The Noise of Zulu Battle (The Soldier's Son Book 1) - Malcolm Archibald

The Noise of Zulu Battle (The Soldier's Son Book 1) by Malcolm Archibald

Book excerpt

ZULULAND, June 1877

Jama halted and raised a hand. Obediently his small amabutho – regiment - 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.

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.

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

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.

oNdini, 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.

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.

Jama 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.

Jama 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.

After 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.

“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.

King 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!”

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!”

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.

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

When 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.

Eventually, 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.”

Jama 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.