On 15 August 1881, one day after his divorce became official, Dallas married the only woman he had ever loved. Their honeymoon, children and all, was a trip home to Scotland.
It was strange to be back. The countryside, even the houses, seemed unfamiliar. They arrived late in October, the month the rains started in Zululand, a sticky, humid time of year. In Scotland, winter was creeping in. Chilly shadows stretched long over puddles bearing a thin covering of dull grey ice, the colour of cold. Autumn was long gone, the trees bare.
Dallas’s parents met the train in Edinburgh. There were tears of joy as Lady Pamela greeted her favourite son, Lorna, whom she had always adored, and their six children. The earl was more restrained but he clasped Dallas’s hand in a grasp hard enough to make him wince and his eyes softened as he was introduced to the children.
The Grange looked older and shabbier than it had in Dallas’s memories. It was not, as Mister David might put it, a house with no shadows; rather, it was a place where Dallas no longer had a sense of himself. Ten years had passed. Dallas had moved too far from his old life to ever fully return to it. He found himself looking at everything through the eyes of a stranger.
He greeted the staff. When Dallas stood face-to-face with Victor, the memories of his escape flooded back. Ignoring the outstretched hand, the surprised head groom was pulled into a bear hug. ‘I never did thank you,’ Dallas said huskily.
‘My lord, it was my duty.’ Victor jerked back, a look of discomfort on his face. The aristocracy had no call to behave towards their servants with such familiarity.
The large house and white-skinned servants subdued the children. They were ill at ease. ‘May we go outside and play?’ Cam asked.
‘Of course,’ Dallas told them. ‘But stay off the flowerbeds.’
Looking through the window a little later, Lady Pamela exclaimed, ‘They have removed their shoes. They’ll catch their death. Oh, do ask them to be careful, Dallas. I can see one of the girls in the top of a tree. Good gracious, what on earth are they up to now?’
Lorna joined her mother-in-law at the window, smiling at her horror. ‘Catching fish,’ she explained. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll not harm them. I’m afraid you’ll find our children a little wild.’
‘No, no,’ Lady Pamela said hastily. ‘Merely different.’
Difference. It was everywhere. Stiff formality instead of natural and genuine laughter. Rigid rules in place of freedom. Servants who would rather die than show anything but deference, instead of Zulu staff who treated the children as their own.
In honour of their visit, Charles and Charlotte came down from Perthshire. They stayed at Canongate but spent the following day at the Grange. It was a disaster from start to finish. Dallas was keen to see his old friend but rather taken aback by his cool greeting. It was clear that Charles had not forgiven Dallas his liaison with Alison. Dallas didn’t blame him but wondered why Charles had even bothered to make the effort to see him. He could easily have allowed Charlotte to visit on her own.
Their four impeccably behaved children seemed like wind-up dolls. They sat, hands folded in their laps, moving only when their parents suggested they might. Angus, the eldest, who was a year younger than Cam and Torben, at Charles’s suggestion reluctantly went outside to join his cousins. He returned a few minutes later in tears. Cam and Torben had been stick-fighting, a traditional Zulu way in which personal differences are resolved. Children as young as five would practise with thin sticks. Angus had come off second-best, having been coerced into giving the game a try. A blow on the head, which Cam swore was only to show his cousin where to aim, was not appreciated, either by Angus or his parents.
Charlotte, ill at ease with a brother who appeared to have changed out of all recognition, kept the conversation on the topic of their childhood. It was the only point of contact they had left between them.
No-one, it seemed, had the slightest interest in hearing about Africa. When Lorna tried to tell everyone about Percy there were shudders all round.
‘How perfectly awful that you can’t find someone decent,’ Charlotte responded.
‘Recruit someone from here,’ Charles advised.
‘He sounds . . . different,’ Lady Pamela murmured.
Thomas and his family came down from Tayside. Dallas had never been close to his eldest brother but now, if it hadn’t been for Lady Pamela’s desperate attempts, conversation would have ground to a halt within the first five minutes. Citing a full workload, Thomas left again the next day.
Boyd would be arriving at the weekend. Lord de Iongh would pay a brief visit at some stage.
By day six of their stay, Dallas and Lorna couldn’t see how they’d get through the rest of their visit. To make matters worse, the weather had closed in and the children were bored. Torben, at least, found some diversion in the library. Ellie might have too but for the fact that the earl discovered the child with her nose buried deeply in a medical encyclopedia, minutely examining the male genitalia. Lord Dalrymple was scandalised. No amount of explanation about Ellie’s scientific interests could persuade him to allow his granddaughter back into the library. Unfortunately for Torben, the ban extended to him. Ellie and Torben spent nearly a week at war.
