There Is a Green Hill

By Jacqui Buckley

Whose skeleton is lying on the hilltop on Dooringrand?
In the nineteenth century, a series of events took place in Port Natal and Zululand, which culminated in the downfall of the powerful Zulu nation. This is the story of three different cultures set against the turbulent backdrop of the AngloZulu wars. Many questions are asked: Why were more Victoria Crosses awarded in a single encounter than ever before or since for bravery during the defense of Rorkes Drift? Why were the English so totally defeated the day before at Isandlwana? Why did the Zulus attack so unexpectedly? What caused the Boer farmers to align with the British, the very people whose oppressive rule they had escaped to Port Natal to get away from? And who is really the enemy?
Journey with the little cattle boy who befriends a queen as he grows and becomes a warrior. Experience the ritual of the cleansing ceremonies and others that used to take place before battle. Witness his struggle in understanding the morality of warfare and killing.
Experience the brutality and hardships that the Boer pioneers endured that sowed the seeds of the bitterness that gave birth to the hatred and cruel apartheid system of the future.
Colonialism was at its height, and with it came an arrogance that ignored the needs and cultures of the inhabitants of any new acquisition. Learn how this attitude gave Britain one of its biggest and unnecessary defeats. It was also, by contrast, the stage for the most Victoria Crosses awarded for bravery for any single action in Britains military history.
All of this went into the melting pot of the rich tapestry that is the South Africa of today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: May 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496978448

Jacqui Buckley

Arriving in South Africa at the tender age of just one year, the author has spent her entire life immersed in the unique culture of the country. From the age of three to seven, she was put into a children’s home when her mother contracted tuberculosis and has fond memories of Izaak, the Zulu gardener who for many hours regaled her with tales of the Zulu kingdom and planted the seed that grew into a love for history. After several years of corporate bondage, she finally entered the tourism industry, and this is where she found her true calling. Once having gained a formal qualification from the South African Tourism Board, she started out nurturing young school groups and progressing to the more challenging category of wide-eyed foreign tourists. Shepherding tour groups through the verdant hills of first Kwazulu Natal and then throughout the Eastern and Western Cape, she learned the magic of taking a dusty subject matter and transforming it into an engaging and colorful narrative blended with her inimitable wit and passion. Upon retirement, she finally had the time to pen the tales, infusing it with her oft twisted and wayward thoughts. She currently resides in Sedgefield, South Africa, home to the world’s only Slow Festival and one of the only towns known to be declared a formal tortoise sanctuary. She shares her home with her two dogs, Jorja and Tokolosh, as well as the usual scattering of half-finished oil canvases and partially written manuscripts. She gives thanks daily for her family and their unconditional support in the adventures she has embarked upon during her varied and interesting life. For leisure, she takes to the local trails every morning on her mountain bike armed with her camera to scout for new landscape material to feed the muse of her other passion, painting.

Book preview

Chapter One

Ulundi 1989

Lester could feel the perspiration running down his neck. Although the modern room was air-conditioned he felt stifled. There was also that niggling pain in his side, which had started last night after dinner and steadily worsened. He glanced sideways and saw Sarah looking at him intently. Just when he was beginning to think that it was never going to happen, he heard a break being called. He made his way out to the foyer. Sarah found him. What’s the matter? she asked. For a moment there I thought that you were going to pass out. Her face was a picture of concern.

Sarah, he responded, I can’t go back in there. It’s that pain I had last night. Could you make the necessary apologies for me please? I’ll go to a doctor to get something to alleviate it. I won’t come back. I’d rather have a lie down and catch up on admin this afternoon. Oh, don’t forget to take notes. Sarah looked even more perturbed, and it took him a few minutes to convince her that he was not in mortal danger.

In his hired car, having left the complex, Lester decided to pop into Melmoth, a small town that was about 45 kilometres away. He knew there was a chemist there, and he thought that a long—and slow—drive may make him feel better. He pressed the button on his car door that would make his window roll down.

Almost since the moment he had arrived in Ulundi he had been feeling odd. At first the assignment had seemed to be of the same order as the many others that he and Sarah had been on all over the world; he had seen it as just another interview with a local dignitary to be followed by an enjoyable write-up. He prided himself on never actually lying; as far as he saw it, he had acquired the art of being able to change the context of a speech by leaving out certain things or even by simply missing some punctuation. Somehow today had been different, though. He had been totally mesmerised by the speaker whose earnestness in the way he expressed himself was tainted only by a touch of bitterness, and that would be seen by most to be deserved. He felt that it would be almost criminal to distort what he had just heard. If it wasn’t for the way he had felt Lester would never have left the conference.

