Men of Men

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘It is the same kraal, in the days of Mzilikazi it was Thabas Indunas, but now Lobengula has changed the name to GuBulawayo, the Place of Killing.’

  ‘I see,’ Ralph nodded, and then waited for it was clear that Bazo had more to say.

  ‘Henshaw. You did not hear me say this – but the ten warriors who will go with you to the king’s kraal are not only for your protection. Do not look too closely at the stones and rocks along the road, and do not dig a hole, even to bury your own excrement, else Lobengula will hear of it and believe that you are searching for the shiny pebbles and yellow metal. That is death.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Henshaw, while you are in Matabeleland, give up your habit of travelling at night. Only magicians and sorcerers go abroad in the darkness, mounted on the backs of the hyena. The king will hear of it – and that is death.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do not hunt the hippopotamus. They are the king’s beasts. To kill one – is death.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘When you enter the presence of the king, be sure that your head is always below that of the Great Elephant, even if you must crawl on your belly.’

  ‘You have told me this already.’

  ‘I will tell you again,’ Bazo nodded. ‘And I will tell you once more that the maidens of Matabeleland are the most beautiful in all the world. They light a raging fire in a man’s loins, but to take one of them without the king’s word is death for both man and maiden.’

  For an hour they squatted opposite each other, occasionally taking a little snuff or passing one of Ralph’s cheap black cheroots back and forth, but always with Bazo talking and Ralph listening.

  Bazo spoke quietly, insistently, reciting the names of the most powerful indunas, the governors of each of Matabeleland’s military provinces, listing those who had the king’s ear and should be treated with care, explaining how a man should conduct himself so as not to give offence, advising how much tribute each would ask and finally accept, trying to give it all to Ralph in these last minutes, and then finally glancing up at the sky.

  ‘It is time.’ He stood. ‘Go in peace, Henshaw.’ And he walked out of Ralph’s camp without looking back.

  As Ralph’s wagon, with its escort of warriors, climbed out of the low veld, so the heat abated. The air was so sweet and clean that it made Ralph feel as though the blood sparkled and fizzed in his veins.

  Isazi was infected by the same elation. He composed new verses to sing to his bullocks, lauding their strength and beauty, and occasionally he slipped in a reference to a ‘feathered baboon’ or some other fanciful and unlovely creature, while rolling his eyes significantly in the direction of the bodyguard of Matabele warriors that preceded the wagon.

  The forests thinned as they climbed, becoming open woodlands of shapely mimosa trees, the paper-thin bark peeling away to reveal the clear smooth underbark, and the branches loaded with the fluffy yellow flower heads. The grass cloaked the undulating earth, thick and sweet, so that the bullocks fleshed out after the enervating heat of the lowlands, and they stepped out with a new will against the yoke.

  This was cattle country, the heartland of the Matabele, and they began to encounter the herds. Huge assemblies of multi-coloured animals, red and white and black and all the combinations of those colours. Smaller than the big Cape bullocks, but sturdy and agile as wild game, the bulls with the hump and heavy dewlap of their Egyptian forebears.

  Isazi looked at them covetously, and came back to Ralph at the forewheel of the wagon to say:

  ‘Such were the herds of Zululand, before the soldiers came.’

  ‘There must be hundreds of thousands, and they would be worth twenty pounds a head.’

  ‘Will you never learn, Little Hawk?’ Isazi still returned to the diminutive when one of Ralph’s stupidities exasperated him. ‘A man cannot place a value on a fine breeding cow or a beautiful woman in little round coins.’

  ‘Yet, as a Zulu you pay for a wife.’

  ‘Yes, Little Hawk.’ Isazi’s voice was weary with Ralph’s obtuse arguments. ‘A Zulu pays for a wife; but he pays in cattle, not in coin, which is what I have been telling you all along.’ And he ended the discussion with a thunderous clap of his long trek whip.

  Small family kraals dotted the wide savannahs, each built around its own cattle stockade and fortified against predators – or against marauders. As they passed the settlements of thatched beehive-shaped huts, the little naked herd boys scampered to alert the kraals, and then the women came out, bare-legged and naked-breasted, balancing the clay pots and hollowed gourds upon their heads, an exercise that gave them a stately dignity of movement.

