"Think twice before you take up the bullet and the gun
for you will find a soldier's life is not a happy won."
Private Poole (homesick)
The chemistry of human attraction is a complex thing. No one can say why Netty Poole, husband of Sam Poole and mother of five sturdy sons, chose to have an affair with Ted Machin which resulted in the birth of Harry Poole, the Potteries poet. On one thing there was general agreement. Despite producing so many children, Netty still retained much of her figure and was known throughout the neighbourhood as "a fine looking woman and a good mother too". She could receive no greater compliment. Equally Ted Machin who delivered sacks of coal throughout the back streets of the Potteries was considered a fine figure of a man so perhaps their union was fated. At any rate he set his sights on Netty one morning over a courteously offered cup of tea served in the clean but cramped kitchen.
As their eyes met over these same cups the attraction was mutual, the only barrier to immediate consummation of their passion being the layer of grime that steadfastly clung to Ted's body, the result of years of coal hauling. The only part of his body that seemed immune from the dirt was his fiery head of hair which burned bright ginger. Ever practical, Netty arranged an assignation for the next time Ted was due to make a delivery. She estimated that, for the sake of decorum, the duration of this could not be much longer than it took to sip a moderately hot cup of tea.
Come the fateful day, Ted entered with a sack of coal which he emptied into the coal hole next to the kitchen range. Meanwhile Netty spread newspapers on the kitchen floor. These had been thoughtfully pre-ironed beforehand so as to prevent the print coming off onto her skin or clothing. These arrangements having been made, she divested herself of sufficient clothing to allow Ted access then lay on the newspaper, placing still more sheets on top of her own body. Once this was done she motioned to Ted. Ted unbuttoned quickly; lay on top of her and after a certain amount of guidance they began. The newspaper proved an effective barrier to the dirt but not, I fear, to the conception of Harry Poole. The trouble was that Ted allowed himself to be distracted by the newspapers that lay between him and so he began to read the classifieds....
"Gentleman seeks same for mutual companionship and to embark upon the vicissitudes of life with a good heart."
"Position of Scullery maid available following sudden and unexpected departure of previous incumbent. Good plain girl wanted. No airs and graces. Applications to the lady of the house..."
"Governess sought to care for recent widower's children. To bring comfort in a gentleman's hour of need."
He began to imagine the lives that some of these people lived. Meanwhile Netty was doing the same.
"Madame Osiris...Spirit readings and fortune telling. Guaranteed contact or your deposit returned. Study the following testimonials."
The two of them were so distracted that they failed to anticipate Ted's climax with the result that nine months later young Harry was born.
* * *
One Sunday, just over a month after the unfortunate accident, Netty prepared a large breakfast laden with bacon, egg, melted cheese and kidneys for Sam Poole. It was as he was endeavouring to scoop most of this onto a Staffordshire oatcake and cram it into his mouth that she told him the good news causing him to drop most of the contents back onto the plate.
This oatcake had been bought by Netty from "Crawshaw's Cakerie" but the actual recipe was hers. She had bumped into Olive Crawshaw one day and remarked on the black eye that she was sporting. Olive burst into tears on Netty's shoulder and said that her husband Sidney, whose business was going badly, had laid her flat with a slap in the face. Then he had dragged her into the bedroom, stripped her naked and beaten her with his wide leather belt. Afterwards they had, in Olive's words, "made up".
Netty took her home and it was there that Olive spied some of her fresh made oatcakes and asked Netty how they were made? Netty felt sorry for the woman although she considered her a fool to be marrying such as Sidney Crawshaw and so she told her the recipe.
"You will need eight ounce of fine flaked oatmeal. Not the stuff old Mortenson sells neither. The way he stores stuff it'll be like buying glue."
Olive took a pencil stub and the scrap of old envelope that she was using for a shopping list and began to dutifully write the recipe down.
"Then you take eight ounce plain white flour, a teaspoon of salt and you mix all of this together and stir well. Next you'll need half a pint of good fresh creamy milk mixed with a pint of warm water. Take some of that and dissolve half an ounce of fresh yeast in it. Add a teaspoon of sugar then leave it to ferment."
"How will I know when that happens?"
"Bubbles girl. It'll start to bubble. Now mix everything together until you have a good batter then cover it with a clean cloth and leave it in a warm place for about an hour. Then all you need do is grease your griddle and pour some of the batter onto it whilst the griddle is hot. Turn each oatcake every three minutes. You should be able to do about twelve oatcakes with that mixture."
Olive took this recipe home and Sid, alive to a business opportunity, made up a batch and proceeded to sell them door to door. These proved so popular that he was able to open a shop, 'Crawshaw's Cakerie'. In time he took on extra staff who Olive supervised. Eventually Sid was able to sell his oatcakes so cheaply that it no longer made sense for women to cook them at home. Which is why Netty had also started buying them.
Sam knew nothing of Netty's part in the founding of a dynasty. At that moment he had his own to consider. Naturally he was pleased. Well, if not exactly pleased then not unhappy. It was just the nagging question of when exactly was the last time they had actually ..well.. you know? But he shrugged off his doubts, finished his breakfast and the large mug of hot sweet tea that his wife had poured him, no doubt to ease the shock. Then, under Netty's eager ministrations he went off to 'The German Prince' public house to celebrate the "good" news. There he met his elder brother Perceval Poole who was known, due to his previous employment on the Trent Mersey Canal, as a man who had seen the world and knew a thing or too. A man therefore not to be trusted when it came to affairs of the heart or matters of credit.
"Ah brother brother," he shouted, clapping Sam on the back, "to what do we owe this singular visit?"
"A pint for this ne'er do well," nodded Sam to the barman, one George Allbright.
Presently, as was proper, Sam apprised Percival of the news of his and Netty's good fortune.
"Georgie boy, another round," shouted Percy, holding out his hand for the cash. This process was repeated several times until, the two of them, empty pocketed and somewhat the worse for wear left the public house and walked towards Mulberry Street where, so Percy assured Sam, they would find Ned Cutler who owed him some money. On the way they talked.
"A grand event brother," said Percy, slapping Sam's back for the hundredth time. "
"To be sure Percy, it is."
"Naturally the proper form must be observed."
"Naturally brother."
"So we are agreed then that there must be a birthing?"
"Of course. The proper form."
Now a birthing was what passed in those parts for a baptism for, in common with many families in that area, the Pooles were three time losers. They would all solemnly gather within a church precinct for family births, marriages and funerals and scarce any other time. A birthing was a time for celebration, a chance to have a party. But it had a deeper meaning. Some residual fear of a child being dragged off to limbo should it die before baptism caused them to confine both mother and child to the purdah of the bedroom until this ceremony had been performed. Once this was done both were free to venture out into the wide world where carriages, steam trains, raging floods, TB, cholera, dysentery or roof slates could carry them off for all anyone knew or cared. Once the birthing ceremony was ended the party could begin. There would be cakes and ale, potted meat sandwiches, tongue and haslett. From all around the Pooles would swoop. Familiar Pooles such as Uncle Percy and Aunt Jess. Unknown Pooles, forgotten Pooles such as well.I forget for the moment..but more than you would care to meet on a dark night at any rate. And there would be friends and hangers on, eager to share in the feast. Such as Dougie Marsdon with his fine voice and flatulence or Emily Williams who was looking for her fourth husband. Oh it would be a grand occasion all right.
So it was decided. Unfortunately the pledge could not be sealed courtesy of Ned Cutler because he was at that moment resident in a police cell, sleeping off a hangover whilst the constabulary decided whether to charge him. They had a choice of malicious damage - namely one bar stool hurled though the window of the Seven Dials Public House or assault and battery on the person of James "Big Jim" Starkey who had followed the aforementioned stool through the window. The only mitigating circumstances which might have swayed a tender hearted, over liberal, magistrate, of which there were few in the Potteries, was that Ned had a broken arm at the time of the assault. This coupled with the fact that certain witnesses were prepared to swear that Big Jim was the one who hurled the stool eventually persuaded the police to reluctantly let him go with no more than a stern warning.
So Sam and Percy made their way back to Sam's house to sample a bottle which he kept for special occasions. The two of them sat in the downstairs parlour talking loudly as the afternoon turned into evening, then night and the bottle was finished. Whereupon Sam, who had drunk less, left his snoring brother slumped in an armchair and made his way upstairs where, in time honoured fashion, he celebrated the good news once more in Netty's arms.
* * *
In due course the time came to call Mrs Hapgood, the midwife. A woman whose skill at delivery, when sober, was legendary. This was both Netty's and Mrs Hapgood's sixth delivery together.
"Don't worry dear," she said. "It's not as if you haven't done it before. It'll be quick you mark my words. Don't forget you've already had five to prepare the way."
In the event the delivery turned out to be harder than both of them expected. A factor which Mrs Hapgood attributed to the fact that it had been many years since the previous delivery and after such a time the machinery was bound to "be a little rusty". After a nine-hour labour, the head of Harry finally made its way into the world, the sight of which caused the midwife to let out an ear splitting shriek before falling in a dead faint.
Fearing some calamity - the death of the mother, the child or both - Sam and Percy, who was there to provide support to the father, burst into the normally sacrosanct birthing chamber, having first told Sam's sons to stay back. Some sights, Sam reasoned, should not be shown to young men of an impressionable age. There they discovered the midwife slumped at the foot of the bed upon which lay Netty, legs apart, with the emerging head of Harry in between. Percy gasped at the sight which had caused Mother Hapgood to faint so spectacularly.
"Look at his hair. It's like it's on fire. It reminds me of Ted Mach..."
Sam was quick to grasp the situation. If he had his suspicions he was gentleman enough to mask them.
"Didn't one of our uncles have a carrot top?"
"Er yes, no, I mean yes. That is. Well I don't think he had so much of it."
"Naturally Perce. He was going bald."
Percy nodded his agreement, adding an image of fictional baldness to the fictional carrot top of a fictional uncle.
"Well what are we going to do?" he asked for, like Sam, this was the first time he had been present at a birth."
