The Soldier's Son

Chapter 1-1

Jama halted and raised a hand. Obediently his small amabutho – regiment 1 - the Abanonya, stopped, crouched down and rested on the rustling grass of Zululand. Each man held an oval shield of stiffened cowhide, three foot six inches tall and two feet wide. The shields shared a pattern, with a black fringe around a white interior containing two black smudges. The warriors also held the iKlwa, the short stabbing spear the great King Shaka had introduced. With a shaft thirty inches long and an eighteen-inch long, one-and-a-half-inch wide blade, the iKlwa was lethal in the hands of a trained warrior, and each of Jama’s men had been highly trained since youth.

amabutho – iKlwa,iKlwa As well as the stabbing iKlwa, the warriors held one or more throwing assegais- spears- and some carried knobkerries, heavy club-like weapons with a long shaft and a heavy knob used for braining the opponent. Only one carried a firearm, an ancient Brown Bess musket that had travelled a long way since its original owner, a British soldier, deserted from his regiment some forty years before.

iKlwa“There is the king’s imuzi – his homestead,” Jama announced to his men.

imuzi Jama’s amabutho, a mere hundred and twenty strong, looked and nodded solemnly. They were familiar with King Cetshswayo’s royal imuzi of oNdini but paused to admire the spectacle before advancing.

amabutho,imuzioNdini, which the white people called Ulundi, was vast, far more extensive than the imuzi where they lived. Sitting on the quiet slopes easing from the valley of the White Umfolozi River, it was composed of thousands of izindlu – the local grass-built houses - behind a vast thornbush barrier, with an inner hedge enclosing a huge open space for cattle or ceremonies.

imuzi izindlu – When he was satisfied his men had looked their fill, Jama led them down the slope to oNdini. He listened to the disciplined tramp of hard feet behind him and fought to contain his pride. These were his men, his warriors he was taking to meet Cetshwayo.

oNdini’s gate was open, and the royal amabuthos of the Undi Corps lined the interior. Jama recognised each regiment by their shields, regalia, and the age of the warriors. He saw the uThulwane, 1,500 strong, and each man forty-four years old. He saw the Nkonkone, five hundred strong and two years younger than the uThulwane, with each man staring at his tiny amabutho. The Ndhlondhlo were there; the same age as the Nkonkone, they looked an impatient bunch of veterans. Beside them were the much younger inDluyengwe and finally the twenty-three-year-old inGobamakhosi, six thousand warriors all yearning for a chance to prove themselves in battle.

amabuthosamabuthoJama studied each amabutho, comparing them to his Abanonya. The youngest regiments had all-black shields, and the most experienced carried all-white. Most regiments were in between, while mixed or married amabuthos carried red shields. Every warrior wore the umuTsha, a cord around the waist, with lengths of fur dangling in front and cowhide at the back. More senior regiments also wore extra fur and hide attached to the umuTsha. Decorative furs, feathers and hides augmented each warrior’s basic clothing, each piece proudly worn, men proclaiming their allegiance and regiment.

amabuthoamabuthos umuTsha,umuTshaJama glanced back at his warriors as they trotted past the assembled Undi corps. They looked splendid with their leopard skin headbands, red cow tail necklaces and feathers that rustled beneath the knees. Each man of the Abanonya held himself proudly erect, ignored the jeers of their rival regiments and took their place in the assembly. Jama’s oldest friend Ndleleni stood in the centre, with his necklace of umzimbeet seeds proving his bravery. Cetshwayo had granted Ndleleni the honour of wearing that badge of honour after the battle of Ndondakusuka over twenty years before.

umzimbeetAfter a few moments, Cetshwayo emerged from his izindlu; tall, broad-chested, and handsome with a neat beard, the king possessed the bearing of royalty and the powerful thighs common to his family. Every warrior in oNdini raised their spear and shouted the royal salute.

izindlu“Bayete! Bayete!”

Bayete! Bayete!”Jama shouted with the rest, proud to be in the same imuzi as Cetshwayo, a descendant of Shaka, who was, in turn, a descendant of Zulu, the progenitor of the nation. As the name Zulu meant heaven, and all the clans and sub-clans within the Zulu empire adopted his name, they became the Children of Heaven.

imuziKing Cetshwayo was a proud man in a difficult situation. His kingdom bordered the Boers of the Transvaal on the northwest and the British colony of Natal on the southwest. To the north was Swaziland, while the Indian Ocean washed the western shore. Trouble could erupt across any of his borders.

“Bayete!” the warriors roared the royal salute. “Bayete!”

BayeteBayete!”Cetshwayo knew his warriors wanted the opportunity to fight and were supremely confident of their ability to win against any enemy, yet the king did not want a war. His men carried assegais and shields, frighteningly lethal weapons at close quarters, but both British and Boers had firearms and fought at a distance. To defeat either, the Zulu warriors would have to endure concentrated rifle fire.

“Bayete!” the warriors shouted in a full-throated chorus. “Bayete!”

Bayete!”Bayete!”Cetshwayo acknowledged his people with an upraised hand.

Jama watched with awe as the king ordered the royal cattle herds to enter the vast central area. With cattle the mainspring of the Zulu economy, Cetshwayo was displaying his wealth.

