by John Wilcox
Riderless horses were now cutting small channels through the mêlée and they had the effect of breaking up the little groups of organised resistance that remained as they charged, eyes wide with fear, in different directions. The moustached officer had fallen and the organised firing ended. Simon stumbled over the red-coated bodies of two officers. He recognised Lieutenants Pope and Godwin-Austin, great friends who, inseparable in life, now lay side by side in death, their monocles still firmly clasped in their eye sockets. The carnage continued but the battle was over. It was every man for himself now.
His comrades gone and Jenkins dead, Simon faced his own end with a coolness that surprised him. He was amazed that he had lasted this long. He had fought and he would go on fighting until he was brought down. Fumbling in his pouch, he discovered three cartridges. He pressed one into the breech and walked down the trail, carrying the rifle at the point of balance. Calmly he aimed at and brought down a Zulu who was chasing a limping infantryman, then a second who appeared, spear raised, before him. Pressing the last round into the breech, he fired at a third warrior but missed. Only the bayonet now.
Then, close behind him, he heard a horse’s shrill scream. He turned in time to see a riderless horse crash into a small knot of Zulus and scatter them, bringing one to the ground as a hoof caught his knee. This had the effect of halting the animal as well as dispersing the warriors and Simon was able to grab the trailing bridle and clumsily insert one foot into the stirrup. There was blood on the saddle but a tasselled cavalry sabre still in its scabbard. As Simon hauled himself astride, he felt for the first time a glimmer of hope. Drawing the sword, he dug in his heels and set the horse down the track to the south-east.
The original herdsman’s track had been broadened by Chelmsford’s wagons on the advance but Simon could see that it was now completely blocked by Zulus. The road to Rorke’s Drift was no place to be. Most of the fugitives had peeled off and were trying to make for the Buffalo across country. The thin line stretched away: soldiers in various uniforms, although none in the scarlet of the 24th Regiment; some cavalry, their horses wide-eyed, their riders low on their necks; infantry, most of them black, some attempting to run, some plodding resignedly; horses, their saddles empty, resisting every attempt to catch them. Everywhere, however, were the Zulus, leaping from the rocks at the side, running in and out of the fugitives on the marshy ground, stabbing and hacking at the hurrying men.
The tragic tableau stretched ahead as far as Simon could see, the sorry remnants of Pulleine’s command being harried and cut down as they ran the gauntlet along the four miles to the Buffalo River. Despite the advantage of being mounted, Simon realised he would be lucky to survive on that route. Pulling his steed’s head round, he set the horse to gallop back the way he had come. It was a gamble, but he reasoned that by going against the flow of the fugitives, out on to the plain, he might have a chance of surviving and even, perhaps, of making Chelmsford’s column that had marched off to the east.
It proved surprisingly easy. Flailing his sabre at the few Zulus who tried to spear him down, Simon was quickly away from the scene of the battle. Looking over his shoulder, he realised that those warriors who were not pursuing the fugitives were looting the tents and the wagons. Some had already been put to the torch and, judging by the whoops, he realised that the liquor store had been found and breached. He slowed the horse to a walk and rode towards the low hills he could see ahead of him.
Out on that plain, Simon felt strangely alone without Jenkins. He forced himself not to think of his dead friend but to consider what the Zulus might do now, after their great victory - and what a victory it must seem to them! Never before could such a body of trained European soldiers, armed with the latest weapons and with veteran infantrymen at its core, have been wiped away so completely by native spearmen. Simon shook his head sadly. The Zulus must have taken frightening casualties from those volleys of the 24th but they so outnumbered the British column that Cetswayo’s army would still remain intact and would waste little time in wiping out those pathetic fugitives on the trail. What would it do now? Come across the plain behind him and attack Chelmsford, or . . . Simon suddenly stiffened in the saddle. Of course! That right horn of the buffalo that swept round behind Isandlwana - it would mop up the survivors of the battle and then go on to attack Natal. That great fear of Lamb’s that the Zulus would pour across the frontiers of Zululand into the lush pastures of Natal had become a reality at last.