"It seems to me Perce old chap as we have two choices. We can either wake up Mother Hapgood here or else the two of us can grab hold of the baby's hair and pull as hard as we can and hope for the best."
They woke Mother Hapgood.
* * *
There is little of note to record of Harry's childhood save for three important instances which proved important later. Firstly at the age of nine he stole a dray horse and rode it around the streets pursued by some of the local women. The chase lasted half an hour and had Harry a little more time to master Roughneck, as the horse was called, there is a strong possibility that he would never have been caught and that the steed would have taken him all the way to Derby. As it was Roughneck bucked him into a neighbour's back yard where the women caught him and led him away, like a common criminal, to the horse's owner.
The owner, Tam Muybridge, saw the women approach with the young lad and his horse, who if truth were to be told preferred gallivanting about with a lightweight young horse thief to pulling a cart. Tam rolled up his sleeves and spat as he ambled over to inspect his horse for damage. When he was satisfied that there was none he proceeded to unbuckle his very wide leather belt and give Harry "a good leathering". The crowd of women, satisfied that order had been restored and lawlessness put down, made their way home - as did Harry.
When he got there, his eyes were still red from crying but that was not to be the end of it. By this time his father had heard all about the "Mulberry Street horse rustler" as Harry was now known. So he too gave Harry a beating, though in deference to Tam Muybridge's greater justification it was less severe than the first.
"There," he said, "that's to ensure that you never steal another horse again."
This admonishment had the desired result. Harry only disobeyed his father once.
The second incident was when Harry got to meet his real father. It was when he saw his first football match. This took place on a piece of waste ground near the canal. Surprisingly it was Netty who took the young boy. Sam professed to have no time for "a lot of silly buggers running around in knickerbockers who will more than likely miss work on account of a busted head". Then again perhaps it was not so surprising since in the team was none other than Ted Machin, then in his prime and a lion of a man when called upon to tackle, hack or punt, his fiery hair instilling terror in his opponents. Harry came to look forward to these trips. It wasn't so much the football as such but the liveliness of it all. So much more exciting than the streets in which he played. You could see it in the faces of the crowd. The anticipation, the frayed tempers, the ecstasy as a goal was scored. All human life was there. Harry at least sensed this even if he was too young to actually know it. Years later he too was to know the adulation of those same crowds though not on the football field.
Every game began with the same ritual. No matter how familiar the opponent there was always an argument with the opposing captain, the umpire and anyone else who cared to have a say on the rules. Sometimes tackling was allowed, sometimes the ball could be handled, sometimes not. On occasion these arguments were more interesting than the match itself. So much so that Harry often wished they would never end. When he told her this, Netty expressed the view that if she had wanted to take him to a boxing match she would have done so. Yet Harry noticed that she never said as such when Ted Machin was involved.
Afterwards, win or lose, the team would make their way to the Copeland Arms Hotel to change their clothes There bloodied noses were staunched, sore bruises rubbed in embrocation and broken limbs set. The smell of mud, blood sweat and liniment hung in the air. Afterwards, over "a small libation" the match was refought as a thousand missed chances were recalled. And they did not confine themselves to that game. Each player was possessed of a collective memory that stretched back over past encounters, regardless of whether they had played in them or not for each had heard the stories before and knew them all by heart. So much so that if you had asked any one of them to swear on a bible that he had played in every game mentioned he would have done so unhesitatingly.
Harry noticed that Netty and Ted talked closely in whispers. The occasional laughter and giggles that his mother uttered surprised him for he had never seen her behave this way when at home. But soon he did not notice because Ted never failed to slip him a shilling and the other players adopted him as their mascot and plied him with cream soda and humbugs. So that he scarce noticed the absence of his mother when she and Ted slipped upstairs to one of the Copeland Arms' master bedrooms to emerge half an hour later flushed and bright eyed. Nothing was said of this when they went home - neither by Netty nor, instinctively, by Harry. If Sam suspected anything or had heard any gossip or rumour he too maintained his silence.
The third incident showed Harry to be as precocious as the young Christ when he went to the temple to lecture his elders. In fact Harry was roughly the same age when he discovered that he had a facility with words. This was all the more surprising since he could neither read or write to any certain degree. What he could do was rhyme. He was soon able to string together doggerel verses to amuse his friends and family. One such verse followed the sighting of a courting couple.
Down along the canal zone
Whilst walking on me own
Twas there I saw Danny West
Kissing an old crone
Whose name was Lily Martin
A frisky lass was she
Danny was just starting
Down on bended knee
To ask her hand in marriage
She'd never heard the like
So she hailed a passing carriage
Shouting Danny "On yer bike"
The last line was inspired by the fact that Harry had recently seen and been much impressed by the new and relatively rare high wheeled bicycle. Danny West, not of a poetic sensibility nor blessed with a sense of humour gave Harry the beating of his life.
The Poole household were so impressed by this display of genius that not a family member voiced any opposition when Netty stated that there was no way that this her youngest and most promising son was to follow the others down the pit. It was agreed that, with the other five in work, there was enough spare money to send a boy on to university if he were prepared to live modestly. This, even though Sam Junior was about to get married to pretty Lisa Conway from the next street whilst young Jimmy had an 'understanding' with Christine Shepton.
Alas it was not to be, despite his facility with language, which his teacher, Mr Partington brushed aside as mere drollery.
"Unfortunately Mrs Poole I have to be honest in these matters as I find it avoids needless heartache in the future. Your son is, there is no kinder way to put it, a dunderhead. He can scarcely put pen to paper, let alone matriculate. I fear that it would be impossible to construct one half-imbecilic clerk out of the matter that is young Poole. Depend on it ma'am, the sooner you reconcile yourself to his following the noble profession chosen by your husband and indeed his brothers before him, the happier the both of you will be."
Netty said nothing. She merely stood up and walked out of the classroom, head aloft. But on the face of it she had to admit that it seemed Mr Partington was right. There was no way that Harry could pass the necessary entrance examinations. When she first asked for the interview with his teacher, she had nursed the, now forlorn, hope that he would agree to giving the lad extra tuition. But in spite of this setback she was convinced that she was right and that Harry was destined for great things. What she needed was confirmation of this. Then fate intervened. On the way home she noticed a brightly coloured handbill on the pavement. Curious, she picked it up. There was a picture of an imposing but dignified woman clad in eastern garments. The handbill read..
"Madame Osiris...Spirit readings and fortune telling. Guaranteed contact or your deposit returned. Study the following testimonials."
A distant memory prodded at Netty. The name was familiar yet she could not place it.
"But there is something strange in this," she noted. "Some portent pertaining to my Harry."
Being a careful woman she naturally scrutinised the testimonials.
"A son of mine fell on Afghanistan's plains and I was sick for news of him. Madame Osiris saw fit to establish contact with him. Now I can rest easy in my heart."
"By aiding me in the contact of a recently deceased relative who had neglected to make adequate provision in the form of a will, despite himself being childless and myself, I believe, his closest heir, I was put in charge of a considerable fortune."
"This lady was very discrete in rendering me a service concerning an affair of the heart. I am utterly in her debt."
Netty scrutinised the last one carefully, wondering whether the price of a reading was beyond her means but, being practical, she considered "nothing ventured, nothing gained" and resolved to contact the medium. So it was that one wet November afternoon she and young Harry were ushered into the parlour of Madame Osiris.
The lady in question proved to be something of a disappointment. Indeed, if she had ever resembled her handbill it must have been many years ago. Since then age and it must be said, drink had taken their toll. As for her exotic eastern costume, that was a shabby affair. Netty noted that it was scarce fit to grace a pawnbrokers.
"Evenin'," hiccuped the woman, putting her hands together in front of her face so that her eyes seemed to hover above the fingertips. It was, thought Netty, very professionally done considering her condition.
"What is it you desire?"
"It's not for me, it's for my boy Harry."
"Oh? Which is it then? 'As he lost someone or do you want to know if 'e's going to be as rich as Croesus?"
Netty, who did not know who Croesus was, said, "I want his fortune told."
"Oroscope, cards or crystal?"
"I - I'm not sure. Which would you..?"
The old woman sighed.
"Personal 'oroscopes plotting someone's life from the cradle to the grave, including any significant facts that might be of use or interest. Price one guinea. Tarot readings utilising both the major and minor arcana ten bob. Less certain but still very accurate, tarot readings with the major arcana only five shillings."
There the woman halted and stood with her arms folded and a glare in her eye, one of which wandered disconcertingly.
"What about crystal?"
"Five minutes for fourpence. Readings subject to the whims of the spirit world."
"How about the cards? You said that one was .."
"Less certain," interrupted the woman, having already sized up Netty as one who will not part with money easily until she had ascertained the value of a thing. "What that means is that I might be able to see that he will marry a rich widow but not whether or not she has a squint or a hair lip."
As Madame Osiris surmised, Netty did not consider this fact too important.
"Five shillings is a lot."
"Tell you what dearie. Considering as it's you and I'm at a bit of a loose end at the moment let's call it two bob. Besides with a head of hair like what he's got it should be an interesting future."
The woman walked over to a table and began to separate the major arcana from the minor. Already in her head she was formulating her responses to the various cards that might turn up. Was the child fundamentally a fool or a magus? Did the woman want to know whether the lad would be lucky in love, successful in business or strong and happy? She knew that it was important to size up the customer beforehand in order to ensure they went away satisfied so risked a glance over her shoulder. The boy looked like a fool. But then to her all children seemed as such.
"Do you want your fortune told sonny?," she essayed.
Harry said nothing.
"Cat got your tongue?"
"He speaks enough when it suits him."
"Do you sonny?"
"His names Harold," said Netty.
"Harold. That's a nice name. After his father?"
Netty shook her head
"Grandfather?"
"Perhaps you'll find out in the cards."
The woman sighed. She had a feeling she was going to earn her two shillings. Already she could feel a touch of migraine approaching, a natural consequence and occupational hazard for someone who communes with the other side. She resumed sorting the cards and had almost finished when Netty dropped the thunderbolt.
"Actually I think we'll take the crystal Madame Osiris if you don't mind."
Madame Osiris let the cards drop to the table with a theatrical flourish.
