Chapter 3

 

Standing in front of a small mirror that Mrs Owen held for me, I had to admit that I looked quite respectable. More importantly, I appeared to have made a full recovery. William had explained that I must look as healthy as possible so that the king could be assured that his physic had worked. If I was still ill, he would be insulted. Ironically, he might then have me executed or given another dose of his medicine, which would likely have the same result.

Fortunately, the fever had now completely subsided. Mrs Owen had re-splinted my arm, ensuring that the bandages did not show beneath the cuff of one of her husband’s shirts that I now wore. This also hid the bandaging around my ribs. My ankle was still a little swollen, but much better than it had been. I had rested it as much as I could and now walked with a stick rather than a crutch. I was fortunate it was not on the same side as my injured arm. Mrs Hulley had lent me a pair of her husband’s boots as his feet were bigger than mine, so I could at least walk comfortably. Mr Hulley was now on his way to Port Natal with a message summoning Gardiner to Umgungundlovu. The king was accusing him of breaching their agreement by providing refuge to some of Isiguabani’s people. I was eagerly awaiting his arrival, relishing the chance to meet the villain whose lies and deceits had landed me in this mess.

As I looked at myself, I ran my hand over my newly shaved chin, courtesy of Owen’s razor, and had to concede that I was as ready as I could be to meet Dingane. Not that the prospect filled me with joy, indeed as the time approached, I felt increasing trepidation. William and Owen had used the days since that first meal to advise on how I should behave when meeting the king. I had to look grateful when I was thanking him for saving my life. It was my appearance that was important, the words did not matter, for William would take care of that. He would also apologise on my behalf for entering the king’s lands without permission. I had to appear contrite then, but not timid, for the king despised weakness. Most importantly, I was not to look the king in the eye or appear to challenge him in any way. I was to remember that I was a humble East India Company clerk and not a proud English gentleman.

Well, I have played a few parts in my time and this one did not seem too much of a challenge. I had spent time in India and could add detail from there if required. I had even lived there for a while disguised as an Indian cavalry trooper. Compared to that, this deception looked to be a breeze. Yet if ever I felt overconfident, I would be brought back down to earth most afternoons, when the beating of a drum heralded a fresh tragic procession up the hill opposite. The children would be ushered out of sight, but I found a horrible fascination in watching proceedings, and I stood with Owen as he kneeled in fervent prayer. The hill was several hundred yards away and so mercifully we could not see the features of the poor devils dragged up it. Sometimes I could not help but imagine myself on that hideous track, which was a very real possibility if I did not play my cards right. As a man who has faced death more times than I care to remember, I know that I would be kicking and screaming every step of the way. The majority we saw behaved in exactly that manner and I did not blame them. Yet on the day before I met the king, we saw something different. It was a man and a woman. This time as the drum banged, we watched as the couple walked quietly between the soldiers up the hill. The condemned had their heads down, resigned to their fate. The only resistance they showed was when they tried to hold hands and the soldiers pulled them apart. They had a resolute dignity that I knew I could never match in those circumstances. For a hoary old cynic like me to be moved takes something, but I felt a lump in my throat as I watched them. Their silence made the subsequent cracks of club on skull even more awful. While my ankle precluded me from falling to my knees, for once I did join Owen in a silent prayer. We sent young Woods to make enquiries as to their crime. It turned out that they had committed adultery. The couple had certainly paid a terrible price for their love.

I had a bad dream that night and desperately hoped it was not a premonition. In it, Louisa had come to the Zulu capital to rescue me and been captured. My lies had been revealed and we had both been sentenced to death like the couple the previous day. I woke up sweating in the darkened hut and could not get back to sleep. I just lay there listening to the gentle snores of the Owens, the gnaw of rats and the howl of dogs on the opposite hill. It was not the best preparation for an encounter on which my life depended.

The following morning I was reminded again how resourceful young William was. I had expected to have to gingerly walk down the path to the capital. That was only half a mile away, but afterwards I would have to walk at least that distance again to get into the king’s palace at its centre. I feared I would be limping badly by then. Instead, William led me down the slope away from the city and there I found an ox with a blanket over its back.

