Chapter 1

 

It looked like a grey, watery porridge with black seeds sprinkled over the top. I wasn’t hungry and every part of my body was in pain. It hurt to breathe and when I tried to move my left arm there was a sharp stabbing pain below the elbow, where I suspected there was a broken bone. I felt like I had been thrown down a mountain. I was cold, even though I had a blanket around my shoulders under the warm sunshine. I still was not sure what was going on or even where I was. Minutes before I had been in a dark space. I was awoken by shouting and then carried on a stretcher out into a very bright day. As my eyes adjusted to the glare, my attention was taken by two black men in front of me. They were big, powerful brutes, with oiled skin like polished ebony. Taller and darker than other Africans I had seen, they glared down at me with barely disguised contempt.

I cannot have been an impressive sight; my clothes were dirty and torn, my head throbbed and as I looked down my body, I saw that my right ankle had swollen to twice its normal size. I had just cried out in pain as a white man and a boy hoisted me up by the shoulders into a sitting position.

The lad was holding out a wooden bowl containing the porridge. “You ’ave to drink it, sir,” he encouraged. I stared at him and he seemed familiar. Dressed in little more than rags, he too was filthy and I guessed no more than twelve years old.

“But what is it?” I gasped, confused. “And where am I? What is going on?”

“This ’ere is the king’s physic,” announced the urchin, gesturing at the bowl. “Made by the king’s doctors and given only on his order. It is a great honour to ’ave it.”

“And it will make me better?” I pressed, staring suspiciously at the contents.

“God be praised it will,” announced the man at my other shoulder. I looked around and was sure I had not seen him before. Weak eyes surveyed me through small spectacles and beneath his smile, a starched white parson’s collar looked incongruous over a darned blue shirt. “Put your faith in the Lord,” he encouraged.

I groaned. The last thing I needed was an overly enthusiastic God-botherer. Turning back to the boy I repeated my question, “Will it make me better?”

The lad could have worked on his bedside manner, for he answered with alarming honesty. “No, it will probably make you worse,” he announced. “It might even kill you.”

“Then I don’t want it.” I pushed the bowl away to a growl of disapproval from the two watching Africans.

“You don’t understand, sir,” whispered the urchin. “If you refuse it, these two messengers,” he gestured to the men standing in front of me, “will tell the king, who will be insulted. He will then send his guards to get you and they will take you to the top of that hill opposite. Then they will put your head on a rock and dash out your brains with their clubs.”

“What?” I croaked, astounded. “You mean I will die if I refuse it and I might still die if I drink the damn stuff?” Fear and indignation battled their way to the front of my consciousness. Had they confused me with some vagrant who could be threatened? It was understandable, given my appearance, but before it was too late I needed to show them I was not a man to be trifled with. “Who the bloody hell is this king?” I glared angrily at his messengers and then winced in pain as I took a breath to continue, “Doesn’t he know who I am? I am a personal friend of the British governor, who will have his ruddy hide for britches if he hurts me.”

My raving was brought to an end by the urchin, who to my surprise took charge of the situation. Ordering the parson to hold my arms, he grabbed my nose, and as I gasped for air he started to tip the vile filth from the bowl down my throat. I tried to struggle and throw them off, yet found I was as weak as a kitten. My chest was in agony as the cleric pressed my arm against it. The damn brat nearly broke my nose as he held my head firmly in the crook of his arm. I tried to spit out as much as I could, but I had to swallow some.

“You’re spilling it,” warned the parson as I thrashed about between them.

“’Course I am,” grunted the urchin as he held my head steady. “He would be dead for certain if he had it all.” I remember that exchange vividly, for it was both alarming and comforting at the same time – at least they were not trying to kill me.

Eventually, the bowl was empty. As I was released and lowered back down on my stretcher, I heard the Africans shouting angrily. They were pointing to the mess down the front of my shirt. While I could not understand what they were saying, it was clear that they thought I had spilt too much. At that moment I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my stomach and I was soon doubled over in a new agony. I heard the boy arguing with the Africans in their own tongue, but I was far too distracted to pay any attention. It was like my guts were on fire. I was panting in pain – at that moment, having my brains bludgeoned out on a rock would almost have been a blessed relief.

God knows what the boy told the Africans. They went away still shouting and waving their arms in the air, while the parson kept asking the lad what was happening. “Quick, get him inside,” ordered the boy, ignoring the repeated questions. Without a moment’s delay, my stretcher was hoisted up and then I was back inside the dark hut.