He looked behind him. He had ridden too far now to see the camp, or what was left of it, although the great finger of Isandlwana still pointed to the sky, but there was no sign of warriors following him, no black ants swarming across the plain to finish off Chelmsford. Simon reined in his horse to stop and think. Cetswayo had probably sent a separate force to decoy the British general into the hills ahead and ambush him there. He remembered Dunn’s words, ‘He’s no fool, you know . . .’ Not a fool - more a skilled general. He had divided the British force and eaten it up piecemeal. He would rest his warriors for a while and then let them loose on Natal. This offensive move was the best defence he could possibly make of his homeland, for both of the other columns were bound to turn back to protect the British province. Simon gave a grim smile. They had called Shaka ‘the Black Napoleon’ but it suited the shrewd Cetswayo better.
Simon looked up at the sun. He wondered how long the King and his generals would rest the victorious army before it crossed the Buffalo into Natal. Perhaps, if he could ford the river well east of the Rorke’s Drift crossing, he would be able to ride to the mission station and give the alarm so that some sort of defence could be mounted at - what was the place further back there? Ah yes, Helpmakaar - in time to rebuff the Zulus and re-call the other columns. He glanced to his right, to the south. It looked easy riding to the Buffalo and his horse was still comparatively fresh. He pulled its head round.
As he did so, a flash of light to his left made him pause. He stood in the stirrups, shielded his eyes and focused hard. There it was again. Zulus? Possibly, but the light was not sharp or bright, as reflected off a spearhead. It was duller and - yes, it flickered again. More like sunlight bouncing back from a gun barrel or a horse’s harness. He sat for a moment, undecided, then dug in his heels and rode towards it. If it was Chelmsford, he must warn him. If it was a Zulu patrol, they would not have horses and he could outride them.
In twenty minutes he could make out a small party of dismounted horsemen, and in another five he realised that he was approaching a British patrol which had stopped to take refreshment, for a small fire had been kindled. He rode up to them and, with some difficulty, slipped to the ground.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded of a sergeant who rose to greet him. ‘And where are you from?’
Before the sergeant could answer, a familiar voice came from the back of the group: ‘All right, Sergeant, I’m coming.’ And thrusting from the back, where he had been adjusting a saddle cinch, strode Lieutenant Colonel Covington.
Recognition was not immediately mutual, for while Simon could not fail to know who stood before him, a puzzled frown puckering that handsome brow, Covington took a moment to take in the bedraggled sight that confronted him: the gaunt, sun-browned and somehow familiar face, the long, unkempt hair atop a dust-covered figure and boots that gaped at the soles. Who on earth . . . and then: ‘Good God. Fonthill!’
‘Colonel,’ said Simon. ‘Look. There’s been a terrible disaster at Isandlwana. The Zulus have attacked and wiped out the whole column. Virtually everyone has been killed. You must tell the General. I am going to ride into Natal and warn the settlers there, for I fear that Cetswayo is planning to cross the Buffalo and attack them.’
The blue eyes stared at him unbelievingly. ‘What’s this you’re saying? The whole column wiped out? That’s impossible. The General left seventeen hundred well-armed men there.’
Simon sighed. ‘I know, sir. They’ve been overwhelmed.’ His voice began to break. ‘The killing was awful.’
Simon was aware that the members of the patrol were gathering round, listening to the conversation. ‘I’ve been held a prisoner by Cetswayo but I escaped and got to the camp just before the attack. There is no time to be lost.’ He spoke with tired emphasis. ‘You must tell the General that he is in great danger, because I believe he has been lured away by the Zulus, who will now attack him. I must go to Rorke’s Drift and Helpmakaar to warn them.’