“The king watches us through his telescope,” the boy explained, pointing to a trail at the bottom of the hill. “He won’t be able to see us take this path.” I had never ridden cattle before, but the beast took me slowly and steadily down the hill and then along a track towards the capital without my ankle hurting at all. Owen explained that the Zulus had heard about how the Boers had used horses to defeat the Matabele people. While the Zulus had no horses, they had plenty of cattle and had been trying to train them for war. The beasts might have horns, but I doubted that they would charge the guns of an enemy. All the same, I was grateful that they had trained my beast for a rider.

As we descended the slope, I felt a growing sense of apprehension. I would have preferred to avoid meeting the king at all, but that was impossible. I was already committed to thank him for my recovery and if I ever wanted to leave this brutal land, I would need his permission for that too. Having regaled my companions with tales of my military valour, I tried to look unconcerned at my imminent audience with royalty. In contrast, Owen did not bother to hide his own anxiety. As he knew Dingane well, this did not help calm my nerves.

“Much will depend on what mood he is in,” he warned. “He can change from good humour to dark suspicion in the blink of an eye and often on the slightest cause.” He admitted that every time they met, Dingane would question him on Christian tenets and the cleric never felt he got the better of the encounter. “He refuses to believe our Lord’s resurrection,” Owen complained. “I explained to him about the crucifixion and how a Roman soldier speared Jesus’ body, but Dingane insisted that meant nothing. The king boasted he knew several people who had lived for three days and more after being speared in the chest.”

As we rounded a bend, I got my first close-up view of Umgungundlovu. From the hilltop I had been able to study its layout, with its concentric rings of thick hedges, cattle pens and huts around the king’s enclosure, called a kraal, at its heart. Close to, I could see that the hedges were thick, high thorn bush ramparts. They would make a formidable obstacle to any invader. There were the sights, sounds and smells of a city too. A group of women were chanting some song as they washed clothes in the river while their children played nearby. I could hear the distant clang of a smith working metal, while my nostrils were assailed by cooking smoke, the stench of latrines and more than a whiff of cow dung. Most of the people we saw were old men, women and children; the army was elsewhere apart from a few soldiers guarding the palace’s main entrance. They paid little attention to us. Owen and William were clearly well known to them. Even another Englishman riding on the back of several hundred pounds of old beef was of little interest. William kept them at their ease, exchanging a few words with the sentries in their strange tongue. The lad then pointed at me and said something which made them laugh, before they waved us into the city.

“I told them that you think Zulu cattle are so comfortable, you want to ride one all the way to the sea,” he said quietly, as he led us down a street with towering thorn bushes on either side. Through gaps I could see into the side streets, tightly packed with round huts. The place was filled with a sea of humanity. “You will have to get off that steer at the entrance to the royal kraal,” William warned. “The king will want to see you walking.” The boy tried to give me a smile of encouragement, but even he looked tense. I was all too aware of the responsibility on his young shoulders. All I had to do was look sufficiently grateful. It was William who had to listen to the king’s questions and judge what answers would keep us safe. One mistake and this capricious monarch could order our imprisonment – or worse.

As we got closer to the centre of this metropolis, we found more soldiers. These were tougher veterans than those on the outer gates and there were more of them guarding each entrance we passed. They glared at us with suspicion if not outright hostility. It was not hard to imagine them dragging us pitilessly up the execution hill. Even Owen, who had chatted nervously all the way down from his hilltop, now fell silent under their gaze. I too felt increasingly uncomfortable riding my steer. Perhaps I imagined the looks of contempt on those hard faces, but I doubted it. I was glad when an old man stepped forward to grab the animal’s rope bridle and William indicated that I should dismount. He handed me my cane and as half a dozen warriors closed in about us, we progressed into the royal compound itself.

The inner wall was thickly lined with yet more huts, but staring ahead we could see a large clearing and beyond that, several much grander dwellings.

