Somerset looked disconcerted. ‘You do not consider it my overwhelming duty to preserve my force? We should be hard pressed to find another.’
Hervey saw no profit in debating the principle. ‘I don’t think we need consider it in those terms, Colonel. May I propose that I take the mounted detachments forward to make contact with the Zulu? It might still be possible to parley with them, especially since they have not yet seen troops under discipline. But if not, at least I should be able to ascertain something of their numbers and condition, and perhaps intention. Meanwhile, if Voosani’s men can be rallied, and Gaika can muster all the Xhosa …’ He tried to make his suggestion as unemphatic as possible: he had to leave the commander of the field force with an opening to take up the proposal as his own.
Somerset turned to the commanding officer of the 55th (Westmoreland) Foot, who had come in from the pickets on seeing the galloper. ‘Colonel Mill, what do you consider is the capability of your battalion?’
Lieutenant-Colonel John Mill was a veteran of much fighting – the West Indies, the Peninsula, Waterloo – and his face bore the battle honours. Whatever he thought of Lieutenant-Colonel Henry Somerset, a man considerably younger than he and with a complexion as fresh as the schoolboy’s, he kept an impassive countenance. ‘In square my battalion could not be broken, and in line it could not be resisted, Colonel.’
That seemed to do the trick. With such resolution at hand, how could he, Somerset, do other than offer battle here, between the Kei and the Bashee? ‘Very well, gentlemen. Colonel Hervey, you may take the mounted detachments as you propose and make contact with the Zulu. As soon as the artillery comes up, and Gaika’s men are mustered, I shall march towards the Bashee – unless you report that the Zulu are in too great strength. I shall keep the burghers with me. They’re not so steady, yet they will afford me some protection if – I mean when – we advance.’
No one spoke. Each man saluted and took his leave, knowing without need of elaboration what their business was to be about.
Somerset, alone, in his camp chair, lapsed into a gloomy, distant stare. His orderly brought him a bottle, which he took with resignation rather than relish. This was not how he had imagined it would be.
They broke camp at midnight. Four or five hours in the saddle, by Hervey’s reckoning, and they would be in the more undulating country west of the Bashee. This would give a horseman the advantage, for with videttes on half a dozen high points they would soon be able to estimate the size of the Zulu force, and there would be less chance of being encircled. His one concern was colliding with the Tambooka if they were falling back towards Gaika’s kraal; but they met no one. Hervey imagined that scarcely an owl could have been witness to their night march – a cold affair too, wanting capes, whereas by day it was shirtsleeves, and too hot at that.
How he wished he could have more confidence in Somerset, both his capacity for decision and for resolution! Yet he supposed, at bottom, that if the blood of the Beauforts coursed through Somerset’s veins there could not be too much amiss. Proud he was, yes; and that verged on the perilously disdainful. But Hervey was certain that Somerset had the capacity to fight sword in hand (and he had a suspicion that when it came to fighting these Zulu it would be the will to take the blade to the enemy that counted). He quickened at the thought. He felt his hand twitch for the sabre hilt. Who were these Zulu that they should discompose one of the King’s officers? He would not dismiss them as savages, as others might, but he would not invest them with supernatural prowess. Did that mean he might defeat five thousand of them with his three hundred dragoons and riflemen? Hammer and anvil, beaters and guns, whatever was the proper analogy, his force was the superior in fire and in manoeuvre. His rifles could bring down a warrior at a furlong, and he had yet to see men afoot and who did not form square resist the charge of cavalry. How did this Shaka suppose he could defeat even so much as a troop and a company of the King’s men?
