by Saul David
With these last thoughts uppermost in mind, he waited patiently, if uncomfortably, while the two plotters worked their way through the celebratory bottle of wine. He estimated he had been there for more than two hours and was desperate to massage the circulation back into his cramped limbs. But, fearful of being caught, he was unwilling to do more than shift his position by a fraction of an inch.
Even after the pair finally left the room, he waited a good five minutes before opening the wardrobe door a crack. Both rooms were silent, and obviously empty, so George crept out of the wardrobe, grimacing with pain as the blood began to return to his stiff legs. He hobbled across the conference room as quietly as he could, tried the door and found it unlocked. He was about to leave when he remembered the memorandum that Frere had been given to read. Had they left it in the room? He decided to check, knowing how keen the bishop would be to have it. But as he tiptoed back towards the long, paper-strewn table in the centre of the room, he heard the ominous sound of the door handle turning. With no time to regain the wardrobe, he threw himself to the floor and scrambled under the table.
The door opened and footsteps rang out on the wooden floor, coming to a halt next to where George lay hidden. He could see black boots and, above them, blue trousers with two red stripes down the seam. The only officer he knew with trousers like that was Crealock. George held his breath as Crealock gathered up the documents and turned to leave. But something caused the colonel to pause. He was looking towards the ante-room. George's heart seemed to miss a beat as he realized what Crealock had seen. The wardrobe door was open. He had forgotten to shut it.
Crealock strode over to the wardrobe and looked inside. 'I don't believe it,' he roared. 'A bloody spy!'
George knew he had just seconds to escape. Taking a deep breath, he scuttled out from the table and sprinted for the door, praying that Crealock would not recognize him from behind. His hand closed on the handle as a voice behind yelled, 'Stop, or I'll shoot!'
George spun round to see a pistol aimed at this chest. 'So it was you,' said Crealock. 'You simply can't stay out of trouble, can you?'
George looked defiant. 'Me in trouble? What about you and your co-conspirators? Your plan to provoke war for your own selfish ambitions is bad enough, but then you and Fynn top it with a base attempt to make money from the fighting. I had no idea you were a gambler, too, Colonel. What, I wonder, would your chief make of that?'
'You dare to threaten me!' roared Crealock. 'I'll have you flogged. May I remind you, Trooper Hart, that as a soldier you're bound by military law, which states that passing intelligence to the enemy is an offence punishable by death.'
'But the Zulus aren't the enemy, are they? May I remind you, Colonel, that we're not at war. Not yet, at any rate. And I had no intention of passing any information to the Zulus.'
'So why eavesdrop on our conversation?'
'Because I needed to know.'
'Needed? You're a failed officer in your teens, little more than a soldier of fortune. Why would you need to know? There's something you're not telling me. What is it?'
George said nothing.
'Why are you so interested in the fate of the Zulus? What are they to you? Come on, out with it!'
George just glared.
'I've heard the rumours, you know,' continued Crealock. 'I just need you to confirm them.'
'What rumours?'
'That the half-breed you're staying with is actually your uncle, which makes you part black too. No wonder you're a pet of the Colensos. I hear the prettiest daughter, Fanny, has quite a penchant for black men.'
The blood rose in George's cheeks; if Crealock had not been holding a gun he would have flown at him. 'How dare you suggest . . . ?'
'Oh, I dare all right. You know, Hart, from the moment I met you I thought there was something not right. You looked so shifty when you first boarded the ship. And then I heard about the murder, saw you with the young girl, and it all became clear.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'No? Well, let's put my suspicions to the test, shall we? Are you prepared to return to Plymouth to help the police with their enquiries?'
'Certainly not. I have no intention of returning to Britain in the foreseeable future.'
'I can well imagine. Let me be frank with you. I know enough about you to send you to the gallows twice over. Your black blood certainly gives you a motive to betray the land of your birth. But I'm prepared to keep quiet about all this if you agree to say nothing about what you've heard today. If your friend Bishop Colenso gets wind of what we're planning, he'll go straight to the press; and if Chelmsford hears about my money-making scheme, he'll sack me on the spot. So not a word. Do we have a deal?'
George knew Crealock had him over a barrel. The spying charge alone would see him court-martialled and end his military career for good. He had to agree. Whether he would stick to that agreement was another matter. 'All right,' he said after a lengthy pause. 'I'll go along with your deal. But just remember it cuts both ways.'
George spent the next week agonizing over what to do. In some ways he welcomed the harder line the authorities were taking against King Cetshwayo; but reasonable demands were one thing, an unacceptable ultimatum quite another, as it made war all but inevitable. More than once he was tempted to ride to Bishopstowe and reveal all. What held him back was the realization that it might not make any difference, that the war would still go ahead and that the loss of his career, and possibly even his life, would be for nothing. He salved his conscience by telling himself he could do more good in uniform than out, by keeping an eye on Crealock and, if it came to war, by trying to prevent the maltreatment of Zulu noncombatants. He was cheered, too, by the belief that Colonel Durnford, his chief rival for Fanny's hand, had made much the same decision to fight rather than resign. And in the end, though he was loath to admit it, he knew that the prospect of war excited him: both the chance to put his training into practice and to prove himself against a redoubtable opponent.