“Those are the king’s huts,” whispered Owen as we progressed through the last of the smaller buildings. “He holds his entertainments in this space in front.”

Finally, we stepped into the courtyard and I looked about. It was a large round area, with plenty of room for whatever ‘entertainments’ the king enjoyed. I estimated that you could fit the Drury Lane Theatre in there with room to spare. We were halfway across when a growl from the guards indicated that we should stop. No one went ahead to announce us, but I suspected that a runner had taken news of our arrival long before. As Owen twitched apprehensively, I forced myself to at least look relaxed. Kings, whatever their hue, like to keep the commoners waiting. It reinforces their sense of power. I well remembered waiting nearly a day with Marshal Ney for an audience with Louis XVIII. From what I had been told of how suspicious this king was, I strongly suspected that he would be studying us from somewhere before he appeared. I resolved to play my part from the outset. The kind of man who sauntered hundreds of miles into Africa to visit a cousin, would not be intimidated now. I strolled around the small square of space allowed by our guards and whistled a jaunty tune. The nearest sentinel growled his disapproval, but I responded with a cheery smile and, “Good morning to you too, my fine fellow.”

I studied the brute with interest. He was taller and broader than I and there was not an ounce of fat on him either. In his left hand he held a large wood-framed ox-hide shield and two long spears. In his right was a much shorter spear, with a thicker shaft like a sword hilt and a long, broad metal point. The hide on the shield was pure white and glancing at the other guards I saw theirs was the same. “Look, Francis,” I called. “They have two kinds of spear.” Owen was appalled as I reached out to try and examine the shorter weapon, only for the guard to bark something at me and push me back into the centre of our space.

“Best leave them alone, sir,” warned William. “The long ones are for throwing and the short ones are for stabbing,” he explained. Then the lad turned to the guard and began apologising for any offence I had caused. The man appeared slightly mollified and even answered a question that William asked as he pointed to the stabbing spear.

“The shorter one is called an iklwa, sir.” The boy grinned as he added, “He says it is named after the sound it makes when it is pulled out of your innards.”

“Oh dear God,” murmured Owen, going pale. “Please, Mr Flashman, do not antagonise them any more.”

“Call me Thomas, I am your cousin, remember.” I could feel my heart beating in my chest but I forced myself to laugh, and felt my ribs protest at the movement. The chuckle sounded as false as a politician’s promise, yet I beamed at William and asked, “What do they call the long ones?”

“They are assegais. All the tribes have those, but only the Zulus have the iklwa. They were introduced by King Shaka to help him conquer new lands.” Any further discussion was interrupted by the appearance of a group of men coming out of the entrance of the largest hut. I did not need Owen and young William bowing to tell me that Dingane was among them. I dropped down into a hasty bow myself before studying the man leading the group. He was huge, perhaps a foot taller than most of the other warriors we had seen. The broad shoulders and the chest we could see under a blanket toga were heavily muscled, although he had run to fat a little around the belly. He was around forty years old, his hair having a hint of grey to the temples, but most importantly he was smiling. I had been fearing some mercurial encounter, but he genially invited us to join him on some stools outside the royal residence.

As we sat down, the rest of his entourage took their places standing behind him. Most were older and must have been some of his advisors. One was muttering incantations and waving what looked to be a human bone in front of him. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw that our guards now stood impassively in a line behind us, shield and spears in their hands. They did not make me feel any more comfortable.

The king beamed at us and opened his arms expansively as his deep voice boomed what I thought must be some greeting. Then he pointed at me and gestured for me to stand again.

We were on low stools, but I left my cane lying on the ground. I fixed a grin on my features and gritted my teeth to hide a sharp twinge of pain that shot up from my ankle as I launched myself up. “Tell His Majesty,” I instructed William, “that I am most grateful for his physic, which has affected a full recovery. Tell him that I am deeply honoured by his hospitality, but now I would like to leave his kingdom and return home. I will be sure to tell all I meet that he is a most gracious and generous ruler.”

