He slowed to a trot and then a walk, and came to a halt fifty yards from the head of the centre column. There he would wait for a propitious sign.
He waited for what felt a long age. And while he waited he began to see the remarkable uniformity of these warriors. At first he had observed merely shield upon shield; now he saw shield upon identical shield, the exact same. And they were evidently of animal hide, which uniformity spoke to him of Shaka’s powerful dominion over ‘every living thing that moveth upon the earth’. Each warrior wore an apron of bunched hide and feathers (every one the same) and a headband of spotted fur (leopardskin, perhaps?) and white streamers just above the elbow on each arm – oxtail hair probably. Hervey wondered if they fought as regularly as they looked, in close formation; or if they attacked in loose, open order, as skirmishers did. He studied the short, stabbing spear – not assegai, as he had once thought it called, but iklwa. It appeared to be their sole weapon. The blade was about a foot long, a few inches at its widest, tapering to a rounded tip, unlike the pronounced point of the bayonet or the sabre. He reckoned it would need strength to stab home with it. But such a point, driven into the gut with force, would do such damage as to confound the best surgeon’s art. The warriors held the short shafts to stab underarm. Hervey could picture the method – the shield not merely to parry, but to mask the coming thrust. He did not think it would do to face such a weapon with a sabre, dismounted.
One of the Zulu stepped forward, a thick-set, older man with a slight stoop. Hervey had not noticed him before, for he was dressed the same as the rest – except that he wore a necklace of claws.
‘Molo mhlob’am!’ said Fairbrother, saluting.
The tribesman eyed him cautiously.
Fairbrother supposed he recognized the friendly Xhosa greeting, even if the Zulu were different.
‘Yebo, sawubona!’
The words were unfamiliar, but Fairbrother fancied the raised spear was greeting enough. He would try the simplest Xhosa by return. ‘Colonel Hervey, here, commands a detachment of King George’s army.’ He indicated the royal representative.
The Zulu put the point of the spear to his chest. ‘Igama lami nguMatiwane!’
Fairbrother saluted again. ‘Ndiyavuya ukukwazi, Matiwane.’ He had learned the Zulu’s name (Matiwane); was he the cohort’s chief? He would press to know the reason for their advance. ‘You come to see your brothers the Xhosa?’
While Fairbrother continued his halting exchange, Hervey took in all that he could of the extraordinary scene. He marked that the Zulu could see the troop on the ridge, a quarter of a mile away. They watched warily, like some animal when a distant predator appeared. Perhaps the horses did indeed make them uneasy? For all Hervey knew, this Matiwane might believe the horses could leap at him in seconds, like the leopard, with many thousands more of them waiting to pounce, all hidden the other side of the hill. But even as he watched them parley he became aware that the columns were not absolutely motionless. He glanced left and right. He could not actually see the Zulu moving, only somehow that there had been movement. He glanced left and right again. The progress was now evident, as must be the purpose: the Zulu were moving to encircle them. And they would not need to complete the circle: it would only take a rush before long and their line of withdrawal would be closed. He must act at once.
He held up a hand. ‘Sharply, about turn and away!’
Fairbrother made to protest, but Hervey gave him no chance. They turned and galloped like the devil, Sam Kirwan leading.
The same blood-chilling moan followed them, like a thousand angry wasps in an echo-chamber. Hervey did not turn. He pressed Gilbert as hard as he could, but feeling with every stride that something was amiss. As they got within hailing distance of the crest at a struggling canter, the gelding stumbled once, and then again, and then tumbled on to the forearm, throwing Hervey clean from the saddle.
At once Wainwright faced about, the only man between the Zulu now and his commanding officer. Corporal Dilke circled, Fairbrother turned and jumped down beside his friend, and Sam Kirwan sprang from his nappy little mare to do what he could for the fallen gelding.