XXIV
FIRST BLOOD
Next morning
Just before dawn it began to rain. Not heavy, but a steady downpour which was soon soaking tunics and overalls. The night had been starry, with a good moon, and then a half-hour before first light, cloud had rolled in from the south-east, out of the Indian Ocean, relict of the south-west monsoon. Hervey’s spirits sank with the rain as he realized the fault in his appreciation. Rain had the potential to render the musket and the rifle no more than a pike. He cursed. He cursed doubly, for it need not be so. A man did not have to empty powder down a wet barrel, or into a wet firing pan for the wet flint to fail to spark. There were cartridges that could be placed into the barrel whole, and rifles which permitted loading at the breech, so that powder did not have to come into contact with damp air, let alone wet metal; and there were percussion caps – clever little things filled with fulminate of mercury – which could be inserted into the firing pan, so that when struck by the hammer that had formerly held the flint, the cap would give off the necessary spark to ignite the cartridge. Neither was this new science: a percussion cap had saved his life at Waterloo, provenance of Daniel Coates. The Ordnance, however, had no time for the novelty. And so here, now, in the chill drizzle of the veld, the only firearm he could rely on was his own percussion carbine, and Fairbrother’s revolver: two hundred rifles stood hostage to the rain and the new-acquired skill of their handlers. His own troop’s carbines he might rely on a little more, for his dragoons were certainly more practised than the riflemen; yet he knew it was possible that a hundred carbines might misfire in the face of a Zulu attack. And what message of capability might that send to Shaka?
As the sun came up, not as fast as in India, but quickly nevertheless, the rain eased and then stopped altogether. Hervey’s disquiet eased with it. They could begin to dry the firelocks – which dragoon and rifleman alike had wrapped with oilskin – and mop the barrels. It would be good to prove each weapon, he thought, though it was a practice he normally abhorred (for why give away anything to the enemy?). He was sure the Zulu would be within earshot, however: he would lose any element of surprise.
He almost lost it before he knew. The scouts stopped suddenly. They had ridden ahead as dawn broke, five hundred yards to the next rise along the line of advance. Moments later one of them began cantering fast in a circle, anti-clockwise.
Hervey lowered his telescope and turned to Lieutenant Fearnley and Captain Welsh riding alongside him. His voice compelled urgency. ‘Into line, two ranks, dragoons front – as we drilled. Then wait my orders.’
They saluted, and reined about hard.
Hervey nodded to Fairbrother and took off in a hand-gallop towards the scouts, trying to keep low the dust which even the rain had not quite suppressed.
‘Forgive me, Hervey,’ called Fairbrother above the drumming of hooves, ‘but has something decidedly cavalry happened?’
‘Infantry – Zulu – in large numbers.’
‘That much you can tell by a scout galloping in a circle?’
‘Yes. If he’d circled clockwise it would have meant cavalry. The pace he circles gives an indication of numbers.’
It was three hundred yards to the rise where the scouts stood: a minute and a half’s work for charging warriors – enough time to reload carbines and at least one barrel of the rifles. Hervey calculated these things as a matter of course; any cavalryman would – must. The range was too great for a bullet, though, let alone a carbine ball. If they were to check the Zulu as they came over the rise he would have to advance the line at least a hundred yards to rifle range.
But the scouts were now motionless. Evidently the Zulu were at a safe distance still.
Hervey slowed to a trot as he came up behind the ridge, Fairbrother at his side, coverman and trumpeter a few lengths behind. He snatched his telescope from the saddle holster, reining to a halt beside Corporal Wick. And he stifled a gasp. On the parching plain beyond was a sight that set rats racing in his gut and stirred the darkest corners of his mind. It was as if twelve monst
rous black snakes were making straight for the ridge, any one of them with venom enough to kill an entire troop, or else to coil and crush the life out of them. There were warriors in single file for as far as the eye could see – and see through the telescope – spears and shields in hand, loping across the dry, green veld at the pace of trotting cavalry. He had not seen killing-columns come on like this since Waterloo.
He was shaken as much by his own shock as the sight itself. He breathed deeply so as not to falter or gabble when he spoke; he prayed the cold sweat was invisible. ‘How many, Corporal Wick?’
‘I reckon on two thousand, sir. And then that dust yonder must mean there’s as many more.’
