The Horns of the Buffalo (15 page)

Simon looked at Dunn in disbelief. ‘You mean the King knew we were here?'

Dunn nodded, the tolerant half-smile still on his face. ‘Oh yes. I guess he must have known as soon as you crossed the Tugela. Not much goes on here without him knowing about it. What are you doing here, anyway?'

‘Well, as a matter of fact, we were looking for you.'

‘Looking for me?' The smile dropped from Dunn's face and his eyes narrowed. ‘You were way off track. What do you want with me, then?'

Simon looked at the Zulus. The whole party, including the warriors who had arrived on horseback with Dunn, were squatting on the ground, all regarding the white men with interest. There was no way of knowing whether or not they understood the conversation. Certainly they were within earshot.

‘We have, ah, come to trade.'

‘Trade!' Dunn threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘You are . . . traders?'

‘Certainly,' said Simon with desperate dignity. ‘We wish to trade with you.'

Dunn looked at each of them in turn for some seconds, the half-smile back on his lips. He took a breath to speak and clearly changed his mind. He shrugged. ‘Ah well. That will disappoint the King, anyway.'

‘Why?'

‘He thought you were emissaries.'

‘No, no,' Jenkins intervened helpfully. ‘We're English - well, at least he is. I'm from Wales, see.'

Dunn looked blankly at Jenkins and Simon hurriedly continued. ‘Why on earth should the King think we were emissaries?'

Dunn languidly stretched a long leg along the grass and rested his elbow on a rock. ‘Because the word came from the border kraals that two soldiers in - what d'yer call it? - mufti, that's it, had crossed the Tugela and were heading in the general direction of Ulundi, although off the right route.' He looked at Simon and smiled again. ‘He thought that one of you, at least, was quite an important inDuna because he couldn't sit his saddle like the horse soldiers do. No offence, mind.'

‘None taken,' said Simon stiffly. He lowered his voice so that the watching natives could not hear. ‘Do these Zulus understand English?'

‘Not a word. Why?'

‘We
have
come to see you and I would welcome a chance of speaking to you in private.'

Dunn slowly got to his feet. The effect was that of a bear stretching. ‘Well, all right. But King Cetswayo wants to see you so you had better think of something to tell him that doesn't arouse his suspicions. You don't look like traders to me and you won't look like traders to him.' His voice took on a sharp edge. ‘He's no fool, you know. You redcoats seem to think that just because he's a black heathen he can be fed any old line. That's just not so. He's a shrewd, intelligent man. I think he's a good man, too. So you'd better put your thinking caps on. Let's mount up. The King's waiting.'

Dunn took the lead on his large bay and as Simon and Jenkins fell in behind, so the two Zulu horsemen, riding effortlessly with bare feet in the stirrups and with shields slung over their left shoulders, completed the party in the rear. The big man set a fast pace and pulled away a little.

‘What are we going to tell the King, then?' asked Jenkins from the corner of his mouth.

‘We must stick to our story that we are traders. It's too late to think of anything else credible. Above all, we must not admit that we are soldiers.'

Jenkins smiled. ‘Well, bach sir, they're not goin' to think that you are cavalry, that's for sure.'

‘Be quiet. People from the Glasshouse shouldn't throw stones.'

The party rode for half an hour, picking their way through herds of the most indolent, well-fed cattle, which Simon presumed must belong to the King, until they topped a gentle rise and looked down on the King's kraal at Ulundi.

To Simon and Jenkins, used to the small groupings of beehive huts that constituted the few Zulu villages they had seen so far, the capital presented an amazing sight. It stood on a gentle slope that rose from the banks of the White Umfolozi River and, observed from a distance of just under a mile, resembled a giant anthill. The kraal was defined by a thorn fence that must have enclosed at least ninety acres of land, corralling hundreds of hive-shaped structures, grouped, in turn, around a central cattle pen. Tiny black figures could be seen between the huts and spilling out beyond the thorn barrier on to the surrounding plain, where more cattle grazed. Scores of smoke spirals curled into the sky and merged with the dark blue hills in the background. Ulundi was vibrant and as alive as a termites' nest. It was an aboriginal metropolis.