"As you wish dear. Fourpence please, in advance."
Netty fumbled in her purse and handed over the money. Madame Osiris noticed that the four very worn pennies were about half the purse's contents. It seemed that was all she had intended to pay. The rest had been show. Fair enough. She had her own show to present. She then went around the room dimming the lights and considered that for a mere fourpence it was hardly worth burning any incense. To do her justice, this was only a momentary thought for, she reasoned, what is a crystal reading without incense? Placing the cards on the sideboard she dragged the table into the centre of the room and uncovered the crystal ball. Then sliding three chairs under the table, she motioned to the two of them to sit down.
In spite of her scepticism, the atmosphere of the room began to affect Netty. It was chill despite the hearth fire. She could see their dim reflections in the crystal and found herself strangely excited at the prospect of finding out her son's future. A smell of patchouli drifted across the room as the medium lowered her, not inconsiderable, frame onto the third chair. She gazed at the two revenants in front of her. For a fleeting instant Netty thought she detected a hint of malevolence in that look but dismissed it as sour grapes at the loss of one and eightpence. As the room filled with incense the medium's head began to roll from side to side. For the first time Harry began to take an interest in the proceedings. He was not of the age when you normally saw females writhing and moaning out loud. This was a new experience and he began to feel stirrings which affected him strangely.
"My spirit flies," shouted Madame Osiris, causing both of them to jump in their seats. "It soars over high mountains and sweeps across parched desert planes before it begins its long steep descent deep into the bowels of the earth to the land of the dead. Anubis, jackal headed god I call to thee 'Be my guide and protect me from harm'. Isis, a servant of thine craves audience with those who inhabit the land of the dead. Intercede with Set, Lord of Darkness so that I may contact the spirits who watch over the world of the living."
The woman's head fell forward and her voice receded to a low moan. After what seemed like hours, Harry began to fidget.
"Is it over?" he whispered.
"No love. It's just that the land of the dead is a long way a way."
"SSSH!!!" hissed the woman. "You can't hurry the spirits."
"we've only got five minutes."
Madame Osiris scowled.
"Hush. A figure approaches."
Harry and his mother began to peer in the direction of the woman's gaze. Having both decided that they saw nothing they stared at each other in puzzlement.
"Amon. Tis you my most faithful guide. We're in luck," she hissed under her breath. We should get a good session."
"That's a blessing," said Netty.
The woman pretended to ignore her.
"Amon, tell me. Use your powers to clear the mists of time and tell me what the future holds for little.little."
"Harry."
"For little Harry here. Amon. Do not shrink. Enter me now."
She screamed aloud but when she next spoke her voice was lower which made such a deep impression on Harry that several months later, in class, he specifically referred to the time 'Eamonn' entered the Madame and was caned for the indiscretion.
"I see a long journey."
"That's original," chirped Netty, already regretting the loss of fourpence.
"Well I do. A journey across the sea. I see a tall stranger."
"Dark is he?"
"I.How did you know?"
"Intuition."
"Who's giving this séance, you or me? Do you want this or not? It's all the same to me."
"Might as well carry on I suppose. Can't harm the boy."
"Well Mrs Poole. If you wouldn't mind being silent. Amon doesn't like noise. Now, where was I."
"With a tall dark stranger."
"Ah yes. I see him now. He comes from afar. Across the sea. He promises gold and riches and great.."she hesitated. "Wait a moment. There are more of them. This is strange..I don't..understand." Her voice grew higher and Netty and Harry began to be alarmed.
"There are thousands of them running across the plains with spears. They're screaming and chanting and there are explosions all around. A line of red. Oh my God they're."
She screamed. Not a theatrical scream, as mediums are prone to do during certain parts of their performance, but a genuine dyed in the wool bloodcurdling scream.
"Stop it you're frightening the boy," said Netty grabbing Madame Osiris by the arm.
Madame Osiris seemed to be fighting for breath.
"I'm not exactly doing myself much good dearie. Nothing like this has ever happened before."
"Well try looking at something more familiar. Will Harry marry?"
The woman bowed her head. her brows knitted in concentration.
"The mists are clearing. No..no.once more I am in that accursed land."
"Right that's it," said Netty rising. "come on Harry."
"No wait. I see something. A girl. As dark as those men. Quite attractive really. No, this can't be right. It's disgusting. They're, they're..no.no..no more. Amon fly. Fly back to land from whence you came."
At that point Amon decided it was best to leave, carried on the rising crescendo of the last of the medium's screams. Then all was silent.
"That's all we get for our money?"
Madame Osiris got out of her seat and went over to the roll top desk where it appeared she kept a goodly supply of gin. Having poured a large measure she downed it in one, pressed the fourpence into Netty's hand and pushed the two of them out the door. Then she poured herself another drink and sat down at the desk.
"Well well," she said. "Well well. Most unprofessional. What she meant was that for the first time she had seen something. No fakery but the real thing. Several things in fact and she didn't like any of them.
"I'm getting too old for this business," she said, debating whether to pour a third.
Meanwhile Netty and Harry stood outside. It had begun to rain.
"Well what was all that about?" she wondered.
* * *
After Harry's horoscope failed to reveal fame, fortune or marriage, Netty was resigned to whatever fate lay in store for her youngest child.
"Whatever happens he'll be all right," she said to her husband one night.
Sam nodded, intent on his pipe which aggravated his miner's lung but made him feel better nevertheless. Against his mother's wishes, Harry was given employment at the local pit. Netty took to her bed for a week when she heard the news and maybe this prompted her husband to suggest that he be given work above ground, Harry being young, it was agreed. He liked the work well enough, shunting coal trucks. The work was undemanding and even gave him some leisure time which he used to set snares for rabbits and birds. But later, when Harry was transferred to the pit face he grew to hate the heat and the dark and the sense of being buried alive. Privately he admitted to his mother that he saw the other men, his father and brothers included, as walking corpses toiling away in the underworld and was afraid that if he stayed below he would end up just like them. Netty wondered if this had anything to with Madame Osiris' fortune telling. She looked at her son who was a Poole, yet not one and realised that the lad had something of his real father's roving ways. He could not be imprisoned down a mineshaft. Harry needed to see the world.
Fortunately Uncle Percy came to the rescue. Through his connections Harry was able to obtain employment on the canal barges that delivered coal and clay up and down the country. So it was decided that young Harry would ship aboard a canal boat and see the world, such as it was. And see the world he did, returning home occasionally at six monthly or yearly intervals looking fit and weather beaten. He began to fill out as the life toughened him up so that neighbours marvelled at his broad frame - the more observant or uncharitable saying as how it reminded them of his real father.
The work also improved Harry's confidence, particularly with the opposite sex. He acquired a roving eye and a parrot that could swear in seven languages, one of them being English. Wherever the barge put down for the night he would invite girls to come and look at his parrot. Whether they stayed for the sake of the parrot or for Harry most of them were too modest to say but stay many of them did.
Harry's life might have continued in much the same vein but for certain dealings that he got embroiled in due to a want of ready cash. There was always a certain amount of pilfering in the canal trade. This was largely ignored. But when the constables heard of a large-scale fraud concerning Harry and a barrel maker named Tom Simpson, they decided to act. The barrels that Simpson made were used to transport crockery overseas rather than ale. Simpson, equally short of money, suggested that a profit could be made if Harry obtained some of these fully laden barrels and used his barge to transport them to another town, whereupon he could sell them.
Harry was in accord with this plan but the both of them made the mistake of discussing it in the "Three Tuns" where the landlord Josiah Chapman, a fierce Methodist who hated drinkers and sinners in equal measure, overheard and did what conscience and duty said he must, namely shop them to the police. The two were caught red handed one night loading the barrels onto the barge. Being first offenders and formerly men of good character they were offered a simple choice - the army or prison. Harry, not wishing to be confined, chose the army. Tom Simpson, on the other hand, chose prison and emerged a year later with all the skills necessary for a moderately successful career in housebreaking.
Thus Harry Poole was attested at Hanley on the 27th April 1875. He was then age 21. He was given a chit the next day which entitled him to travel one-way to the barracks of the 24th Regiment at Brecon. The railway journey was not an unpleasant one. It was a novelty to see the countryside moving by so fast having been used to seeing it from a slow moving canal barge. He felt none of the enmity that barge men had for this rival though in later life his thoughts on both would be tinged with a sadness based on his life experiences as in the poem "Ebb and Flow".
"Strange to see how soon life drains;
from canal barge and moving trains"
For the present, untroubled by such melancholia, he settled down to enjoy the journey, only to discover that he was not the only person on the train who had joined up.
"Aye aye, what 'ave we here?" said a voice.
Harry looked up.
"Let me guess - Brecon."
"Come again."
"You're goin' to Brecon."
"How d'you know that?"
"Ow do you think? Ow do you think I know? Harn't I going the same place eh? See here," he said, tapping his shoulder. "And here," he continued, as he tapped Harry's. "We'll be sergeants in no time and make no mistake. Made for the army I am. You too. I can tell and I'm never wrong where people's concerned. Sort of a talent I acquired along the way. I know people better than they know themselves. Bet you never considered promotion did you?"
Harry shook his head.
"See, what did I tell you. I knew you wanted it before you did. Course the army wasn't my first choice. Risking life and limb for a shilling a day, what with deductions for food and equipment. But a man's got to eat and I was laid off. Good thing really. I used to dip the glazes. Skilled work but if you do it long enough it withers the arm. See mine?"
The man held out his arms but Harry couldn't see anything unusual about either of them apart from the fact that they hadn't seen soap and water in a while and even that wasn't really unusual. So he just nodded and tried to look slightly shocked.
"What's your name Ginger?"
"Harry."
"Pleased to meet you Harold. Try and guess my name."
Harry shrugged in defeat.
"Go on. Try. Look I'll give you a clue. Knock knock.."
Harry looked puzzled.
"You're supposed to say "Who's there?"
"Why?"
"Just say it will you."
"Who's there?"
"He knock."
"He knock who"
"Enoch Worthington. That's my name. Get it. Good one isn't it. Gets them every time."
