Sihayo had heard enough and raised his hand as if he meant to strike his son, but Mehlokazulu’s unflinching demeanour made him think twice, and he released his anger in a torrent of abuse.
‘You faithless, ungrateful viper!
Your balls have barely dropped, yet you dare to insult the king, a man who has eaten up countless enemies. Have you washed your spear even once? No, yet you presume to conduct the affairs of the nation.’
His son set his jaw in defiance. ‘The white man means to have this country sooner or later. Better to take the fight to him while we’re still strong.’
Sihayo turned to George. ‘Is he right? Will the white man let us live in peace?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied George.
‘Maybe for a while.
But one thing is certain: if you provoke war, your country will be destroyed.’
‘And if we do nothing, it will die just the same,’ said Mehlokazulu. ‘I prefer death to dishonour.’
Sihayo looked like a man who knew, deep down, that his son was right. But what good was an honourable death? His responsibility was to his clan, and he would do anything to save it from destruction. He waved his son away. ‘Get out of my sight. Before I do something I regret.’
‘Gladly, Father, but aren’t you forgetting someone?’ he said, pointing towards the brushwood fence of the calf enclosure. ‘She deserves to die for what she’s done.’
‘The
isanusi
will decide her fate at dusk. Now go.’
In the few hours left before the ‘smelling-out’ ceremony, George did his best to persuade Sihayo to intervene and spare his errant wife. But the chief was adamant: tribal tradition could not be overruled, and when George continued to argue he was led away by two burly warriors and confined in a separate hut. There he brooded on the naive attachment that white humanitarians like the Colensos seemed to have for ‘noble savages’ like the Zulus. Did they truly understand the Zulus? Did their romantic notions bear any relation to reality? He suspected not.
Shortly after dark, with double-headed drums beating out a steady rhythm, George was escorted into the
isibaya,
where he found the whole community drawn up in a large semicircle: Sihayo and his brothers at its centre; then their sons, including a grim-looking Mehlokazulu; and finally, at the outer extremities of the crescent, the women and children. Facing them, her hands tied behind her back to a large stake, was the semi-naked Nandi, her beautiful face etched with defiance. The whole eerie scene was lit by flickering torches beneath a star-filled sky.
‘Stand by me, nephew,’ commanded Sihayo, ‘and don’t speak until the ceremony is over.’
Hardly had the chief spoken these words than the
isanusi
entered the cattle enclosure, leaping and chanting. He was a ghastly sight, his long hair strewn with the bladders of freshly slaughtered goats and his necklaces and belt hung with animal skulls. In his right hand he carried a wildebeest tail and in his left a short spear with which he lunged at the clearly terrified Nandi in mock attack, leaping in the air and cackling derisively as he did so. Round and round the captive he cavorted, appealing to the spirits for help in proving her guilt.
George looked on wide-eyed. Though he despised Sihayo for putting Nandi through this ordeal, he was entranced by the spectacle and could not take his eyes off the
isanusi”
s wild antics. The dance seemed to go on and on. Until at last, with the crowd thoroughly subdued, the
isanusi
began a low chant that the onlookers emulated, the sound rising steadily in pitch and intensity. In a state of near hysteria, his eyes streaming with tears and his lips flecked with foam, the
isanusi
lurched towards Nandi and collapsed on the ground. He then began to sniff every inch of her statuesque frame, starting with her feet. As he worked his way up her naked torso, the tempo and volume of the chanting increased. Suddenly the
isanusi’
s right hand shot out and flicked the wildebeest’s tail in Nandi’s face. She screamed as the crowd fell silent.
‘What does that mean?’ George whispered to Sihayo, though he knew the answer.
‘She’s guilty.’
‘Surely you have the power
to—’
‘Silence!’
Sihayo walked forward and turned to address his people. ‘The
isanusi
has spoken. Nandi is guilty of adultery and must die. Mehlokazulu and Mkhumbukazulu will carry out the sentence.’