He half turned to mount his horse, but as Simon had been speaking, incredulity had been growing in Covington’s face. That arrogant sneer that Simon remembered so well replaced the look of astonishment and the Colonel grasped Simon’s shoulder roughly and swung him round. ‘Oh no, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘You’re not going anywhere. You’ve been up to your old tricks, haven’t you? Running away again. I don’t believe a word of this rubbish. Sergeant, place him under arrest. This time you will be court-martialled, young man. I’ll see to that.’
As Covington spoke, a great anger began to well up inside Simon. The agonies of the day - Jenkins’s death, the horror of the battle, the memories of brave men dying - all merged in his mind into a great hatred of the sneering figure before him, who was now gripping his shoulder so tightly that he could feel the pain start again from the spear wound. Simon knocked away Covington’s arm, swivelled from the hip and punched the man as hard as he could. It was a perfect uppercut, taking the Colonel cleanly on the point of the jaw and knocking him prostrate on the ground, where he lay, momentarily stunned.
Simon turned coolly to the sergeant. ‘Now, where is the General?’
The sergeant’s mouth was hanging open. What he had heard and seen seemed to have stupefied him.
‘For God’s sake, man,’ Simon shouted. ‘Where is the General?’
‘Ah, er . . . he’s about twelve miles or so back, up in the hills, er, sir.’
‘Right.’ Simon gathered the reins of his horse and put one foot in the stirrup. He gestured to Covington, who was beginning to stir. ‘Tell that bloody man when he recovers that I’ve ridden to the border to give warning about the Zulus attacking. And tell him from me that if he doesn’t ride back now and warn the General, I will make sure that he is the one who is court-martialled, not me.’
The sergeant suddenly seemed to remember that his commanding officer had been struck. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You can’t ride off. I don’t know who you are but you’ve just struck a superior officer and I’ve got to place you under arrest.’
Simon swung into the saddle and looked down at the gaping faces below him. ‘Balls,’ he said. He dug in his heels and set off for Rorke’s Drift.
Chapter 15
Simon pushed his horse as fast as he dared. There had been no attempt at pursuit by Covington’s men but he knew that he had little time if he was to reach the mission station at Rorke’s Drift before the Zulus and give warning so that some sort of defence could be mounted at Helpmakaar. He had no idea of how many men Chelmsford would have left at the river crossing, but it was highly unlikely that it would be enough to stem the horde of warriors who would cross the Buffalo, so his only realistic hope was that the invading impi would stop to take snuff and regroup before making the crossing. It was just possible that he could arrive in time to help the mission station garrison pull back to Helpmakaar. He took out the old timepiece that had somehow survived his many vicissitudes in Zululand. Two forty. God, it was only three hours or so since he and Jenkins had ridden into camp! A lurid, horror-filled lifetime had been packed into that time. Jenkins . . . Covington. What was the penalty for striking a senior officer? He forced himself to look ahead and not back.
He reached the Buffalo to find that it was in flood, with angry brown water bubbling between rocks. He turned his horse to the north and, after an anxious few minutes, found a track leading down to what, in normal times, would have been a drift. Now the crossing looked ugly but he put the reluctant horse into the strong current and found that by part swimming and part scrambling they could reach the safety of the Natal bank. Kicking in his heels, he forced the animal to climb the steep bank ahead, and at the top turned north again, following the riverbank for a while. Nandi had told him that the mission was set about 300 yards back from Rorke’s Drift beneath a large hill known to the missionaries as Oskarberg, which was distinctive enough to be seen for some distance. Accordingly, he rode away from the river, in the hope of avoiding any parties of Zulus who might have crossed upstream and who would, he felt sure, follow the bank to the Rorke’s Drift crossing.