Lorna and Dallas knew they couldn’t blame their families. They were the ones who had changed.
When Lord de Iongh arrived, Dallas made himself scarce. The man had made it plain – he wished to see his daughter and grandchildren. Torben, he knew, was not Lorna’s. Dallas, who found Torben’s presence as natural as that of any of his other children, made no effort to justify it, which only served to spark further disapproval. The two of them went to Edinburgh for the day and Dallas spent several hours traipsing around behind a rapt Torben, visiting the castle, the National Gallery and various other places of interest. They returned to the Grange late in the afternoon bearing a number of books for Torben and smuggling in several medical reference books for Ellie.
Boyd’s weekend visit was, by comparison with all the others, a breath of fresh air. He, at least, had been to Africa. Although his opinion of the place and people hadn’t changed, there was some common ground.
Two days before they were due to leave for London, where they intended to spend a few days before boarding a ship home, Lady Pamela asked Dallas to have a private talk. They met in a small drawing room. A fire crackled cheerfully in the grate; outside, snow fell.
‘You will be pleased to return home, I think.’
‘I cannot lie, Mama. You are right. Zululand is home.’
His mother smiled. ‘Do not think unkindly of us, I beg you. We do not have the benefit of your experience.’
‘Would you consider a visit to us?’
‘I would. The earl refuses. I fear he has been listening to Boyd.’
‘A pity he doesn’t also listen to me. Boyd wasn’t there long enough to form a true impression. Nor would he open his eyes.’
‘Not his fault, my dear.’
‘Probably not.’ Dallas poured them each some wine. ‘Come on your own. You would be very welcome.’
‘I cannot.’
‘Why?’
‘It is for this reason I asked for our talk. I have discovered that your father lives in Natal.’
‘Natal! Where? What part?’
Lady Pamela sipped her wine. ‘He farms near a place called Colenso.’
‘How do you know this?’ Dallas’s heart beat wildly. Colenso, of all places.
‘He wrote to me.’
‘After all these years?’
His mother put her glass down. ‘He is not well. He wanted to say goodbye.’
Dallas watched the composed face. Breeding prevented any show of emotion. ‘How did you feel when you read the letter?’
She shrugged slightly. ‘Confused, I suppose. It was so unexpected. With you gone all these years, I was no longer reminded of him. And his words . . . he didn’t sound like the Jonathan I remembered.’
‘One way or another, Africa changes people. Te
ll me his name, or does he use Jonathan Fellowes still? Do you think he would make me welcome if I called on him?’
‘I told you, he is not well. Complications from a wound he suffered fighting the Zulus. From his letter I would say he is no longer on this earth.’
‘A pity.’ Dallas felt only slight regret. After all, he’d never met his real father. ‘But, if this is so, how is it that you cannot visit?’
His mother looked down at her lap. ‘What if he is still alive?’ she whispered. ‘It would be most awkward.’
‘Awkward! Listen to yourself, Mother. Besides, I live in Zululand. Colenso is a long way from there.’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘It would not be wise. Besides, I would hate to travel without the earl and he will not come.’
Dallas left it but he felt hurt. Instead, he said, ‘Tell me his name.’
‘He went by the name of Walsh,’ his mother said. ‘Jack Walsh.’
The news hit Dallas in the solar plexus. Jack Walsh! The man whose life he had saved at Howick Falls. And Caroline was his daughter. Dallas’s half-sister. Sarah’s cousin. Which made Sarah’s damnable father an uncle by marriage. ‘I’ve met him,’ he managed to say. He told his mother the circumstances.
‘Oh, my dear,’ she said, wiping her eyes once he’d fallen silent. ‘It was meant to be.’
Later, when he told Lorna about the conversation, Dallas realised what his mother had meant. He had saved the life of the man who had given Dallas his. If nothing else had come from this trip to Scotland, there now existed a quid pro quo he’d never expected.
On board the ship that each day bore them closer to home, Lorna had some news of her own. ‘Remember all those boring evenings you and I retired early simply to escape?’
‘I’ll never forget them,’ Dallas replied with a grin, remembering. ‘As good as it was to see everyone again, I’ve never been so pleased to leave anywhere. Why do you ask?’
‘Out of boredom comes life,’ Lorna said.
‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Oh God. Not another few months of your evil temper.’ He grunted as she jabbed him in the ribs.
Margaret, known as Meggie, was born seven months later.
