Hervey 08 - Company Of Spears

by Allan Mallinson

  Rifle fire began on both far flanks almost at the same time. Hervey marvelled at the evident ability of the Zulu to coordinate the movement of the two horns of the crescent formation. And then the firing spread along the entire front as the main columns began approaching, still hidden by the prodigious grass.

  But not, apparently, hidden to the gunners. A shell buzzed high over him and to the left, bursting twenty feet above the ground three hundred yards in front. Hervey smiled to himself. Never had he known an artilleryman to miss his opportunity. How he was able to place his fire so accurately, and have the shrapnel shell explode at the precise height, was quite beyond him. He was only grateful for it; vastly grateful. It was, in truth, how war should be made.

  ‘Colonel Hervey?’

  He turned to see his lieutenant, and detached himself from Somerset’s party to confer with him. ‘All eager, Mr Fearnley?’

  ‘Indeed, Colonel. Minnie has wind aplenty left.’

  Hervey glanced approvingly at Fearnley’s second charger. Minnie – Minerva – had won one of the regimental races at Hounslow that year. She looked in as hale condition now as then. ‘The intention for you now is clear?’

  ‘Exactly clear. I think I shall be well pleased to see that ford.’

  A cry like hounds breaking covert turned every head. The staunchest heart faltered for a moment as Zulu rose up from the ground like corpses on the Day of Judgement, swarming, stabbing, grunting like rutting pig.

  Hervey saw two of Somerset’s staff tumble from the saddle, and then Somerset’s own horse fall to its knees, and Somerset himself half under it, his escorts desperately lashing out with sword and pistol.

  Hervey spurred for him at once, sabre drawn, Fairbrother and the others close on his heels. He cut left and right, taking a passing spear in the thigh though not feeling a thing.

  Fairbrother sprang from the saddle beside Somerset like a tumbler at a fair, drawing his revolver and firing three shots in quick and lethal succession at the nearest Zulu.

  Wainwright and Roddis circled, keeping a dozen others at bay while Hervey and Fairbrother pulled Somerset from beneath his charger and heaved him astride Hervey’s mare.

  Fairbrother emptied his revolver as Hervey vaulted on her quarters to support the winded colonel.

  Hervey turned his mare on her hocks and dug in his spurs, fending off a Zulu and losing grip of his sabre in the process.

  Fairbrother managed to clamber into his own saddle, draw his second pistol and shoot the Zulu before he could take advantage.

  But the horde was already reluctant to follow: every rifle within range was now turned on them.

  As he glanced back, Hervey could see but a handful of black shapes haring for the cover whence they’d sprung. He heard Welsh’s whistle repeated along the front, the desperate recalling of his riflemen. They had done their work. They had stood their ground, shot well, broken up a surprise attack that would have prevailed against all but the most resolute.

  As his mare splashed into the ford, and yet another artillery round whistled overhead, Hervey saw the Fifty-fifth standing like a red stone wall. Not for the first time he blessed the legionary infantry who would now bear the brunt of the fight. And he cursed himself for doubting them, as he cursed Somerset for doubting his Rifles.

  XXVI

  BATTLE HONOURS

  Cape Town, six weeks later

  Hervey sat with a blanket about his shoulders in a cane chair by the window while his Hottentot bearer changed the bed linen for only the second time that day. He was getting better, no doubt of it: for the best part of a week the bearer had changed the linen three times daily.

  ‘‘Ave a bit o’ this, then, sir,’ coaxed Johnson.

  Hervey took the enamel cup in both hands. He no longer trembled, but he felt strangely weak still, and he did not wish to spill Johnson’s precious brew.

  ‘Good God!’ he spat, his face contorted as he swallowed. ‘What infernal sort of tea’s this?’

  ‘It’s not tea, it’s whistlejacket.’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘Johnson, I feel wretched enough without guessing games.’

  ‘Whistlejacket: gin ‘n’ treacle.’

  ‘One of your orphanage purgatives, was it?’

  ‘It’s right good for thee. None o’ t’stuff t’surgeon give thee did owt.’

  Hervey was not inclined to dispute the latter, and thought it best to oblige his groom – for all his doubt as to the whistlejacket’s efficacy and all his certainty as to its ill taste.

  Unquestionably he was feeling better, however. He had not yet regained his appetite, but at least he now cared. It had been a longer than usual attack of the fever, though several days had passed without his having any knowledge of them. At least there was no more pain from the wound in his leg. He would soon see two scars, a dozen years, but only inches, apart, and each made not with bullet or shrapnel, or even sabre, but with the thrusting point, as primitive a thing as any of the ancients’. There was no weapon too short in the hand for a brave man.