“Help me,” I gasped, looking around the gloomy interior. To my surprise, I saw a white woman with her arm around a young girl, staring at me in wide-eyed horror.

“What did they say, William? What did they say?” The reverend was wringing his hands and staring out of the hut door at the retreating backs of the two Africans.

The boy who, despite his youth, I was quickly realising was the person to rely on, ignored the cleric. “Mrs Owen, could I trouble you for a cup of water with three spoonfuls of salt stirred in it?” The cup was swiftly provided while I writhed around, more confused than ever as my bowels continued to convulse. “Here,” the boy I now knew as William passed me the cup. “Drink this as quickly as you can. Your life might depend on it.” I knew that salt water would make me vomit and I wanted to get that poison out of my body as quickly as possible. I downed the cup in three gulps and then felt fresh spasms wrack my guts.

I will spare you the details of what happened over the next half an hour. Suffice to say that the wooden bowl was refilled again and then some, as I retched and heaved while crouched over it. Unable to speak, I could still listen and what I learned only added to my sense of alarm. William explained to the parson that he had told the king’s messengers that I had drunk enough of the physic that I was bound to be cured. “I agreed he would seek an audience with the king before the next full moon to personally thank him,” he continued.

“But what if he can’t?” wailed the cleric. “He has been ill with a fever these past two days.”

“He has to,” insisted the lad stubbornly, “or they will see it as proof he has rejected the physic. You know what will happen then.”

The hut was soon filled with the acrid stench of vomit, but the parson, who kept regularly peering out of the door for any sign of the king’s guards, would not let them take the full bowls outside. I learned that the king often watched the priest’s hut with a telescope from his compound at the bottom of the hill we were on. Eventually, the young girl was sent out to get a pail. My bowls were placed in the bottom and another larger one with grain set on the top. The girl was then instructed to feed the chickens the grain, with orders to leave the pail behind the hut, out of sight of the curious king. By then my guts had settled a little and while I was sure it was nothing to do with the physic, I was beginning to feel a little better.

“I know you, don’t I?” I gasped to the lad called William as I took more interest in my surroundings.

He grinned. “Yes, I found you in a hippo trap. Well, some villagers told me you were there,” he corrected himself. “But I got them to get you out and when you got ill, to bring you here.”

It was coming back to me now. A deep steep-sided pit with stakes hammered into the bottom that had done for my horse and nearly skewered me. I remembered seeing the vultures circling in the patch of sky above and hearing the bark of wild dogs that must have smelt the horse’s blood. There had been faces too, timid black ones that had peered over the edge, but ignored my pleas for help. I couldn’t stand on my ankle and had tried to hack at the mud sides with my good arm and my knife, but it was a hopeless task. I fell back twice, nearly impaling myself on a stake the second time. The vultures were getting braver, gathering at the edge of my pit, gimlet eyes in ugly bald heads surveying my pitiful efforts to escape. At night I heard the sound of other unknown animals. I sat hunched in one corner of the pit with my rifle, ready to make a last stand against tearing claws and teeth. I must have been there close to two days before William’s face appeared over the edge of the pit. Ropes and poles had been produced then and soon I was being hauled out, screaming in agony as my ankle was knocked against the side. I was taken to a small native village, but that was the last thing I clearly remembered before this rude awakening.

“How did you get in the pit?” asked William.

I wracked my disordered wits to think. “I was hunting with the Dutch, the Boers. They had found some elephants and wanted the ivory.” Fragments of memory came back; the Boers laughing at me when I suggested capturing one to put to harness. I told them that one elephant could do the work of a dozen oxen and how I had seen them used in India. They had mocked the idea and ridden off while I had hung back. I did not want to take part in the hunt. I recalled the elephant I had ridden from Madras and how its mahout had left the animal in charge of his infant son. I was just recalling the gentle intelligence of the creature when there was the sound of splintering wood from the trees nearby. Smashing its way into view was a massive elephant, twice the size of any I had known in India. Seeing me, it raised its mighty tusks in a challenge, its huge ears flapping and making it look even bigger. Man and mount were frozen in shock and awe at the creature’s appearance. Then it raised its trunk and trumpeted its call louder than any angel. My horse did not wait to feel my heels; its ears were back and we were racing, not that I was trying to slow it down. We were hurtling down a shallow slope towards a distant river, the elephant briefly in pursuit. As the huge creature turned back towards the stand of trees it had emerged from, I was just thinking of hauling the horse up when the ground literally disappeared from under us.

