This is a fictional story, and it happens in what is now Zimbabwe. The date is 1871.
"Stop!"
The great Africanan raised his hand and stopped the column. He examines the bauxite dust that forms the vast trail where they walk, then goes to the thorn bush on one side. He turned away.
"The little puppies are waiting for us, Major.
Major Simon Edson jumped out of a small supply store. "A funnel, the right bayonet."
"Come on, guys, you're watching the officer. Look sharp." Sergeant Chivers and five of his men jumped to the ground, just as the scores of riotous tribes appeared through the bushes and on the track. Almost immediately, one of the natives was killed, an assailant who entered his stomach. The battle became very personal.
Piet van der Merwe took control of a large double-sided bayonet and began to attack with horrific killing. Simon, who had six bullets on his left arm, now uses it as a club in his left hand as he grabs a fallen personal gun, and is forced to live on the fighters around them. Suddenly, an ad was pushed towards the Africanan. Piet looked at him, pulled him up and slammed him into the stomach of the gunman. The man's eyes widened in surprise as he fell to the ground, holding his stomach. The ad is so named for the sound made when pulled from the flesh. It is shorter and has a wider blade than is used and is used for close combat.
All soldiers fired their ammunition from their single Martini-Henrys. Two of his men were lying dead, and two others, with the sergeant, were fighting with their bayonets. In, up, break, out, time and time again. The next time Simon turned around, another man was wounded by the enemy, and Sergeant Chivers and his army fought back.
Piet was obviously weak from blood pressure and lost blood, but he struggled with every ounce of strength.
Suddenly a knobkerrie crashed to the base of his skull, and like a huge tree cut down by a forest, he collapsed on a trail of blood.
Simon stood over it, returning to the thorn bush by the track. His scarf had long since disappeared, his red tunic torn, and his white shirt now soaked in blood. The rifle is difficult to hold in the face of such brutality. The bodies of the heroes piled on the ground, but they still came. He turned around quickly, and saw that Sergeant Chivers himself, fought like a demon. Simon turned around, just in time to find a tribe that had come to him with a lower core. He held it, drove his bayonet into the man's stomach, cut it up and crossed it, releasing the fighter. His courage spilled. The hero tries to push them back, but collapses.
At that moment, a knobkerrie broke Simon's head. Red haze melts before his eyes. Before he passed, he thought he heard a bugle sound.
The bugle is real. A column of mounted troops traced this dream. They made short work of survivors and looked around in admiration at the massacre of so many men.
The smell of hate in the air. Blood, courage, intestines; all opposed the prohibition on fighting. Major Simon Edson, Piet, and Sergeant Chivers were the only survivors. All, including the dead, were awarded the Medal of Excellence, saving Simon, who received the Meritorious Service Medal, which was given to officers.
In September 1868, Mzilikazi died. Not only was he the king of all the people of the Republic, he was their founder. He was the right knee of the great Zulu king Tshaka. In 1823 he withdrew from his sovereignty, because he thought he would be greedy and refused to share the spoils of war. In this way he formed the nDebele, or Matablele country as they were still called by Europeans. Their language then, as it is today, is similar to the Zulu language, and their name means Long Shields.
Prior to his death, Mzilikazi ruled South Africa, a region known as Rhodesia, after Cecil Rhodes about 20 years from here. His eldest son, Nkulumani, was supposed to replace him. However, like so many absolute rulers, old age makes him paranoid, and he has Nkulumani and many of his senior leaders, or tribal chiefs, thrown into the cliff. The rest of His permission, therefore, turned to his second son, Lobengula, to take his place, and at the end of September 1868, in the midst of a nation-wide assembly, he took the Throne of the People.
Some impi, or regiment, opposed his height, mainly because his mother was a Swazi woman and was considered inferior. Lobengula proved himself a true leader, however, and placed this rebel group with the power of a single weapon, and for the rest of his reign.
It is said that the streets of the capital, Gu-Bulawayo, or the Slaughterhouse, ran with more blood than the rains of that year.
