Death on a Pale Horse: Sherlock Holmes on Her Majesty's Secret Service

by Donald Thomas

  Behind him, he heard a single battle-cry of the human tide as it burst from its line on the plateau and surged in mass formation down the slope to the plain. Then it came on silently and in perfect order, the war-chant stilled. Glancing back, he saw that the individual warriors were almost distinguishable. Their advance spread and formed a human phalanx across the scorching grassland. Then Cetewayo’s young men broke into a slow rhythmic run, with all the professional precision of British regiments moving in double-time.

  Despite the apparent security of Pulleine’s main position, the rocket-battery had delayed too long. Major Russell, his bombardier, and the eight troopers had chosen to make a fight of it. Among the pack mules which carried their equipment, two launching-troughs on limber wheels were now aimed directly at the advancing tribes. Two steel-cased rockets had been laid in place and two troopers were lighting the fuses by hand. The stillness of the plain was rent by a demonic shriek as the first of the projectiles shot from its launcher, trailing plumes of white smoke and sparks. High above the oncoming force, it went into an erratic spin, plunging harmlessly into the hillside beyond with a dull thump of explosive power and a slow drift of blackened smoke.

  But the second shell flew low and straight, detonating in the mass of the tribes with terrible effect. A cheer went up from the rocket battery as the launchers were reloaded. The ranks of oncoming attackers hid the scene for a moment. But something had gone amiss. It seemed that the next missiles failed to ignite. Two rocketeers tried vainly to light the fuses, the rest turning to hold off the attack with rifles and service revolvers.

  Almost before the danger was evident, the major and his bombardier and troopers vanished under a wave of bodies and spears. Several times the sun caught the tips of assegais held aloft in a powerful fist. There was a shout of victory from the pressing tribes, drawing back after conquest, a severed head dancing high on the shaft of a spear. Round the overturned limbers, the bodies of the nine soldiers lay torn and dishevelled.

  With such a sight before them, not a single face from the camp was turned towards the fugitive as he swung away from the despatch party. Abruptly, he spurred forward to put the shelter of the col between him and the fighting. From the concealment that the tall grass offered, he now saw the dark wall of the impi turn towards the main defensive line of Pulleine’s men. At the isolated donga, where his riflemen lay behind whitened boulders, Durnford alone stood upright, his left sleeve pinned to his tunic, his right arm brandishing his sword as he shouted encouragement to his men.

  At about two hundred yards, Durnford’s rifles opened fire, volleys aimed with a force and precision that might have equalled an artillery salvo. Twenty or thirty of the tribesmen went down, swarmed over by the mass which pressed on from behind them. At the foot of the plateau, the Royal Artillery battery loaded its guns again with case shot, lethal slugs of metal capable of bringing down attackers by the dozen.

  Durnford’s forward line began a careful withdrawal to the main perimeter, in order to secure their flank. The riflemen of the 24th Foot covered their retreat with the same precise ear-stunning volleys, each of which caused the oncoming wave of the attack to halt and recoil a little, leaving a line of fallen warriors at its feet.

  To those who had faced the ordeal of the Russian guns at the Alma or the bloody hand-to-hand carnage in the mist and mud of Inkerman, this skirmish at Isandhlwana had no more promised a proper battle than a rabbit-shoot or a battue of pheasants. The double-ranked companies of the 24th were so little concerned that men were chattering and laughing as they fired, pausing to reload from white blanco’d cartridge-pouches. Several officers walked up and down the line encouraging their men, voices carrying through the heat in the intervals of the crashing volleys. “Well done, Captain Pope’s company!… Good shooting, the 24th!”

  The hunter dismounted behind the rocks on the lower slope of the col. He saw that the first ranks of the attacking tribesmen were closer to the camp perimeter now, though at a range of well over two hundred yards. A few of the veteran warriors set an example to the youths by dashing forward and launching their six-foot assegais, light spears that flew with a faint whoop! through the air. The steel points bedded deep in the earth, but no more than half the distance from the British perimeter.