He resolved at least to try and explain some of this to Fanny, and arranged to meet her in Pietermaritzburg during one of her weekly shopping trips. They had barely sat down to tea in the Queen's Hotel, the only hostelry not full of military men, when Colonel Durnford entered the dining room wearing a Sam Browne belt complete with pistol and hunting knife. He was not dressed for peace, and looked more pugnacious still on seeing that George and Fanny were alone.
'Anthony,' said Fanny, her face lighting up, 'what a pleasant surprise.'
'Please excuse my intrusion,' replied Durnford, trying and failing to disguise his irritation. 'Your father told me I would find you here. I wanted you to be the first to know my news. Lord Chelmsford has offered me the command of one of his defensive columns on the Zulu border.'
Fanny gaped. 'And you accepted?'
Durnford's face went red. 'Yes, of course. Why would I not? I'm a soldier, after all. It's my duty.'
'Your duty What about your duty as a Christian? I'm shocked that you, Anthony, of all people, would help to prosecute an unlawful war.'
'I'm sorry you feel that way, Fanny, but it's not for me, or any soldier, to decide whether a war is justified. We must be above politics.'
'Yes, but not above morality. Or else you're nothing more than mercenaries.'
'Please, Fanny,' said Durnford, frowning, 'if I thought for a minute that my resignation would change anything, I would tender it today. But I suspect that war is inevitable, and it will be better for all concerned if it's short and successful.'
'You mean for the British?' asked Fanny.
'And the Zulus too. Everyone suffers in a long war.'
Fanny snorted. 'Why can't you be honest with yourself? I saw the look of triumph in your eye as you told me of your appointment. You welcome this war as an opportunity to prove yourself, and to remove the doubts about your military competence that have persisted since the death of those poor Carbineers at Bushman's River Pass.'
'How can you th
ink that? I wasn't responsible for their death. It was just bad luck.'
'I'm sure it was, but most of the settler community here don't see it like that, do they?'
'I'm sorry you can't be happier for me,' said Durnford bitterly as he replaced his hat. 'I'll leave you to your cosy tete- a-tete. I've got duties to attend to. Do give my regards to your family.'
'I will. But I don't imagine any of them will take pleasure in your news.'
Durnford nodded and left.
'Are you all right, Fanny?' asked George, secretly exulting that his rival had been given such short shrift.
She wiped a tear from under her eye. 'No, I'm not all right. How could he, after all he's said and done to try and prevent war, take such pleasure in his new appointment? If he fights, I don't know how I'll be able to forgive him.'
'So where does that leave me? I joined the Carbineers knowing that war was possible.'
'Yes,' she said sadly, 'don't remind me. But you have at least some excuse. I know you were deeply affected by your trip to Zululand, and that you're convinced change is necessary. But you must know in your heart of hearts that war rarely changes things for the better.'
'I suppose I do. But it needn't come to war if Cetshwayo is prepared to make concessions.'
'What exactly do you mean?'
'I can't say, but all will be revealed in a fortnight.'
Chapter 11
Lower Drift of the Tugela, 11 December 1878
Swollen with the recent rains, the broad river was running fast and strong between the steep green banks of the Lower Drift, just a few miles north of its egress into the Indian Ocean. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun, George watched with fascination as, slowly but surely, the small ferry was worked back across the broad stretch of water by bluejackets of the Naval Brigade, their faces red with exertion as they hauled on the ropes attached to the near bank. Squatting nervously in the centre of the boat was a small group of Zulu chiefs and their retainers, members of the delegation that had come to hear the announcement of the long-awaited boundary award. A single white man sat among them.
George was standing with his detachment of Carbineers on a narrow ledge overlooking the drift. Above and behind them, atop the bluff, was the recently constructed earthwork known as Fort Pearson, named after the local British commander; to their left, beneath the sharp shadow of a large awning that had been slung between two fig trees, sat the British deputation that would make the announcement: John Shepstone, Bernard Fynney, the local border magistrate who would translate for the Zulus, and Colonel Walker of the Scots Guards, Frere's military secretary. George and his troop of Carbineers had escorted Shepstone and Walker down from Pietermaritzburg.
George knew what was coming, and had spent much of the three-day march through the waterlogged terrain of north
eastern Natal trying to decide what to say to the Zulu delegates if he had the opportunity. He wanted to emphasize the futility of taking on the might of the British Empire. Whether they, or more importantly Cetshwayo, would listen to him was another matter.