For a while, Simon had considered resigning. He had enough money to buy a 3,000-acre farm, not big, but enough to provide him and his family a good life. He and Piet were always close, but their brush with death brought them closer.
He asked the great Afrikaans if he wanted to join him in the venture, and Piet agreed. Knowledge of bushes and cattle will be invaluable asset.
Patricia, and her son Timothy, are thrilled to have Steven home. For the first year, things got better than they expected. Patricia and Timothy don't have time to make Piet a family member. However, he insisted on living on his own, and built a rondavel, a circular residence, a room where he slept and relaxed, but joined the family for a meal.
After the first year, Simon began to miss them. It was not noticeable at first, but the more he spent less time on the farm and more on the bottle of whiskey. Where not before, arguments began to emerge between husband and wife. Life will soon be a tight and controversial landscape.
Piet went into the real estate business slowly, deliberately, and organized his event. The food is taken in a tense silence, and the Afrikaans will escape to its rondavel as soon as possible. There, he would smoke his pipe, sitting in his big captain's chair outside the door.
Timothy, 11 years old and younger, likes to join him in the little rocking chair Piet made for him. He listened attentively as Piet told stories of battles with Zulu, hunting lions and buffaloes, and stories from the Great Trek made by the Voortrekkers many years earlier. The boy thought the moment was most precious to him. The scent of skin, sweat and the scent of blue aromatic pipes, together with the proximity of this great man, enveloped him in the safety cocoon of what became of domestic misery.
Another day, another argument. Both voices raised in anger. Usually, Timothy runs away from the ugly noise, but suddenly he hears his father yelling his name. Curiosity overcame his fear, and Timothy crawled up and rang his ear to the side of the glass door.
"- It's okay, Patricia the boy is scared of the cows, everything that moves, apparently."
His father looked, glass in hand. It's only ten o'clock in the morning. Timothy heard the great grandfather strike the clock. He flattened himself against the wall, still able to hear a powerful voice.
"Let him go with my revolver service the other day. First shot, flat behind him." Simon's voice lingered. "There is nothing good for man or beast."
Timothy risks looking into the room. Her mother stood with her hands behind the chair, her finger books white.
"And I think, in your opinion, the answer is to send my child to school in England. God in heaven, Simon, what happened to you, where is the man I love?" The last words were a desperate scream.
"Oh, for God's sake, women don't know anything about this, for a man if he killed me, now a good girl and runs and goes -"
Timothy heard a slap. It sounds like a shot.
Again, he lowered his head around the door so that one eye would occupy most of the room. He was right in time to see his mother, keep an eye on his father, take the glass from his hand and throw it hard against the wall behind Simon. He stood there, bemused, his hands still positioned as if he were holding a glass.
"When you are looking for my husband, be nice to tell me," her mother growled. "The reason for the man standing in front of me is the most unwanted visitor." He stepped forward from the room.
Timothy drowned in the back and ran to the short entrance. She hovered over the long grass, threw herself and cried until her back and shoulders hurt. He must have shed every tear that God had given him.
There was nothing to be said at dinner that evening. Piet knows what's going on and he's very sad. The friend who saved his life quickly became a monster to his wife and children.
As usual, Timothy was following Afrikaaner as he headed for his tour. They took their seats, and Timothy waited while Piet charged a large pipe and lit it with a discussion that governed all his actions. The shadow of the smoke rose into the air in the evening, and Piet snatched away the tobacco with his fingers as thick as Timothy.
Piet goes through the story of walking around in giant ants and face to face with a lion, when Timothy explodes; "My dad hates me!"
Piet stopped talking and slowly turned his gaze to her.
"You're bothering me, Jong.
Then everything crashed and collapsed, as tears ran down the small stream toward Timothy's cheeks. She didn't think she had tears anymore, but they came from somewhere.
"Oom Piet, he's right, I'm weak, and afraid of many things."
He jumped from his chair to escape, but Piet's large left arm was shot at the speed of a mamba and grabbed him by the armchair. He pulled her back and lifted her to her lap as if she were a puppy.
