Warrior

And a shivery night it was – the numbing sense of failure which he sought in vain to suppress, and the damp, cold air of the uplands. He gave his tunic to Pampata, not without her protest, and steeled himself to the darkness, its chill and its demons. He would have lit a fire had he the means, for the mist was so thick that none but were as close as a dozen yards could have seen it. Fire warmed and cheered the spirits. He had wanted for fire many times – in Spain, in India; but always with his dragoons, so that without it they took consolation in their shared discomfort. And, in truth, he could not recollect so personal a desolation as this now.

They shivered all night, therefore, awake for the most part, lying back to back, contrary to all the customs of the Zulu: for Pampata knew she needed the warmth of her 'brother'.

Indeed, she had expected a greater warmth, for as a warrior who had slain a foe it was his right (indeed, it was his duty) to claim sula izembe, the ritual cleansing, the 'washing of the spear'.

Hervey did not know of sula izembe. All he knew was the instinct of one who had survived, and the potency which came of it. And yet with the bodies of two dozen dragoons in his mind's eye still, it was unthinkable.

XXII

A HANDFUL OF RIFLEMENNext day

Just before evening, the fourth day, as they crested another of the gentler slopes that gave shape to the lowlands beyond the high plateau of Esi-Klebeni, Pampata heaved a great sigh of joy. Pointing, she declared their triumph. 'There is kwaWambaza! There is Ngwadi's kraal!'

They stumbled the last mile, downhill, easier by far than the ascent but tempting them to more speed thereby, slipping, falling, staggering, and so painfully that Hervey tried to make Pampata stop, so that he could go on alone and bring back a horse, or her menfolk, to bear her in.

She would have none of it. She would not delay her mission one needless minute. And so Hervey relented, hopeful that the lookouts – his own dragoons, indeed – would soon spy their approach and send out relief.

But there was no relief. Only when they were a hundred yards from the kraal did anyone appear to notice their coming, and then only the herd boys playing at being inkwebane, cadets, jousting with toy spears like the one that Pampata carried. They rushed up to the two dust-covered strangers and danced about them uncertainly, half-fearful, until Pampata shot words at them like a flight of arrows, at which they fled, wide-eyed, towards the entrance of the kraal shouting that messengers of King Shaka were come to kwaWambaza.

The kraal was smaller than Dukuza, but in all other respects save one it appeared the same: for here were no trophies of death, no impalings, no human bones cast about casually as if to proclaim the chief's supreme power. There were a great number of cattle grazing, and the fields were in good cultivation. For all that the kraal's thorn fence was built in the same fashion as Shaka's, and the huts within were the same beehive shape, and the people looked the same and wore the same, it might have been another country. Here was a place of pastoral quiet, not a barracks of Shaka's restless war engine.

It was at once, therefore, a sight both of reassurance and alarm, for if Mbopa were to muster an impi of any strength (and for all that Hervey knew, the Fasimba were at his call), it would take warrior numbers and hardened skill to hold them off.

Out rushed Ngwadi, the clan elders – and Somervile.

Hervey felt a second wave of relief at seeing his old friend. He braced his shoulders (they had been sloped in the same loping gait as Pampata's for days) and saluted. He had been without any headdress since the Thukela, but the open-handed salute was no less impressive. Ngwadi raised his ceremonial staff in acknowledgement and evident awe at what he knew was before him, and Somervile took off his straw hat as if he were presented at court.

'My dear friend,' he said, advancing on Hervey with a sense of the miracle. 'My dear old friend! I thought – I could not make myself believe other – that you were killed!'

And as he held out his hand, Hervey saw the moisture in his eyes.

'I very near was,' he replied, but recovering that air of composure required by the mask of command. 'Brereton is dead,' he added roughly, and then in an altogether softer tone: 'and Petrie, and the dragoons with him.'

'I know,' said Somervile, lowering his eyes. 'Your Private Johnson informed me.'

Hervey started. 'Johnson? Informed you? He is here?'

'He's at Nonoti still. He came two days after we left Dukuza. He refused to leave there until he had found you. Your serjeant-major threatened to clap him in irons, but he would not relent.'

Hervey's face was now a picture of the greatest relief and joy. 'It is the best of news, the very best!' he said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'What of Fairbrother?'

'He remains at Nonoti until we're sure what Mbopa's intentions are. What a capital fellow he is: Ngomane ate from his hand – put his guards under his orders, indeed!'

'And who came with you here?'

'Welsh and the Rifles.'

Several of Ngwadi's household had lifted up Pampata and begun carrying her towards the kraal. The chief himself now beckoned Somervile and his new-found friend to follow.

'A decent sort of man, I judge him,' said Somervile as they did his bidding. 'We have managed to converse.Welsh has been of use, too: he understands, if he doesn't much speak.'

Once they were inside the ndlunkulu, Ngwadi hovered about Pampata as if she had been his own sister. His serving-girls brought restoratives and lotions, and he questioned her gently, or rather, listened to her speak, about the events at Shaka's kraal.

The two old friends were therefore able to withdraw to the other side of the hut, where they were brought tshwala (beer), and sweetmeats to restore a man to his full vigour – or so the gestures of the serving-girls promised.