‘No good, Hervey. An aneurism. He might recover, but—’
Hervey knew. The Zulu were not a furlong away, loping towards them as if the ground were as flat as a cricket field. He looked at Gilbert, his companion of many an affair. The gelding’s nostrils flared, and his eyes stared crazily. Hervey reached for one of the pistols in the saddle holsters. It was loaded, tamped, ready. He took the other, pushed it into his belt, knelt by Gilbert’s neck, lifted his head in his left arm and put the pistol into the fossa above the right eye.
‘Goodbye, old man,’ he said, softly but quite audibly. Then he pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger.
Before the smoke began to clear, Johnson was holding Hervey’s second horse not ten feet away. ‘Molly, sir.’
Hervey watched the last twitch of Gilbert’s shoulder, then rose and vaulted into the mare’s saddle. The Zulu were now but fifty yards away and the moan had become a deep-throated, menacing roar.
They galloped for their lives.
As they reached the temporary safety of the troop line, Fearnley gave the order to present carbines: if the Zulu did not recognize the danger in five-dozen muzzles, they would soon receive a lesson.
‘Capital, Mr Fearnley,’ gasped Hervey, still winded, but perfectly calm. ‘One volley, and then to the flank. Clear the line of the Rifles’ fire quick as you can.’
Fearnley saluted as Hervey spurred his mare between two dragoons, both of whom looked eager to practise their musketry.
He heard the volley as he galloped on to the Rifles.
‘All ready, Captain Welsh?’ he called as he pulled up beside him.
‘All ready, Colonel,’ replied Welsh, equally composed.
Hervey could not be surprised. It was the baptism of fire for the company as a whole, but enough of the riflemen had seen some sort of action. ‘Capital. They come on in single file, a dozen or so. I hope Fearnley will be able to break them up for you a little.’
‘We’ll do a little of that for ourselves too,’ said Welsh mysteriously.
Hervey looked at him, curious.
‘Did you not see the skirmishers as you galloped past?’
Hervey had not, and even when Welsh pointed them out he had difficulty seeing them. He smiled. ‘I should have known. Exactly as the Ninety-fifth would have done it.’
‘No. Better than would the Ninety-fifth. These are picked men – sharpshooters, snipers. And they have two rifles apiece.’
Hervey nodded approvingly. The black-powder smoke would too soon give away their position, but four well-aimed shots in rapid succession would surely tell. ‘How many?’
‘A dozen.’
They would serve very well. Hervey nodded again but said nothing.
And then came the most decided lump in his throat. Gilbert was not Jessye, but they’d been together a good many years … and now that handsome grey’s carcase would be defiled by a swarm of savages, hacking off that fine mane and flowing tail…
He came to. The troop had gone threes-about and were trotting down the slope towards them. He watched with the keen satisfaction of a man who had drilled his command in the peace of Hounslow Heath and who was now seeing the profit of that exertion. Many a dragoon who had cursed him behind his back would now be seeing the method in those long field days. Not that he should ever concern himself too greatly with what the canteen was saying. All the same…
They broke into a steady canter and began changing direction right. Hervey continued to watch with approval, and not merely for a drill-book evolution smartly executed, for it was not to be found in the drill book: they used a ‘non-pivot’ movement to bring about changes of direction in line faster and with fewer words of command. It had been his doing: the usual wheeling required the left or right flanker to turn slowly on the spot while the rest of the line swung round, like a door on its hinge, each
man at a slightly different speed. It was a movement that looked fine when performed well on the parade ground but which was painfully slow and inactive in the face of the enemy. If they tried to wheel here, now, there was every chance the Zulu would fall on the right of the line before the evolution was complete.
What effect had their volley had though? Hervey wished he could have seen for himself, for it would have told him a deal about the way the Zulu would now fight. But he would have obstructed the Rifles’ line of fire had he remained with the troop and then tried to gallop back here.
It was not long – a minute perhaps – before he had his answer; in some part at least. The Zulu broached the crest more or less in line. This was what he had wanted: although Welsh’s snipers would not now be able to pick off the column leaders, the Rifles would have many more targets than if the Zulu had remained in single file.