Their farm flourished as Zululand settled into a new order of things. Dallas did what he could to help the Zulus adapt. He employed as many as possible, men and women. Each received specialised training in one field or another. He built a school, paid the salaries of two teachers, and encouraged every African child on his farm to attend. Each step took them further from a culture that had existed for centuries. Dallas realised that, in order to survive, the Zulus had to change.
He said as much to Mister David.
‘It is only a tree,’ the Zulu replied.
Dallas’s smile was tinged with sadness. Change might well be a tree but each year, as it grew, the leaves and fruit of Zulu tradition would wither and die.
Shortly after returning from Scotland, Mister David and Dallas spoke of the one thing they’d avoided mentioning. The war.
Mister David remembered. ‘The red soldiers were few but how they fought.’
‘You admire them?’
‘Of course. We had more warriors and still we could not win.’
‘Where did you fight?’
‘Everywhere. Hlobane, Kambula . . .’
‘You were at Kambula?’
‘Yes. I was with the men of the chest.’
‘Tobacco was there too.’
Mister David nodded. ‘He was killed.’
‘I know.’ Dallas paused. ‘I was there too.’
‘Hau! You were a red soldier?’
‘No. A scout.’
‘Ah! Did you not think it wonderful? Every warrior shouted the war cry as he killed his enemy.’
‘Yes, we were enemies. And yet you still choose to work for me.’
Mister David’s response was simple. ‘The war is finished. We are no longer enemies.’
‘I admire your attitude. So many Zulus were killed. Your king has been captured and imprisoned. What becomes of everything the Zulus stood for?’
‘We were strong. We can be so again.’
‘No, my friend, you cannot. The British rule now. They will not accept any attempt to become the nation we once knew.’
Mister David thumped his chest. ‘Here, we remain warriors. That cannot be taken away. Our women honour us and many new praise poems are sung. The Zulu heart beats with pride and that will always be so. There is not one man remaining who would not respond to our king’s call. You may have beaten us on the battlefield and taken our laws, but in our heads and hearts we are still Zulus. No-one can change that.’
Listening, Dallas realised that Mister David truly held no malice. Nor was he issuing any kind of threat or warning. He was merely stating a belief he held with such sincerity that anything else was unthinkable. He was Zulu and proud of it. Out there, in a vast, largely untamed land that still carried the clan name, fragmented now by a colonial power who did not understand its people, every single man, woman and child held the same unshakeable belief. An enemy had dealt a blow to the Zulus as they themselves had to others in the past. It was something to be understood and accepted.
Within two years of the battle at Ulundi, it became apparent that Wolseley’s rearrangement of Zululand was not working. Its people needed a common and respected authority to bind them together. The chiefs, on their own, were not enough. They sought their king.
It was at last acknowledged by London that Cetshwayo had tried to avoid war. The British were under pressure in the Transvaal, where friction with the Boers was getting out of hand. They had no time to intervene in skirmishes taking place within the boundaries of Zululand. Cetshwayo, suddenly seen as the obvious answer, made the journey to London and presented a case to both Queen Victoria and the Colonial Office for regaining his position.
His visit was a success. He became hugely popular with the British public and the government allowed him to resume sovereignty over his people.
It was not enough. Zulus of the past had been ruled and kept obedient by fear. On his return, Cetshwayo found that with the power to order executions removed, he was no more effective than the chiefs had been.
On 8 February 1884, Cetshwayo suffered a convulsion and died. His family refused to allow a post-mortem, citing tribal tradition as the reason. The doctor called to issue a death certificate of suspected poisoning. Nothing was ever proved.
Cetshwayo spoke his last words to his half-brother, Dabulamanzi, who had led the Zulu impi at Isandlwana:
Dabulamanzi, there is my child; look after him for me. Bring him up well, for I have no other sons. Dinuzulu is my only son. There is your task, Dabulamanzi, to look after my child.
Two years later, Dabulamanzi was shot and killed by Boers. Dinuzulu, then fifteen years old, became king of the Zulus.
His reign was short-lived. In 1889, after rebelling against British interference and increasing Boer settlements, he was exiled to the remote Atlantic Ocean island of St Helena, one thousand miles off the African mainland. The fact that Napoleon, whose great-grandson, Louis, had been killed in the Zulu war, had endured exile on that same island was of no interest to Dinuzulu, the two uncles who went with him, or their entourage of attendants and wives.
Ten years later, the fifth Zulu king was pardoned and returned to the land of his birth. By then, Britain’s hold on Zululand was irreversible. The great nation created by Shaka was lost.
Or was it?
The pride remained. Quietly, but with determination, the Zulus kept their sense of identity.
‘Do not underestimate us,’ Percy had once said.
Dallas didn’t. Not for one minute.
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Shadows in the Grass Page 56