  Presently, the attacking line surged forward again with a rising murmur of voices, lapping the entire length of the defence. Again it drew back before the volley-fire of the imperial regiments, the battle hymn falling to a low howl. To the north, however, one horn of the impi was trying to encircle the flank of the 24th Foot, while case-shot from the seven-pounder guns of the Royal Artillery defending that sector filled the air with a hail of metal.

  In the wagon-park, to the rear of Pulleine’s position, the cooks and quartermasters had come out, as if to watch a football game. The regimental band was formed up in the safety of this garrison ground. In battle, these musicians would serve as ammunition-bearers. The observer on the col turned his glasses upon this enclosure. That was where the engagement would be lost or won, but not yet.

  Strickland and his Volunteers had fallen back to hold a line on the left. These were the sharp-shooters and harriers of the veldt. Recovered from their fright on the plateau, their steady carefully aimed fire brought down rank after rank of attackers. The great tribal phalanx wavered and, for a moment, the advance seemed to fall away again. But the experienced warriors had taught the new recruits well. The survivors of the Uve and Uncijo battalions had learnt to drop to their knees as the volleys were fired, but then rose again to launch their spears.

  Even so, the Uvi battalion came to a halt, kept down by shots that sang and whipped overhead. Promised that the enemy’s bullets would slide off their skins without harming them, the young warriors were losing heart. Tales of white birds that flew above and dropped fire from the sky were proving true. Soon there might follow attacks by dogs and apes, clothed and carrying firearms on their shoulders, of which their elders spoke.

  Then, as quickly as it had begun, the lull ended and the attack was resumed. Stung by its losses, the Uvi rose from the grass and flung its ranks upon the riflemen. The most powerful warriors were now in range with their assegais. Like a shaft from the sun, a six-foot spear flew with the speed of a hawk and sank into Strickland’s back as he turned to reload his rifle. His men would hear a sharp crack as the tip fractured his rib-cage. Pinned through the body, his face pressed to the earth, the gang-master of the markets and the mines was dead at once.

  Here and there, the disciplined fire of Pulleine’s Lambs faltered as the spears flew among them. Two mercenaries were carrying Strickland’s body back to the regimental lines. The patient observer on the col heard the rifle fire on the northern perimeter die away. From time to time, red-coated infantry had grounded their weapons and were glancing round behind them. Presently the crackle of shots broke out again but now it was uneven and the delay had been costly. In the scrimmage, the attacking force had become so dense that it sometimes eclipsed the view of the action. To the south of the line, the tribesmen were still running forward at a steady trot, only to fall under the swarm of bullets. But to the north, more of them were pressing against the front line of the regiments.

  Pulleine had been given his command of the 24th Foot because he was one of few experienced in such warfare. Had the hunter been in his position, he too would believe that he need only hold firm for a little longer before the warriors must have thrown the last of their weapons. Each man carried five or six. Then the Zulu line must fall back—or die.

  From the col, the precision glasses easily covered the wagon-park and the ammunition carriers, immediately below and on the nearer edge of the camp. In this tented space, the wagons were now surrounded by a jostling swarm of bandsmen with their blue caps held out, drummer boys and buglers who acted as runners to re-supply the infantry during the action. Anyone but the observer on the col might have wondered why they were not already running to and fro to feed the cartridge pouches of the regimenta
l lines.

  At the centre of the impatient musicians stood a score of oblong roughly made wooden crates that might need two men to lift them by their rope handles. Each was stamped in black with the crow’s-foot insignia and initials of the War Department. They were of a conventional cargo pattern, crude but strong, with tight copper bands holding the lids down. Steel screws, rusted into place, had been sunk through each band. Inside the crates, there was a weatherproof lining of silver foil to protect the rows of waxed-paper cartridge packets, keeping out damp and preventing an accidental spark from the friction of metal against metal. Each packet, when torn open, would yield a cache of calibre .450 cartridges for the breech-loading Martini-Henry rifles.

  Scanning the line through his field-glasses, the hunter made out that something had gone badly wrong with the Royal Artillery battery, forward of the perimeter on the northern flank. He was not surprised at this, though it was something of a bonus, a tribute to the incompetence of whoever had left the gunners there. Perhaps it was simply that Cetewayo’s inexperienced young warriors had learnt the lesson of the battle more quickly then anyone had expected. By their movements, it was plain that they knew that lesson now.