Timothy buried his face in his chest and cried again. Piet's left hand completely swallowed the boy's head, as he continued to touch his cheek and waited patiently for a storm of sadness to dissipate.
"I-I'm sorry, Oom Piet." That voice is so small.
"Excuse me, Jong?" comes the thundering, guttural question. "Sorry for what? To cry or to interrupt my story?" He spoke the last in a gentle mocking scowl and very lightly knocked the tip of Timothy's nose.
"To cry like a foolish girl, Oom Piet. Father says that men can't cry."
"Then your father's ead is full of bricks, You are in English 'this business' lip on ard, or whatever.'
"Yes, but you didn't cry, Oom Piet."
"Oh, and where did this great knowledge come from? Of course I cried." Longing in your feelings is like always turning in a quick kiss, never allowing it to run.You will make it weak and stubborn and the same thing will 'mix' your eart. ' She knocked her chest.
"But I'm weak and afraid of things, Oom Piet, Father, he wants to send me to a school in England to make me a man."
"All right!"
Timothy didn't see Piet's face, or he would see his mouth harden and blue eyes catch fire.
"Tell me, my Timothy, you say you are weak, I can carry a sack of 200lb corn under each arm.
Your dad can barely lift one. But I survived today because he fought like a lion to save me. If I were stronger, how would you describe it? "
"I can't, Oom Piet, but I'm too scared to fight like that, I'm useless."
"Now you listen well, Jong." Piet grabbed her small shoulder and moved her face to face them. "To say that is to slap the Lord Abraham on our faces, we all 'for no reason, all parts of' Great Purpose, never forget it."
"No. No, Oom Piet, I won't."
"And another thing." Piet slowly lifted the boy from his lap and stood in front of him. "You have extended love and friendship to me at your own will. It is a gift more precious to me than gold." So you can be useless?
She hugged him briefly but tightly. Timothy walked slowly back home. She's thinking a lot. Piet rose and wrapped himself in his round robe. His anger is fierce.
Timothy has another friend who shares all his secrets. The boys are about the same age, but bigger. The day after Timothy's conversation with Piet, he meets Mbizo in their secret place and together they step into the bushes. They go further than usual, Mbizo carries his shield and his assassin, Timothy with his brother Mbizo has made for him. Suddenly, Mbizo stops dead, and Timothy nearly fires at him.
"Gahle! Ingwe!"
Timothy felt his stomach jump into his throat. He looked at Mbizo's shoulder and saw two tiger cubs. Mbizo whispered to Timothy to walk backwards as slowly as they could.
Slowly, they left. Very, very slowly. Timothy's eyes remained behind Mbizo's muscles. Sweat pours the little boy. She felt him run from his arm, back and out of his chest. He thinks the whole creation can hear his heart knocking his ribs. Don't look around. Don't breathe. Watch Mbizo. Oh my God, please end this! Please make us safe. Not far now. Almost there -
Suddenly, there was a hug, and a flash of anger flew over his head. The big cat landed with her front foot behind Mbizo, crushing the boy to the ground. Timothy saw the merciless jaws open and tried to take his friend's head in his mouth. Mbizo turned and turned and tried to crawl over the beast, but he was held too tight.
Timothy stared in awe. What is he going to do? He is the prisoner of his fears. Snatches of conversation with Oom Piet came to him from the night before. That's his best friend under that killer machine. Run! Run away! Hide it! Pretend he never saw what happened. And then face Oom Piet. In his dream, he had to explain himself to his friend. It's like enlightening these thoughts through his mind. He started to jump in panic. Then, from somewhere deep in his primitive make-up, he cries, more animals than humans, and rushes to where the creature beats his companion.
In a panic, he was stabbed in the back. Great cats turn to anger at their attackers. For a moment, he squatted, then jumped on Timothy. He saw red blood, yellow eyes as he slid him to the ground under his weight. He managed to hold his arm up and drop it into the stomach of violence.
The last thing he remembers before he forgets is the stench of leopard, coughing breath.
"Oh, my God, where is he? Where could he go? Piet, you must not have seen him? He didn't say anything to you?"