“You said you knew the governor?” The parson interrupted my train of thought.

“Yes, I am only in this damn country because he invited us… Oh hell, Louisa. She will probably think I am dead.” God knew how long ago it was when I fell in that pit, but the Boers would have searched for me and then gone back to their camp to tell Louisa I was missing. Would she think that my luck had finally run out? I doubted it. If I knew my girl, she would have bands of them out searching again where I was last seen. She would not give up until they found a body. “I need to get back.” I winced as pain in my chest reminded me that I was in no state to travel, “or at least get a message to the Boers to let them know where I am.” I frowned and added, “Er, where the hell am I?”

“You are in Umgungundlovu,” the cleric informed me. “It is the capital of the Zulu nation.” He stiffened slightly with pride as he added, “I am the Reverend Francis Owen and this is my mission station. We are newly arrived here to convert the Zulus to Christianity. The governor was kind enough to agree to be president of my mission.”

“Zulus,” I whispered with a growing sense of horror. I had heard a lot about this people and their king just recently and very little of it was good. A greater urge to get far away from this hut built within me, restrained only by my continued shivering and a variety of throbbing pains. “Can you get a message to the Boers for me? I need to reassure my wife I am still alive. Then I am going to need a cart or a horse to get me back to Port Natal, but not for a day or two.”

“The king regularly sends messages to Port Natal and the Boers,” Owen gave me what he probably hoped was a reassuring smile. “I write most of them and I can easily add in a message for your wife. But the Zulus do not have any horses, you would need to travel by ox cart.”

“And you cannot leave until you have seen the king,” added William. “You need his permission to go and he will want to see that his physic has worked.”

Even the mention of that vile potion made me feel ill again. I lay back on the cot they had put me on to rest. I shut my eyes, but sleep would not come. My mind was too busy piecing things together. Louisa and I had come to South Africa at the invitation of its governor, General Sir Benjamin D’Urban. He and I had been comrades fighting in Spain over twenty years earlier and had remained friends thereafter. Readers of my previous memoirs will know that he invited us while we were in the United States, avoiding some legal troubles at home. It had taken a year to get here, not least because my former business partner in New York had developed a taste for gunrunning. As a result, we had been briefly involved with that fanatic Garibaldi and his Ragamuffin War in Brazil.

When we had finally arrived in Cape Town, the colony was in a state of great unrest. Colonists were complaining bitterly that the government gave them no protection against raids by the Xhosa people. The Xhosa had recently rampaged through the eastern half of the territory, killing hundreds, burning farms and stealing livestock. Another old peninsular comrade, Colonel Harry Smith, had helped D’Urban drive them back. They had captured a large tract of land between two rivers, driving the Xhosa further north. D’Urban had planned to populate this with tribes the Xhosa incursions had displaced, who were friendly to the British. This would have created a defensive area between the settlers and the Xhosa and helped ensure peace, but he had been stopped by the missionaries. Those hand-wringing liberals had written to London with tales of British oppression of the noble savage. The London Missionary Society had also been in full cry in the press. As a result, the politicians had taken fright and ordered D’Urban to hand back the captured land to the Xhosa. When we arrived, he had just learned that he was also to be replaced as governor. To say he was furious about the actions of the colonial secretary in London would be something of an understatement.

“They have no idea what they are doing!” he had raged. “It will be war again for certain, that is if the colony does not fall apart first.” He explained that the Boers were so frustrated at the lack of protection from Xhosa raids on their farms, that they were resolved to move out of the colony entirely. They had sent expeditions to lands northeast and north of the colony looking for new territory to settle, where they would protect themselves without British interference. D’Urban had wanted the Boers to stay. He told me that they were brave, industrious people and a mainstay to the welfare and economy of the colony. “Their mounted patrols were vital in repelling the Xhosa incursion the last time,” he had said. “Without them we will need more troops from Britain, or we could be pushed into the sea.”

I confess that I did not care a fig for D’Urban’s problems at the time and paid little attention. I just planned to stay for a month or two and then I vowed we would never darken that shore again. Louisa and I enjoyed a pleasant few weeks touring the country, with various trips organised by the governor and his staff. We saw the strange flightless black and white birds that live in the sea. Then we went touring inland with a guide and an escort of Khoi-khoi soldiers, who are the tribe local to the Cape Town area. We saw bison, cheetahs, ostriches, wild dogs and various other creatures. I was not sorry that we failed to encounter lions. On our return to the governor I was ready to go home and asked D’Urban about getting passage on a ship to Britain. That was when he asked his favour.