After an hour of difficult riding, he crested a hill and there, about half a mile ahead of him, loomed the swelling that must be Oskarberg. But he had no eyes for that, for his vantage point also gave him a distant view of the Zulu side of the river and of the track that undoubtedly led down to Rorke’s Drift. There, covering the gentle incline into Zululand, as far as his eye could see, sprawled hundreds - thousands? - of Zulus. He had arrived at the crossing at the same time as the Zulu horn. He was too far away to see the condition of the impis but the question now was: were the Zulus resting for a moment before making the crossing and launching the attack, or were they preparing to retreat back into Zululand? He protected his eyes with his hand and focused hard. No, clearly they were resting. If they had made an attack and been successful they would surely be on their way into Natal; if they had been repulsed, they would be limping back into their homeland. They were probably taking snuff and, as Simon had learned from Dunn, the light narcotics they often imbibed before a battle to prepare themselves for combat. Once more he dug his heels into the flanks of his tired horse and urged him on.
Twenty minutes later he was looking down at the mission station from the crest of the Oskarberg. To his amazement, the garrison of the little station had not left for Helpmakaar. On the contrary, they had clearly decided to stay and fight, for as he watched, he saw preparations being made to defend the station. The post consisted of two low thatched buildings about thirty yards apart, facing the river, with a square stone kraal at one end to act as a cattle pen. Soldiers were now manhandling wagons and what Simon recognised as large boxes of biscuits and mealie bags to form two defensive lines, linking the two buildings. Obviously this had been a supply base for Chelmsford’s army and these supplies were now being pressed into service to defend the post. But - Simon’s mind raced - hadn’t Nandi mentioned that this was a forward hospital, too? Were the sick and wounded still inside or had they been sent back to Helpmakaar? He tried to count the able men working - less than a hundred, although there were some coloured horsemen milling around outside the barricade. The fools! How could they withstand an attack by four thousand Zulus? They would have had pickets out at the crossing and would know how many warriors they would have to face. Why hadn’t they left? He urged his horse down the steep hillside, taking it at an angle, for the surface was made up of treacherous shingle and stone.
As he reached the bottom, a sad-faced officer with moustache and sideburns and wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of the 24th came forward to meet him. Simon recognised Gonville Bromhead, from the 2nd Battalion, and was not surprised to see him. Bromhead, considerably older than Simon, was regarded as a competent officer and came from a distinguished military family, but his promotion prospects had long been hampered by a chronic deafness which meant that he - and therefore his company - was often allocated tasks which would not impose heavy demands upon him. He had obviously been left behind to look after the hospital away from the difficulties and glory of the advance into Zululand. An invading column was no place for an ear trumpet.
Bromhead raised his heavy black brows. ‘Fonthill! Didn’t expect to see you here. Where did you come from?’
‘Isandlwana. There’s been a terrible massacre. Do you know about it?’
‘The battle? Is
that where you’ve come from? I hear there’s been a terrible to-do.’
Simon raised his voice. ‘There are a couple of Zulu impis who are about to cross the river to attack you. Why didn’t you leave? Oh, never mind. Are you in command here?’
‘Command? Me? No. Major Spalding. But he’s gone to Helpmakaar. Chap called Chard, a lieutenant of engineers, is in command. He’s senior to me, you see.’ Bromhead looked over Simon’s shoulder. ‘Look here. You’d better come inside the perimeter. We’ve been told that a whole Zulu corps is coming this way. Did you see ’em?’
Simon nodded resignedly but led his horse behind Bromhead through the last gap in the defences. As they passed through, shirt-sleeved men of Bromhead’s company pushed a couple of hundred-pound biscuit boxes into the gap and then threw equally heavy sacks full of mealies on top of them. The perimeter was now closed.
Lieutenant Chard, a big, black-bearded man, approached Simon and the formal introductions were made by Bromhead. ‘God,’ Chard said, ‘you look all in. But I’m afraid you’ve fallen from the frying pan of one battle into the fire of another.’
Simon shook his head. ‘Don’t worry about that. But does Helpmakaar know about the defeat and have they been warned that the Zulus are on their way?’