Patricia was racing on the parcel, her steps slick and irregular. He kept grabbing his hand, his handkerchief scrubbing between them.
"Mevrou, if I knew, you knew I'd tell you."
Patricia moved to him quickly and put her hand on his arm. "Piet, I know, and I'm sorry, I know you've done everything you can."
Then Simon appeared at the door, full of glass in his hand.
"The poor boy told him he never went around like this, teaching him a lesson."
Piet moved toward him as soon as he appeared, and now raised him. Slowly, he takes the glass from Simon's hand and with great consideration, destroys the contents of his face.
"If another word comes out of your mouth, Meneer, I will be forced to 'you. Your poor wife does not want to see your ead roll on your delicate wooden floor."
Simon fluttered at him, with a puzzled look on his face, turned and walked uncertainly. He didn't show up that night.
At that moment, there was a sound on the parcel and two Africans appeared. They were wearing a 'zinDuna scarf, and were wearing tiger skins and monkey tails. Piet goes to them and they enter into a fierce conversation. At the end, the two Africans turned around and returned to the short dusk that had escaped before the night hit.
"Mevrou, Timothy survived, despite being injured. 'E in the Great Kraal of Lobengula." Patricia fainted.
Piet walked to where he was laying on the mound on the floor. She raised it like a baby and gently laid it on the big sofa. She covered it with a blanket and slowly left the room. He came, but his fatigue surpassed him and he fell asleep.
He woke up the next day to feel the sun warming his blanket. The memory of his surviving son brought him quickly to his feet. Piet was on the pack of smoking his pipe and he went and joined her.
"Mevrou are you sleeping?"
"Me, Piet, you?"
"I did, Mevrou, but before that, I thought it was confusing, Timothy was alive and well, but I was with a boy who was one of Lobengula's favorite children. This boy, what's his name Mbizo?"
"No, Piet, no idea at all." Patricia frowned. "I've never heard of it."
"As if it were Timothy's actions, this boy is still alive." Even so, it's worse than Timothy, Mevrou, if he dies, then Timothy.
The color dried from Patricia's face.
"You-you mean they'll kill my son just because the other son died? Piet, that's it - it's barbaric." His voice went up almost to a shout, and he buried his face in his hand.
"I know, Mevrou, but we don't deal with people in suits and good relationships, who do their business in drawing rooms. This is Africa, Mevrou, and" we deal with their ancient laws. "
At that moment, they heard voices behind them. Simon was on the verge of drawing, holding the door for support. She looks weird. Her eyes were livid and white with blood, and she seemed to cry. No glasses. Patricia hurried to him and helped him to the chair.
"Has Timothy been found?" His voice was not far from whispering, the question was tentative and nervous.
"He is there, honey." She looked at Piet. "All right."
"Thank God, I have to wash," he mumbled, trying to stand up.
"Come on, honey, let me help you." She leaned against him as they went to the bathroom. He was half way through his face wash, as he turned and threw himself beside the toilet and vomited. All Patricia can do is watch. Watch and pray that he sees the last of the uninvited visitors.
Simon recovered, lifted himself to his feet, returned to the wash and cleaned his teeth. "Go to bed now, my love, I will help you."
But he turned to the drawing room. He staggered to the door, then leaned against her. "Piet."
The Afrikaaner stood back to the door, but with Simon's voice he turned. "Piet, I can't say it completely -"
But the big man walked up to him and wrapped him in a bear hug. Patricia watched the two men speak, her eyes sparkling. Finally, Simon turned and rushed back to him. He put his arm around his shoulder.
"Go back to bed, my love, I'll help you."
"Love me," she whispered. "I caused you pain. I -"
"And now it's forgotten, come on."
She leads him back to the bedroom, covers it with a blanket, and rejoins Piet in the living room.
"The poor Major with 'conscience, but I say that if we have never made a mistake, we will be at the level with God, which will cause the Almighty to become a great mess."
Patricia couldn't remember when she laughed.
They heard Simon throw up again in the bathroom. Patricia starts to go to him, but Piet stops him.