Turning his mind back to the pain, Lester realised that it was gone. He thought that it would be silly in such a case to go all the way to Melmoth. He turned back at the airport turn off.

He had always loved South Africa, especially this area of Natal. At this time of year the countryside had a harsh beauty all of its own. The uniquely shaped, flat-topped acacia trees, protectively shading from the intense heat the odd assortment of grazing goats, were eye-catching. The bird life was brilliant and plentiful. Lester, attracted by a sudden flash of crimson, decided to investigate. He thought that perhaps if he could get a few good shots of the birds he would not have to write off the whole day.

He turned the car onto an old cattle path and, parking it behind some bushes in order for it to not make an unwelcome appearance in the scene shots, got out and, stretching, managed to ease his aching body a little. He then walked slowly down the cattle path, following the bright flash of red as it darted from tree to tree. The path was fairly overgrown, which made moving along the terrain somewhat hard going, and he could feel rough pebbles stabbing at him under the thin soles of his shoes.

Eventually he came to the edge of a large donga, through which ran a narrow stream. Climbing to the opposite bank he noticed that deep gorges had been eroded into the sides, indicating that, in full flood, the trickle was a raging torrent.

He pulled himself onto the rim of the bank, and the pain in his side returned. He drew his knees up to his chest as it seared through his body. When it subsided he realised how stupid he had been; he was in the heart of the Zululand bush with no sign of human habitation for as far as his limited view afforded him. He lay back on the stony ground, wet with perspiration. Peering through the bush to the opposite side of the bank he could just make out the cattle path. Perhaps the herdsman who used it would come along; it was not very overgrown. He reasoned that it must have been the walk and the exertion of the climb that had brought on the attack, and the thought passed through his mind that if he did not move for a few minutes, then the pain may ease, and he could then at least attempt getting back to the path.

The hot African sun shone intensely and relentlessly on his face. He tried to roll over but only succeeded in vomiting violently. The bush started spinning around him, and a red mist clouded his eyes. Why the hell didn’t I just go back to the hotel? he wondered.

He saw a figure come loping down the cattle path. He lifted his arm to wave, but the figure, in a tattered T-shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans, turned and began to move away from him. Lester picked up a small stone and, with what he felt must be the last of his physical strength, hurled it at the departing figure. It did not quite reach the other side of the bank but instead fell and clattered on the boulders in the stream, sounding like two metal objects knocking against each other. The figure stopped and stood motionlessly, before slowly turning around like a threatened animal. A pair of large brown nostrils flared as if trying to smell from which cause or origin came the source of danger. Slowly, as if eternity had no meaning, the narrowed eyes scanned the bushes and settled on the body of Lester. With a loud exclamation the figure sprang into action and in one leap cleared the donga.

The red mist was closing in on Lester again, and he was experiencing a sensation similar to what he felt it would be like if molten metal was being poured over his abdomen. It was then that he first became aware of the voices. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of a battle washing towards him. Lester was scared. He was more scared than he could ever remember being before. Perspiration beaded on his upper lip. He decided that he had to get away; he had to find somewhere to hide before the column found him. The mist cleared slightly, and with a sense of shock he became aware of the black face close to his own.

The figure in the tattered T-shirt lifted him easily off the ground. Lester lost consciousness.

He would later recall a last fleeting impression of being held against a thin brown chest, wet with perspiration.

*    *    *

Sometime later he felt a jolt, and he realised that he was gently being put into a crevice and being covered with a few light branches to shield him from the glare of the sun. Staring at him intently the Zulu uttered something unintelligible and then, gesticulating, indicated that he was going for help. Lester, feeling more comfortable and somewhat reassured and cooled by the light breeze, watched the receding figure of his only helper disappear into the tangled undergrowth.

Last night, he thought, was so strange. He had seen Sarah as he had never seen her before. They had come to Ulundi to hear the speeches of the prime minister of the Zulu homeland. He had been sent to find out the part that the prime minister was playing in the situation this beautiful country had found itself in. Lester had been amazed at the lack of discrimination; he had seen in Ulundi very little rearing of the head of the separatism of apartheid. He was on a mission to find out what was going to happen to Nelson Mandela, the political prisoner on Robben Island, west of the coast of Bloubergstrand. He had changed many of his preconceived ideas the other day when he had been led—in protest—by Sarah to the re-enactment of the battle that had taken place in Zululand 110 years ago. It had been a gathering of the descendants of the principle role players to bring together the English, Zulu, and Boers (or Afrikaaners) for the first time since the war.

