forced to marry you, and cannot forgive your part in this. One day we might work things out but now it’s too soon for me. Time apart may help. Then again, it may not. I wish you well with the birth. Your baby will have my name though never my heart.’

  ‘And me? Is that all you offer?’ Tears sprang into her eyes.

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Sarah. Don’t expect more. It’s the best I can do.’

  She turned and half-ran, half-waddled, back to the house. Dallas thought she looked like a hippopotamus, ungainly out of the water, with a heavy stomach and awkward movements. The front door slammed so loudly that Tosca skittered in alarm.

  ‘What was I supposed to say?’ Dallas asked his horse, flicking lightly on the reins.

  Tosca pricked her ears at the question.

  ‘And how was I supposed to tell Lorna?’ he added miserably. ‘Damn it to hell. My wife makes me feel guilty when, in truth, it is she who should be penitent.’ Dallas nudged Tosca’s flanks with his heels and she responded by breaking into a canter. ‘Ah, to hell with it!’ he shouted, feeling the release of constraint as his horse gathered speed. ‘Let’s go back to the bush.’

  The trip went well. Dallas was remembered and made welcome. His command of Zulu had improved, though he kept Mister David by his side for difficult negotiations. Although refusing to hunt elephant, many villages had a stockpile of ivory that had once belonged to those who had developed a penchant for mealies, the Zulus’ most important source of food. Having less ivory was compensated for by the fact that he had no partners with whom to share a percentage of its value. They often lingered longer than necessary when finding a pleasant place to outspan. There was no hurry and it became a relaxed and contented journey. On two shillings a day, plus food, the Africans were well pleased with the pace.

  They skirted the spot where Will’s driver had been buried. The Zulus refused to go near it, superstitious dread of the unclaimed dead stronger than any order from this world. Dallas understood and they outspanned in the next valley. Alone, he rode back to make sure the grave remained undisturbed. The place was as they left it.

  The elephant that had died during the great meeting had provided a feast for the scavengers of Africa, both large and small. A hollow-skinned carcass, white with droppings of vultures, was all that remained, save for well over a hundred pounds of ivory. The tusks required little effort to remove. Dallas strapped them on either side of Tosca’s back, took the reins and walked the distance back to camp.

  So far as he could tell, no-one had traded in the valley since his first trip. That was fine with him. Dallas felt connected to the place, almost regarding it as his own territory. He took to scouting the hills, solitude and space allowing the peace denied by recent events back in Durban.

  Midway through the trip, Mister David and the others became strangely nervous. There were, they said, many bad omens to be found. Yet, at each kraal they visited, they were welcomed with courtesy.

  ‘There is something bad,’ Mister David told Dallas as they left one umuzi. ‘The people are afraid to tell what it is. They say the king is indisposed.’

  ‘He is an old man. Sickness is to be expected.’

  Mister David shook his head. ‘I am thinking that the king is dead.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Cetshwayo has summoned all the princes. I cannot say more. We are forbidden to speak of it until a new king declares himself.’

  Dallas planned to call on John Dunn. Surely he would know if Mpande was dead?

  He was pleasantly surprised to find Logan there too, although all was not well with his one-time partner. Logan was recovering from an encounter with a protective lioness. She’d ripped his left arm open, from shoulder to elbow, severing muscle and tendons alike before the knife he wielded with his right hand found tender flesh and she decided to back off.

  ‘Silly bastard still didn’t kill her,’ Dunn observed witheringly.

  ‘She had cubs,’ Logan protested.

  ‘Yes. And a fair proportion of your arm dangling from her mouth.’

  Dallas was keen to ask about Mpande, but before he could, Dunn and Logan were determined to give him all the gory details of the injury.

  Out towards Nkwalini, far from medical help, Logan ha
d allowed tribal treatment of his injuries. But the teeth and claws of a lion carry all kinds of germs, and a raging fever soon set in. Logan had insisted he be taken to John Dunn and the fifty-odd miles were covered at breakneck speed, a race against time.

  Dunn took one look at his friend, decided there was nothing to lose, and sent for a local inyanga. On arrival, the medicine man immediately cut open the suppurating sores, draining enough black blood and pus to almost fill a small gourd. Logan had little use of his left arm. The Zulus had long been aware of the healing powers to be found in penicillium, a bluish-green fungus that grows on stale fruit. The inyanga stuffed Logan’s wounds with a mixture of his own making that contained a large proportion of this mould.