  He sighed, but with some contentment. He had done well; he knew it. Everyone from General Bourke to the rudest burgher had told him. He had blooded the Rifles, and ably, and proved their worth. And in the fight at the river, the red and the blue and the green had worked with such mutual and effective support that the Zulu had never been able to close with them and test the power of their short spears. Matiwane had left so many men dead at the ford that it would be many months, if not years, before they would have the temerity to challenge the King’s army again. Kaffraria could expect a little peace; and wise counsel in Cape Town ought to be able to make good use of it. That was what Somervile had said to him before this fever had taken hold.

  He drained the cup. Almost at once his head began to swim. ‘Is there a very lot of gin in this, Johnson?’

  Johnson shrugged.

  Hervey looked at the pile of letters on the table beside his bed: from home, from Hounslow, from the Horse Guards, from Kezia Lankester – all unanswered. Tomorrow he would make a beginning, perhaps, if he continued well; and if Johnson didn’t poison him with his cures.

  ‘Have you seen Serjeant Wainwright?’

  ‘I ’ave, sir. We ’ad a wet in t’canteen last night on account o’ ’is new stripe.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘And you, Johnson?’

  ‘Ah’m all right, sir. Al’a’s am.’

  He nodded again. Yes, Johnson was always ‘all right’. Except for the unfathomable business of the coral; or rather, his refusing to confide in him about it. It was good to have him back, and the same Johnson as in the best of times.

  ‘I mean that you did fine service. Never more so than when you brought up Molly when Gilbert fell. I’m excessively grateful.’

  Johnson shifted awkwardly. He didn’t much like things singled out like that. And he had been as fond of Gilbert as had Hervey himself. It was the very devil of a thing to have to leave an old friend to the savages and the vultures – old friends, indeed, for Corporal Dilke had been a decent messing-mate. ‘It were nowt, sir,’ he muttered, turning to the bearer for distraction. ‘Come on, Inky! Tha’s quicker than that as a rule!’

  The bearer beamed happily as he tucked in the last of the corners.

  ‘Enkosi,’ said Hervey, trying to be cheery. ‘Enkosi.’

  The bearer picked up the sweated linen, bowed several times while still smiling broadly, and trotted out of the room.

  ‘’E’s a good’n, sir, is Thandi. Reckon we should take ‘im back wi’ us.’

  ‘Perhaps we should.’

  The door opened.

  Johnson braced. ‘Sir!’

  Hervey looked round to discover the cause of Johnson’s sudden soldiery. ‘Somervile! I am glad to see you.’

  ‘And I you,’ said his old friend, advancing on him with hand outstretched.

  Hervey took it, though the vigour with which Somervile shook it reminded him he had a way to go before being back to hale condition. ‘Shall you stay? Will you
have tea, or something stronger?’

  ‘I will have tea with you, gladly. Emma has forbidden me anything stronger in the afternoon.’

  Johnson left for his tea-making duties.

  ‘Is there news from the frontier?’

  ‘Nothing but tranquillity. No reports of reiving in weeks.’

  Hervey let the blanket slip from his shoulders: he was getting hotter and he was certain it did not help. ‘That is gratifying.’

  Somervile pulled up a chair. ‘It most positively is. I have just been reading Somerset’s report to General Bourke. Admirable, Hervey; quite admirable.’

  Hervey was unclear as to quite what was admirable. ‘I should like to see it.’

  ‘Oh, you will, you will. Admirable – a most handsome acknowledgement. Your Captain Fairbrother is evidently a man of resource and sensibility. I wonder the castle had never sought to employ him before. And most commending it is of you too – in the fullest terms imaginable. I declare I thought Somerset a tricky man when first I met him, but he has shown himself of a very true disposition.’

  ‘I am pleased for it. It would not have served without Fairbrother.’

  ‘You saved Somerset’s life.’

  ‘We were several. Believe me: no single man could have done anything for Somerset at that moment. I confess I thought him lost.’

  ‘He says he has written to his uncle FitzRoy; that shall do you no harm! And Bourke too has written to the Horse Guards. I very much hope there’s a promotion in it, else I myself shall have to write to Huskisson.’

  Hervey tried a self-deprecating smile. He thought the praise overblown. But he would certainly not gainsay it.

  ‘I have approved your home leave.’

  Hervey blinked. ‘But I have not requested it.’

  ‘You will not decline it?’

  ‘I cannot leave my command like that!’

  ‘Your command – both Rifles and dragoons – is well found. Thanks to you. And there are things I would have you advance on my behalf in Whitehall. We have a peace for now in Kaffraria, but I am certain it will not hold indefinitely. Si vis pacem, preparate bellum?

  Hervey nodded.

  ‘Besides, you have obligations under the law,’ added Somervile, with something of a smile.

  ‘Law? What law?’ asked Hervey, rallying at the challenge.

  ‘Mosaic: When thou goest out to battle against thine enemies.’

  Hervey shook his head. ‘I confess I haven’t an idea what you’re speaking of. The fever must be addling me.’