Dunn turned around in his saddle and waited for the others to draw alongside. He nodded ahead. ‘This is the royal kraal.' He spoke with what could be construed as pride in his voice. ‘About one third of a million people live here, and King Cetswayo has absolute authority over them.' His mocking smile returned. ‘That means that quite a few people die here, too. So if I were you, I wouldn't let on that I was in the British Army - if you are, that is.'

He looked quizzically at Simon. ‘But I don't want to give the wrong impression. The days when people were put to death on a whim have long since gone. Shaka and Dingane did that but Cetswayo does not. He's a fair man and the ways of the Zulu can teach the people of Durban a thing or two.' Dunn spat in emphasis. ‘The King doesn't want trouble with the British and it's part of my job here to keep him out of it.'

Simon gestured ahead. ‘Do you live here, then?'

‘Good God, no. I am visiting at the moment. I've got a few acres of my own near the coast. I'm my own man and the King knows it. But I can be useful to him and he knows that, too.'

The party began to trot towards a drift in the river and the city fell away from view.

‘Are we seeing the King now, then?' enquired Jenkins, a trifle anxiously.

‘You are. I was sent to get you.'

Jenkins pulled on his moustache. ‘I don't fancy crawlin' on me belly or any of that stuff,' he said. ‘We don't 'ave to do any of that when we meet the King, do we?'

‘No. Just bow your head.' Dunn's teeth flashed through his whiskers. ‘Just like when you say hello to Queen Victoria.'

‘Ah, righteo, then,' said Jenkins, now riding straight, like a Guardsman. ‘I'll throw in a curtsey too, if you like.'

The horsemen cantered through thicker herds of cattle, tended by slim young boys who now watched them with undisguised interest. Simon had the impression that not many white men visited Ulundi. The kraal reappeared as they rounded a low spur and immediately they were surrounded by Zulus, who raised their spears and sticks in salute to Dunn and fell into step with the horses, forming a trotting mass several hundred strong, to usher them towards a wide gap in the stockade. Dunn rode to the central cattle pen and dismounted, gesturing to them to tether their horses to a low rail.

‘What about our packs and guns?' asked Simon.

Dunn gave him a keen look. ‘They're safer here than in Piccadilly Circus. I've heard what happened to the young buck who fancied your rifle back there. You're the King's guests here, so no one will touch your possessions. Come.' He gestured towards a large, low mud hut, built in rectangular European style and by far the largest dwelling to be seen.

The big man led the way and pushed open the unpainted door. The others followed and immediately began coughing as the smoke of the interior engulfed them. Dimly, they perceived a beaten earth floor, leading to simple wooden furniture grouped on woven matting at the far end of the room. The light was poor, for there were no windows, but the glow from the fire, burning despite the heat outside, picked out a number of women of uncertain age grouped around a large Zulu who reposed on a roll of matting.

He rose as they entered and Simon regarded him closely. He was as tall as Dunn - about six feet two inches - broadly built and clearly had possessed a fine athletic stature in his youth. Now, in early middle age, he had developed a large stomach, and rolls of fat followed the contours of what had once been sharply defined pectoral muscles in his chest. His legs were finely proportioned and he stood with an air of erect nonchalance, a handsome shawl thrown over one shoulder and a brightly coloured cotton cloth wound round his waist. His feet were enormous, with widely splayed toes and the gaps between almost white. The King's face was round, with wide-set eyes and a snub nose under a broad forehead, which was topped by a ring waxed firmly into his short black hair. His beard and moustache were neatly clipped short and bore no hint of grey. His expression was serene as he observed the newcomers.

Cetswayo made no movement as Dunn approached. The Natalian bowed his head and spoke quickly in low, guttural Zulu. The King raised his hand languidly and Dunn turned to Simon and Jenkins. The two intuitively took two paces forward and bowed their heads in unison. ‘Your Majesty,' said Simon.

The King regarded them with obvious interest and spoke slowly and quietly. ‘The King says that you are welcome to Ulundi,' Dunn translated, ‘as are all men who come in peace.'