"No, Mevrou, leave 'im gonna have to' E must spit out the evil that is in 'im'. He's facing Patricia." Tomorrow, Mevrou. Tomorrow we go for Timothy. "
Horses and traps threw a cloud of bauxite dust as they headed toward the Great Kraal. The smooth, slender, purple-eyed trees seem to stretch nonstop on both sides of the track. Simon and Patricia hold hands. The color had returned to his face and he was much better.
Finally, they saw Kraal. It's huge. Two giant ivory elephants were set on a high mound, forming a gateway that then led the way. Finally is the King's throne.
"We left such a trap," Piet said, climbing from the driver's seat and assisting Patricia. "We also left our weapons behind."
Patricia felt it was not necessary as she looked at the strong gate and then walked in front of them, lined up on each side by thousands of tribes. It is a distance of about 100 meters where Lobengula sits, surrounded by his wives, senior zinDuna and several children. As soon as they walked under the big ivory, the total silence fell. No sound. No movement. It was as if the whole rally had turned into stone.
He walked between the two men. As they walk, the fighters fall behind them, slowly knocking their shields with their asses. Patricia's return is automatically compacted in preparation for the spear she feels will surely pin them to the ground. Finally, they came before the King.
He was a big man, sitting on a large throne on a hill raised six feet above their heads. He only wears a belt and makes liberal use of the flyswatter he holds in his right hand. Piet bowed to Lobengula, and Patricia and Simon followed him. Piet opens the conversation in sinDebele. The king is smiling.
"But we have to speak English, I like this practice, and my guests may not be as fluent in our tongue as you are." He nodded at Piet. Patricia expected a great voice, and was surprised by the quiet, almost gentle tone. His English is not perfect.
Simon bowed to him. "Your Majesty, it is a great honor to stand before you."
Lobengula likes to be called "Greatness". Usually, he is known as 'nDhlovu nGakulu', or a large elephant. It's not worth the size! It's just that the Africans consider the elephant king an animal.
They were served a pair of 'tshwala', milk-colored African beers, which Patricia found well.
"I thank you for your greetings, and we will drink for our friendship." Lobengula drained his big trophy and handed it to one of his wives. "Now we have to talk about your son." Patricia's texture is frequent.
"My son is alive today," said Lobengula, "because of your son's bravery." He folds his fingers, and a fighter comes to them out of the crowd around the King, carrying packages wrapped in oxides. He put it on their feet. "In it," continued the King, "is the skin of your deadly tiger, along with the monkey's tail, his head, his black shield and his spears. "He made a motion, and Timothy appeared holding a woman's left hand, while a black youth accompanied them, holding him. The two boys were wrapped up and drowned. They came to three Europeans. Mbizo bent down.
"My name is Mbizo," he said in English. "I'm most sorry to Timot. He's the most courageous." NDebele found it impossible to pronounce 'th' voice. '
"I'm glad you're good, Mbizo." Patricia moved and crouched in front of her. "If the great King permits, you must come and visit us often."
"I want to, Madman."
Timothy whispered something in his ear.
"I'm sorry, Madam."
Timothy rushed to his mother and held her hand. She kissed him on the head. Then he went to his father and did the same. Patricia saw tears in Simon's eyes as she held the boy close.
"And now, if you want to, you're fired," said Lobengula, sitting on his throne.
As they stepped onto the wide, beaten path for thousands of feet, the sound of treble sounds floated in the air. It rises like a beautiful bird and is invisible to the eternal African sky. Before it fell, it was captured by the deepest bass note, followed by the intricate and intricate piece of ten thousand throat.
"Oh, how wonderful," Patricia said. "What is it, Piet?"
"But, they sang 'Bayete', a glorious hymn."
"Are they singing for us, Oom Piet?" asked Timothy.
"They sing for you, my Timothy, just for you."
He let go of his hand roughly in his eyes.
"Finish the sweat," he mumbled.
******
The Bayete is a Zulu hymn, and in fact will never be sung by nDebele on the occasion. This story describes Lobengula accurately, but for better information, I suggest you log into Wikipedia. There you will find detailed history of the nDebele people, as well as Zulu.
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