  After a shell had been fired, the iron monster that belched fire and smoke was powerless against them for almost a minute while it was loaded again. At the moment of its discharge, they had only to drop flat on the earth in the long dry grass until the flight of the thunderbolt passed over them. The weapon that fired it was then at their mercy, as they rose to their knees, to their feet, and surged forward again with spears poised to take their revenge.

  Each time the artillery gunners reloaded, the officers of the beleaguered battery were striving to keep the tribes at bay with revolvers and swords. But during these pauses, the weight of numbers had begun to tell. In this reversal of fortune, the artillerymen were also in danger of being overwhelmed, cut off in the path of a continuing advance.

  The only recourse was to save the guns, and the order was given. In a rapid manoeuvre, the teams struggled to get their field pieces to their horse-drawn limbers and then back within the camp perimeter. The dark-uniformed crews at each of the seven-pounders began hauling them away. Training and discipline accomplished this in less than half a minute. On the right, the 1st Battalion of the 24th Foot, on Pulleine’s order, opened a covering rifle fire on the tribesmen as they swarmed round the retreating gunners. Drivers whipped up the horses while guncrews jumped for a seat on the limbers. A spear, launched at short range, pierced an artilleryman’s back even as he snatched for a hand-hold. At a distance, his cry was audible but brief.

  The limber wheels lurched and jolted forward over uneven ground, their crews and passengers hacking at the heads and hands of the tribesmen following them. Elsewhere, the last of the gunners ran alongside the vehicles, the warriors close behind them.

  A retreat by British artillery in the face of the tribes was a reverse, but it was not yet the rout that the hunter had envisaged. His glasses showed him Colonel Pulleine striding back to his tent, then pausing. He was looking up at the skyline, the hills above the plain. What could he hope to see there, in the white glare of noon? Perhaps Lord Chelmsford’s column returning. But as he looked to left and right, he would sense a growing stillness across the field of battle. And in that stillness the colonel would know, as the quiet observer had known for many hours, that he and his entire force were doomed to die.

  To the south, on the right of the position, the red lines of the infantry were still holding firm, for the attack had been lighter. On the left, where the artillerymen had found refuge, the crackling volleys of the rifles sputtered and died. The forward ranks were almost face to face with the enemy. A metallic rattle and scraping followed the chilling command that echoed down the lines of white helmets and scarlet tunics from officers and NCOs:

  “Company—Fix bayonets!”

  Pulleine must have wondered how it could have come to this. Perhaps he might guess. More likely, he would die and never know the reason. With the precision of a guards regiment on a drill square, the endangered platoons and companies had drawn bayonets in unison, counting three as the steel flickered bright in the sun, then clipping them in a single movement to the hot barrels of the rifles.

  With a howl of expectant triumph, Cetewayo’s warriors flung down their shields, raised their fine-honed assegais in powerful fists, and rushed upon the redcoat line. The bayonets of the 24th held them for an instant. But as each rifleman sank his blade under the breastbone of an assailant, a new wave of the warriors broke over his position. Before the bayonets could be withdrawn, the first riflemen were cut down by the Uvi and Umcijo.

  The 24th infantry pulled back, leaving dead and wounded on the rough grass over which the line of the advance swept forward. The Natal Cavalry, fighting on foot, though entirely unprepared for hand-to-hand combat, was the next in danger of being cut off as the 24th fell back. But many of these dismounted riders turned, found their horses, and galloped for safety in the hills. Another gap in the northern flank was now undefended. The remaining artillery pieces stood forlorn and isolated in the wake of the advance.

  The watching horseman again turned his field-glasses to the wagon-park below him. The orderly queue of blue-uniformed bandsmen had become a rabble of musicians, cooks, batmen, grooms, and orderlies. The tailboard of every ammunition wagon was down and a dozen of the heavy wooden boxes with their rope handles stood in two lines. Quartermaster Bloomfield was struggling with a powerful turn-screw to twist the thread of one of the steel bolts, sunken and rusted into the oblong boxes, holding the copper bands and heavy lids in place. There was a shout across the yard.