Atop the ridge the black host suddenly halted. Perhaps they caught their breath, he thought. Perhaps they surveyed the veld to their front. Either way it was a sight that he – all of them – would not forget, for this was the first clash of arms with Shaka’s army. The Zulu were an unknown enemy; they had terrified the tribes of the far-eastern Cape for ten years and more. It was inevitable that the greatest native power would in due course fight the King’s men. And this was the moment. Hervey marvelled at it – before wondering if he would live to tell.
Every officer’s telescope was now trained on the black line.
‘Not quite a thousand,’ said Captain Welsh matter-of-factly. ‘But not many short of it.’
Quicker than had Hervey, he had calculated the length of the ridge, and the part of it the Zulu occupied: twelve hundred yards of warriors close-packed.
Hervey had no reason to dispute it, but he had hoped the frontage would be far less, for there was now a considerable overlap (the Rifles fronted no more than two hundred yards).
There again, he had no intention of letting the Zulu close with them. ‘Three rounds then, Captain Welsh – in your own time.’ As the captain touched the peak of his shako to acknowledge, the first of the snipers’ shots rang out. One of the warriors in the centre of the line fell face down, dead. A great, painful moan swelled the length of the line, as if the death of one was the wounding of all.
Hervey felt a strange shiver in his spine. The battlefield was never so silent a place as here: no artillery, no musketry from opposing clouds of skirmishers; just a single shot, and a thousand voices – not so very different from the battles of the Old Testament on which he had feasted as a boy.
And then another shot, and another, and then several more. And every time a warrior falling. Hervey could not help but think that this was the way to give battle: sniping at the enemy from a distance, perhaps even picking out the men who would direct the fighting. He wished he had a troop of horse artillery with him. They would soon have the range, and shrapnel would fell these men in droves.
Why did the Zulu stand instead of advancing? Or withdraw behind the crest? Did they not comprehend what powder and ball was? Was it possible that so successful a tribe did not know of firearms? How he wished (did not the Duke of Wellington himself always say?) he were able to see over the other side of the hill.
Were they waiting for the rest of the impi? Would the attack, when it came, be not this single line of a thousand warriors, but several?
That, however, made no difference to his intention here: three rounds and then withdrawal. And in any event he could rely on Fearnley to judge keenly how to wield the troop to advantage. No, he was curious only in what the attack would tell him about the wiliness of the Zulu in battle – and therefore how he might play them as his little command fell back towards Somerset’s main force.
‘Here they come!’ said Welsh purposefully.
Hervey quit his thoughts and pushed his telescope back in its holster; and then almost at once he took it out again, for as the Zulu swarmed down the slope he observed that they left behind a knot of men on the ridge, which he supposed at once to be Matiwane (he now wore a great feathered headdress) and his staff. He recalled how at one point during the battle at Waterloo a horse gunner had told the Duke of Wellington that he had Bonaparte within range, and asked leave to open fire. The duke had refused him, saying that it was not the business of one commander-in-chief to fire upon another. Hervey had never quite believed it – even less understood it. Yet now he had a curious sense of why the duke might have been moved to say so, for he felt as if he would be shooting a magnificent perching bird if he fired on Matiwane. Ignoble deed! And yet he approved – cheered – the sniping of mere legionary warriors. It was not to be fathomed.
‘Captain Welsh, see yonder, in the middle of the ridge – the plumes. Might one of your men try his hand?’
Captain Welsh arranged it at once. ‘Serjeant-major! Corporal Cloete!’
They doubled to the company commander. He gave them the order.
The two sharpshooters doubled forward ten yards, and lay prone. Each took careful aim and fired.
The two rounds struck home, though the feathered target remained upright. It was extreme range, and the two riflemen calmly corrected their point of aim for the second barrel.
But before they could fire, other warriors surrounded the chief: a shield of flesh.
The serjeant-major fired; a warrior-shield fell dead.
Corporal Cloete fired an instant later but another Zulu had already taken his place.
The serjeant-major was reloading furiously. ‘We can do it, Cloete, even if it takes a dozen apiece!’
