Shaka the Great (11 page)

He's also nobody's fool, therefore certainly isn't taken in by Farewell's wild claims and lavish promises. But neither do they worry him as much as they might have, because the same concern that
drives Farewell to ever greater exaggerations also bothers Fynn. This concern is the fact that, try as he might, Farewell can't seem to persuade many Englishmen to join them, while Petersen is having far greater success recruiting his fellow Dutchmen or men of other nationalities.

Even more ominously, a short while before they're due to set sail, Fynn learns Petersen has bribed the junior clerks at the Colonial Office to find for him records relating to the Dutch East India Company's alleged “purchase” of Port Natal back when the same Company was in possession of the Cape.

What is supposed to be an English initiative is now turning out to be anything but.

Why does Fynn go then? It's tempting to suggest a part of him realizes that he will remain unformed and unreal, incomplete and indelibly incognito, until Shaka discovers him. That, such is the Zulu King's greatness, Shaka is the one who can give Fynn life through bestowing on him a measure of immortality. After all, those who remember will also be remembered—for a while, at least.

But that's surely the kind of magical thinking best left to plumbers who've fallen off stepladders. It's more likely Fynn goes, despite his misgivings, simply because he said he would, and he is a man of his word—and because “traveling and new scenes” really are more important to him than “any pecuniary advantage,” as he later records.

Whatever the case, the sloop
Julia
slips over the sandbar and anchors in the northern sector of the bay early on the morning of May 10, 1824, the time of Untlaba—the Aloe Flowering Moon.

At about three o'clock that afternoon, Fynn orders a boat lowered. After provisions and bedding are loaded, he and five others set off for the shore. The rest of the party comprises Michael, a Hottentot servant, Frederick, a Xhosa interpreter, an Englishman called Henry Ogle, a Prussian called Udo and a Frenchman who may or may not have been named Apollonaire. These last three are “mechanics,” handymen who'll be constructing the buildings that will house
the expedition and store the deluge of ivory Farewell has promised his investors.

They land on the beach in front of the swathe of soggy terrain that King's chart described as “Hippopotamus grazing ground” and which will be later named Khangela. After the boat is unloaded and sent back to the
Julia
, the men split into two groups. The three mechanics head one way, while Fynn, Frederick and Michael head the other. Although the Hottentot and the Xhosa are annoyingly nervous, needing constant reassurance and urging every few paces, Fynn by now prefers their company to that of his fellow whites.

He's hoping to meet some locals, but all they come across are hippo tracks. Lots of them.

The mechanics also say they've seen hippo tracks but no natives. Knowing they probably dawdled so as to keep the bay always in sight, Fynn considers retracing their footsteps and moving further afield—but it's getting late. After some gnawing of the bottom lip and a bit of pacing, he's able to fold away his enthusiasm and help the others select a place to spend the night.

They choose a hollow beneath rising ground, reasoning that this will help protect them from the wind. They spread out their bedding, build a fire and prepare supper. It's been a long day, especially for Fynn, who was up and on deck when the
Julia
was coaxed over the sandbar, and beach sand is an ideal mattress for stiff muscles; the men soon fall asleep around the fire.

They're so tired, in fact, that the hollow has already become a fast-flowing stream by the time the storm wakes them.

Somehow they manage to rescue a few burning logs and grab the firewood they collected earlier. And somehow they're able to get another fire going, after scrambling to higher ground.

Thunder, lightning, and rain falling in gusts scattered by the wind, which is possibly why their fire survives, although in truth it's more a collection of glowing embers. And there they sit, shivering beneath their wet blankets, as the rain pecks at them continually, two Englishmen, a Frenchman and a Prussian, not to mention a Hottentot and a Xhosa (but no Scotsman): five nationalities in search of a
punch line. Or six characters a Pobble, Jumblie and runcible spoon away from being an Edward Lear limerick.

Thunder, lightning and that irascible wind blowing now from the east, now from the west, slicing right through their blankets to set their teeth chattering. Dark splotches, constantly forming and reforming on the logs.

Thunder and lightning. Malevolent thunder. Whipcrack lightning.

And then the wolves come …

A snarling that encircles the men.

And the putative joke and the perhaps limerick mutate into a riddle. As in: when is a wolf not a wolf?

They're surrounded. Now they leave their igloos of blankets to toss every bit of wood they can find on to the fire. They shout and wave their hands, and regret the fact they left the firearms back on the
Julia.

Brown blurs in the darkness, the wolves are coming closer …

Moving in for the kill …

The circle tightening like a noose.

But when is a wolf not a wolf?

When you're on a beach on the south-east coast of Africa, being attacked by hyenas.

But perhaps, right here and now, knowing the difference between
Canis lupus
and
Crocuta crocuta
isn't that important (although Fynn will forever insist that they really were attacked by wolves). Especially since both have the carnivore's trademark carnassial teeth which can shear flesh and crush bones, with the hyena a little more powerful than the wolf in this department—although, again, that's a distinction best not mentioned right now.

And these marauders definitely have their napkins tucked into their collars and are looking forward to a late supper.

And, wet, bedraggled and bearded after their weeks at sea, the men are also appropriately dressed for the part, resembling nothing so much as a buffet of Neanderthals about to discover there could
just be something to this extinction nonsense everyone's being prattling on about.

“We had no better mode of defense than by standing back to back with firebrands in our hands,” Fynn will later write. When two or three of the creatures decide good manners are one thing, but someone's got to be first at the smorgasbord and come forward, they're met with a frantic waving of spluttering logs.