  “The turn-screw drivers are too narrow! They’re not Boxer calibre!”

  “They surely must be! They were checked!”

  “God help us, we have been given the wrong calibre for .450 ammunition crates!”

  Another shout rang back.

  “Then the boxes must be broken open, Mr. Bloomfield! A mallet or rifle butt! Nothing metal. There must not be a spark! Make a start! Some of these packets are to be carried half a mile to forward companies.”

  This reply had come from a supply officer, whom the onlooker identified as Lieutenant Smith-Dorrien. His disorganised queues of bandsmen and supernumeraries now scattered and began to attack the abandoned boxes. At the far end of the transport-park, there was a sound of hooves. Captain Bonham and two corporals of the Newcastle Mounted Infantry appeared at a gallop. Bonham swung round to face the supply officer, his voice carrying through the warm air.

  “Mr. Smith-Dorrien! Captain Wardell’s compliments. H Company’s ammunition is exhausted. The 24th must abandon their present position and fall back almost to this point unless you can give our runners cartridges to carry back this minute. If you cannot do it, let us have the boxes and we will break them open!”

  Smith-Dorrien straightened up.

  “No, Captain Bonham! There must be order. There cannot be order if the boxes are taken away! Some companies will have too many cartridges and others too few.”

  “H Company has none at all, sir! If we fall back, the northern flank cannot hold out! The artillery has been routed. My message is a command from Colonel Pulleine, sir. It is not a request!”

  “Then open them here! Your mounted men may ride back with enough packages in your saddle-bags to carry on. It will be quicker than carrying heavy boxes such a distance!”

  This concession was a signal for general disorder. The supernumeraries and infantry runners pushed forward in a scrum to drag the remaining boxes over the tailboards of the wagons. The scene was one of looting. Despite Smith-Dorrien’s warning of metal striking a spark on metal, a bayonet flashed as it stabbed down to prise a thick wooden lid from the carcase of a heavy box. Elsewhere, iron hammers were being used to smash in the lids and sides.

  There was a cry of relief as several lids sprang loose under the pressure of bayonets. A crowd surged round the quartermaster in possession of a broken box
. The metal foil was ripped back. Caps or helmets were held out as wax-paper was torn and the brass cartridges tipped out in a stream. From the col, the view stretched far beyond the enclosure of the wagon-park. It needed no field-glasses to show that the amounts of ammunition would be too little and too late. Captain Bonham and his corporals raised dust as they turned and galloped off with the first consignments.

  The warriors had broken the line to the south, where Durnford’s surrounded position had now been overwhelmed. The tribesmen were in among the first tents. A well-aimed spear brought Bonham from the saddle. As the captain fell into the path of the next rider, his corporal’s horse reared and threw him at the feet of his killers. Only the second corporal charged his way through. The bandsmen carrying the first heavy box got no further. From the hill, it was plain that the horns of the Zulu impi had almost closed round the rear of the British position. If Pulleine was still alive, he surely knew the end had come.

  Unaware of the extent of the disaster, two men in the dark tunics of quartermasters were shouting at each other. Officers joined in. Smith-Dorrien had broken open a new box. He was tipping cartridges into twenty or thirty helmets and haversacks held out for him. Bloomfield shouted from a nearby wagon, “For heaven’s sake, don’t take those, man! They belong to our battalion. It’s all we have left!”

  “Hang it all!” the young subaltern called back. “You don’t want a requisition order at a time like this, do you?”

  With the first breach, the line which had held against the impi’s weight began to fragment. Its men now found the attackers at their backs and feared they would be cut off. The 24th Foot, with Pulleine still alive and assuming direct command, drew back in a semblance of orderly retreat. The men at either end of the line fell away first and fought to the end among the tents of the company lines. Pulleine tried to keep the main body intact, ordering them back to the lower slope of Isandhlwana. Beyond the wagons, the boulders and low ridges might afford a defensive line.