Always having prided himself on his ability to hide his feelings, he was amazed at the array of emotions that had run through him as he had stood on that bleak battlefield, devoid of everything but the stone cairns that marked the spots that so many of the English troops had made their final resting place. He recalled how he had watched the men representing the Boer soldiers climb the Isandlwana Mountain, bearing lighted torches along the edge, to draw in flame the sphinx-like shape of the hill against the early evening turquoise sky. As he had gazed at the image he had heard the deep guttural growl of the Zulu battle cry—Usuthu—being chanted to the accompaniment of stamping feet as the first line of warriors appeared over the ridge. He had felt a cold wash of fear as the magnificent warriors in full battle dress slowly and menacingly approached the old site of the army camp. Suddenly, as if a switch had been thrown, there was dead silence. Lester had felt a momentary sense of relief as he relaxed from the tension of the moment, but it had been broken by the plaintive sound of a bugler, heralding in the voices of the Welsh Men’s Choir singing the regimental song of the slain 24th Regiment.

The words of the song he had sung so often as a schoolboy at sports events had run through his mind, gathering new meaning, as he had gazed at the bleak landscape.

Men of Harlech, march to glory,

See your banner famed in story,

Waves of burning words before ye

Britain scorns to yield!

Mid the fray see dead and dying

Friends and foe together lying

All around the arrows flying

Scatter sudden death.

As he had felt on the battlefield watching the re-enactment of the events, he once again felt every hair on his body rise with the cold wash of emotion. His side was throbbing as he felt himself losing consciousness again.

*    *    *

After dinner they had gone to the hotel bar for a nightcap before turning in. He was used to Sarah always turning up in sloppy trousers and a simple blouse, or, in cold weather a jersey. That night she had appeared in a figure-hugging black dress, and her thick dark hair was loosened from its usual restricting rubber band and was cascading over her shoulders. They had sat down at a table together but had soon joined by a few more guests, making a rather unusual group. Animated but carefree, Sarah had scintillated.

At another table had sat an elderly Zulu gent who, looking extremely uncomfortable in his ancient, immaculate, grey, pin-striped suit, was constantly drawing his gaze. The old man had said nothing as he had sipped his drink, but it was his eyes that had fascinated Lester whenever he had caught his glance. Sometimes accusing, at other times compassionate, they had struck a memory that he had struggled to recall. He was sure that he had not seen the gentleman before, but those eyes had haunted him. Tearing his glance away, he had looked at the collection of people around his table.

Sarah had entered into an argument with a red-haired giant of a man named Rolf about the abnormal amount of Victoria Crosses won at Rorke’s Drift during the Anglo-Zulu War of the previous century. A middle-aged woman with a strong Canadian accent had joined in. There is no such thing as heroism on the battlefield. It is purely a matter of reaction and survival.

Are you agreeing with Rolf that the Victoria Crosses awarded at Rorke’s Drift were only given in order to save Britain’s face after the disaster at Isandlwana the previous day? Sarah had looked at Rolf to gain knowledge of his reaction. He had bristled.

"No, poppie, you are putting words in my mouth. All I’m trying to point out is that more VCs should have been awarded at Kambula a few months later. Now, there was bravery; it was not just reaction but premeditated bravery where men, after having reached the safety of their own lines, returned to the battlefield to rescue their companions who had been wounded. They gave up their own safety to help others, some dying in the effort. At Rorke’s Drift they had no other choice; they fought bravely in what was a kill-or-be-killed situation."

The Canadian lady had introduced herself to the little group. By the way, my name is Joan Matthews. I am researching the war. Rolf here has an interesting point but is obviously biased. Did a past member of your family fight at Kambula to make you speak with such conviction? Rolf had looked extremely embarrassed as Joan’s words drew the attention of everybody at the table to the conversation.

Actually, yes, my great-great-grandfather fought at Isandlwana and Kambula. He survived Isandlwana but was wounded at Kambula and succumbed to his injuries a few days later in the field hospital. Before he died he wrote down his experiences of both battles. He was one of the wounded who was retrieved from the battlefield by an unknown hero. The writings were given to his friend, Hugh, to give to his pregnant wife, Emily. Tom, my great-great-grandfather was a strapping red-haired Irishman, and all our family had to remember him by was his colouring and that letter of incredible bravery of the men who fought at Kambula.