With the hyenas probing their defenses for any weaknesses and the men turning to meet sudden forays, the six have gradually moved away from their bedding … and now a hyena goes trotting by, carrying a pair of leather trousers belonging to Ogle. With a bellow, the mechanic flings himself forward …

… and just manages to grab one of the trouser legs.

A tug of war ensues, with Ogle ignoring the other fangs out there. He's got a sixty rix-dollar-note in one of the pockets—there's no way the beast's going to have that! Pulling hard, he changes his grip and folds his fingers around the band of the pants. That gives him the advantage. With much muffled growling the hyena tosses its head from side to side …

… and finds itself left with part of the trouser leg. Leaving Ogle to scurry back to his friends, the creature turns and disappears into the night. It has to feel cheated, and not only because it got away with a mere portion of its prey. After all, this tastes like skin, but where's the warm, squishy yummy stuff that's supposed to be inside?

Knowing a diversion when he sees one, Udo the Prussian seizes this opportunity to gather up his own clothes. He's on his hands and knees, when his left leg goes stiff and he's yanked backward. Dropping on to his right side, he turns his head and shrieks. A hyena has him by his foot.

Fynn: “He screamed out most vociferously: ‘My toag! my toag!' meaning his toe. This caused a roar of laughter, as we were now less fearful, finding we were not likely to be rushed upon en masse.”

A firebrand thrown at the animal secures Udo's release. But it's more than likely that it's that lunatic laughter filling the African night,
blossoming beneath a sky at last clear and dripping with stars, that finally sees the hyenas beat a hasty retreat—on the sound assumption it's best not to eat anyone crazier than oneself after midnight.

And a Frenchman, a Prussian, a Hottentot, a Xhosa and two Englishmen (but no Scotsman) are left waiting for dawn, as cold as the crabs that crawl on yonder hills …

Interlude

And so it was as Jakot had predicted, but not quite as he'd expected.

Was he serious about finding Shaka when he had stormed off into the bushes? Who knows, but Shaka certainly found him—or at least one of his patrols did. Fervently hoping that this Zulu king the White Men aboard ship couldn't stop talking about would recognize his worth, Jakot contrived to ignore the leveled spears and suspicious glances, and tried his best not to act as a captive but as a powerful prince come to offer a colleague advice. And the fact that he would be able to tell Shaka all about the devious ways of these arrogant White Men surely would serve him better than any accident of birth. Let his expertise be his lineage here. As for the Long-Nosed heathens themselves, they'd come to regret the way they'd treated him.

There was just one problem, though. As a child, Jakot had found himself part of the booty following a cross-border raid. He therefore grew up on a white farm, where he learned Dutch and a smattering of English. When he escaped and returned to his people, they used him as an interpreter in their dealings with the settlers. He was also a useful guide on rustling expeditions. Captured on one of these, he and a companion only avoided being shot when Jakot revealed he could speak Dutch. Then another period of bondage ensued, until Jakot was able to escape once more. He took to roaming the Colony, hiring himself out as a guide and interpreter, when he wasn't stealing cattle.

In other words—and this was the problem—Jakot had spent most of his life among the White Men at the Cape. He loathed and despised them, but had developed a taste for their coffee and jam, for butter and bread baked in the European way, and for rum. Like it or not, he'd been irrevocably tainted, and it had been with a European mindset that he'd gone to look for Shaka. Like his former employers, he expected to come upon Shaka's kraal, astound the King with his superior knowledge, and thus have him awed and eager for his help.

That this might not be the way things were going to pan out became evident once Jakot caught his first glimpse of KwaBulawayo. The sheer enormity of the Zulu capital startled him. Circles within circles showed careful planning—you could even say the city had a neatness that Cape Town with its muddy, shit-splattered streets lacked—and look at all the people, the cattle! But there was now no turning back. Not that Jakot had any choice.

About a week after leaving his employers, then, he found himself on his knees in front of Shaka.

The White Men were coming, whether Shaka liked it or not, and the Zulu King would be needing a loyal interpreter. One who'd not only unwrap their words, but reveal the hidden meanings that lurked behind them. Jakot had to keep telling himself that, as a mantra to ward off the fear.

“Stand,” ordered Shaka, “so that I might look upon you.”

Jakot obeyed. Although he kept his head bowed, he sensed the King's appraisal—like a stick that sent ants of fear scurrying up his spine.

“Well?” said Shaka, after a while. “Where are your masters?”

Jakot raised his head. “No man is my master!”

A grin flickered across the King's lips. His had been a reasonable question, since Jakot was dressed much like the servants White Men employed. He was wearing a cast-off waistcoat, sandals and
klapbroek
, trousers made from cowskin, with a front flap that hid the belt and folded downward when unbuttoned.

Mbopa, meanwhile, bristled beside the King at witnessing such disrespect, till Shaka told him to calm himself.

“I see,” he addressed Jakot once more, “in driving their oxen, you also herd the owners.”

As a way of atoning for the brusqueness of his previous response, Jakot inclined his head. “This is so, Majesty, but in this instance there are no oxen.”

“Do you say you are
not
in the employ of the White Men? But you wear their swaddling,” said Shaka, indicating the Xhosa's britches.

Deciding not to risk correcting the King again, Jakot said he had meant only that he had come over the great waters—in a conveyance that moved across those waters much like a cloud.

“You came by ship, you mean.”

“Er … yes, Majesty.”

Shaka sighed. His time had been wasted. Another shipwreck. He used to look forward to quizzing these unfortunates on their strange ways, but had rarely learned much of interest. They had usually been too scared, and he believed that would be so even were they able to communicate with him in the same language. These days he doesn't even bother to have the shipwreck survivors brought to him. The coastal kraals simply feed them, tend to their injuries and send them on their way, with guides if necessary.