Had Harry heard of, or even been, the Duke of Wellington he might have said of his new army buddy, "I don't know what he does to the enemy but by God he terrifies me". As it was he was beginning to think that a couple of years in solitary confinement on a diet of bread and water, with the added bonus of an apprenticeship in house breaking was preferable to a few hours on a train with Enoch Worthington. In fact the prospect of a few years in the army with him was sufficient to consider murder as a good option.
But, as when someone is hurt or wounded the body has a mechanism for coping with it so Harry learned to cope with Enoch's interminable chatter. After several attempts to reply to his questions and engage him in two-way conversation he quickly realised that his role was actually that of audience to the man's performance. This suited Harry, who was a man of few words despite his facility with verse. Thereafter he confined himself to the occasional nod or grunt as he resumed his study of the landscape outside, with the result that he only aged ten years in those few hours.
In spite of this small mercy, by the end of the journey, murder was still a serious option but it was at that point that fate and army logic intervened. It was, in part, due to the haunted look that Harry had on his face on his first parade which caused the sergeant to conclude that "the lad's a trifle neurasthenic and unfit to travel". This meant that Private Enoch Worthington, 25B/589 was assigned to the First Battalion of the 24th Regiment and posted to South Africa. Harry Poole serial number 25B/586, was assigned to the 2nd Battalion which was based at Brecon. The two of them were not to meet up for several years and then only briefly.
Apart from the endless drilling, parades, kit inspections and so forth, life at Brecon was comparatively easy and Harry soon adapted to it. He became known as "a bit of a card" by his army comrades, not least because of his prowess with women, immortalised in his "Barrack Room Ballads and Serenades" - which portrayed the life of the common soldier.
I love the Brecon women
In or out of doors
but most of all I love it
when they show their draws.
For a man is but a man
and a woman knows it too
and when they come together
there's but one thing they can do.
But if there should be an accident.
- you know what I mean,
pray for an army posting
and a change of scene.
For I've nothing against children.
Each thing in its place
but I'll never settle with a woman
whatever creed or race.
Just such an incident did occur but at that moment the Battalion was ordered overseas to fight in South Africa, helping to put down a small tribal uprising. On 1st February 1878 the Battalion, who had moved to Chatham in preparation, left in two special trains for Portsmouth, embarking on the troop ship Himalaya. They reached Simon's Bay, South Africa on 28th February where they took on coal then sailed to East London which they reached by 9th March. Harry had been assigned to G Company which was not finally unloaded until the 11th because of the heavy and treacherous surf. From there trains took them to William's Town and from thence to the front which in reality was no front at all but a grubby little action out in the bush. Harry did little more than deploy and fire his gun a couple of times. He was never in any danger and scarcely saw the enemy but he could now say he had seen action. He was soon to have his fill of it.
At about the same time that Poole was setting sail for South Africa his adoptive father, Sam, was beginning his shift. Half an hour later a rock fall buried and killed him along with four other men. The rescuers, who included among them his other sons, took three hours to dig him up then brought him home to Netty who laid him out so that he could be buried again. Curiously Harry's real father, Ted Machin, died of an alcohol-induced seizure on the same day. Netty attended both funerals.
Harry did not hear of the death of either of his fathers for several months. In the meantime he was despatched across South Africa to fight against the Zulus. By now he had the appearance of a seasoned campaigner. The red tunic and blue trousers that made up his uniform were, like that of his comrades, now torn, faded and patched. His rifle, a powerful Martini-Henri which bruised his shoulder whenever he fired it and was hot to touch after about ten rounds was now insulated by sewn strips of buffalo hide. His boots too were in need of repair. One man in the Company, who had cobbling skills, was never short of a plug of tobacco or extra rations from his comrades. And to top all of this, the white canvas cork covered sun helmets issued to the whole regiment were now tea stained brown to provide a crude form of camouflage.
In January 1879 Harry's regiment crossed into Zululand as part of an invading force. The intention was for the British Army supported by native forces and mounted irregular soldiers to divide into three columns - left, right and centre. These columns would advance steadily, dealing with any Zulu forces they encountered until they converged on the Zulu capital at Ulundi. Harry's regiment was in the centre column, together with the commander in chief, Lord Chelmsford. This column took the best part of a day to invade ferrying men, horses, baggage, oxen and carts across the Buffalo River on hastily created ponts. The crossing was made worse by the effect of the January rains but eventually the column was assembled on the other side and began its slow crawling march to the first camp at by Isandhlwana mountain. It was a cautious campaign, the column keeping step with the slow moving ox wagons which carried most of the equipment, including the men's packs.
The rain was relentless. Officers and men began to dig in to provide some form of protective entrenchment but the mud walls soon collapsed and slithered into freshly created streams under the downpour. Soldiers fought and failed to erect tents before abandoning the effort as they drifted towards the comparative warmth of campfires and struggled vainly to light their pipes. Here and there a few lucky ones had managed to put up their tents but these were constantly in danger of being washed out. Rheumatism seemed a greater hazard than the Zulus as the men shivered and waited for the rain to stop. Then, suddenly it did. The morning sun rose and to encourage morale officers began, in their public school fashion, to organise sports for the men. Native and Boer alike watched incredulously as grown men in heavy boots and shirtsleeves ran races against each other or else arranged themselves into two teams and prepared to play a game of football. Despite such distractions the tension of waiting to engage the enemy began to tell on the men. Drinking increased. Arguments ensued that led to fighting. Tempers flared over the slightest thing and the number of floggings in the camp increased.
The general air of slackness seemed to extend right through the army up to the highest level. Instructions had been issued by Lord Chelmsford, the commander in chief of the expedition to laager the wagons into a defensive perimeter as a precaution against attack. Yet to the officers attack seemed inconceivable. If the unthinkable did happen all of them seemed confident that it would be repulsed. Even Lord Chelmsford did not seem to be interested in this order being carried out. In fact, as Harry never tired of saying, when asked about the battle on numerous occasions, "the old general seemed more intent on being the first to grapple with the enemy.
* * *
Sure enough as soon as he heard news of a an army of Zulu having been seen close to the camp he decided to divide up the column and take half of it in search of them. They moved out at about 4 a.m. on the morning of the 22nd January 1879 whilst the rest of the camp slept.
"Better them than me," said Bobby Nobes, an old timer who had seen twenty years service and had copped for sentry duty alongside Harry.
Harry nodded and stood in respectful silence as Nobes emptied his bladder against the hide of a standing ox. Like Nobes he was waiting for their guard duty to end. Slowly the hours passed until the order came for them to fall out. By then, it was eight and the rest of the camp was beginning to stir. A rumour went round that Zulus had been seen to the north of the camp, though Harry had seen nothing and no one seemed concerned. They had been sighting odd bands of Zulus for days. But the procedures had to be followed.
"All right you lot. Assemble, full kit, for parade," shouted Sergeant Reeves.
"We've not eaten yet sarge."
"Just fall in Shuttleworth, you lazy scouser. "
They all lined up in front of the camp, a yawning Harry among them. At about nine-o clock the officers conferred and decided that the men could eat. Harry could here Major Pulleine discussing them.
Lieutenant Pope, in charge of G company went over and conferred with Reeves. Harry caught snatches of conversation as he sweated in the early morning sun.
"See that they remain in full kit sergeant."
The men stood down. The camp began to lapse into its normal routine. It promised to be a quiet morning despite all the fuss about Zulus. Briefly there was a flurry of excitement when Major Durnford and his mounted natives rode into the camp with a rocket battery. He cut a neat figure on his horse even though one of his arms was useless and had to be strapped to his side which meant that he needed help dismounting. He went into Pulleine's tent and they had a brief discussion. Harry supposed it was about the Zulus that had been spotted. Then, at 11 a.m. he emerged striding about issuing orders, gesticulating with his one good arm. Soon afterwards, a company of men was despatched to the north of the camp. Then Durnford shouted for his servant, in order to remount his horse. Then he and his men rode off in search of the enemy together with the rocket battery. Harry sat down against the wheel of an ox wagon and idly watched both sets of men recede into the distance.
"How far away d'you reckon our boys are Pooly?" asked Shuttleworth.
"Bout a mile," he replied.
"Much further and they could shake hands with Ketchewayo hisself."
The day got hotter. Harry's faded uniform chafed and itched. Wearily he brushed away the flies from the, not insignificant, beard that he now sported. Their drone made him sleepy. Well why not sleep? There was no harm in it. Nothing to do except wait around. He tried to compose a few verses in his head but the heat defeated him. The buzzing became less irksome, comforting in fact as soon his head began to nod. Looking back he never knew exactly how long he was asleep but he knew the exact moment when he awoke.
It was when he heard the distant crack of the Martini-Henri rifles as they opened fire on seemingly invisible targets. He stood and strained to look on the horizon but, although he could make out something in the distance, the heat haze made it indistinct. Around him there was a flurry in the camp as orders were being issued. There was no panic, merely a sense of urgency. He watched as two more companies advanced to support the men who were now firing at the enemy. Again, they seemed to take an eternity to walk the mile, then fan out in a perimeter line. Soon after, they too were firing and soon after that the three companies were enveloped in the smoke from their rifles until it was difficult to make out what was happening. Then, imperceptibly, he noticed another sound above that of the rifle fire. The sound put him on edge, made him uneasy, afraid. He turned and there stood by him was Billy Griffiths, another old hand who grinned at him. Billy Griffiths or Private William Griffiths was something of a talisman on account of the fact he had won a VC.
"For the very gallant and daring manner in which, on 7th May 1867, he risked his life in manning a boat and proceeding through dangerous surf to the rescue of some of his comrades who formed part of an expedition that had been sent to the Island of Little Andaman."
"What's up Pooly? Dry mouth?"
Harry smiled nervously.
"It's the noise."
"Noise? Just guns. they won't harm you."
"No, something else. Can't you hear it, a rumble?"
Griffiths cocked his head to listen.
"Thunder boy. That's all. If the heat doesn't bake you in this country then the rain will drown you. It's going to rain soon enough. look at the sky."
Harry looked up. It was true. there was a strange sickly light, the kind you get just before a heavy summer storm.