You’ve caught my interest. I would really appreciate being able to read the letter and to use it as material for my article.

Impossible. The letter was given to my great-grandmother by her mother and was destroyed some years later when the farm she and my great-grandfather had was burned to the ground during the Anglo-Boer War. They and their children were thrown into a concentration camp by the British. The story has been passed down by word of mouth, and my reason for coming here is to try to trace the family and find the original farm—Dooringrand.

Lester looked at Joan. Did you manage to see the re-enactment of the battle of Isandlwana the other day?

Unfortunately I arrived too late, she responded. What was it like? I’d like to know.

If you had been there you would never have even entertained the thought of the VCs just being given to soothe the English back home. I have never felt such almost claustrophobic fear as I did when I heard the low throb of the war chant and felt the ground vibrate under my feet at the approach of just a few hundred Zulus. At Rorke’s Drift it was a matter of just over a hundred men, many of them in the field hospital and unable to fight, who turned back an attack of about four thousand Zulus. There has been much said about the retreat of the Zulus being consequent of the approach of Chelmsford’s men from Isandlwana, but it is a legend locally among both white and black that the Zulus retreated after giving a salute in recognition of the extreme bravery shown.

At this point Lester had felt compelled to look at the old Zulu gent whose piercing gaze was drawing his attention again. He felt dizzy as he was held captive by eyes that were strangely young and soft, not unlike those of a gazelle, in an old face wrinkled like parchment. It was then that he had first felt the pain. Feeling beads of perspiration break out on his forehead he had tried to catch Sarah’s attention. She immediately had sensed that something was wrong, and, after a few whispered words, they had excused themselves. As they had stood up to leave, the old man also had stood up. He had shuffled out into the foyer, an enigmatic expression on his face. Passing through the doorway Sarah had turned to Rolf. Hold that thought, and order the same again for me. I’ll just see that Lester is OK and come back, as I would like to hear about the farm. See you.

Outside his door Lester had apologised, saying that it was probably just the worst case of indigestion he had had ever had. Sarah had retorted that it may be food poisoning. Definitely not. Been there. Read the book. Seen the movie. This feels more physical—like appendicitis—only mine is long gone. I’ve got it! I must have pulled a muscle cutting the steak at dinner tonight; the meat was a bit tough. Sarah had smiled and said goodnight.

Chapter Two

Ulundi Valley 1989

The old man, Nomzaza, stepped out of the air-conditioned foyer into the stifling night air. He slowly made his way across the car park before climbing into his old bakkie. It was years since he had learned to drive, and he had still not mastered the gear shift. The old pick-up truck protested noisily as he went from neutral to first and then slowly pulled off. Tonight, while sitting in the bar at the hotel, he had felt very close to his great-grandfather, Mhelwentombi, and he had finally realised what had kept Mhelwentombi’s spirit from rest.

Turning into the main road he grated into third gear and headed towards the township where he shared a little house with his son, daughter-in-law, and three grandchildren. A frown wrinkled his forehead, and he changed direction, turning onto the airport road. He was in no mood to face the squabbling family tonight. He drove off the road, going deeper and deeper into the bush. He drew the bakkie to a stop and, taking a package wrapped in brown paper from the glove compartment, he left the vehicle and slowly made his way through the undergrowth on foot. Is this what I have become? he asked himself. "When my father named me Nomzaza for warrior, did he see a tired old man, dressed in the trappings of the white man, drinking the white man’s beer from a bottle and living on a pittance of a pension?" Shaking his head he slowly took his time to move along the terrain, removing his clothing until he stood naked. He then took an old leather umatsha from the parcel and pulled the little covering over his loins. He looked up at the heavens, the moon a large, pale, golden orb above him. Stretching his arms above his head Nomzaza felt at that moment that if he could touch a star then he could hold on to it forever. Did not the very name ‘Zulu’ mean ‘heavens’? Was not the Zulu nation known ‘as the children of the stars’? Once the Zulu nation had been as brilliant and countless as the stars. Sadly, Nomzaza began to move through the silvery darkness, his feet choosing their path, the warm air blanketing him like a soft kaross.

As he skirted a small group of thatched huts, a dog growled. On reaching the thorn hedge he walked along its stretch, taking care to avoid the sharp thorns and the