Revenge of an Englishman Read online

  The sun was starting to rise by the time I woke up the next morning. I heard noises outside the tent which told me that the barbarians who were holding me captive were already awake. In my dreams, I dreamt about England and my home. I also dreamt about the buried treasure which I had left England to find. Both England and the treasure seemed out of my reach forever now.

  Breakfast was delivered to me in the form of cold meat and water. It was delivered by the same person who had delivered last night's dinner. The food consisted of the same ingredients as last night's dinner. The only difference was that the cooked meat had now gotten cold.

  "Where are we?" I asked him, first in Dutch and then in English. The expression on his face told me that this barbarian was too primitive to understand either language.

  Without answering me, the man who delivered breakfast left the tent and then returned a short time after. The man returned with garments which he then handed me. Upon receiving the garments I immediately began to inspect them as the man once more exited the tent.

  The garments contained a shirt, waistcoat, and brown boots. Each of the items of clothing was light-green, except for the brown boots. They were all styled in a European fashion, which I took as a good sign. On the collar of the shirt, there was a stained red spot. I studied the spot and tried to rub it away with my thumb. The spot remained on the shirt and I hoped it wasn't dried blood. There was no odour on the garments so after I finished studying them I quickly put them on.

  Once I put on the garments I left the tent. I had stayed in the tent all night but now I was ready to explore and find out more. The fact that the black people had European clothes in their possession meant that they were somehow in contact with civilised people. This prospect gave me some hope of survival.

  "Wait! Don't move," someone shouted in Dutch to me.

  As I turned to see who the caller was I was immediately surrounded by barbarians with their spears pointed directly at me. They snarled their teeth at me and I felt my bowels move. The savages had been guarding my tent and as soon I stepped out from the protection of the tent and into the blistering hot day the guards bounced on me.

  The voice that I heard before continued shouting something, this time it spoke in another language. The savages raised their spears away from the direction of my body and eased their stances. The voice was commanding them to disengage.

  The source of the voice soon became apparent to me as the young boy that I had spoken to the night before soon came into my peripheral view. Now that I had rested and eaten I was able to observe his physical appearance better. He was significantly shorter than the other savages and he wore different attire. His face was youthful and his body was underdeveloped and lacked muscle. I still figured that he must have been around sixteen years of age. As he walked towards me and the group of spear-wielding barbarians that had encircled me, I noted that he walked in the same manner that a person with authority would walk.

  "This way," he said to me, once he grabbed me by the arm and started leading me towards some destination.

  "Where are we going?" I asked him but he did not respond.

  The armed guards that had set upon me when I left my tent also began to follow us. The surge of hope that I felt when I put on the garments was quickly diminishing. As the black young boy continued pulling my arm towards his intended destination I felt my legs begin to tremble and knees start to weaken.

  "Please, tell me. Where are you taking me?" I begged the boy.

  "To see the king," the boy simply uttered.

  I was led to the large tent beside the fire, in the centre of the makeshift camp. The young boy let go of my arm and then told me to remain standing where I was. He then entered the tent and re-emerged from it one minute later. He then told me to follow him inside the tent.

  The interior of the tent was much more impressive than I had expected. It was at least ten times the size of the stuffy tent that I had been given as a refuge to rest for the night. Sheets of different colours hung down from the sides of the tent in decoration and there were cushions and carpets with artful designs on the floor. Apart from the young black savage and myself, who had just entered the tent, there were three other people inside the structure. Two armed niggers stood at either side of the third one. The third man was the leader of the camp and he sat down on three cushions, raised on top of each other, on the floor. His eyes were fierce and I could feel them pierce me.

  "May I present to you," the young boy began in Dutch, "King Shaka Zulu, the King of the mighty Zulus, the people of the heavens."

  I instinctively bowed upon hearing that I stood in front of royalty. It was the etiquette of an Englishman to behave in such a manner. The result of my bowing was favourable as I saw King Shaka Zulu's piercing gaze ease a little at my reaction. I think he even grinned a little.

  "First, he wants to confirm that you are English," the translator spoke to me.

  "Yes, I am," I told him, "I am a servant of George Augustus Frederick, King George IV. The King of England is a just ruler and would not look kindly on one of his loyal subjects being mistreated or harmed."

  Shaka Zulu paused for a minute and processed what the translator told him. Although I could not be certain that the translation was word-for-word accurate, from Shaka's response I believed that it was accurate. At first, the supposed-king looked angry at what he had heard but his facial muscles and body soon mellowed and he shrugged. He then started speaking in his foreign language.

  "Good. Then you know what muskets are?" the translator continued to speak to me.

  "Of course," I replied.

  "King Shaka Zulu, the ruler of the people of the heavens, wants you to develop similar weapons for him. He has many enemies that are always attacking our land and killing our people and livestock. King Shaka wants a weapon that will protect his people."