"See what I mean?" said Griffiths.
Harry nodded. The light made everything unreal. That was it. There was nothing to be afraid of. A few Zulus, nothing more. There was no actual danger. If there had been surely the campfires would have been put out and the tents dismantled. And the ox wagons, standing neatly in rows. Someone would have ordered these to be pulled into a defensive square. He told himself that this was what was supposed to happen. They were supposed to meet the enemy and fight him, then win. Obviously anything else was inconceivable.
Not too long after he was ordered to fall in. He stood there and watched as another company of men together with a company of natives was despatched to support the first one. Two field guns were also moved into position and unlimbered and two companies moved to support them. The guns began to fire canister shot. There was also a greater concentration of rifle fire now and those left in the camp watched as if at a ballet as the line of defenders began a steady , measured retreat back to the camp whilst the artillery continued to fire. Then, from the east of the camp, he heard the whoosh of the rocket battery and his eyes followed the rocket's trail until it exploded harmlessly in the distance. It was then that he got a clear view of the enemy as thousands of Zulus advanced on the camp. The thunder he had heard was the sound of twenty thousand pairs of running feet seemingly bent on his annihilation. Others also noticed this and presumably felt the same.
"Jesus H Christ, look at that lot," shouted Hall. "Will you look at the buggers."
"My eye," was all young Jimmy Gurney could say, before he wet himself.
Now most of "G" Company was shouting excitedly. Harry watched the rising panic on the faces of his comrades. - Finn, Donegan, Martingale, O' Keefe, Buckley and knew they could read it in his face too. Only Griffiths appeared unperturbed.
Then it all changed. A shouting rabble became soldiers again as Sergeant Reeves began barking orders at them.
"Right lads. Time to give the blacks a beating. Show your stuff"
"G" company moved into position in front of the camp to plug up the gap in the perimeter defences. Ahead of the advancing Zulu line and to the right he could see a group of horsemen heading for a dried waterbed. Of the rocket battery he could see nothing. But soon there was no more time to idly spectate or speculate as they began firing. The Zulus were still some distance away but they were moving at a gallop and closing the gap fast. One cannon was directing fire in their direction but it seemed to make no difference.
Much has been said of the verses that Poole composed to celebrate this battle. Most of it is heroic, patriotic and completely without merit. However, one ironic and sombre verse perhaps sums up his true feelings.
There's no mistaking
the call to arms.
Dry mouth, parched throat
and sweating palms.
At any rate he, like the rest of the company, forgot their fears as they poured a steady stream of fire into the approaching horde. After a few rounds his rifle stock became hot and he was grateful for the buffalo hide which offered some protection. The gun smoke smarted his eyes and increased his growing thirst but there was no time to stop and drink anything. All he could do was stand and fire, eject the cartridge and fire again. Each time the rifle pounded his shoulder until the burden of holding it became almost intolerable. He tried to slow his rate of firing because the rifles were prone to jamming if they overheated and fouled. But it was difficult when the enemy seemed so great and all you had was a pouch full of cartridges to keep them at bay. The line was holding. Lieutenant Pope was moving back and forth encouraging his men, his monocle gleaming in the sunlight. There was no urgency but Sergeant Reeves, according to Poole's later account, ordered two men to go and fetch some more ammunition "just to be safe".
Shuttleworth and Poole were detailed to go. The two men hurried back towards the camp to get one of the ammunition boxes held by the company quartermaster. The rest, again according to Poole, is confusion. The two of them had just got to the wagons when they were almost run over by one of the artillery teams which had now limbered up and was retreating. Sensing that this boded ill the two of them looked towards the northern part of the camp and realised that the Zulus were now fighting among the men, the numbers being so uneven that in a short while the enemy would be in the camp itself.
"God Pooley, we've got to warn the boys," shouted Shuttleworth, running off back to "G" company, which at that time seemed to be intact. Poole realised it was useless and called for Shuttleworth to come back but his friend wouldn't listen and that was the last time he saw him. So at this point he was in a dilemma. The camp was falling and there was nothing to be gained from returning to his unit. Already there was panic in the camp. Some officers, not attached to companies, were already leaving. At that moment a panicked horse shied in front of him. Instinctively he grabbed the beast, which was already saddled. This was the second time he had stolen a horse and the first time he had disobeyed his now-dead father. The memory of this caused him to hesitate, but only briefly as he saw the Zulus bearing down on the camp and spurred the horse into flight.
But fly where? To the North and East the camp was collapsing as hordes of Zulus poured over the thin lines of red. Screams began to mingle with the cries of the "Usutu, Usutu," from the Zulus and the now diminishing rifle fire. The horse panicked, whinnied and began to turn in uncontrollable circles so that Harry had fight to stay on the spooked animal. Eventually he steadied the beast and anxiously looked around for an escape route. Then he saw it. A line of horses and men were heading South West away from the camp and towards the river. He spurred the horse and galloped after them. At first he considered taking a more direct route straight to the river until he saw the reason for the fugitives' detour. Isandhlwana was a mountain and the camp had been drawn up in front of it. It had seemed like a good idea to have the mountain at your back when considering a defensive position but now that the camp was falling it only served as a grim monument to the massacre. Something of the dilemma that faced the camp can be illustrated by this nonsense verse of Harry's.
Those who like to climb a peak
in search of the profound
are likely to achieve their aim
by simply going round
Whether the peaks of Isandhlwana were on his mind when Harry composed it, "going round" was precisely what a portion of the Zulu army had done. Possibly due to the intense firepower that had been brought to bear on the enemy to the north of camp, the right horn of the classic Zulu buffalo attack pattern had overshot and gone round the mountain and was now, at this very moment, engaged in hunting and killing the stragglers and deserters fleeing the camp. Soon Harry began to realise that the mayhem of the camp was also being repeated during this disorderly retreat. He dug his heels into the horse's side and was nearly tipped from the saddle for his pains. He cursed the horse until he realised that the poor animal was not to blame. The escape route that they had all taken was a narrow dirt track pitted and potholed throughout, threatening to twist the ankle of man and horse alike as well as reducing any possible gallop to a careful trot.
Already, he saw that the artillery team that had worked so hard to save the guns had fallen victim of the track. The heavy guns had become mired in it and before they could be freed the Zulus had descended on them, butchering both horse and man alike. Fearfully, Harry realised that this meant that there were Zulu further ahead but he knew he now had no other choice but to carry along the track and hope to cross river further along. Despite the slowness of his own progress he began to overtake other men who were travelling on foot.
"Stop man, for pity's sake. In God's name stop," one called. But Harry dared not dismount for a second. Already behind him he could see the half-naked warriors approaching and it seemed that they were fleet footed and nimble enough to outstrip man and beast. Guiltily he knew that the forlorn voice that cried after him for help was doomed but he rode on. Steadily he made progress, the fear of what lay behind goading him on to what lay ahead. He jostled with other riders on the narrow track, each in a deadly race to get to the river. Now every man was his enemy so that no one who escaped could look back on that day without a sense of shame that he had survived whilst so many others had not. A part of Harry, in his more sombre moments, was to regret that he too was not cut up with the rest of G Company. "But when it comes down to it," he often said, " the urge to survive, to carry on sampling what there is to life, no matter how sweet or bitter, is a strong one" and so Harry rode on.
Eventually he reached the river. Both horse and rider were already exhausted from fear and exertion but now a new test threatened them. The rains had swollen what was, at other times a passable crossing to a treacherous passage of high water that concealed the stones of the riverbed and possessed a deadly current that was likely to drown these the Zulus did not finish off. Harry watched as men tried to cross the river only to be swept away screaming by the current. Sometimes they died before this when a Zulu waded in and stabbed them. Sometimes both soldier and warrior were washed away to die still fighting each other. Such was the mayhem at the river's edge that it seemed no one could escape but here and there lone riders were making it to the opposite shore, some to die there as they were met by yet more warriors. But equally others were escaping and fleeing for the safety of Helpmakaar with scarcely a glance for the plight of their less fortunate comrades.
In the event, it seemed that Harry was helped by the suffering of others. The Zulus had so many to choose from that it was impossible for them to kill everyone. Harry spurred his horse amongst the chaos nudging and pushing soldier and Zulu aside before stepping into the water. Instantly he felt the tug of the current and held on for dear life but he had not gone far before the leader of a group of Zulus gave a cry of warning and pointed in his direction. Harry tried to get the horse to cross faster but the animal was not even sure whether it wanted to cross at all and so its hesitance allowed the warriors to catch them up. Harry braced himself for the assegai that must come but the enemy was having as many problems keeping their balance as he was. Three Zulus lost their footing and careened into the horse. The animal lost its footing sweeping itself, Harry and the Zulus downstream. The warriors, realising the danger they were in struggled to cling to the horse but one by one they were carried away and drowned.
More through fear than anything, Harry clung to the horse, which managed to right itself and make an attempt at swimming. But the tired beast could not make the other bank and the two of them were buffeted downstream, a journey which shredded most of the remnants of Harry's already threadbare uniform. Eventually, when it seemed that the cold and the fear and the exhaustion would force Harry to release his grip the current lessened. Had the horse been fitter it would now have swum to the other side. As it was both horse and rider were incapable of any further effort, the horse fatally so for as they drifted back to the shore still on the Zulu side, the horse died. Harry lay there, nestled amongst the dead hide of his deliverer and fell into unconsciousness.
* * *
That morning Mkabi, daughter of Senzakona, a minor and partially disgraced chieftain, was walking down by the river's edge, intending to bathe. At this point the river current was not strong so she discarded the little clothing she had and strode out into the stream. Proudly she surveyed the drops of water that glistened in the sunlight as they fell off her young body. Having washed she lay on her back and began to swim. It was as she was doing this that she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Rolling over she swam towards the object which lay by the river's edge. It looked like an animal's bright orange fur but as to which animal she could not say. As she approached it the fur moved. She stopped swimming. The creature did not stir. Cautiously she moved towards it again. She got closer and closer until she was almost upon it when the creature moved again. The fur reared up entirely and revealed the face of a man, a white man.