The herds moved in unison, black cattle with black, white with white and red with red. They entered the imuzi in a ground-shaking rumble of thousands of hooves, with dust rising and the ground shaking. The assembled warriors stared in admiration. They knew their king was a powerful man and respected him even more for showing them his herds.

imuzi“Bayete!” an induna, the head of a regiment, shouted, and the others joined in, thrusting their spears to the sky. “Bayete!”

BayeteBayeteWhen all the warriors had witnessed the royal herds, Cetshwayo ordered the cattle away and addressed the amabuthos. Jama listened and watched as the king called the indunas to him and spoke to each man personally.

amabuthosEventually, Cetshwayo summoned Jama, who ran forward and prostrated himself on the ground.

“You, Jama, are induna of the Abanonya, the Vicious Ones.”

Jama did not move, although he was proud that the king had recognised him, a minor induna of a small sub-clan.

“You are of the Quangebe clan.” Cetshwayo displayed his impressive knowledge of his people and events in his kingdom. “Your chief Sihayo has his imuzi in the Batshe Valley, near the border with Natal.”

imuziJama remained still, unsure whether to respond or not. As Cetshwayo continued, he knew it was better to stay silent.

“I want you and the Abanonya to keep watch on the Batshe Valley, Jama, and do not allow intruders into the land of the Zulus.”

Jama allowed the words to burn into his soul. Serving the king was a warrior’s duty; he had no other purpose in life.

“The white men in Natal, the British, are not to be trusted, Jama,” Cetshwayo said. “Do not give them an excuse to start a war. Do not cross the Buffalo or the Tugela River into their lands.”

Jama remained still until Cetshwayo dismissed him when he rose. The young woman behind the king smiled at him, and Jama recognised Thadie, one of Cetshwayo’s relatives. He returned the smile, wishing he could make Thadie one of his wives, and trotted back to the Abanonya. He was proud his king had singled him out and knew his prestige and standing amongst the Abanonya had increased.

* * *

“This river is the Great Kei.” Sergeant Ashanti Smith of the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police gestured with his right hand as his left held his horse’s reins. “It is the boundary between British Kaffraria and Kaffirland, that is, the land of the free Kaffirs.”

“What does Kaffir mean, Sergeant?” Andrew asked, looking across the river at a tangle of ochre and green hills scattered with trees. He could make out a small herd of cattle but no people.

Smith shrugged. “It’s the name the Arabs give anybody who is not a Moslem, Constable Baird. I suppose it means unbeliever.”

Andrew nodded. “We’re Kaffirs too, then. It’s not what the tribes call themselves, then?”

“No.” Smith shook his head. “They might think of themselves as Xhosa, for they all speak that language. There are various tribes.”

Andrew borrowed Smith’s field glasses and stared across the river. “How many different tribes are there, Sergeant?”

“If you mean tribes, sub-tribes, and clans,” Smith said, “There are probably hundreds. The main tribes are Galekas, Tambokies, Pondos, Bomvanas, Pondomise, and Fingoes.” He paused for a moment. “To them, you may add the Gaikas under their chief Sandili, a drunken, dissipated old rogue who is waiting for somebody else to start trouble so he can raise his army. He hates us, of course.”

“Do they all hate us?” Andrew asked.

Smith laughed, produced a pipe, and began to stuff tobacco into the bowl. “Probably,” he said. “Kreli, the chief of the Galekas, certainly does. Gangeliswe of the Tambokies might do, and Moni of the Bomvanas. I’m not sure about Umquiqela of the Pondos. Umquiliso of the Pondomise is undoubtedly ready to attack.”

Andrew stared across the Great Kei, wondering how many Xhosa warriors were watching him and whetting their assegais. “How about the Fingoes?”

Smith scratched a match and put it to his pipe. “They don’t have a chief as such, but their head man is Veldtman, who is semi-educated. We can nearly trust the Fingoes on a good day.” He puffed out aromatic blue smoke.

“It’s reassuring that we have one friendly tribe in South Africa,” Andrew said.

Smith smiled around the stem of his pipe. “Whatever they think of us, Baird, the tribes all have one thing in common. They all hate and fear the Zulus, the most powerful force in Black Africa.”

“My knowledge of South African geography is vague, Sergeant,” Andrew admitted. “Are the Zulus in Transkei as well?”

“No,” Smith told him. “They are hundreds of miles north of here, bordering our Natal colony.”

Andrew smiled. “I won’t lose any sleep over them, then.”

Smith removed his pipe and gave a gap-toothed smile. “Only a fool doesn’t lose sleep over the Zulus.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Andrew said. He watched others of the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police ride line up along the Great Kei River. Most were in their twenties and thirties, and, to Andrew’s eyes, their horses seemed overburdened for the duties they had to perform. In front of their leather saddle, they carried a waterproof coat, a valise, and an oversized blanket. These items of equipment reached nearly as high as their chin, impairing their vision. Behind the saddle, each rider carried two saddle bags, which banged against their flanks, while the troopers added personal equipment, such as a camp kettle, axe, or spare carbine.

“Are you all set, Baird?” Smith asked.

“As set as I’ll ever be, Sergeant,” Andrew replied.

Smith smiled. “The tribes are volatile at present,” Smith told him. “I’ve knocked about across Africa for some years, Baird, and I’ve learned a thing or two. When the natives are insolent in the trading stores, and their witch doctors begin to doctor them, there is trouble in the wind.”