  I spoke the truth and told the translator that I had no idea how to develop weapons that complex and clever. I told him I understood the science behind the invention, but that I did not possess the skills to duplicate it.

  "Well, you will have our resources at your disposal and you will remain our guest here until you have delivered these weapons," the boy responded.

  "But what if I can't?" I asked in a voice that displayed my desperation.

  "It is best not to think about that. It is in your best interest to succeed."

  After a prolonged silence, during which Shaka Zulu stared at me the whole time, he then spoke to one of the armed guards at his side. The guard then retrieved a rusted musket that was hidden beneath one of the decorated carpets in the tent and he handed it to me. The translator explained to me that I could use the musket as an example and try to replicate it.

  "I suggest you start immediately," the translator said independently of Shaka Zulu.

  Chapter 3 - Shaka Zulu

  Initially, I was able to count the days, weeks, and then the months that went by while I was in captivity, but soon I lost count and I reckoned several years had passed. It did not take long for me to realise that I was not going to be rescued or released. I came to this conclusion within the first few weeks of my captivity. I also came to learn more about the people who were holding me captive. They truly were barbaric people and none of them were more barbaric than their leader and king, King Shaka Zulu. The premise that I was going to make weapons to help defend Shaka Zulu's people was only partially correct. King Shaka Zulu and his people were warriors and conquerors and they frequently fought other tribes. When Shaka and his people were victorious they took all possession from the other tribe, this included land and all of the females.

  At one stage during my imprisonment, I wrote about my observations about the tribe using a tanned hide of some beast as parchment and a piece of charcoal as my writing tool. However, when the marking in the tanned hide was discovered both of the items were immediately removed from my presence and I never saw them again or got another chance to write. For diverting my attention away from the assembling of weapon
s for the barbarians, King Shaka Zulu punished me by not giving me food or water for four days. After that, I learned my lesson and worked hard to give him satisfactory results.

  The translator rarely left my side throughout all my time in captivity after the markings on the tanned hide was discovered. He was the person who woke me up in the morning, he was the person who watched me work throughout the day and he was the person who ensured I fell asleep in my tent each night. He was accompanied by three warriors and their lengthy weapons, but he seemed to have command over them.

  The surroundings which I worked in changed significantly over the period. At first, I thought it was because King Shaka Zulu knew that I needed a decent workspace, resources and some essential humanity basics such as the feeling of sunlight and wind upon my face. I thought that the King was showing some kindness towards me. However, that was not the truth.

  As Shaka Zulu forged a kingdom for himself and expanded and conquered many tribes, he built up resources and large areas of land. Many resources of mineral, wood and metal were gathered and stockpiled near his designated palace. I was given access to the resources to try and manufacture muskets, and therefore I was given lodgings near King Shaka's palace, although I am unsure if it could even be called a palace.

  I was soon allowed to roam from my tent, where I slept, to the tent I used as a workshop, and to the heavily guarded area where the resources were stored. Each time I took a resource from the stockpile it was observed and memorised by the warriors who were guarding them. The translator always accompanied me so he would enquire why I would need each resource as well to ensure that all materials were used efficiently. They were primitive people, but they were intelligent.

  During some of my wanderings between the tent where I worked and the place where the resources were stockpiled, I occasionally got to glimpse at King Shaka Zulu. My opinion of him drastically changed as time went by. When I was first brought to his tent I didn't overly fear him and I wasn't afraid to look him directly in the eyes, but now he terrified me. Whenever I saw him and took a glance at him, I only saw darkness in his eyes. His face was always stern and he looked as if he was ready to murder at any given moment.

  On one specific occasion, King Shaka Zulu's warriors returned from a battle against a rival tribe where they were triumphant. There were great celebrations among the warriors and they were singing and yelping great noises into the air. However, when they stood before Shaka Zulu the warriors' moods changed. Shaka Zulu summoned his greatest, bravest and highest-ranked officers to step forward. When they veteran warriors stepped forward their king asked them to call out the warriors within his army that did not fight hard in battle and those who lingered at the back of the battle. After the veterans named the warriors that they felt didn't perform well during the conflict, Shaka Zulu had them slain as punishment and a warning to the other warriors. The king then asked if the warriors had come back with all their weapons. One warrior out of the entire group stepped forward with a shield, but no spear.

  "Don't you see that when you have no weapon you are weak?" Shaka Zulu asked the warrior. "Don't you know that when you are weak, you weaken me as your king?"

  As Shaka Zulu spoke he took his spear and drove it through the foot of the clumsy warrior that had lost his weapon in battle. Shaka then twisted the spear around and around, while still pierced in the warrior's foot, making the warrior scream out in pain. After this occurred, the translator quickly led me away from the scene. He told me that if Shaka Zulu saw me watching and judging his methods then I would probably receive the same treatment or worse.

