Zulu Hart Read online

  Among the last batch to disembark was Captain Gossett. 'Goodbye,' he said, giving George's shoulder a squeeze. 'I hope we meet again.'

  'I'm sure we shall,' replied George.

  Gossett waved as he disappeared over the side.

  The sick were next: three cases of fever, a corporal with a broken arm and Thomas, his pale face and scrawny frame proof that he had yet to recover from the flogging. Despite this, he was in full uniform and carrying his pack and slung rifle.

  'Need any help?' asked George.

  'Thankee, Mr Hart,' said Thomas, using George's arm for support as he eased on to the top of the stern ladder. 'Much obliged.'

  'Best of luck, Thomas, and don't forget to give my regards to Second Lieutenant Morgan.'

  'I won't. Goodbye and God bless you for all your kindness.'

  George had read somewhere that you could smell Africa long before you saw it. But only once, as the SS American was steaming in clear blue water off the West Coast of Africa, had the distinctive scent of palm oil and decayed vegetation wafted over the deck. Now, as the ship gently rose and fell in the evening swell off Durban, he detected a different smell: that of wood-smoke, from the hundreds of fires the natives of Natal had lit to cook their meal of porridge. It was a strangely reassuring odour and, like the vast canopy of sky above him, made him think, Yes, maybe this land is truly in my blood after all. He was anxious to get ashore, but, as at East London, the presence of strong currents and a sandbar meant that all passengers had to land by day. He consoled himself with the knowledge that, after a month at sea, one extra day was little hardship.

  Next morning the sound of barked orders and scurrying feet woke George from a deep sleep. With the unloading of the final passengers and cargo clearly under way, he quickly dressed and made his way down to the horsedeck. Emperor welcomed him with a whinny. Despite the rigours of the long journey the horse looked surprisingly fit, his chestnut coat glowing with health. 'You've looked after him well,' George told the groom, handing him a crown. 'But we'll both be glad to see dry land. Can you get him ready for the derrick?'

  'At once, Mr Hart.'

  The groom led Emperor out of his narrow stall and under the open hatchway, where a canvas sling was dangling from the derrick. The other horses had already been dropped into a waiting lighter. Emperor was the last to go. The groom attached the sling and gave a signal to a sailor peering down through the hatchway. He, in turn, told the crew of the derrick to haul away. Slowly but surely, Emperor's limp form, his hooves almost touching, was raised out of the hold until it hung motionless above the deck.

  George, meanwhile, had reached the poopdeck, from where he watched anxiously as the derrick swung Emperor over the side. Three times they tried and failed to lower him into the lighter's hold, the swell spoiling their aim. On the fourth they succeeded, though the lighter was rocking violently. George breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his cabin to collect his luggage and the revolver from under his pillow.

  With everyone aboard, the lighter was towed by steam-tugs through a gap in the sandbar and on towards Durban Harbour, where it was tied to a wharf thronged with people. George marvelled at this first sight of Natal's multi-hued population: a white harbour official, in blue coat with brass buttons, waving his clipboard and shouting the odds; barefooted tars swarming over the various vessels; prostitutes of all colours, in various states of undress, hawking their wares from windows and doorways; redcoats with even redder faces; and a host of half-naked black stevedores, some wearing tribal kilts, others rough trousers, but all jabbering away in a plethora of dialects as they carted goods to and fro. George was pleased to catch some words in Zulu, a reward for his study with the trader Laband.

  With the sun already high in a cobalt-blue sky, and the heat oppressive, George retired to the shelter of a quayside bar. A glass of chilled porter in hand, he watched as a crane lifted the heavy cargo and horses out of the lighter. One horse panicked, its frightened kicks breaking the rear of the sling. Luckily the remaining canvas held long enough for it to reach solid ground. Emperor was next, and no sooner had he been deposited on the quayside, his flanks still trembling with fear, than George was there to soothe him. He had been advised not to ride the horse for at least twenty-four hours, to give him a chance to recover from the voyage, so instead he tacked him up and led him the mile or so into Durban proper.

  After a sleepless night in the spectacularly misnamed Grand Hotel on Smith Street - its only pretension to grandeur being the size of its cockroaches - George packed his kit into two saddlebags, collected Emperor from the nearby livery stable and, map of Natal in hand, began the fifty-mile ride inland to his uncle Patrick's farm near Pietermaritzburg. It was early, and few people were about as he left the environs of Durban at a trot. The road climbed steadily through rolling country, known locally as the Valley of a Thousand Hills, but Emperor kept a good pace, happy to stretch his legs after so long inactive. George was struck by the barrenness of the terrain, its red soil relieved here and there by tufts of yellow grass and the green and brown of the occasional acacia thorn tree.

  At noon George stopped by the side of a stream to eat a lunch of bread and cheese, while Emperor grazed nearby. It was a beautiful shaded spot, nestled between high brown hills, and as he lay back, head on hands, George reflected on how relieved he was to be free of Crealock, the ship and all association with the dead private detective. But a nagging question remained: why had he refused to let Lucy accompany him beyond Cape Town?