  Although the patient’s recovery was slow, he was getting better. Logan had been at Dunn’s kraal for nearly two weeks and was itching to get moving. ‘Can’t do much with this bloody arm, old boy, so my hunting days could well be over. Still, I can get by on trading.’

  Finally, Dallas was able to ask about Mpande.

  John Dunn looked thoughtful for a moment, as if trying to decide how much to say. ‘How much have you heard?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that Mpande is indisposed. Mister David says it means he is dead but refuses to elaborate.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Dunn glanced over towards where Mister David sat with Tobacco, July and several others. ‘That’s a good Kaffir you’ve got there. I’m surprised he told you that much. No-one is supposed to speak of a king’s death until his successor announces it. That can’t happen until the corpse has dried out.’

  ‘Dried out?’

  ‘It’s their custom. They bind the body of a king into a squatting position and wrap it in the skin of a young steer. Then a fire is lit and kept alight. They burn wood that gives off a pleasant smell which is supposed to disguise the stench. Doesn’t work. You can smell it a mile off.’

  ‘You’ve been to the isigodlo?’

  ‘I heard that the inner council had shaved their heads. It is a sign of mourning. Then I, too, was told the king was indisposed. I went to see for myself. I don’t know how those poor devils live with that awful smell.’

  ‘So he is dead?’

  ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’

  ‘I suppose they’ll kill off his body-servant and several women to go with him when he’s buried.’ Logan clearly disapproved.

  ‘Bound to.’ Dunn shrugged it off. ‘It’s the way they’ve always done it.’

  Once again, Dallas realised that while a lot of the Zulu ways made sense, there were some customs he simply could not accept. This was one of them. John Dunn, perhaps because he had been exposed to them from a very early age, didn’t appear to have difficulty in adopting these strange aspects of Zulu culture. He was welcome to them.

  Dallas and Logan returned to Durban together. They had both been away for nearly six months. At Cato’s, the two men found a prosperous-looking Will and all three of them set out to celebrate.

  Reluctantly, two days later, Dallas bid his friends farewell and returned to the cottage. To his annoyance, Sarah’s parents were there.

  His wife met him as he came through the front door. She didn’t greet him and appeared nervous. ‘Mother and Father –’

  ‘I know. I saw the carriage.’

  ‘Dallas!’ boomed a voice from within. ‘Pleased to see you, my boy. Heard you were back.’ Mr Wilcox sounded unnecessarily hearty. With reluctance, Dallas went into the parlour where his father-in-law waited. ‘Welcome home. Sarah, what about some tea for the lad, he must be parched.’

  Mrs Wilcox glanced up at Dallas then looked quickly away.

  ‘Madam,’ Dallas said bluntly. There was no way he would, or even could, call the woman Mother.

  She nodded, still not looking at him, glanced fearfully at her husband, then dropped her head.

  Fine, Dallas thought. I don’t want to speak with you either.

  Sarah brought tea and cake. Dallas ignored both and poured himself a whisky, no doubt a present from his in-laws, then turned to face his silent audience.

  ‘No-one has mentioned Sarah’s child, though obviously there is one, since my wife is no longer pregnant.’

  Mr Wilcox coughed nervously, his wife dabbed her eyes and Sarah sat down suddenly.

  ‘The child is born. A boy,’ Wilcox said finally.

  ‘Oh.’ Dallas looked at him politely.

  ‘He was born four months ago. Prematurely,’ Sarah said.

  Dallas nodded and waited.

  ‘I owe you an apology.’ Mr Wilcox bowed his head and it took Dallas some moments to realise that the man was weeping. They all were.

  ‘Was he stillborn? Is he ill? What is wrong with you all?’

  Wilcox wiped his eyes, fumbled in a pocket, produced a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud trumpeting sound. ‘The baby is hale,’ he said, wiping nose and mouth vigorously.

  Sarah’s eyes could not meet Dallas’s. ‘Please try to forgive me.’

  Dallas put down his glass. ‘Where is the boy?’

  Eyes darted around the room, as if seeking a victim who would break the news. Wilcox himself provided the answer. ‘The baby’s father has him. It’s for the best.’

  Clarity dawned, so obvious it was a wonder Dallas hadn’t thought of it before. And, if true, it provided the way out of this loveless marriage. ‘How very unusual,’ he said softly. ‘A seducer would not want his bastard son. Nor, I suggest, would a man who already has a wife. That leaves but one other option, doesn’t it? The father is African.’ He glared at Sarah. ‘Am I right?’