Hervey peered through his telescope again at the distant cloud. No matter how green the country there was always dust. How distant it was difficult to tell – the featureless veld, the sun in their eyes – but it must be far enough not to have caught the rain of the predawn. Perhaps, then, they had a little more time than he supposed: these advance guards, as they must be, would probe rather than commit themselves to a fight if they were not sure of overwhelming their opponents. That, at least, was the received wisdom in His Majesty’s army. But it was perfectly possible that in Shaka’s they did things differently.
But where were the Zulu’s scouting parties? ‘Have you seen ought else, Corporal Wick? Scouts, men moving independently?’
‘No I haven’t, sir. Not a bird or nothing.’
Hervey was calculating as he spoke. The ground had no features by which to judge the distance perfectly, but since to the naked eye the Zulu were clearly afoot rather than mounted, by the usual yardstick it meant they were no more than seven furlongs off – say five since it was possible to make out their gait. And at their loping jog-trot (say five miles in the hour) – that would make seven or eight minutes at most before they closed.
‘Corporal Dilke, silent-signal for the troop and Rifles to advance at the trot.’
His trumpeter turned and began raising and lowering both fists (left for the Rifles, right for the troop) as if he were pulling a beam-pump.
In seconds the line of blue began advancing, then the green.
Meanwhile Hervey scanned the plain through his telescope. ‘Not exactly Chobham Common, is it, Corporal Wick?’ he said in a manner convincingly cool.
‘Sir?’
‘The last time I seem to recall you were scouting in similar circumstances.’
Wick looked at Hervey, astounded. ‘‘Ow’d you remember that, sir? It were years ago!’
The strange Shrewsbury vowels always reminded Hervey of school, where Wick’s father had been gatekeeper. ‘All of ten, I think. We did rather well in those manoeuvres, as I recall.’
‘Well we did, sir!’ But Wick had been an eighteen-year-old recruit; in ten years he had seen enough to know the difference between a field day and real fight. Nevertheless, if Colonel Hervey was conducting himself now as if he were at a field day, then who was he to worry?
Hervey checked the flanker scouts through his telescope. They were probing a furlong or so behind the ridge, left and right, keeping an eye on any little fold in the ground which crafty Zulu might use to outflank them. He took satisfaction in that: it was exactly as they had drilled at Hounslow. Things were working.
He glanced back at the advancing line of blue, and behind it the green. Two hundred yards, and a little more: it would do. ‘Corporal Dilke, signal “Halt”.’
The trumpeter stood in his stirrups again and raised his hand. The lines quickly came back to the walk and then halt.
Hervey observed the Zulu’s progress. Five more minutes, he reckoned. ‘Very well. Remain posted till I return, Corporal Wick.’ He reined Gilbert about and spurred into a gallop back down the slope, Fairbrother, coverman and trumpeter following hard.
Fearnley, and Welsh at his side, saluted as he approached. ‘Rifles loaded, but not carbines, Colonel,’ said the lieutenant.
‘Very good. Firelocks dry enough?’
‘I trust so, Colonel,’ replied Captain Welsh.
‘Very well. The Zulu are advancing in twelve columns, without skirmishers so far as I can see. I estimate perhaps two thousand in the mile hence, and as many more at least beyond them. I intend to try parley. Mr Fearnley, bring up the troop to just below the crest and then on to it when I go forward.’
‘Colonel.’
‘If parley fails, I reckon I can gain a minute at most on them back to the ridge. When you see that, I want you to take the troop to the left flank – the ground looks a fraction better that way – and stand ready in line in dead ground to take any advantage once they broach the crest. But listen hard for the trumpet for recall. No running on!’
‘Colonel.’
‘Captain Welsh, your company to check them as they broach the crest. Is the range to your liking?’
‘Two hundred and fifty yards, and Zulus tight-packed? Admirable, Colonel.’
Hervey was sure of it. He had watched the riflemen put bullet after bullet into the target at two hundred. ‘How many rounds can you get off from crest to here?’
Welsh had already calculated. He could fire two rounds a minute at least, and all his riflemen carried spare balls and powder flasks as well as the prepared cartridges; a charging Zulu might cover the ground in … a minute? ‘Five, perhaps six. Better we snipe them at the crest, though, and open a general fire as they come down the slope.’
