Warrior

him as the churches and statues of London were to a native of that place. Yes, he would trust her to lead him to Ngwadi's kraal. And if there were a moon as good as last night's, he might even trust her to lead him when it was dark.What perils an African night might bring, he had better not imagine.

XIX

DADEWETHULater

Not only did Pampata know the way – (she hesitated not once in their first dozen miles) – she knew how to cross ground. She avoided skylines, keeping lower than would a warrior crossing the same country, for she expected they would be followed, or even intercepted. She told Hervey not to worry on this account, however, for she would detect Mbopa's men long before they detected them.

He believed her. She possessed something that compelled belief. He made her show him their new line when they reached a landmark on which they had just marched, but beyond that he found himself following her – and quite literally, for no matter how much he quickened his pace, Pampata remained at least an arm's length in front of him. They had no conversation: Hervey scarce had breath to keep up (and he could not claim the extra weight of sabre and pistol, for Pampata marched – half ran – with nothing on her feet). When they rested, just after midday, the sun hot, it was by a spring in a hollow on the side of a dry valley, and he marvelled at her hale condition.

She said they paused only for water, but Hervey insisted they remain longer. Three hours at a pace between walk and trot – he would certainly rest his troop horses after such a stretch. And he wanted to spy out the land lest they were being followed, or about to be intercepted. He wished he had his telescope.

But there was neither heat-haze nor mist to penetrate, and he was able to see as far as the lie of the land would allow – see the beasts of the field (there were surprisingly few), but no sign of Mbopa's men. No sign of human movement at all. Either they rested or else followed the same method of traversing the country, unseen. But why would they take any but the direct route? They had no need to follow their trail, for they surely knew the destination. No, he felt sure that if they were being followed they remained undetected still, their pursuers a comfortable distance behind them.

He felt hungry suddenly. How would they eat? They would be well enough today, but it would go hard with them tonight, an empty belly. It could be borne, but a second day and they would begin to feel fatigue. They might find ripe fruit, although it was not the season, except that here the seasons were not as they were in England. Fruit, however unseasonal, would be better than nothing, for it would stop the colic (so long as they did not eat too much), but no amount of fruit was substitute for meat when it came to wind and limb, and he could not risk a shot to bring down game. But he had gone hungry before. It was a commonplace of the service: no commissary, however diligent, could keep an army in constant supply of fresh rations. And even the standby, biscuit, ran short from time to time. Before Waterloo he had had nothing in his belly for the best part of two days.

With few words, they resumed the trek in the direction of the sun, and slightly north. The veld before them was spring-green, less broken and scrub-covered than that which the party had first traversed on their march to Shaka's kraal, and spotted with brilliant patches of yellow, a flower he did not know, without distinction but its pleasing colour. Here and there was a splash of orange-red, the solitary fire lily, and he marked that there were now deer – antelope – grazing at some distance. But there were none of the nyamakaza, the wild beasts, that Johnson had been so keen to see.

Johnson . . . He felt sick in his gut at what had befallen him. They had been together so long. They had been friends; so many happy hours shared. He could not imagine being without his stoic cheeriness, which had so often prompted him to second, and useful, thoughts. He forced the picture from his mind.

Pampata's gait was unlike any Hervey had seen before. She had discarded the overalls (concealed them in a thorn bush), but she kept the cloak about her, though the day was warm. It was her high step that intrigued him: the warriors of both the Xhosa and the Zulu, in their loping march, kept the foot low, daisy-cutting, expending as little effort as possible, their weight alone seeming to carry them forward. And the exertion in Pampata's lower body was matched by inactivity in the upper part, for she neither swung her arms nor flexed her shoulders. Yet this curious action neither impeded nor fatigued her.

For much of the time he was able to observe the action clearly, for she kept her distance very decidedly. But then, after an hour's march ('march' was unquestionably the pace she maintained; indeed, what any regiment of the Line would admit was a forced march), she allowed him to close with her.

Could she maintain the pace for a hundred miles? Pampata led a life of some luxury in the isigodlo, at least in terms of what most Zulu enjoyed. She had not been reduced, as others he had seen, by frequent childbirth – by any childbirth, according to Isaacs (and who but Shaka would have dared to father a child by Pampata?). She was the superior in physique of any of the serving-girls, which was, he supposed, why Shaka had first singled her out. She was not in the least run to fat, and her legs were of good length and shape, permitting a long, even stride in spite of her high-stepping action. She had, indeed, impressed all of them at that first meeting by her form as well as her air of authority. But a hundred miles . . .

'Do you have a wife and children?'

Her breaking silence, thus, took him by surprise. He asked her to repeat her question.

'I ask if you have a wife. And children.' She spoke the words slower, and louder, exactly as Hervey had when he was obliged to repeat a question of some ryot who had neither English nor Hindoostani.

He thought he understood: inkosikazi, umntwana – wife, child – were the same in Xhosa. 'Yebo, Nkosazana . . . I have a wife and daughter.'

He would have been able to add, with a little effort, that he had had a wife, who had died, and that his new wife, of but a few months, was the widow of his late commanding officer, but he saw no cause. Instead he waited to see what line of enquiry she would now take.

She took none, however. It was as if she had learned all that there was to know of him. Perhaps she intended only to be civil, as might a fellow traveller in England? And perhaps his unwillingness to say more than was strictly required in answer disposed her to think that he wished no association?

They continued a full half-hour in silence, making two more miles as the crow flies, before Pampata stopped suddenly and dropped to her haunches.

Hervey peered hard to see what had arrested her, shielding his eyes against the lowering sun.

'Intshe,' she said, quietly.