He explained that a while back he had been visited by a former naval captain called Gardiner, who lived in a region northeast of the colony called Natal. This man informed him that the local tribe had gifted to Britain a vast tract of land. Furthermore, the British citizens living in the main port in Natal, had just renamed their town as D’Urban in his honour. The governor had never been there and was far too engrossed in local politics to leave Cape Town then. He asked if Louisa and I could visit this town of D’Urban as his special emissaries, to thank its citizens for this singular honour. It was a hard request to refuse, especially given his hospitality. Yet no sooner had we agreed, than he was telling us that this Natal land was also of interest to the Boers. He wanted us to take a private message to their leaders, reassuring them of his personal support and encouraging them to settle back within the colony. It did not seem an onerous task: giving a couple of speeches of thanks, perhaps attending a civic dinner and then delivering D’Urban’s letter to the Boers. How wrong I was!

The first thing we discovered on reaching the port, was that hardly anyone there knew about the change in name. Most still called the place Port Natal. It was a miserable fly-blown settlement with fewer than fifty Europeans in it. There was a general store, two lodging houses and a handful of shacks along what was grandly referred to as Main Street. It would have flattered the place to be named after D’Urban’s dog, never mind the man himself. It was obvious that Captain Gardiner had vastly oversold the importance of the town when speaking with the governor. No one was surprised at this news and I soon learned that Gardiner was a slippery devil, who no one liked or trusted.

It was then that I first heard details of the powerful African people who were their near neighbours. The Zulus had been growing their territory, pushing the Xhosa people south so that they came into conflict with the British. Gardiner had been one of the few people in Port Natal to visit the Zulu king, who had a ruthless reputation. In exchange for giving Gardiner the grant of land, he had demanded a treaty whereby the citizens of Port Natal return any Zulu fugitives who sought shelter there. A number of Zulus had fled the king’s justice to the town and this treaty did not sit comfortably with the white settlers. They were more resentful when Gardiner insisted that the land grant was for him personally. He pointed out to the people of the port that they really did not have a choice but to agree to the treaty. If they were to anger the king by refusing, then they risked the vast Zulu army razing their community to the ground.

Soon afterwards, a demand for the return of the first fugitives was made and reluctantly, they were handed over. Then came more requests, not just for the accused, but also their wives and families. They were all put to death. When Gardiner tried to intervene for one group and got an assurance from the king that they would not be executed, the poor devils were just starved to death instead. It was a most unsavoury business. I was glad that Gardiner was not in town when I arrived as I wanted no part of it. Instead, I asked for directions to the Boer encampments. I was pleased to see that these were to the south of the territory, while the Zulu capital and its king were northwest of Port Natal.

My reverie in the vicar’s hut was interrupted by the sound of a woman screaming nearby. Somebody with a drum was trying to drown out the noise, but it was a shrill shriek of terror that sent a chill down my spine.

“Don’t worry, we will pray for her,” the woman I now knew as Mrs Owen murmured, hurrying her young daughter back into the hut. Together, they knelt in front of a small cross on a table on the other side of the room.

“What on earth is going on?” I demanded above the continued screeching.

“It is nothing to worry about,” replied Mrs Owen, looking at me over her shoulder and then glancing down meaningfully at the still bowed head of her daughter.

Sitting up, I found that a roughly made crutch had been left by the side of my cot. The drumming was coming closer. If some new horror was approaching, I wanted to see what it was. With difficulty I managed to stand, keeping my injured ankle off the ground. The room span for a while as I got vertical, but settled after a few moments until I had my balance well enough to hobble outside. Once again I blinked in the sunlight, but unlike before when I was lying on a stretcher, this time I was able to take more notice of my surroundings. Owen’s hut and several other buildings were on top of a hill. Below us to my right was what I took to be the Zulu capital. It was a huge place that must have been the home to several thousand people. It was surrounded by a high rampart of cut thorn bush and cattle pens. Inside were concentric rings of tightly packed, dome-shaped huts. Another ring of thorn bushes encircled the centre of this hive of humanity that I guessed was the palace of the king. I only gave the place a cursory glance before looking to my left at the source of the commotion. A woman was being dragged up the opposite hill. There was a band of warriors about her, along with the man beating the drum. The group was nearing the top and still the woman continued her screeching. Owen was nearby, down on his knees, holding the crucifix around his neck and muttering a prayer.