The two brothers — one broad and muscular, the other lean and wiry - walked over to Nandi, who, by this time, was tearfully pleading for her life. Ignoring her entreaties, Mehlokazulu tied a leather thong round her neck and inserted into it a wooden handle about a foot long. He then turned the handle until the thong was taught against her neck.
‘Please!’ implored Nandi.
Ignoring her, Mehlokazulu turned towards Sihayo for the signal to proceed. The chief nodded.
‘No!’ shouted George, rushing forward to intervene. But he had barely covered ten yards before he was brought down from behind by one of his two shadows. Though pinned to the ground, he turned his head in time to see his cousin viciously turning the handle so that the leather thong bit into Nandi’s neck, slowly throttling her. Nandi struggled for a few seconds, her eyes bulging and her tongue extended, and then slumped forward, her hands still attached to the stake. Just to make sure, the younger brother lifted Nandi’s head by her topknot and stabbed her in the throat with his
iklwa
, spraying himself with arterial blood in the process. George closed his eyes, unable to watch any more.
‘Cut her down,’ instructed Sihayo, ‘and bury her in an unmarked grave. As for our squeamish relative, he can spend the night in Nandi’s hut. She won’t
be needing
it again.’
Bishopstowe, 3 August 1878
Bishop Colenso stood gazing out of his French windows, shaking his head. The drawing room was silent but for the ticking of the large clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Was there nothing you could do to save her?’ he said at last.
George shifted uneasily on the sofa. ‘No. As I’ve explained, I tried everything, but they were determined to kill her.’
He had been dreading this moment since his departure from Sihayo’s kraal the day after Nandi’s execution. A small
impi
— a group of Zulu warriors — had escorted him and his wagon as far as Rorke’s Drift, and from there he had ridden ahead, telling Snyman to get the best price he could for the untraded goods. But during the long ride back to Pietermaritzburg, try as he might, he could not expunge the memory of that brutal killing; nor could he escape the nagging realization that, blood ties or no, he had lost all sympathy for the Zulus’ predicament. It had helped him make up his mind about his future. He knew that Fanny, in particular, would find it hard to understand his decision, and feared it would give her yet another reason to favour Durnford over him. Yet he felt he had little choice. Certainly he would never again see the Zulus — his own kin — in the same uncritical light as the Colensos.
The bishop looked at him intently. ‘I can see you’re upset by your ordeal, George, but you mustn’t blame Sihayo and his sons. It’s just their way — and has been for generations.’
‘Well, it needs to change. How can you, a man of God, justify the execution of a woman for adultery? Such a law in Britain would empty half the drawing rooms of Mayfair.’
‘I’m trying to explain their actions, not justify them. I agree that change is necessary, but it will take time. It always does. The Zulus have to be made to see the error of their ways, and only Christ can do that.’
‘You’re saying missionaries are the solution?’
‘Christianity is the solution. Missionaries are merely its agents.’
‘But missionaries have been active in Zululand for decades and look what good it’s done. Converts are routinely executed and the military system continues as before.’
‘As I said, it will take time.’
‘You won’t thank me for saying this, but I’m beginning to think there might be a case for diplomatic pressure to speed up the process.’ George turned to Fanny, who, thus far, had remained silent in an easy chair. ‘Surely you, as a woman, would hate to live under the Zulu system?’
‘I certainly would. But no country has the right to impose its values on another, particularly not Britain, with its child labour, workhouses and industrial slums. In any case, the colonial authorities only pretend to be interested in better government for Zululand; their real aim is conquest and their motives, as Father has already explained, are far from selfless.’
‘I accept that. But if you’d only been in my place, and seen and heard what I did, you might not be so supportive of the “poor, defenceless” Zulus.’
‘How can you say that? You’re part Zulu yourself.’
‘Yes, and I sometimes wish that wasn’t the case. I found out what happened to my Zulu grandmother, by the way. She was abandoned by her so-called family and left to die alone. How do you think that makes me feel?’