With the pont safely secured on the Natal bank, the Zulu delegates and their white companion disembarked and began to climb the dirt road that led to the meeting place. Minutes later they appeared over the rise to the left of awning, prompting the officer in charge of the naval guard of honour to bellow, 'Attention!'
A double row of boots crashed to the floor as the sailors, in blue tunics and white helmets, stiffened to attention. Behind them stood more sailors, a mixture of black and white, manning two nine-pounder field guns and a single US-made Gatling machine gun. But they were not part of the guard of honour and remained at ease, as did George and the Carbineers, their Martini-Henry carbines cradled in their arms.
'Welcome, welcome,' said John Shepstone, his moustache bristling as he rose to greet the Zulus.
'Hello, John,' responded the white member of the delegation, his handsome, nut-brown face wreathed in a smile as he strode forward to shake Shepstone's hand. 'It's been a long time.'
A fine-looking, powerfully built man, he was wearing a beautifully cut tweed suit and could have been mistaken for an English gentleman on the Yorkshire moors, but for his large wideawake hat and the brace of pistols at his waist.
'Who's that?' whispered George to his neighbour, a young trooper by the name of Walwyn Barker.
'Why that's John Dunn, the White Induna. He's chief of the large district across the river, and a great favourite of Cetshwayo. They say he has forty-nine Zulu wives and yet lives in a European-style house with furniture from London.'
'Extraordinary. How did he end up in Zululand?'
'He began as a border agent and actually fought against Cetshwayo in the fifties. But he later switched sides and has served the king faithfully ever since as an advisor. He's now one of the richest chiefs in—'
'Silence in the ranks!' shouted Sergeant Bullock, their thickset NCO. Barker shrugged his shoulders in resignation.
George turned back to see Dunn and the leading Zulus squatting down in a rough semi-circle in front of the trestle table; behind them, bristling with spears and knobkerries, sat their retainers. Not above fifty men in all, and no match for the firepower the British had assembled.
Shepstone began proceedings by slowly reading the details of the boundary award, pausing after each paragraph so that Fynney could translate. 'The high commissioner,' began Shepstone, 'has graciously confirmed the Zululand- Transvaal border as following the Blood River to its main source in the Magidela Mountains and thence in a direct line to a round hill between the two main sources of the Phongolo river in the Drakensburg.'
As Fynney completed his translation of this crucial first passage, the Zulu chiefs murmured appreciatively. They were less impressed when Shepstone went on to confirm Boer ownership of existing farms in Zululand, while denying Zulu claims to property on the Transvaal side of the line, on the grounds that Boer law did not allow Africans to own land. But the first overt signs of dissatisfaction, in the form of angry muttering, began when Shepstone stated that Cetshwayo was to relinquish all claims to land north of the Phongolo river. On hearing this, Chief Vumandaba, the portly leader of the delegation, sprang up and shouted in Zulu, 'What is this? The British have no right to dictate terms on the Phongolo. It is between us and the Swazi.'
George's grasp of the Zulu language had come on in leaps and bounds, thanks to long conversations with Mufungu, his uncle's cowherd, and he understood the gist of the chief's angry words. He was surprised, therefore, when Shepstone's noncommittal response - that any Trans-Phongolo claim would have to be submitted to the British government - seemed to smooth the chief's ruffled feathers.
Shepstone further mollified the Zulus by announcing a break in proceedings so that a freshly slaughtered ox could be cooked and eaten. The Zulus were delighted, and used their assegais to carve strips of meat from the carcass, which they washed down with liberal quantities of maize beer. The mood of the delegation seemed relaxed and jovial, and George took the opportunity to speak to a young induna who was squatting on the fringes of the main group. 'Sakubona!' said George, raising his hand in greeting.
The young chief looked up at George with a quizzical expression on his broad, handsome face. He was naked but for a genet loincloth, and powerfully built with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His assegais and large rawhide shield, black with white spots, lay close to hand.
George introduced himself as a cousin of Chief Sihayo. The Zulu raised his eyebrows. 'How can you be Sihayo's kin? You're a white horse soldier.'
'A soldier, yes, but not entirely white. My grandmother was Sihayo's sister.'
'How can that be?'
George tried to explain but the chief looked unconvinced. At last, a smile spreading across his face, he rose to clap George on the shoulder. 'It's so unlikely it must be true. I'm Kumbeka, son of Chief Vumandaba, good friend of Sihayo's son Mehlokazulu. We're both junior indunas of the Ngoba- makhosi Regiment.'
'A ringless
regiment, I see,' said George with a grin, gesturing towards the absence of an isicoco in Kumbeka's hair.'
'Sadly, yes. But we're still young, and live in hope that our king will permit us to marry once we've proved ourselves in battle.'
'Fighting anyone in particular?'
'Who knows? We have many enemies: the Boers, the Swazi and soon, depending upon the outcome of these talks, maybe even the British.'