  Keeping sane was almost as difficult as trying to replicate the musket. The savages were nothing like I had ever encountered before and I longed to be back home in London. They wore furs, danced and sang around fires and had seemingly no culture or sophistication. I wanted to be home among my countrymen and my beloved family. I wanted the ordeal to be over. During the long nights when I was alone and unable to sleep, I kept my sanity by thinking about how I would get revenge upon the three people who were responsible for my current situation. I planned and schemed about how I would make James, Charles and Edward suffer for wronging me. I must have devised at least a hundred plans of revenge against each of them while I was in captivity, each plan contained more malice than the last.

  Another way I was able to keep my sanity was the thoughts of my friends and family back home. I wondered if they missed me. Perhaps they assumed I was dead. Maybe, James, Charles and Edward told them some illness had befallen me and I died on the expedition. My thoughts dwelled on my family during the nights when I could no longer spend time consumed by hate. I desperately wanted to see my family again, to shake my father's hand and kiss my mother's cheek. I wanted to hear my little sister play a song by the piano one more time or for my brother to lecture me on the importance of a well-kept suit. I wanted to be reunited with my loved ones almost as much as I wanted revenge.

  One morning, during another sleepless night, the morning sun came accompanied by the screaming of women and children. I remained in my tent as I knew it was still being guarded and if I stepped outside I would have the unpleasant experience of being threatened with spears again. I stood up and listened to the screams of innocent people being cut short. I began pacing in the tent and my forehead and the palms of my hands began to sweat. This seemed like the end of the journey for me. I thought that another tribe was attacking the great Shaka Zulu and they were being merciless because that is what it sounded like. If it was another tribe then I knew that they would have absolutely no use for my life except to perhaps mock my pale skin. They would dispose of me without a second thought. The screaming of multiple people lasted for around an hour then everything went quiet. Everything was so still and silent. Then the translator arrived in my tent and told me to prepare for another day of creating weapons.

  "What happened?" I asked the translator later in the day, while I was working at moulding a musket frame.

  "Nothing," he responded simply.

  "I heard a lot of screaming earlier," I told him. "What was it about?"

  "Shaka Zulu's mother died. People are grieving publicly for King Shaka Zulu's loss and the country's loss."

  I told the translator that I was sorry for the loss of Shaka's mother and promised that I would pray for her. He told me not to bother praying. He also said that my apologies were meaningless and not worth anything. Finally, he said that if I wanted to do something that would help during this troubling and devastating time then I would complete the replica building of the muskets. The translator told me that both he and King Shaka Zulu were growing impatient by the lack of results. He said that I had been in captivity for a long time and despite having access to all of their resources, I was unable to deliver any results.

  "I need gun powder if you want these weapons to be successful. Without it, then these muskets will just be blunt objects that you can hit your enemies with."

  "That is a resource we do not have and have not yet been able to acquire. When we have it, you will have it. Until then I suggest you find another method to make these weapons work. If King Shaka Zulu thinks that you are not useful to him then he will quickly dismiss you."

  The word 'dismiss' suggests that he would release me from my captivity and make me leave his sight. However, this was not the meaning that was intended. During my captivity, I was informed about the cannibals that lived high in the nearby mountains, the tribes that still believed in human sacrifices and the area where the crocodiles ruled. If King Shaka Zulu was to dismiss me then it would mean that he would only send me to one of those three places.

  "I am worth more than creating weapons. I am an intellect and scholar," I told the translator.

  "You have told me this many times before. Though you cannot even make a musket shoot."

  "I am talented with numbers, languages and the art of debate. Why have me in a tent when I can be more useful to King Shaka Zulu. I can negotiate with other tribes, colonies, and the p
owers in Europe. King Shaka Zulu's reign could go uninterrupted and he could be allied with the greatest countries this world has ever known if you would allow me to stop making these useless weapons and instead do something more productive."

  The translator then said something to me that I knew I would never forget. Even without a tanned-hide and sharp-edged object to record the words, I knew they would never leave my mind.

  "King Shaka Zulu has conquered all the nearby tribes, except a few which he has strategically aligned himself with diplomatically. This morning, he purged all the dormant enemies that lived within his kingdom. There were wails crying and grief for his mother, sure, but there was also the pain of King Shaka Zulu's rage unleashed upon those who are not loyal to him. He killed man, woman and child. He removed entire families, root and stem, from his kingdom. King Shaka Zulu's reign is strong and will remain as such. There is no role or need for you. Make those weapons work, for your own sake."

  That chilling speech was the only conversation the translator and I had before two weeks of silence followed. The translator stopped being my watchman and instead that duty was solely left in the care of the three armed warriors. During those fourteen days, I was certain that my life was in dire jeopardy. Each night I thought about revenge, I thought about my family and I hoped that I would live to see another morning sun.

  The winds of providence blew and after two weeks of silence and nothing but contempt, the translator appeared in my tent one morning. He was out of breath and sweating. He looked visibly distraught and uneasy. I did not like him or any of the savages but when I saw that there was something wrong I shared his uneasiness.