‘We understand your anger, George,’ said the bishop. ‘But you mustn’t let it cloud the overall picture. Frere is determined to fight the Zulus and this Sihayo business might be just the excuse he needs. Thankfully our own lieutenant governor is less of a warmonger and has tried to calm matters down by demanding that Cetshwayo hands over the ringleaders, Mehlokazulu and his brother. Let’s hope they come quietly.’
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ said George. ‘Mehlokazulu is a firebrand if ever I’ve met one. He actually welcomes the prospect of war.’
‘He’s young. Wiser counsels will prevail.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said George. He could see his views were not welcome and decided to leave before he said something he regretted. He had, in any case, something he wished to discuss with Fanny in private, so he made his excuses and asked her to accompany him as far as the stables.
On the way he paused and took both her hands in his. ‘I did a lot of thinking on the ride back from Zululand.’
‘And?’
‘Let’s just say that things are a little clearer than they were before I went.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I’m certain of one thing, and that’s my love for you.’
‘George, we’ve talked about this …’
‘I know, and I realize I’ve got a fight on my hands to win you over. But I think you’re worth fighting for. To see you arguing just now, Fanny, I admire you so much. I love you.’
‘I’m flattered, George. I really am. But you’re far too young to be falling in love. You’ve got your life ahead of you, and I’d hate to think your affection for me might blunt your ambition in any way.’
‘Why would it? In any case, I’ve made a decision about my future. I’m going to join one of the local regiments of irregular horse. It’s only part-time soldiering, but the pay’s good and
I’ll still be able to help my uncle out on the farm. More importantly, I’ll be near you.’
Fanny released her hands and frowned. ‘How can you think of joining the army at a time like this?’
‘Because it’s all I know. I’ve been fooling myself that I could make a go of farming, or even prospecting for diamonds without having money for a stake. The only thing I’ve ever been really good at is soldiering and I want to give it another try.’
‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with your trip to Zululand?’
‘Yes, partly.
I’ve had the scales removed from my eyes. Now that I’ve seen something of Zulu life I believe that they are not the noble savages that you and your father like to think they are. Their system appears to be oppressive to its own people and is certainly a threat to their neighbours. By joining the irregular horse I’ll help to guard against that threat.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
‘Yes, I do. The younger warriors like Mehlokazulu are itching for a war.’
‘So why not give them one, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Of course not, but something needs to be done. Cetshwayo must be told to introduce reforms.’
‘And what if he refuses and it leads to war? Will you fight your own people?’
‘The Zulus are not my people. I know that now.’
‘You know nothing of the sort,’ said Fanny, as she turned on her heel and stalked off.
That evening George walked to the edge of his uncle’s pasture and watched the sun set. He felt such a boiling mixture of emotions that he wanted to punch someone or something. How could he tell Fanny that he loved her and that he was joining the army, both in the space of five minutes! Yet what else could he have done? He felt swept along by his passion for Fanny, her beauty, her fine, pugnacious openness. And at the same time, his own integrity would not allow him to deny the things he had said to her. He thought back to the ceremony in the kraal. Yes, he was always going to be an outsider, but if he
was
going to take sides, this was the one he had to choose.
The mystery of his background, the colour of his skin, the very uncertainty of the blood in his veins, these things had brought him turmoil and heartache, but surely there were some things that he
did
know: he was his mother’s son, proud and strong, and the army was in his blood somewhere. Beyond any doubt, he knew his father must be a military man of some kind. He had felt at home the minute he first put uniform on. He had lost the opportunity to pursue his career, partly through his own fault. Now he had another chance to make his mother proud and - who knew? -
perhaps
his father too. There was also the financial incentive. He would not earn much at first, but if he worked hard and gained promotion he would be able to send part of his pay home to his mother. And, as for Fanny, if he could act with honour in all he did, maybe even save the Zulus from themselves, perhaps she would see him in a better light. He prayed that she would. What if the chance to win his father’s legacy was not lost after all? It might seem far-fetched, but young officers did win VCs, and Fanny was a
gentlewoman
.