  Her mouth opened but no sound came.

  ‘Thulani,’ Dallas guessed. ‘The Zulu who drove your wagon. He’s the father, isn’t he?’

  Sarah nodded reluctantly.

  ‘So, my dear, you carried a bastard Zulu child which you thought to pass off as mine. I swear, I don’t know if you are innocent, devious or just plain stupid. You fall pregnant, produce a child which can’t possibly belong to the man you blackmail into marriage, ruin his life, then ask forgiveness.’ Dallas turned to Wilcox. ‘And you, sir, were party to this deceit? You knew?’

  All the puff and wind had gone from his father-in-law. ‘I had no idea who . . . It was as much of a shock to me as it must be to you.’

  Dallas downed the rest of his whisky and gave a short laugh. ‘It comes as no shock to me, I assure you. Your entire family has connived and lied with no regard for the feelings of others. I detest you all.’

  ‘Son –’

  ‘I am not your son, sir, nor will I ever be.’ Dallas turned to leave the room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Sarah cried.

  ‘To find a lawyer.’

  ‘A lawyer!’ Mr Wilcox looked dumbfounded. ‘Why?’

  Dallas stopped and threw him an astonished look of his own. ‘I intend to divorce your daughter. Our marriage has never been consummated and this child is all the proof I need of her infidelity. Good day to you, sir.’

  ‘Wait!’

  Dallas looked him up and down, his contempt evident. ‘There’s nothing left to be said.’

  ‘You will not divorce my daughter, Mr Granger. The scandal would be horrendous. I forbid it.’

  ‘Try and stop me.’

  ‘Very well, since you insist. I still hold information that can send you to the gallows. Force my hand and I’ll go straight to the police.’

  ‘After what she has done?’ Dallas flung an arm in the direction of Sarah. ‘Are you totally mad? Have you no shred of decency?’

  ‘I understand your anger, son.’

  ‘Stop calling me that. I want nothing to do with you or your daughter.’

  ‘You will remain married to Sarah.’ The older man’s jaw set obstinately.

  ‘The gallows would be preferable.’

  ‘Don’t test me. You have been wronged, I agree, but, mark my words, I will not allow a scandal.’

  Dallas could see he meant it. ‘You leave me little choice. Sarah can keep my name, though that will be
all. I refuse to live under the same roof and will have nothing more to do with any of you.’

  ‘Dallas!’ Sarah had started crying. ‘How could I tell you?’

  ‘Obviously you have great difficulty separating the truth from your lies. Good day, madam.’

  There was only one place he could think of going. Mrs Watson’s. Her welcome surprised him. ‘You received my message. Good. I’ve put your visitors in the big front room.’

  Dallas had received so many shocks that day, one more didn’t seem to matter. ‘What visitors?’

  ‘Why, the Marchioness of Dumfries and her son, here from Scotland. They arrived a month ago.’

  ELEVEN

  It took a while for his brain to make the connection. Lorna! Could it be? Dallas felt as though his feet had been glued to the doorstep. ‘Here?’ he managed.

  Mrs Watson’s lips were pressed together. ‘Spirited young thing,’ she managed tightly. ‘Said she’d stay until you returned. Made no effort to call on your wife.’

  ‘She knows –’

  ‘Of course. I appraised her of your marital status as soon as she asked after you. I must say, Mr Granger, your behaviour is peculiar to say the least. It seems you have no interest in the marriage or news of your child, and now there is a young lady looking for you, acting for all the world as if she has every right. Tongues are wagging, let me tell you. She may be a marchioness, Mr Granger, but her ladyship has been far from discreet. I understand she’s recently widowed but you’d never know from her manner of dress. Not one single sign of mourning. Were it not for her ladyship’s station, she would not remain in my house.’

  Mrs Watson’s ostentatious use of Lorna’s title told Dallas that, despite disapproval, she was sufficiently awed to make allowances.

  ‘Is she here at the moment?’

  ‘Her ladyship has not been out since hearing of your return. Indeed, the whole of Durban has been wondering when you intended going home to your wife. The poor girl is bereft at the loss of your child.’

  So! Sarah and her father’s duplicity continues. It came as no surprise. They’d have had to concoct some explanation for the baby’s disappearance.