“What on earth is going on?” I repeated my question.

“That poor wretch is to be executed,” called out the cleric over the din. I stared across the valley at the group climbing up the slope. It was a strange hill, its top covered with something white like snow around a black rock at its summit. Then as two vultures flew off at the approach of the execution party, I realised what the ‘snow’ really was.

“My God, they are bones, that hill is covered with bones.” I was astounded. There must have been the remains of hundreds of people on that hillside, all picked clean by animals and then bleached in the sun.

Owen frowned, probably at my taking the Lord’s name in vain, although given the sight before me, a plea to the Almighty seemed entirely justified. “They hold life cheaply here, Mr Flashman,” he replied. “I am praying for her, but these people do not understand that they have souls. They cannot be saved and go to heaven. They are damned by their ignorance of the Lord.”

There was a struggle at the hilltop as the condemned prisoner fought desperately against her captors, who were trying to prostrate her across the flat top of the black rock. “I doubt theology is her prime concern at the moment,” I muttered. “Do we know what she is accused of?”

“It is witchcraft.” I turned and saw William walking around the hut. He grinned and added, “You found the crutch, then. Best practise with it as we will need to see the king soon.” Compared to the frightened girl inside the hut, this young boy was remarkably unconcerned about the view. I could not help but wonder at what horrors he had already witnessed.

“Witchcraft,” I repeated, feeling as though I had gone back in time two hundred years. “What has she done?”

“An old man claimed she stopped his favourite hen laying eggs,” William explained. “The king commanded her to lift the spell, but she couldn’t. The hen had probably just got old.” As he spoke an awful crack sounded from the opposite hill and the screaming abruptly stopped. There was a second of horrible silence and then the drumming restarted, this time accompanied by chanting, as the guards started to make their way back down the slope.

I turned back to Owen, who was still down on his knees and crossing himself as he finished his prayer. Such Christian piety in the face of the savagery opposite seemed absurd. “What on earth possessed you to bring your wife and child to this godforsaken kingdom?” I demanded.

He got to his feet brushing the earth from his knees and looked slightly embarrassed. “I was a rector in Normanton, Yorkshire when I went to a lecture given by Captain Gardiner. He talked about his travels in Africa. Then he asked for someone to help him bring the Zulu people to the embrace of the lamb of God.”

My dislike of Gardiner grew. He had evidently fooled this poor sap into abandoning his safe English life and entering the lion’s den. “I take it Gardiner does not live near the capital, then?” I probed.

“Oh no, he lives near the coast, but he has been very good to me,” assured Owen. “He has not visited for a while now, but he sends letters and he organised this hut for me with the king.” At this Mrs Owen stepped out from their abode and from the look she gave her husband, I suspected that I was not the only one with misgivings over the benevolence of the good captain.

“So how goes the embracing of the lamb of God?” I asked. I suspected I knew the answer to that one. There was no sign of a church, or one being built. Just a few huts isolated on a bare hilltop opposite the execution site, which already had an alert vulture circling overhead.

“Well I confess that it has been much harder than I expected,” admitted Owen. “I have tried to teach them about good and evil, but they question everything. Their way of life is so different to ours. There is another mission run by two American preachers, but they are not making much progress either.” He went on to describe their journey to Natal. Instead of travelling by ship, the former naval man Gardiner had recommended coming overland from Cape Town. The trip had been a series of disasters: wagons had overturned and been smashed; others had been lost fording rivers and those left had repeatedly got stuck in bogs or up mountains, requiring whole teams of men and animals to pull and dig them free. Many of their remaining possessions had been stolen by curious natives. Their guides also relieved them of valuables before abandoning them to find their own way. It was a miracle that they had made it to the capital at all, and on their arrival they were not to get a warm welcome from their new host. The king had been deeply suspicious of the Christian messages that Owen preached. He challenged the parson on nearly every point and kept a remarkably close eye on what he was doing.

If they had not had the good fortune to come across young William Wood, then I suspect that the Owens would have been broken with despair. The lad had grown up in Port Natal and had an ear for languages, learning Zulu from the children of those who had fled from the capital. When the king learned that there was a white boy who spoke his tongue, William was invited to be one of his interpreters. His parents had little choice but to accept if they wanted to stay in Natal.

I liked young William, there was a natural street cunning to him. It was just as well, for soon, our lives were all going to depend on him.