  He had his practical reasons, of course, like not having enough money and needing to travel light. Yet neither was insuperable. Was it not instead, he asked himself, a simple case of snobbery, viz. that he was embarrassed to be seen in the company of a former domestic servant, even in South Africa? And what about the term in his father's legacy that stated he had to marry respectably? Did that also play a part, in the sense that he knew if he fell in love with Lucy he might forfeit the only portion of the legacy he had a chance of winning? He feared it had; it would, he knew, be hard enough keeping his African blood a secret. This fleeting moment of self-knowledge made him ashamed. For one thing was not in doubt: he missed Lucy and thought about her often. There was, however, little to be done to make amends in the short term. He had no way of contacting her, and if they met again it would owe more to luck than design.

  Preoccupied with such melancholic thoughts, George did not hear the silent approach of three black men, naked but for their monkey-skin loincloths. He had risen to his feet and was tightening Emperor's girth when he felt the slight prick of a bladed weapon in his ribs. 'Don't move, white man,' said a deep voice behind him.

  George froze, his hands still on the girth. 'Who are you?'

  The man behind him snorted. 'You hear that, boys? The white man wants to know who we are. You must be new to this country or you would know that all black men are called "Kaffirs", and not as a compliment. Most of us are Zulus and proud of it.'

  George had read about the Natal Kaffirs, mostly political refugees from Zululand. The colony contained almost a quarter of a million of them, compared to just 20,000 whites, and to keep them under control the authorities had confined them in locations under their traditional chiefs. These men had obviously broken out and were planning to rob him, or worse.

  'I too am Zulu,' said George in an attempt to find some common ground with his assailants.

  'You - a Zulu?' said the man, laughing. 'I don't think so.'

  'No, it's true,' said George, slowly turning round with his arms raised.

  Facing him were three young warriors, each clutching an oval shield and a vicious-looking spear with a long, flat blade. The warrior closest to George, in the centre, was powerfully built with a chiselled, handsome face; he wore an elaborate headdress of leopardskin and widow-bird plumes, and was obviously in charge. 'So tell me, white man, how you came to have Zulu blood.'

  'My maternal grandmother was the daughter of a chief called Xongo kaMuziwento.'

  'H
er name?'

  'Ngqumbazi.'

  'I know of her. She and her father accompanied Mpande into exile, as did my own grandfather. But unlike them, he never went back.'

  'Why?'

  'Because he quarrelled with Xongo over my grandmother and was warned never to return to Zululand. So, you see, your kin is directly responsible for my miserable existence in Natal, a despised Kaffir who will never set eyes on the land of his ancestors beyond the White Mfolosi River.'

  George closed his eyes and sighed. Of all the Zulu refugees in Natal, I have to bump into the one whose ancestor was an enemy of my own. Just my luck.

  'Check his horse for money,' barked the leader.

  As one of the warriors began to rifle through his saddlebags, George realized he would have to act fast or he would lose everything. Slowly, he began to move his right hand towards his waist, where, beneath his shirt, he had secreted his grandfather's revolver.

  The leader saw him, out of the corner of his eye, and shouted, 'Keep your hands up.'

  George ignored him and made a grab for the gun. As his hand clasped the butt, the leader spun round and lunged with his spear, its flat blade penetrating a loose fold in George's shirt but missing his flesh.

  George aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger. Nothing. It had misfired. By the time he had pulled back the hammer for another shot, the third warrior was upon him, a crashing blur of bone and steel and muscle. As he fell, George fired, the ball smashing into the warrior's chest and sending him spinning to the ground. He turned to face the leader but he and the other warrior had vanished into the wood. With adrenalin coursing through him, George loosed off another shot into the sky to speed them on their way. Then he checked the fallen warrior for signs of life. There were none. With the danger over, he looked down and saw that his pistol hand was shaking violently. Even killing in self-defence did not make it any easier.

  He walked over to where Emperor was tethered. His ears were pricked, but otherwise he seemed unruffled, the benefit of having been trained to ignore the sound of firearms. George checked his saddlebags, the contents of which were strewn on the ground on either side of the horse. Everything was there apart from the pouch containing his money. 'No!' he howled, head in hands.

  He needed that money. It was all he had in the world. How would he buy a stake in a diamond mine now? How would he eat? After all he had been through, it was too much to take and he sank to the ground, sobbing with frustration. Only gradually did it occur to him that it could have been worse. He still had his health and his horse, and an uncle not far distant who might provide food and shelter, and even some money if his share in the farm was still worth anything. It was in this more positive frame of mind that he covered the corpse as best as he could with earth and leaves, remounted Emperor, and continued up the road to Pietermaritzburg.

  The sun was fast receding behind a flat-topped hill, its crown of red rocks glowing pink from within, as George covered the last half-mile of veldt that separated him from the isolated farmhouse. Watching him from the veranda that ran the length of the single-storeyed, brick-built dwelling was a lone man in an easy chair. It could only be his uncle, but George found it hard to make out the man's features in the failing light. He dismounted, tied Emperor to a hitching post and approached the veranda. 'Stay right where you are!' said the man.

  George was close enough to see the black muzzle of a rifle, pointing right at him. He stopped and raised his hands, palm outwards. 'Don't shoot. My name's George Hart.'