Mkabi screamed and stood up. The noise woke Harry, who looked up through sun blanched eyes and saw a great black angel towering above him, the water glistening in her pubic hair. He reached out to touch the vision but the effort was too much and he fell into unconsciousness once more.
The scream brought her servants who ran to her aid. There they were confronted by the strange sight of their naked mistress standing over what appeared to be a half-naked white devil, Poole having lost most of his ragged clothing. Each looked at the other and each considered fleeing until they remembered that their mistress's father, Senzakona, would impale them if they abandoned her.
"Come," she ordered, " take this man. Carry him to my hut."
They looked at her in bewilderment.
"Now, hurry."
They dashed over and began to drag Poole out of the water. As they did Mkabi regarded the stranger with interest. She had never in her life seen such a man before. He was tall and strong, though not so strong as the men of her kraal. His orange hair and beard were unkempt but in many ways this was the most fascinating thing about him. There was no man in her village who could possibly grow such a thing.
The servants carried Harry to the village. Mkabi sent one on ahead with word to he father, Senzakona, that they had an unwelcome guest. And as Harry lay in Mkabi's hut and hovered between life and death Senzakona called a meeting of the elders to debate on which side he would fall. He was then a man just past his prime, with few grey hairs on his head, running a little to fat over his huge muscled frame from the consumption of too much local beer.
"I wish to discuss what we shall do with this red soldier who has come among us," he said.
Ngaka, deemed his wisest councillor, did not hesitate.
"We should kill this interloper. He does not belong with us. he should be with his comrades and they are all dead."
"Aiee," said Undini, considered the second wisest counsellor and a good friend of Ngaka's. "Kill him and slit his stomach so that his spirit may fly free and join with the rest. Otherwise the village will be cursed by his evil.
"Not all of his comrades are dead," said another. This was Mbokulana, who was considered third wisest and despised by the other two. This made him guarded in his opinions as he was both ambitious and frequently the most sensible.
"Speak," said Senzakona to him.
"We have heard the news that our scouts and runners have brought. The Zulu fought a great victory but they did not kill all of the red soldiers. Their leader escaped with half his army and there are two others on our land no more than a day from here.
"We will eat them up as we did the others," shouted Undini.
Ngaka nodded in agreement.
"Perhaps. But then what of the others they will send. The British are cowed now like a goat that has been blooded but they will not remain so. They have a great anger and terrible weapons."
"What then do you suggest?" asked Senzakona.
Mbokulana paused and stared at the floor of the hut as he chose his words carefully.
"The soldier may die anyway. If he does that is how it must be. But I do not merely speak of one soldier. There will be a terrible price to pay for our victory over the British. They will return and fight again and this time they may win. If not, then good. But if they do then Chief Senzakona will be esteemed for returning one of their own safely to them."
"No, kill him," said Undini.
"What would that serve? The death of one when we have already killed so many."
The argument continued back and forth for another half-hour. Others joined in and voices were raised and threats uttered until finally Senzakona raised his hand to indicate that he had reached a decision.
"I have listened to the words of the wise and have learned much. This is a difficult situation and one which has caused me much thought. This soldier came among us uninvited but injured and should receive our hospitality. At the same time he is our enemy and the enemy of our great Chief Cetewayo so we should kill him. Then again, as you have said, there is the British to consider. Across the Buffalo River is their land which they took by guile or power. It does not matter which. They are there and we are their neighbours. We may one day need their patronage for they are mighty. The soldier is ill. My own daughter is tending him. He is in skilled hands. If he dies we shall open his stomach as if we had killed him and let his spirit escape so that no ill fortune descends on our kraal. But if he lives, we shall treat him as an honoured guest and show him something of our ways so that he will know we are a great people and tell others of his kind. Enough, I have spoken."
The council was ended. Poole knew nothing of this as he lay in a delirium, his brow soothed and his beard stroked by the hands of Mkabi. She lay by his side several nights waiting for a break in the fever which occurred on the third morning when he awoke with a start to see the same half naked vision staring at him that he had seen at the river bank. He began to speak but she motioned him to lie still.
"Go fetch my father," she said, for the stranger is among us once more.
One of her servants dashed off. Ten minutes later she returned with Senzakona. Harry looked at the fierce pot-bellied giant who towered over him. it seemed as if he was about to be eaten. But the man simply looked him over and barked something in a language that he could not understand. Soon others arrived to look him over and an agitated discussion took place round him.
"He is a devil, lord," said Undini. "We should kill him. He will bring evil. Look at his hair. It sticks up like a jackal's."
"A puny devil I think. No he is a man. Nothing more. We will keep him alive as best we can and when the time is ready, give him up to the British and perhaps they will spare our kraal."
The men left Harry with Mkabi and her attendants who were now also his. His recovery from that point was a swift one and soon he was able to wander around the village, cutting a strange and curious figure dressed as he was in the remnants of his uniform, which he patched as best as he could using material that Mkabi had given him. At first he was afraid but soon he realised that, although the Zulu were his enemies, these people at least would do him no harm. Not given to introspection he had no inkling that he was part of a greater game. He simply saw himself as a soldier who had been lucky enough to escape from a massacre, the memory of which gave him nightmares every night.
Unknown to him, Senzakona set spies to watch over him. The chief had been getting daily reports, from runners, on the disposition and mood of the British army and it was beginning to be as he had suspected. Three armies had crossed the Buffalo River. The Zulu had succeeded in cutting up half of one, the centre, at Isandhlwana. The rest of that army had retreated across the Buffalo together with the great white induna Chelmsford who ruled over them in the name of the great white queen over the seas. The other two armies, however, were still in Zululand. Both of them had been attacked and each time they had been repulsed with terrible loss of warriors. One army had now even built a fortress and lay at this moment protected within its walls. At council meetings the war was discussed and solutions offered but Senzakona now knew, as perhaps Cetewayo himself knew, that there could only be one outcome. After a few weeks, he summoned his daughter.
"Hah daughter," he said, as she demurely entered, her head steadfastly fixed on the polished floor of the hut.
"Lord, father."
"Kneel daughter. I have questions."
She did as bidden and prepared for the interrogation.
"This Englishman, he is well?"
She nodded.
"Keep him so. Know this, that his fate is dear to my heart. I would desire that we get to know these English more do you understand?"
Again she nodded. He grunted in acknowledgement.
"Great matters hang on the fate of this man. Tell me what does he about the village?"
"He walks and watches and is watched according to your orders."
"And does he learn our language."
"But little. The English seem to have no love for any tongue but their own."
"Then learn his. Keep him close and teach him so that we may understand each other better. Now go and do as I have told you."
Mkabi did as she was bidden. Daily she tended to Harry. As he regained his strength she began to gain his trust. Each day she got him to teach her a few words of English. It was simple really. She would show him an object such as a bowl or some food and ask him the name for it. Eventually Harry began to pick up a few words of Zulu. Within a week they were able to carry out simple conversations, not exactly intimate but certainly a private world that none of the other members of the village could enter.
What had surprised Harry initially was the simple fact that he was still alive. He had seen that black angel on the beach and thought he had woken up in heaven - or hell. Either way, at that point he did not care. Later he had come to realise that he was still on earth though he still half suspected that the woman who tended him was actually an angel. Later, when he saw the chief, something told him that this man was the angel's father. Equally he realised that it was this man who was keeping him alive although why he could not say. Later, over the next few months news of other battles penetrated the kraal and the wounded men began to return with tales of spectacular reverses and the red soldiers who poured into Zululand like the summer rains. Then he knew that the chief wanted him alive as a form of insurance against the defeat that must follow in a war against the British. but by then he was unconcerned as the whole village was gossiping about the amount of time that he and the chief's daughter were spending alone together.
One night Senzakona summoned him and a nervous Harry sat down in front of the old chief who commenced to talk to him in a Zulu that months of Mkabi's tuition could not prepare him for. But what he could not understand, Mkabi translated.
"You are well?"
Harry nodded.
"Good. You have eaten?"
Again Harry nodded.
"Good. Then we shall drink beer and talk," said Senzakona, as he lifted a great pitcher to his mouth and poured it down his throat. Harry watched in wonderment as the man's giant stomach seemed to expand to meet the torrent that fell into it. The chief's thirst seemed never-ending and all he could do was sit there until the man finished. He stared across at Mkabi who said nothing but kneeled there, her head bowed. It seemed to him that the whole world had stopped whilst this great earth giant finished his pitcher and that the oceans of the world were contained within it and that it would never be consumed. And his eyes grew unfocussed and misty as he contemplated sitting in that hut with daughter and father for all eternity. In his mind he began to compose a verse. But then, just as he had begun to accept his fate, the giant came up for air with a great belch.
"Hah!!. And now you.." said Senzakona, handing him the pitcher, which was still surprisingly heavy. Harry, with his bright orange beard that Mkabi insist he keep, and his great frame, now fattened on Zulu maize and oxen, resembled Thor. Senzakona watched, equally impressed at this white man's capacity as the pitcher was raised up and up and the liquid spilled out of the sides but Harry did not stop drinking until the last drop was drained. Senzakona laughed and clapped his hands.
"You are a man among men and we can truly talk. Another pitcher."
One of his serving women ran off to fill the container up once more. So they drank and talked through the night, a mixture of Zulu and English.
"Tell me this man. In your country. Are you rich?"
"No," said Harry.
"How many cattle have you?"
"None."
"So you have no wives?"
"No none."
"Aiee! I have it," Senzakona laughed, slapping his thighs. "You British do not reward your warriors. Your soldiers do not wear the head ring of marriage because you are too poor to buy wives. You come to Zululand to steal our cattle and our women."
Harry looked at Mkabi.
"So, is it true?"
Harry shook his head.
"No great chief we are ordered here."
"It is the same with our warriors. They obey the will of Cetewayo. All our men must become warriors. Same as you."
"No, in our country not all men do so."
"So why are you here? Why are all of you here?"
Harry shrugged, for he did not know.
"I do not understand you British. But I know you will not rest till you have this land. I have seen it. The days of the Zulu nation are numbered. You British are like the leaves of grass and you will keep growing no matter how often our warriors cut you down. So I must shift, make preparation for what is to come rather than what is. Have you heard news of your armies?"
