all getting rather out of hand. ‘Only very slightly, ma’am.’
It was clear that the king’s sister’s knowledge of English was being exhausted, for she now nodded to Mzingeli to translate. ‘She know that Queen has sons. She would like to marry one. You help her?’
Simon gulped, quickly dismissing from his mind the irreverent vision of the portly Prince of Wales and the eighteen-stone Princess Nini attempting to copulate. ‘I fear that would not be possible, ma’am. The Queen’s sons are married already, and our religion and constitution allow only one husband at a time.’
The princess nodded, seemingly not disconcerted by the news. She pointed to the gourd. ‘Good beer. I make. Goodbyeing.’ Then, with a cheerful grin, she left.
Fonthill squatted again and, although not exactly yearning to drink beer at half past eight in the morning, took a sip from the gourd. Nini was right. It was excellent. Perhaps she could have made a match of it with that famous bon vivant Prince Edward after all . . . But the king was speaking again.
‘I trust you. Anyone who is friend of great English Queen must be honourable man. Everyone I talk to from other countries want me to give them my land. They say to dig in it but I think they put their own people on it. I know that world is changing and not like that of my father. Perhaps I must give in to these strong countries, like yours.’
The king was now looking hard at his guest and his face wore an expression of . . . what? Pleading? Desperation? Simon experienced a sudden sympathy for this man, who just wished to be left alone to live as his forebears had, but who clearly saw that he must somehow move with the times. A man who realised that he must change but not knowing which way to turn. A man under great pressure.
He cleared his throat to reply, but the king was continuing. ‘I say to Rhodes he can come here and dig. In return, he promise me,’ and he slapped one finger after another on to his palm, ‘one hundred pounds your money on first day of every lunar month, a thousand rifles with hundred thousand bullets, and steamboat for me on Zambezi. What happen? Nothing. Now, Portuguese, Germans and other English tell me I have done wrong and should sign with them. My inDunas say I must not sign my country away. What do I do? You honest man. You know great Queen. Tell me, what do I do?’
Fonthill frowned. What the hell to say? He took another, reflective drink from the gourd. Then, ‘I am English, of course, and your majesty will think that because of that I will favour the English in my reply. But I will attempt to be objective.’ He waited for Mzingeli to translate, for it was important that the tracker found the right words. Then he continued.
‘You know that the British Empire is the largest in the world. It has territories that are . . .’ his brain attempted to find a comparison that would be roughly accurate and also meaningful, ‘a hundred, hundred, hundred times bigger than Matabeleland and Mashonaland combined. It has ships that control the wide oceans and armies that exist in fifty countries or more. I myself have fought in these armies in five countries in the last five years and seen their power. If your majesty feels he must side with one of these great nations, then I have to say that he should choose the strongest, which is Britain.
‘As for the offers you are receiving from other English companies, I understand that you have already signed a treaty with Rhodes. I do not know this man well, but he is very rich and powerful - he owns many, many more oxen even than your majesty. He is a man of distinction in the Cape, and because of his prominent position, he would not - he could not - avoid keeping his word to you. So I recommend that you should put your trust in him.
‘However . . .’ Fonthill paused to allow Mzingeli to keep pace, but also to gather his thoughts. He found himself empathising with
It was clear that the king’s sister’s knowledge of English was being exhausted, for she now nodded to Mzingeli to translate. ‘She know that Queen has sons. She would like to marry one. You help her?’
Simon gulped, quickly dismissing from his mind the irreverent vision of the portly Prince of Wales and the eighteen-stone Princess Nini attempting to copulate. ‘I fear that would not be possible, ma’am. The Queen’s sons are married already, and our religion and constitution allow only one husband at a time.’
The princess nodded, seemingly not disconcerted by the news. She pointed to the gourd. ‘Good beer. I make. Goodbyeing.’ Then, with a cheerful grin, she left.
Fonthill squatted again and, although not exactly yearning to drink beer at half past eight in the morning, took a sip from the gourd. Nini was right. It was excellent. Perhaps she could have made a match of it with that famous bon vivant Prince Edward after all . . . But the king was speaking again.
‘I trust you. Anyone who is friend of great English Queen must be honourable man. Everyone I talk to from other countries want me to give them my land. They say to dig in it but I think they put their own people on it. I know that world is changing and not like that of my father. Perhaps I must give in to these strong countries, like yours.’
The king was now looking hard at his guest and his face wore an expression of . . . what? Pleading? Desperation? Simon experienced a sudden sympathy for this man, who just wished to be left alone to live as his forebears had, but who clearly saw that he must somehow move with the times. A man who realised that he must change but not knowing which way to turn. A man under great pressure.
He cleared his throat to reply, but the king was continuing. ‘I say to Rhodes he can come here and dig. In return, he promise me,’ and he slapped one finger after another on to his palm, ‘one hundred pounds your money on first day of every lunar month, a thousand rifles with hundred thousand bullets, and steamboat for me on Zambezi. What happen? Nothing. Now, Portuguese, Germans and other English tell me I have done wrong and should sign with them. My inDunas say I must not sign my country away. What do I do? You honest man. You know great Queen. Tell me, what do I do?’
Fonthill frowned. What the hell to say? He took another, reflective drink from the gourd. Then, ‘I am English, of course, and your majesty will think that because of that I will favour the English in my reply. But I will attempt to be objective.’ He waited for Mzingeli to translate, for it was important that the tracker found the right words. Then he continued.
‘You know that the British Empire is the largest in the world. It has territories that are . . .’ his brain attempted to find a comparison that would be roughly accurate and also meaningful, ‘a hundred, hundred, hundred times bigger than Matabeleland and Mashonaland combined. It has ships that control the wide oceans and armies that exist in fifty countries or more. I myself have fought in these armies in five countries in the last five years and seen their power. If your majesty feels he must side with one of these great nations, then I have to say that he should choose the strongest, which is Britain.
‘As for the offers you are receiving from other English companies, I understand that you have already signed a treaty with Rhodes. I do not know this man well, but he is very rich and powerful - he owns many, many more oxen even than your majesty. He is a man of distinction in the Cape, and because of his prominent position, he would not - he could not - avoid keeping his word to you. So I recommend that you should put your trust in him.
‘However . . .’ Fonthill paused to allow Mzingeli to keep pace, but also to gather his thoughts. He found himself empathising with
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