William started to pass on my message in the strange Zulu tongue. I could not understand a word of their language, but beamed back like the grateful fool I was supposed to be. Dingane watched me closely, his dark eyes glittering with interest. He gestured for me to resume my seat and as I did so I forced my wounded arm to rest on my lap in a more natural pose. Then I heard the king’s rumbling tones again.

“The king wants to know,” translated William, “what you were doing on his lands.”

This was the question that we had expected and rehearsed for. I did not need to give William my answer for the boy knew it by heart, yet Dingane would expect me to say something. “Tell him that I am on my way from India,” I proclaimed pointing to the east, “returning to England.” I moved my arm north in the direction of home and then clapped a hand on Owen’s shoulder, which caused the man to jump slightly in alarm. “As my ship stopped in Port Natal, I thought I would take the opportunity to visit my cousin here, who I have not seen in many years, but who has often written to me praising Your Majesty.”

“I will not say that last bit,” warned William. “The king makes Owen read his letters and so he would know it is untrue.” The lad then gave my explanation to the king, who continued to study me closely.

“He wants to know how you got hurt,” the boy asked after another booming royal retort. Keeping as close to the truth as possible, we explained that while riding to see Owen my horse had been startled by an elephant and had fallen into the trap. The king nodded; I suspected that he already knew much of the answer from his own spies.

“He wants to know if it was a bull or a cow elephant,” pressed William. “The bulls are more likely to charge,” he added.

“Tell him I confess that I did not stop long enough to look,” I answered. “If it will make him happy, you can say that the elephants in his lands are much bigger than those in India. Now has he confirmed I can leave?”

A look of wry amusement crossed the king’s features as he listened to the young translator. His gaze flickered between Owen’s anxious expression and my own. I strongly suspected that he did not believe more than half of what he was told. He was still smiling though. Perhaps he thought me a too amiable fool to be a threat, for he slapped his knee and then pointed to Owen as he answered. “He says,” announced William, “that having come all this way, you surely do not want to leave your cousin so soon. He will talk about you leaving another day. He also wants to know if you are a missionary too.”

By chance I had played the part of a missionary some ten years before on the west coast of Africa. “Tell him no. I tried it once for a day and things did not go well.” I smiled at the memory, which had seen me turn a devout Christian settlement into a den of debauchery within a few hours. “I am just a humble clerk for the East India Company,” I lied, thinking that would sound far less of a threat than the truth.

William looked thoughtful for a moment and then started to translate. Whatever he said was considerably shorter than my message and it made the king laugh. To my relief he then turned his attention to Owen. “The king says he saw you praying for the witch a few days ago,” William informed the cleric, nodding to the brass telescope that I now noticed on a stand near the corner of the king’s hut. “He wants to know why you would pray to the Christian God for a witch.”

“I pray for the salvation of all, that they may know God’s grace,” intoned Owen. He must have thought that was a safe answer, but he still looked guarded under the king’s close inspection.

William frowned for a moment as he decided how to translate such piety into Zulu and then passed a version of the message on. The king’s eyes narrowed in suspicion on hearing the answer and he immediately asked another question. “The king wants to know if you disapprove of the killing of witches.” The boy licked his lips nervously and added, “Be careful, sir, he will not want his decisions challenged.”

Owen nodded in acknowledgement. “Tell the king that I would not presume to question his judgement. I know nothing of the trial.”

Dingane looked only slightly assuaged by the answer and probed again. William asked, “He wants to know how Christians punish witches.”

The cleric paused in thought. Perhaps he did not want to admit that until a hundred and fifty years before we burned them at the stake. Giving this king a new means of execution was probably not a good idea. Eventually, he announced, “Tell him that we leave it to God to decide if they are a witch. If they walk with the Devil then they will surely go to hell, but if they have a Christian soul then they will be saved and go to heaven.”