"I have heard rumours."
Senzakona looked at Mkabi.
"Yes. we have all heard those. Let me tell you man if they were simply rumours your belly would this very day be open. But do not worry the rumours are true and you shall intercede on our behalf. For let me confess to you freely that the British and I have much in common. I am bonded to Lord Cetewayo but it was not always so. Many years ago Mpande ruled the Zulu and we were a great nation. Not so great as in the days of the Lord Shaka for since that time we have softened somewhat but it is all of one and there is but little that can now be done of that. Had you British faced Shaka we would not be holding this conversation. But anyhow Mpande was brother to Shaka and took a wife, Mgqumbhazi, the daughter of a chieftain herself. She bore him Cetewayo. Mpande fathered many children but there was one boy in particular who came from his union with his favourite wife Monase. That boy was Mbulazi. As time went by these boys grew and it became certain that the two must fight over the throne when Mpande died. In part this was Mpande's own fault for he failed to make his wishes clear. Who should rule? Cetewayo the son of a mother of high rank or Mbulazi, the son of his favourite?
Let me tell you white man both had equal claim to the throne but the followers of Cetewayo outnumbered those of Mbulazi so Mbulazi took his supporters - men, women and children and fled to the west, asking for help from the British. They were given none and Cetewayo caught up with them and slaughtered them all - men, women and children so that rivers ran with bodies for weeks after. I knew Mbulazi and it was known that I favoured him but because I did not fight and had influence I was spared."
There was a pause as the chief took snuff searched for words to match the memories that were in his head.
"Besides," he smiled. "Cetewayo was a little afraid of me and my clan for I am one of the Mbonambi, skilled with metal work and makers of the iklwa, the assegai. And as everyone knows, or believes, we who work metals are in league with the devil. For to make a blade fit for a king it is said we need the freshly killed fat of children or young virgins to make a good smelting."
"Does it work?"
Senzakona exploded into laughter.
"Does it work asks the white man. Does it work."
He grabbed Harry's arm and pinched it.
"Yes man it does. It works with children and virgins and white men too. Remember that every night you go to sleep. If once you fail to find favour in my sight you will wake up as food for our spears and then your fats will make more of them. Remember that. Cetewayo is not defeated yet."
But Cetewayo was defeated. It hadn't happened yet but each month made it more certain. the British regrouped and marched inexorably into Zululand and this time it seemed that no army could stand against them. Harry did not fear for his life as he lay in his hut at night. He did not fear because he lay in the arms of Mkabi who had obeyed her father's wishes and kept the Englishman close. In order to prevent her getting pregnant she instructed him in the practice of uku-hlobonga, a traditional Zulu method of birth control that involved limited penetration whilst the woman kept her thighs tightly locked together throughout the act.
Soon rumours grew, spread by the servants and everyone was talking of the red haired red soldier who had "wiped the axe" with the chief's daughter and was at that very moment " aka nishaye inyoka enhleleni" - striking a snake in the road. Despite uku-hlobonga Mkabi became pregnant. At first she concealed it from everyone but eventually she told Harry one night. When he heard he thought of the wrath of Senzakona and how, when he heard, his body would be rendered down for iklwa fat as punishment.
"What will happen to us?" he said, meaning him.
"Happen man. I will bear your child."
"No Mkabi, what will your father do?"
"By custom he has the right to demand that you pay him a fine of three cows."
"That's not so bad, " said Harry, who did not own three pennies, let alone three cows.
"On the other hand he might kill us both and use your fat to make spears."
Harry slept badly that night. The next morning he spoke to Mkabi once more.
"I must leave. It's not safe."
Mkabi, full of the warmth of motherhood was more sanguine. In part she wondered if, when the British conquered Cetewayo, they might be more disposed to a chief who had their own blood beating within him.
"We must both leave but we must take care. We will set out tomorrow morning as normal. I will tell my father that we are going to visit a kinsman. Then we shall set off and find the British. Good?"
Harry nodded.
"Good."
So they set off the next day, retracing the route that Harry had followed whilst escaping from Isandhlwana. It was now no longer the height of summer but the sun was hot enough all the same. He was no longer pursued by Zulu warriors but the promise of Senzakona's wrath spurred them on. Late in the day they came to the stretch of broken track that the survivors of Isandhlwana had tried to escape along. It took Harry a while to recognise it because, he realised, something was missing. it was, of course, the whole tableau of bodies, screams and chanting warriors that were no longer part of this now peaceful scene. Even the river seemed benign, its banks no longer swollen and threatening. No corpses floated by. Despite this apparent Arcadia Harry knew that the battlefield itself would present a mental ordeal and part of him wanted to cross the river and head towards the mission station at Rorke's Drift, which he knew was still standing. But despite his fear, Harry had the urge to revisit Isandhlwana, to stand there once more and proclaim his survival and remember the comrades he had lost.
After stopping to rest for a while they made for the scene of the old camp. When they got there they were slightly disappointed for the bodies had been cleared away or buried. Even so they said little, the atmosphere of the place and the vastness of the mountain towering above them made them sombre. When they did finally say something it was almost in whispers. Mkabi sat down as Harry began to wander the site. Here and there were signs of what had once been - groups of cartridge shells, scraps of uniform. But it was as if some giant hand had reached down and scooped up the dead and these objects were what had fallen through its fingers.
"YOU THERE!!!" said a voice.
Harry started. He looked at Mkabi, who was already on her feet and prepared to run.
"I said you. What are you doing here?"
Harry saw who the voice belonged to and for the first time in months he remembered he was in the army and snapped to attention. Mkabi gazed at him in surprise then turned as the blue coated rider approached at a leisurely pace.
"Name."
"Private Poole, G Company sir," shouted Harry.
"G Company eh?"
The officer, for that was what the rider was, rode his horse until both private and animal almost touched noses. He surveyed the man in front of him with distaste. His uniform was a heap of rags, his beard was unkempt though he was surprisingly clean. The man was either a deserter or else had come here for the purpose of having relations with the young Zulu girl at his side. The officer, who's name was Penn Symonds, was not sure which was worse in his book.
"G Company," he repeated like a mantra, musing over the words. It took a while before he made the connection. "Good God man you don't mean to say the G Company that was cut to pieces at Isandhlwana?"
Harry nodded.
"Not all were cut up. My father saved this one," said Mkabi, mindful of her diplomatic position as princess to a chief.
"And who might you be?" said Penn Symonds, amazed that a young slip of a girl should deign to address him in English."
"Know oh man that I am Mkabi , a royal princess of the house of Senzakona and I should be treated as such lest word gets back to my father's kraal. Know also that though you look tall on your horse we Zulus have already killed many like you for to us you are no taller than a snake whose belly writhes in the grassland and about as much use."
These proud words disconcerted Penn Symonds, despite the fact that, in her haughtiness, Mkabi had forgotten to speak them in English. The torrent of modulated Zulu caused him to glance around nervously to see if she had any companions with assegais. The appearance of these two had discomfited him somewhat. Penn Symonds had been attached to the centre column and only the fact that he had accompanied Chelmsford on the morning of January 22nd had prevented him from being massacred along with everyone else. He had been charged, by Chelmsford to investigate the reasons for the British defeat on that day and had already interrogated many survivors as well as Zulu captives. He had also taken to riding out alone to the site of the massacre which was why, at this very moment, he was staring at a somewhat bedraggled ginger haired young man who might, just might be a survivor of the fight.
As for the girl. She was a puzzle. Her robes suggested that she was high born. a chief's wife or daughter perhaps. Difficult to tell since they married so young. All Penn Symonds knew was that the young man might offer vital intelligence and that the woman should, for the moment, be treated with a certain amount of circumspection. The truth was that on his solitary rides he had come to like this country and felt moved to make a career here. Like Mkabi's father, he too was looking beyond the defeat of the Zulus to what was to come. It seemed to him that what Zululand needed was some form of military government and perhaps he was the one to give it. In actual fact this never happened though Penn Symonds retained his links with South Africa and was known as a lucky general. His luck finally ran out in 1899 at Dundee during one of the early battles in the Boer War. Symonds rode to the front line to inspect the disposition of his troops. Ignoring the warnings of his fellow officers concerning the accuracy of Boer marksmanship, he stood up to glance over the parapet and was promptly shot in the stomach. He stepped back, inspected the wound, realised it was fatal, issued orders to his second in command, then walked back to the tent that formed his headquarters. There he died. The Battle of Dundee was adjudged a victory if you overlook the fact that the British retreated, leaving their dying commander behind, not to mention the strange incident of a troop of cavalry who got lost and galloped right into the arms of the enemy.
But all that was in the future. For now, the three of them made their way back to Rorke's Drift where Poole was given a fresh uniform from the storehouse. As for Mkabi, Symonds was nonplussed as to what to do. Finally he gave orders that she be given her own private tent as a "material witness" though material witness to what no one could say. After a night's rest, Symonds summoned Poole and took down his story. The events of Isandhlwana seemed as confusing from his lips as they were from the other survivors. Symonds put his pen down and sighed. He bade Poole continue so that he could explain the length of his absence. It was when Poole talked of Senzakona and Mkabi that Symonds stopped writing. Here was a clear case of fraternisation with the enemy. He was not entirely sure whether the man ought to be shot. He summoned an interpreter and Mkabi in order to establish that a) Poole was not an inveterate liar and b) that his ears were not deceiving him. As it turned out Poole was not and his ears were not. But what that all added up to was an embarrassment for her majesty's government.
Penn Symonds decided to consult Chelmsford, the next time he was at the mission station. In the meantime Poole was put on light duties and a blind eye was shown to his numerous nocturnal visits to the tent of Mkabi. Harry found that, since he had returned to army life, he was plagued by nightmares of the massacre. Dead comrades would visit him in the night and demand that he take his rightful place with them. Then he would waken with a start and Mkabi would cradle him in her arms until finally his head would rest on her stomach and listen to the sounds of the child that was growing within her.