  Then Ralph’s bodyguard of warriors from Gandang’s regiment paused to refresh themselves on the tart and bubbling millet beer or on the delicious soured milk, thick as yoghurt. The young women examined Ralph with bold and curious eyes. Totally unaware that he spoke the language, they speculated about him in such intimate terms that his ears turned bright red, and he challenged them:

  ‘It is easy to speak the lion’s name and question his size and his strength when he is hidden in the long grass, but will you be so brave when he raises himself in his rage to confront you face to face?’

  The silence, stunned and incredulous, lasted only a second, then they covered their mouths and shrieked with delighted laughter, before the bravest came to wheedle coquettishly for a strip of ribbon or a handful of pretty beads.

  As they drew closer to the stronghold of Lobengula, so they passed the great regimental kraals. Each of them was fifty miles from its neighbours, a day’s travel at the rate of a marching impi, the ground-devouring trot that they could maintain for hour after hour.

  Here there was no exchange of greeting and banter. The warriors came swarming from the kraal like bees from a disturbed hive, and they lined each side of the track and settled into a deathly stillness, watching Ralph’s wagon pass in total silence. There was a blankness in their eyes, the inscrutable gaze with which the lion watches his prey before he begins the stalk.

  Ralph passed between the massed ranks at a measured walk, sitting very upright on Tom’s back, without deigning to glance left or right at the silent menacing ranks; but when they had passed out into the open grasslands again, his shirt was wet under the arms and between his shoulder blades, and there was a catch in his breathing and a chill in the pit of his belly.

  The Khami was one of the last wide rivers to cross before reaching the king’s kraal at GuBulawayo.

  As soon as Ralph saw the denser and greener growth of mimosa trees that marked the river course, he threw the saddle on Tom’s back and trotted ahead to survey the drift.

  Ports had been cut into the steep sides of the river banks to enable a wagon to enter the watercourse, and the sandbank between two tranquil green pools had been corduroyed with carefully selected branches, cut to length and laid side by side across the softer going to prevent the narrow ironshod wheels from sinking.

  Whoever had travelled this road ahead of Ralph had saved him a great deal of trouble. Ralph knee-haltered Tom on a patch of good grass and went down into the river bed to check the crossing. It was obviously many months since the last wagon had crossed, and Ralph worked his way slowly over the corduroyed pathway, repairing the damage that time had wrought, kicking the dried branches back into place and refilling the hollows scooped by water and wind beneath them.

  It was furnace-hot in the river bed and the white sand bounced the sun’s rays back at him so that by the time he reached the far bank he was sweating heavily, and he threw himself down in the shade of one of the trees and wiped his face and arms with his scarf moistened in the waters of the river pool.

  Quite suddenly he was aware of being watched, and he scrambled quickly to his feet. There was someone standing on the bank above him at the head of the roadway.

  With a shock of disbelief, he realized that it was a girl – a white girl, and she was dressed all in white: a loose cotton shift th
at reached to her ankle just above her bare feet. It was caught in at the waist with a ribbon of blue, and she was so slim that Ralph felt he could lift her with one hand.

  The dress was buttoned with mother of pearl to the throat and the sleeves reached to her elbows; but the cotton had been washed, ironed and bleached so often that it seemed to have less substance than gossamer, and the light was behind her.

  Ralph could clearly see the outline of her legs under the skirt, and it shocked him again so his breathing tripped. Her legs were long and so delicately shaped that he had to exercise his will to tear his eyes from them. With his heart still pounding he looked at her face.

  It was pale as bone china, and seemed almost translucent, so that he thought he could see the sheen of fragile bone beneath the skin.

  Her hair was pale shining silver blonde, brushed into a fine cascade that flowed over her shoulders, and shimmered and shook with each breath that lifted the tiny girlish breasts under the thin cotton.

  There were flowers on her brow, and a garland of them over her shoulders, and about the brim of the wide straw hat that she held in her hands at the level of her narrow hips – and Ralph felt a sense of unreality. The flowers were roses. The girl and the flowers seemed not to belong in this wilderness but in some gentle and cultivated English garden.