And then they would have to remount in good time, Hervey knew: they could not take on an unending swarm of Zulu with the bayonet. He nodded. ‘Very well. Three rounds, then withdraw as they get to a hundred yards. Rally on that last ridge we crossed.’
‘Three rounds it will be, Colonel. One hundred and forty rifles: four hundred and twenty corpses.’
Hervey smiled. A happy warrior indeed, Captain Welsh. He supposed that if all his riflemen were of the same spirit, the horse-holders would be prodigiously frustrated.
A different voice now hailed him: ‘May I ride with you, Hervey? I should so very much like to see how these things are done.’
Hervey turned to see Sam Kirwan in his fore-and-aft, as incongruous a hat in the field now as once it had been commonplace. He smiled again: a happy warrior-veterinary. ‘Have you ever unsheathed that sword, Sam?’
The veterinary surgeon judged the question rhetorical.
But Hervey did not forbid it. Sam Kirwan reined up alongside Serjeant Wainwright, and opened his notebook.
Hervey at once took off back to where Corporal Wick stood resolutely observing the Zulu.
‘Still coming on, Colonel,’ said Wick as Gilbert almost stumbled to a halt next to him.
Hervey took out his telescope for one last look before the parley.
Sam Kirwan closed with him and slipped from the saddle. ‘Gilbert’s running uneven, Hervey. Let me take a look.’
Hervey had noticed nothing: any horse could stumble, and they were none of them too fresh. ‘What—’
‘Breathing’s very irregular, and the pupils are like saucers. Hervey, you’d better change horses. He looks as though he could drop at any moment.’
Hervey jammed the telescope back in its holster. ‘Very well, but after I’ve had the parley. This isn’t the time to be changing horses.’ He glanced behind.
The troop was beginning to come up the slope.
‘Time to introduce ourselves to the Zulu, I believe.’ He squeezed Gilbert’s flanks – just a touch with the lower leg – and the gelding stepped off at once.
There was no white flag. Hervey was sure it would mean nothing to the Zulu, and in any case he disliked the practice since it restricted his freedom of action. Instead the little party advanced towards what he presumed was the leading column, where he supposed he would find either the commander of this host or else an officer who would know where the commander was. Fairbrother rode at his side, and to the rear of them Wainwright and Corporal Dilke, and behind them Sam Kirwan.
They began to trot. Hervey felt at once that Gilbert had lo
st his spring. The horse was indeed tired; perhaps he would change to his second as soon as he got back to the ridge (Johnson, for sure, would be there waiting for him). But this slope was kind; they could take it in an easy canter down to the Zulu, and it would not tax them greatly to regain the crest afterwards – even if they had to make a run for it.
He glanced over his shoulder again. There was the troop in impressive line along the ridge, motionless, two hundred yards of blue and yellow, and white-topped. But, strangely, he found himself wishing it were a furlong of red: there were times (very few, but this was one) when he knew that Nature’s own colour of danger magnified the effect.
The black columns stopped suddenly, and then came a blood-chilling moan which almost knocked him back in the saddle. He had never heard its like – not the shouting on the battlefields of the Peninsula, nor the cheering at Waterloo, nor even the fiendish cries at Bhurtpore. It was inhuman, one voice prodigiously loud rather than many thousands, as if they somehow spoke – thought – with one mind. It was eerie; indeed it was unsettling. He prayed it would not be unnerving.
He pressed on without checking, however, or without looking behind, the canter and the slope taking him voluntarily or otherwise towards the snake-like columns. At a hundred yards the columns became things of glistening, feathered warriors, of spears and shields. Hervey knew he had seen nothing of its like. Never before, no matter how savage the enemy, had he perceived Creation so … primitive; as if from the earliest days of the Fall. He wondered how he might speak with such a people – if these primitives could be dignified by the word ‘people’. Not just speak but communicate, convey an understanding.
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