In those weeks Harry grew in stature as a man. He became more thoughtful and began to consider that the death of so many at Isandhlwana was not so much the fault of the enemy as that of the officers who ran their lives. And with this thought came a growing impatience and anger. Eventually matters came to a head when he and the rest of the garrison were made to fall out to witness the flogging of one Private Bennett. Bennett, like most of those stationed at Rorke's Drift was a survivor of the attack made on this mission station after Isandhlwana. He had been accused of drunkenness and insubordination and been sentenced to fifty lashes. To a drum roll the prisoner was led out and tied to a post. Then sentence was carried out. He had barely received more than ten strokes when something in Harry snapped and he began to shout out in a loud voice, his contempt for those in charge.
What calumnies are heaped upon
The heads of mean and vicious men
Myself I own to know of none
For they escape again, again
Whilst those who of the humbler sort
Are made to suffer by the whip
As rich men do themselves desport
And hold us all within their grip
The flogging proceeded though many of the men held that the "edge had been taken out of lash" somewhat. Afterwards Bennett deserted but by then Harry and Mkabi were on their way to England as part of a face saving exercise. They could not court martial a survivor of Isandhlwana but neither could they draw attention to the story of a man who had lived among the enemy. So it was agreed that he be honourably discharged with full back pay. With part of this he bought a gift of three oxen which he arranged to have sent to Senzakona. Then, having compensated his father-in-law for wiping the axe with his daughter the two of them set sail.
Their son was born on the voyage. Harry wanted to name him John after his father but settled, on Mkabi's insistence on the name of Jonjo - Jonjo Mbothelese Poole. When the three of them arrived in England they discovered that, for the moment, all things Zulu were of interest. The British public loved an underdog and a bunch of natives armed only with spears who had wiped out a British army were certainly that. Reports were also coming back concerning Cetewayo who was undergoing a dignified captivity at the Cape and cutting a fine figure in European suits according to the legion of visitors he received.
"They are exhibiting their captured wild animal," said Mkabi bitterly when she heard.
The first offer they had was from a photographer named Augustus Bean who wanted to take bare-chested "anthropological" photographs of Mkabi. They declined. But this gave Harry an idea. Why not put on a music hall show based on the Battle of Isandhlwana in the form of a dramatic monologue. He set to work writing the verses over the weekend and by the following week he had a backer.
Thus "The Stand of the Gallant One Thousand" was born and played to packed houses in London. Picture the scene as a, now clean-shaven, Harry strode on stage in full uniform to the accompaniment of military music from the orchestra pit. First he would march around and perform an extravagant and completely non-existent drill before removing his helmet and beginning the heroic verses.
Across the plain the Zulus came
black as hell and thick as grass
to kill the men who in the camp did remain
and said they shall not pass.
Spear and shield met the rifles crack
upon that fateful summer's morn
but weight of numbers drove them back
and a race of heroes was reborn.
They did not flee those bold brave men
as they made their gallant stand.
They saw them off again and again
So hurrah for the gallant one thousand.
On and on it went for some two hundred stanzas building in intensity until at each "hurrah for the gallant one thousand" a loud cheer went through the halls. Harry covered the battle, the slaughter, the retreat and his subsequent rescue. That was when Mkabi appeared, not bare chested but in a costume that emphasised her form. The show couldn't fail. And even when the fashion for Isandhlwana faded, the exoticism of Mkabi kept them coming.
"Truly man, your people are strange," she would often say to him. "Of what is this?"
Harry had no answer for he was captivated by the fame and the greasepaint. It reminded him of those far off days when he watched his real father play football and heard the crowd's roar. Soon the press gave him a name to be proud of. No longer was he plain old Harry Poole, late of her majesty's army. Instead he was "Harry Poole, the Doggerel Poet of the Potteries". When London grew tired of them they toured the provinces, also to packed houses. As the public interest waned in the Zulu war, Mkabi spiced things up with "authentic" Zulu dances that whipped the young men up to a new frenzy and scandalised the ladies who nevertheless came back for more.
Years went by and young Jonjo was drafted into the act as a cute little Zulu warrior complete with shield and assegai. Then suddenly one day it seemed he was no longer cute and Harry thought the boy looked like a young Senzakona. Mkabi saw it too.
"A pity man. He would have made a good warrior once. But no more."
"He's a natural and no mistake."
"Of what use is it?"
"It pays."
Mkabi said nothing.
As Jonjo got older it seemed to the audience that he was husband to Mkabi as Harry, still in uniform, fought mock battles with him. "The Gallant One Thousand" was now beginning to look and sound a little threadbare as audiences began to demand fresh entertainment. Even Mkabi's dance failed to impress as her figure thickened out. Harry tried to refresh the act. He wrote new verses and got new props and costumes but somehow "The Drunkard's Lament" and the "Eadless Orseman of Oxted Cross" failed to do good business. The act began to fade from the Music Hall Bills, the caption appearing smaller and further down each year. Harry admitted defeat.
He decided that it was time to go home. The three of them caught the train to the Potteries. There, he was surprised to discover he was something of a celebrity and would remain so for the rest of his life. They moved in with Netty, who had grown wiry and irascible with age but still retained something of her former allure. The two women did not get on though Netty doted on the boy. As time went by the old home became a battleground in which the two women fought for supremacy and the men scattered for cover. Jonjo strayed outside where his easy nature, athleticism and the novelty of his skin colour made him popular with girl and boy alike. He excelled at sports, particularly those involving physical combat such as wrestling or boxing. But despite this his favourite sport was football. The rough and tumble, the tackling and kicking appealed to him. Soon he was being watched by scouts from some of the professional teams in the area.
Harry took to staying out more often in the company of his Uncle Percy who seemed to have aged little apart from getting a little greyer and rounder.
"It's good to have you back boy," he would say, slapping him on the shoulder as he used to with Harry's father. Then he would touch him for a loan - also like his father. Harry did not mind for Percy was good company and he had enough money put by to keep him at present.
It was through Percy's contacts that he began to find work as an after dinner speaker, relating his experiences of Africa and the late war. He also discovered that there were those who did not attend the theatre and had never heard the "Gallant One Thousand" so he dusted it off, polished it up and began to recite it once more. He also began to introduce other verses on more everyday subjects - childhood, army life, and love. These were not always popular at the raucous rotary club dinners but did earn him invitations to poetry recitals where he became something of a lady's man. His literary fame was growing.
Meanwhile the two women fought on. The only lull was when Netty fell sick and Mkabi tended her like one of her own children as the older woman hovered between life and death. Then, as soon as she was well, the war continued.
Mkabi never had any more children though they had tried. This had resulted in three miscarriages. Mkabi blamed it on the life they led.
"An evil life man."
One day she came to Harry.
"I must go," she said to him. "I must return home. I have stayed too long and wish to see if my father is alive. I am tired of your people. They are not as the Zulu. We are a people of heat. But here, this is a land of ice and fire. The land is cold and so the fire retreats within you and makes you a strange and warlike people who do great evil. I have seen much here and will relate it all when I return though I suspect I will be called a liar."
Then she went. Shortly after her departure Netty took sick once more. This time, with no Mkabi to tend her, she became worse. It seemed that now that she had no daughter in law to fight with she had no reason to live. She died within the week. Harry arranged it so that Netty was buried next to her husband. Uncle Percy stood by his side as the ceremony was read.
"She was a fine woman Harry," he said as the mourners filed past. "And a good mother too. She always wanted the best for you boy. And now you've done her proud. You're the last of the line and the best of 'em."
This was in fact true for his brothers were now all dead, victims of accident, disease and in one case, violence.
"Yes she would have been proud and no mistake."
Later, over a drink, Harry confessed that "what with everything and all" he thought it was time to be leaving the Potteries. Not long afterwards he was invited to London to discuss the publication of a book of his poetry. This seemed like a golden opportunity and he talked about it excitedly for days. The train journey down to London reminded him of that one he took so many years ago to Brecon. That journey brought him danger, love and a wife. What would this latest bring? He reasoned that he was still a relatively young man. He might marry, his other marriage having no legal status in this country. After all he had the pick from the various poetry societies he appeared at. And then there was the book. Who knows what that might lead too.
Unfortunately neither we nor Harry were ever to find out. Unused to the hustle and bustle of the Capital after so long away from it, he stepped out into the street in front of a moving carriage and was killed instantly. His book was published posthumously to some small acclaim. Other books were rushed into print to cash in on this but failed to sell.
Meanwhile Mkabi got home and found her father older and fatter and Zululand much changed. Jonjo had accompanied his mother.
"Who is this daughter?"
"Your grandson father."
Senzakona smiled.
"Aieee!! Worth three oxen."
Jonjo soon became bored with life at the kraal. He longed for the old city life he was used to and so one day informed his mother that he wished to return to England. Mkabi loyally came back with him. When she got back she heard for the first time of her husband's death.
"Perhaps he should have returned with us Jonjo. He would have been treated as a prince. In this country there are few princes."
She stayed many years in the Potteries. In time her attitude to it softened somewhat but eventually she returned once more see her father, who was now very old and blind in one eye. He stirred little from his hut these days apart from sitting outside in the sun. In truth he was now too fat. But he greeted his daughter as of old and wished for news. Mkabi sat down in front of her father, a little stiffer, a little older but still her father's daughter. She told of her husband's death and how he had been revered as a great storyteller and that the Zulu were a large part of his stories. And Senzakona smiled and raised a pitcher of beer to his lips to toast the death of the poet who had come to his door all those years back and stolen his daughter away yet left him with a noble grandson.
"And what of your son?"
Mkabi held her father's hand and began to tell him of the sports that the British played and how his grandson excelled at them. She tried to explain how, in his mid twenties, Jonjo had joined the ailing Stoke City football club when it had resigned from the league due to financial hardship. Senzakona frowned but tried hard to understand her words for he loved his grandson dearly. But it was hot and he was old and his head began to nod.
Mkabi rose and kissed the old man on his forehead. He stirred briefly but did not wake up. Tomorrow she would tell him of the great deeds Jonjo performed in the Birmingham League and of how the name of "Black Poole" became almost as legendary as that of his father. But that is another story...