  She came down the cutting; her bare feet were silent and seemed to glide over the sandy earth. Her eyes were huge and luminous blue in her pale face, and she was smiling. It was the sweetest smile that Ralph had ever seen, and yet it was neither shy nor simpering.

  While Ralph still stood, self-conscious and gawking, the girl lifted her slim smooth arms and stood on tiptoe to kiss him full upon the mouth. Her lips were cool and soft, delicate as the rose petals at her brow.

  ‘Oh Ralph, we are so glad to see you. Nobody has talked of anything else since first we heard that you were upon the road.’

  ‘Who – who are you?’ Ralph blurted, his surprise and embarrassment making him boorish; but she seemed unaffected by the gauche question.

  ‘Salina,’ she said, and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow to lead him up the bank. ‘Salina Codrington.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ He pulled against the hand so that she had to turn to face him again.

  ‘Salina—’ she repeated, laughing now, and her laughter was warm and sweet as her smile. ‘I’m Salina Codrington.’ And then when it was apparent that the name meant nothing, ‘I’m your cousin, Ralph. My mother is your father’s sister – Robyn Codrington – but she was Robyn Ballantyne.’

  ‘Good God!’ Ralph stared at her. ‘I didn’t know Aunt Robyn had a daughter.’

  ‘I suppose not. Uncle Zouga never was a good correspondent.’ But suddenly the smile was no longer on Salina’s lips, and Ralph remembered abruptly that he had never taken the trouble to unravel the tangled skein of family history, except to comprehend vaguely that there was ill-feeling and unsettled scores between Zouga and his Aunt Robyn. Then it came back to him, he had overheard his father recalling bitterly how Robyn had taken unfair advantage by publishing her own version of their joint expedition to the Zambezi months before Zouga’s Hunter’s Odyssey –thereby robbing Zouga of his fair share of critical acclaim, and royalties.

  Ralph’s touching on the family enmities must account for Salina’s quick change of mood, but it was fleeting. She took his arm again, and was smiling as they came up the bank.

  ‘Not one daughter, Ralph. We Codringtons will not let you off so lightly. There are a whole tribe of us, four of us, all girls.’ And she stopped, lifted the straw hat to shade her eyes and looked down the winding overgrown track that meandered away across the grassy savannah. ‘Oh dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘I came ahead to warn you – and I was only just in time!’

  Down the track towards them pelted three small figures, jostling one another for advantage, their faint squeaks of excitement gaining rapidly in volume, long hair flying wildly, fluttering skirts of faded and patched cloth lifted high above the knees so that bare legs flashed, faces freckled and flushed, contorted with exertion and excitement and recrimination.

  ‘Salina! You promised to wait!’

  They bore down on where Ralph stood with the lovely blonde girl on his arm.

  ‘Good God!’ Ralph whispered again, and Salina squeezed his elbow.

  ‘That’s the second time that you have used the Lord’s name, Cousin Ralph. Please don’t.’ So that was the reason for her faint displeasure.

  ‘Oh – I’m terribly sorry.’ And he remembered too late that Salina’s parents were pious missionaries. ‘I didn’t mean—’ Again he was thick-tongued, for suddenly this girl’s good opinion was the most important thing in all the world. ‘I won’t do it again. I promise’.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, and before either of them could speak again they were surrounded by what appeared to be an ocean of small females, every one of whom was bobbing up and down with remarkable rapidity, competing vocally for Ralph’s attention and at the same time shrieking accusations at their eldest sister.

  ‘You cheated, Salina. You told us—’

  ‘Ralph, Cousin Ralph, I’m Victoria, the eldest twin.’

  ‘Cousin Ralph, we prayed God to speed you to us.’

  Salina clapped her hands, and there was a barely noticeable reduction in the volume of sound.

  ‘In order of age!’ she said calmly.

  ‘You always say that because you are the eldest!’

  Salina ignored the protest and picked out a dark-haired child with a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘This is Catherine.’ She drew her forward to face Ralph. ‘Cathy is fourteen.’

  ‘And a half, almost fifteen,’ said Cathy, and her manner changed with this declaration, becoming lady-like and controlled.