Dingane was most dissatisfied with this answer and angrily replied at some length through William. “He says that witches must be punished or they will continue to cast spells.” The lad paused as the king continued his tirade and then went on. “He asks if you leave God to judge murderers or cattle thieves? I think he knows we don’t, as a man was hanged in Port Natal for murder last year. He wants to know what is so special about witches that they alone are judged by God.”

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Owen wrung his hands together in anguish as he searched his memory of the scriptures for an explanation that would serve. “What do you think, Mr Flashman? We can hardly admit that we do not believe in witchcraft or he will be most offended.”

I could not think of a good answer either, but before I could reply, young William brightened and announced, “I have it. A powerful witch could make another person look guilty by casting a spell on them. Only God will be able to see their true heart.”

“Excellent,” agreed Owen beaming with delight and not a little relief. “Judge not, that ye be not judged, Matthew Chapter 7, yes indeed.”

William quickly passed on his own answer to the question and the furrow in the king’s brow lifted, to be replaced by another look of amusement. He had been watching our discussion closely. He must have realised that Owen had been stumped by his enquiry and the answer had been thought up by the interpreter. He laughed and said something to the boy which brought a smile in return. The king was clearly pleased at being able to outwit a missionary on a religious point. He glanced up at Owen’s cluster of huts on the hillside and asked another question, translated by William.

“Do many of my people come for your Christian teaching?” the king enquired.

Owen admitted that since he had run out of gifts for his congregation, the numbers attending his services had dropped off considerably. The king grinned, I suspected that he already knew this from the use of his telescope. To my surprise he announced he would send more parishioners. He would command some boys to attend, he told Owen, as boys learn things quicker than men. The cleric beamed in delight, or perhaps it was relief, as the king was standing to signal an end to the encounter. As I picked up my cane to get back on my feet, the king turned his attention back to me and frowned. He spoke sharply to William, who suddenly looked worried as he translated for me. “The king says that if his physic had worked properly, you would not need that stick. He questions whether you are truly healed.”

In a matter of seconds his cheery bonhomie had been replaced by a dark, brooding suspicion. The guards, sensing the changing mood, took a step forward, ready to seize us if ordered. I stared back at the king with dismay. He returned my inspection with a cool look of appraisal, a smirk twitching around his lips. The villain was no fool. He must have known the lethal potency of his physic and I am sure he was enjoying watching a white man realise that he had no power or influence in this palace. Several of his advisors were grinning at seeing a European humbled. Dingane glanced at them and was clearly enjoying playing to this gallery to demonstrate his power.

As Owen started to feverishly mutter some prayer beside me, I remembered all too well my last time in the court of an African king. The Ashanti had no fear of the British either and for good reason – they nearly swept us into the sea. The only British the Zulu knew were those living around Port Natal. Those settlers had no defence against a Zulu army. To object would likely see me poisoned to death. Even if I survived, I doubted that D’Urban would thank me for having the town he thought named after him razed to the ground by a new enemy.

There was nothing for it but to grit my teeth, smile graciously at the spiteful swine and let the cane drop from my fingers. “Tell His Majesty that a cane is an item of fashion where I come from, but I will happily stop using it, for I am quite recovered.” As William passed on my reply, I gave a gracious bow to prove the point, ignoring the pain from waving my injured arm and the pressure on my ribs. As I rose, I glanced back at the king, who was still staring at me impassively. Too late I realised that I was looking him in the eye, something that William had warned me not to do. This man, who had stabbed his own brother in the back, returned my inspection impassively as he decided whether I should live or die. I felt a trickle of sweat run down my back and was reminded of tales of Roman gladiators waiting for the emperor to decide their fate. I was sure that he had seen through my tale of being cured and he must have doubted that I was Owen’s cousin. With one gesture to his guards, in a moment I could be dragged up the hill to have my brains dashed out. The thought of those vultures tearing into my flesh gave me an involuntary shudder and perhaps that saved me, for the king suddenly smiled again. I think he sensed my fear. This despot ruled through intimidation and the fact that I was frightened of him must have given him comfort that I was not a threat. He might not know who I truly was, but he was sufficiently curious to let me live… for now.