But before they could, more Zulu swarmed on to the crest to shield Matiwane.
‘As you were!’ called Hervey. This was a diversion they could ill afford.
Horse-holders now galloped forward to where the other sharpshooters lay. The picked riflemen sprang up and into the saddle, and spurred back to the line in a display that Hervey was sure would have delighted the duke himself.
‘Smart work, Captain Welsh; smart work.’
‘Thank you, Colonel. I will pass on your approbation at the first opportunity,’ said the Rifles captain, as if he were being dismissed at the end of a field day.
The Zulu came on steadily in the same loping gait. Hervey felt his stomach tightening again. The range was now two hundred yards: it was time for the Rifles to do their real work.
He did not have to say anything. Captain Welsh had primed his men well: ‘In your own time, three rounds: Fire!‘
The first round was a near-perfect volley. Every man had taken and held his aim, waiting the order, so that as soon as it came twelve-dozen trigger-fingers squeezed as one. The powder-smoke hung low in the still air, but not as thick as it would have been with a company of muskets (the rifles were in open order). The fire-effect was visible at once. Hervey was astonished. Every round seemed to have found its mark.
But the Zulu line did not falter. The second volley came not five seconds later, more ragged this time, but just as accurate, so that a quarter of the Zulu host now lay dead or writhing at the bottom of the slope. It would be half a minute before the third, final, round, while the riflemen reloaded. Hervey cursed that they could not have another two volleys as quick: the French for sure would have reeled in the face of such fire; the Burmans and the Jhauts would have taken to their heels.
The volley made him start. It had come in seconds only, along the entire line … He looked at Welsh, amazed.
‘The horse-holders’ rifles. Better used than in a saddle bucket.’
He wished he had thought of it himself.
‘Now for the final round!’ said the captain keenly.
But the Zulu would not face it. On the crest of the ridge Matiwane’s spear was raised.
How the order was communicated to that blood-hotted host Hervey had no idea, but they turned as one. They had not run twenty yards, however, when the third volley caught them, a ripple of fire as the new-loaded rifles found a fleeing target.
‘Now, Fearnley, now!’ cried Hervey, as
if his lieutenant might hear.
Lieutenant Fearnley was of the same mind, however. The troop surged forward, quick to the canter and then gallop.
‘Stand fast, Rifles!’ shouted Hervey as he pressed his mare forward.
The troop galloped into the left flank of the struggling Zulu, taking them by utter surprise. Hervey saw the sabres lowered – the point for infantry (the edge for cavalry) – and then the opportunity cuts as the dragoons drove through the ragged line. As he closed with the melee he picked out a crouching Zulu, shield up and iklwa menacing. He took him with a neat Cut Two from behind, severing the shield arm, before turning and taking another with the same cut, using his reach to slice the spear arm at the wrist without coming in range of the point. He galloped on towards the crest while the troop continued to sweep it left to right, Fairbrother, Sam Kirwan, Wainwright and Dilke hard on his heels. There was but one sure way to discover what lay on the other side of the hill.
The sight from the crest set the rats racing in his stomach faster than ever. Not a hundred yards off and coming fast up the slope was a line at least as long as the one they had just faced. And beyond was another, and beyond that another, and then another: five lines in all – perhaps four thousand warriors; perhaps even more.
‘Christ!’ he spat, and turned hard. ‘Sound “rally”, Corporal Dilke!’
Dilke pulled up to blow. He could do it at the gallop right enough – at a field day. But the price of blowing ill here was too great. And it was not an easy call: semi-quavers and octave leaps. He would blow till he saw the troop rallying.
He did not see the Zulu playing dead twenty yards away. He did not see him coming flat like the leopard when it runs in for its prey. Nor the fast, furious sprint to the kill. Nor the iklwa, as it stabbed at his side, under his rib cage, deep into his vitals: eight whole inches when four would have been fatal.
He let out no cry, but the ‘rally’ ceased abruptly on the long, final C.
Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears Page 34