  She was thin, and as flat-chested as a boy, but the young body gave the immediate impression of strength and suppleness. Her nose and cheeks were peppered with freckles, but the mouth was full and frank, her eyes the same Ballantyne green as Ralph’s own, and her thick dark brows were a frame for their bright intelligent gleam. Her chin was a little too large, as was her nose, but they had a determined set and thrust. Her thick dark hair was plaited and piled on top of her head, leaving her ears exposed, small and pointed and lying flat against her head.

  ‘Welcome to Khami, Ralph,’ she said evenly, and bobbed a small curtsey, holding her skirts up as she had obviously been coached; and Ralph realized that the skirt was made of old flour bags that had been stitched together and dyed a muddy green. The lettering still showed through: ‘Cape Flour Mills’.

  Then Cathy reached up and kissed him quickly, and it left a little wet spot on Ralph’s lips. Kissing was obviously the accepted family salutation, and Ralph glanced with trepidation at the eager but grubby faces of the twins.

  ‘I’m Victoria, the eldest.’

  ‘And I’m Elizabeth, but if you call me “baby”, I shall hate you. Cousin Ralph.’

  ‘You won’t hate anybody,’ Salina said, and Elizabeth hurled herself at Ralph’s neck, got a fair grip and hung on as she plastered her mouth to Ralph’s.

  ‘I was teasing, Ralph. I shall love you,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘Always! Always!’

  ‘Me!’ howled Victoria indignantly. ‘I’m older than Lizzie. Me first.’

  Salina led them with that gliding walk which did not move her shoulders and barely ruffled the white-gold curtain of her hair, and every once in a while she turned to smile at Ralph, and he thought he had never seen anything so lovely.

  The twins each had hold of one of Ralph’s hands, and they gabbled out all the things they had saved up for weeks to tell him, and skipped to keep pace with his stride. Cathy came up behind them all, leading Tom. She and the pony had formed an immediate accord.

  ‘Oh, he’s beautiful, Ralph,’ she had said and kissed Tom’s velvety muzzle.

  ‘We don’t have a horse,’ Victoria explained. ‘Daddy is a man of God, and men of God are too poor to have horses.
’

  The small party straggled over the first low rise beyond the river, and Salina stopped and pointed down into the shallow basin ahead of them.

  ‘Khami!’ she said simply, and all of them looked to Ralph for approbation.

  There was a notch in the next line of granite hills, a natural divide and shed for underground water, which accounted for the spread of lush grass that carpeted the valley.

  Like chickens under the hen, the small huddle of buildings crouched beneath the hills. They were neatly laid out, thatched with yellow grass and painted dazzlingly white with burnt limewash. The largest building had a wooden cross set proudly on the ridge of the roof.

  ‘Daddy and Mummy built the church with their own hands. King Silly Cat would not allow any of his people to help them,’ Victoria explained.

  ‘Silly Cat?’ Ralph asked, puzzled.

  ‘King Mzilikazi,’ Salina translated. ‘You know Mama does not like you using fun names for the kings, Vicky,’ she rebuked the child mildly; but Victoria was shaking Ralph’s hand excitedly and pointing to a distant figure in the valley below them.

  ‘Daddy!’ shrieked the twins in unison. ‘There’s Daddy!’

  He was working in the precise geometrically laid out gardens below the church, a lanky figure whose shoulders remained stooped even when he stood upright and looked towards them, stabbed his spade into the earth and came striding up the hill.

  ‘Ralph!’ He swept off the sweatstained hat, and he was bald – like a monk, with just a fringe of silky hair forming a halo around his pate at the level of his ears. It was immediately apparent from whom Salina had inherited her glorious white-gold tresses.

  ‘Ralph,’ the man repeated, and he wiped his right hand on the seat of his pants and then held it out. Despite the stoop, he was as tall as Ralph, his face deeply tanned, his bald dome as shiny as if it had been waxed and polished, his eyes pale blue as a summer sky, washed out by heat haze; but his smile was like Salina’s – calm and tranquil, so that as he took the hand Ralph realized that this was the most contented and deeply happy man he had ever met in his life.