‘Please thank His Majesty and tell him that we certainly come in peace,' responded Simon. ‘We have nothing but respect for him and his people. We did not expect to meet him so have no gifts worthy of his status. But . . .' Simon fumbled in the small haversack at his hip, ‘if he will accept this small and inadequate token of our respect we will be highly honoured.' And he handed Dunn his small silver hip flask.

Dunn bowed, translated and handed the flask to the King, who slowly unscrewed the cap, smelled the contents, replaced the cap and expressionlessly handed the flask to one of his women attendants.

‘You should have consulted me about that,' said Dunn evenly without taking his eyes off the King. ‘He doesn't drink much alcohol but silver is a good idea. You could have insulted him, but as it is, I think you have got away with it.'

The King spoke again and, with a small movement of hand and head, gestured for them to sit on a mat that was unrolled at their feet. A chair was brought for the King, who lowered himself into it, picked up an assegai and toyed with it as he addressed them.

‘The King would like to know,' said Dunn, ‘what you are doing in his country. As a matter of fact,' he added, his eyes twinkling, ‘so would I.'

‘Good luck, bach,' murmured Jenkins softly without moving his lips.

Simon looked the King firmly in the eye and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘We are traders,' he said. ‘We have come to your country to trade.'

Dunn's face was expressionless as he translated. Not so the King's. Immediately he frowned and spoke with animation, jabbing the assegai towards the two men in emphasis.

‘The King says,' Dunn relayed, ‘that he cannot understand how you can be traders when you come to his country without knowing it - that was clear because you seemed to be avoiding kraals but were going in no clear direction - and without knowing the language of his country. He also says that you do not look like any traders he has met before.'

Simon had not relaxed his eye contact with the King. ‘We are new to the ways of this country because we came to South Africa only two months ago,' he said. ‘We wish to set up a business trading cattle in Natal but we need stock. We heard in Cape Colony that Jantoni in Zululand had good cattle and we came to find him and buy cattle from him.'

The King considered this for a moment and then his eyes narrowed as he addressed Dunn. ‘The King wants to know why you don't want to buy cattle from the Zulu people. The King himself has the best herds in the whole of Africa.'

Simon swallowed but maintained his gaze. ‘We do not have the Zulu tongue, so we could not talk to Zulu people in their kraals. And we did not presume to think that we could buy from the King. We know he is not a trader.'

Dunn allowed one eyelid to drop. ‘Smart answer, sonny,' he said before turning back to the King.

King Cetswayo nodded at the reply but his bearing remained stiff as he sat in his wooden chair. His movements were no longer languid and he fidgeted with the assegai, one thumb constantly rubbing the edge of the blade. He was clearly disappointed in his visitors. He began speaking again.

‘If you are traders,' translated Dunn, ‘how is it that you have the very latest army rifles, the Martini-Henry. He knows that the army does not sell them.'

Simon did not hesitate. ‘We bought them in England before we set sail - directly from the manufacturer. Anybody can do that if they have the money. Please point out to the King that not everyone who has a Martini-Henry is a soldier. Jantoni has one and he is not a soldier.'

Dunn shot him a quick glance. ‘You've got nerve, I'll give you that,' he said, before relaying the answer.

Immediately, the King's expression of annoyance changed and he spoke quickly.

‘Very well,' said Dunn. ‘If you can get rifles that easily, the King is happy to trade with you. He will sell you as many cattle as you want in return for rifles. But he is anxious to tell you that these will not be used for aggressive purposes, particularly against the British, whom he regards as his brothers. He wants them to defend his people against the Boers, who are trying to take his land in the north-west.'

Simon took a deep breath and this time addressed the white man directly. ‘Mr Dunn, you know that the authorities in the Cape will not allow the trading of guns with the Zulu.' He took a calculated risk. ‘Although I believe that there have been exceptions in the past and you have been involved in them.' He saw Dunn's eyes flicker and presumed that his guess had been correct. ‘But it is something with which we could not be involved. We trade in cattle. We do not sell guns.'