  'I don't know anyone of that name.'

  'I'm Emma's boy.'

  'Well, I'll be damned,' said the man, lowering the rifle. 'And to think I almost shot you. I'm sorry. But it's not a good idea to arrive at a farm unannounced. I've lost a lot of stock to thieves and you can't be too careful.'

  'Of course. I understand.'

  The man rose, leant the rifle against the wall and came down the steps to greet George.

  'I'm your uncle Patrick,' he said, shaking his hand enthusiastically. 'It's good to meet you. Come inside and I'll get one of the boys to see to your horse.'

  George retrieved his gear from Emperor's back and followed his uncle inside. The main room was spacious enough for both a kitchen and a sitting area, but its bare walls and basic furniture made the absence of a feminine touch all too obvious. 'You can use the spare room,' said Patrick. 'Supper's in twenty minutes.'

  It was the first opportunity that George had had to study his uncle, albeit by the light of a paraffin lamp. They looked remarkably similar, though his uncle was noticeably darker and his hair a little wirier. He was also more heavily built, with flecks of grey in his hair and beard, and crow's feet at the corner of his eyes, the legacy of a lifetime squinting in the sun. But his uncle's amused response to his request for a lavatory - 'There's a spade by the door' - was proof enough they shared the same dry sense of humour.

  Supper was eaten at a rough wooden table with benches on either side. It was a delicious beef stew, and George wolfed it down hungrily. Only when he had finished a second helping, washed down with a cup of maize beer, did his uncle ask him for details of what he was doing in Africa.

  'It's a long story,' said George with a rueful smile. 'But suffice to say my African blood played its part. Would you believe that my mother only told me about it, and your existence, a few weeks ago?'

  'Yes, I would. Emma was always embarrassed about her African relatives, even as a young girl. She and I were left this farm, but she's never shown any interest in it beyond asking for her share of the profits. Not that it's made any of those for a while. So if you've come here hoping to claim her inheritance, you can forget it.'

  'Ah,' said George with a rueful expression, 'I was worried you might say that. Truth is, I've had quite a run of bad luck recently and, to top it all, I was held up by Kaffirs on the way here and relieved of what little money I had left.'

  After George had explained, his uncle whistled and said, 'It's lucky you're so handy with Father's pistol. What did you do with the body?'

  'I covered it with leaves and left it.'

  'That's hardly going to discourage scavengers, but no matter. Probably best not to report it. You'll only get embroiled in legal matters, and I can't imagine his accomplices will make a fuss.'

  'Is this sort of thing typical?'

  'It's getting that way. The Kaffirs resent being confined to locations on the poorest-quality land, not above a tenth of the total, while the far less numerous white settlers own the rest. And the recent doubling of the hut tax, which applies to all dwellings occupied by blacks, has only increased the bad feeling. The white settlers, on the other hand, are terrified that one day the Kaffirs will rise and murder them in their beds.'

  'How do you fit in?'

  'Well, I'm exempt from the hut tax, if that's what you mean,' said Patrick, smiling. 'I try to keep my head down and stay out of politics. Even so, it's hard to get by. The farm was valuable once, but I've had to sell so much land just to balance the books that it's virtually worthless. I still graze a few cattle, as doubtless you noticed, but for much of the year I'm forced to work as a farmhand on other properties to make ends meet. You're welcome to stay here and help out for as long as you like. I can't pay you, though.'

  'I appreciate your candour, Uncle. I won't say I'm not disappointed; I am. But it may be for the best. I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a farmer. I'd appreciate it, however, if you'd put me up for a short time while I find my feet. I intend, at some point, to head over to Kimberley and try my luck in the mines.'

  His uncle frowned. 'I'm not sure I'd recommend that, George. A friend of mine went over there in seventy-two, just after word of the diamond-field discovery in Griqualand leaked out. Sold his house, packed all his belongings in an ox-cart and just took off. But, like thousands of other prospectors, he found nothing but flies, squalor and heartbreak. He stayed until his money ran out and he was forced to sell his three claims. With nothing to come back to, he blew his brains out.'

&nb
sp; 'I'm sorry to hear that, Uncle. But plenty of others have had better luck. I read about one penniless English prospector who found a stone worth thirty thousand pounds.'

  'I'm not saying it's impossible. Just that the odds are against you. For every good-luck story there are thousands who leave the fields destitute, if they leave at all. I wouldn't want that to happen to you.'

  George smiled thinly. 'Me neither. But it's not even an option until I've got some stake money together. In the meantime I've half a mind to visit Zululand and find out more about my grandmother and her family. Do you know if she's still alive?'

  'I don't. But I know some of her brothers are. The eldest, Sihayo kaXongo, is a member of King Cetshwayo's council and one of his most trusted advisors. He rules a vast swathe of land on the left bank of the Buffalo River, beyond a ford known as Rorke's Drift. He's a man of considerable influence in Zululand.'

  'Would it be possible to meet him?'

  'I can't see why not, though you might have to wait until the Boundary Commission has drafted its report. It meets at Rorke's Drift in a few days and Sihayo is one of the Zulu delegates.'