  Somervile picked up the bible from the table beside Hervey’s bed. ‘Deuteronomy,’ he said, turning the pages confidently. ‘I’m astonished you need reminding. Here, chapter twenty … verse seven: “And what man is there that hath betrothed a wife…”’ He handed it to him. ‘Read on. And none of your churchy primness! A wise bird, Moses.’

  Hervey read. And he smiled (a shade lickerish, thought Somervile) as he tried to imagine complying with the injunction. ‘Oh yes, wisdom indeed!’

  ‘I fear, though, that our Nation may think the business here but a skirmish compared with the Greek war.’

  Hervey quickened. ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘Nothing worth your regrets: no work for cavalry, as far as I can make out; nor even for foot,’ he began airily. ‘The whole thing appears to have been decided at sea. We had first news of it this morning, a considerable battle in the Ionian: a combined fleet – English, French, Russian – with Codrington commanding. Appears they sent the Turkish fleet to the bottom of Navarino Bay.’

  ‘Navarino Bay?’

  ‘You will know it better as Pylos, perhaps, if you recall Thucydides.’

  ‘I’m afraid I recall nothing. A considerable affair, you say?’

  ‘Indeed, a hundred ships and more. Bigger than Trafalgar.’

  Hervey sat upright, the blanket quite falling away. ‘Have you the casualty lists?’

  Somervile shook his head. ‘I expect they’ll come with the official papers. This is news from The Times only. But it was a desperate affair, I think. The report said perhaps four or five thousand.’

  Hervey said not a word. His mind was wholly occupied by thoughts of Peto: had he not been under orders to join Codrington’s squadron? His fevered face began losing the remains of its colour.

  Somervile leaned forward to steady him. ‘Hervey, my dear fellow, are you quite well?’

  THE END

  HISTORICAL AFTERWORD

  The extraordinary ‘Indian’ gardens at Sezincote, with the statuary that so engaged Hervey and Kezia Lankester, are open to the public. So too is the ‘Mughal’ house.

  Private Johnson’s brush with the Bow Street investigators was also not without foundation. At the Court of Exchequer on 29th April 1827, The King v. Giuseppe Guecco (on various counts of importing coral without payment of duty), the jury, after retiring for about twenty minutes, returned a verdict for the Crown, with an earnest recommendation of leniency. It was agreed by counsel on both sides to compound for the offence by the payment of £400.

  A word on South African history: until Nelson Mandela, Shaka Zulu was probably the most famous southern African in history, though for rather different reasons. He murdered – there is no getting round the word – a million people. He was indeed most singular.

  Shaka’s mother, Nandi, was a daughter of a chieftain of the eLangeni clan. Shaka’s father was a chieftain of the small, and then unknown, Zulu clan. But unwed pregnancy and a failed marriage forced Nandi to return to her tribe, where she was less welcomed than she had been then with the Zulus. Shaka grew up fatherless among people who despised him as well as his mother, the butt of every joke, ridiculed for his weakly body (and underdeveloped sexual organs), lonely and bitter.

  At the age of twenty-three he was called to serve as a warrior with the Mtetwa clan and did so for the next six years. In his first battle he fought the Butelezi, winning territories that included those of the Zulu. The Mtetwa chieftain, Dingiswayo, saw his leadership qualities and earmarked him to be chieftain of the Zulu, thus making them a buffer to the Mtetwa territory. Dingiswayo made him leader of the Mtetwa army, meanwhile, and here Shaka refined his battle tactics and weapons, as well as the army’s organization. When Senzangakona Zulu died, Shaka was made chieftain.

  Shaka worked his Zulu warriors ruthlessly, punishing any the sign of the slightest hesitation with death. The first people he attacked were the eLangeni clan, sparing only those who had showed him and his mother kindness. He destroyed the Butelezi clan, leaving few survivors, taking Butelezi maidens to form a seraglio which eventually numbered over a thousand. But, convinced that any offspring might someday oppose him, he shied from full consummation.

  By 1817, Zulu territory had increased fourfold, and Shaka and Dingiswayo compacted to engage in a major expedition to win even more. Dingiswayo died, however, and so by 1820 Shaka ruled most of southeast Africa and Natal.

  In 1824 Shaka’s mother, Nandi, died. In hysterical grief at the funeral he ordered several men to be executed, but in the chaos, over 7,000 people died. The true extent of his mental instability was revealed when he then practically ordered the clan’s death by starvation in reverence to Nandi. After three months, sense of a kind was restored, but the seed of doubt against Shaka – and perhaps in his own mind too – had been sown. Shaka and his army began to go downhill, which is where, in the winter of 1827, Matthew Hervey and his men meet them.

  Students of early Zulu history may dispute my account of the first contact with Shaka’s army. They would be right to do so. Chief Matiwane owed no allegiance to Shaka. His clan, the Ngwanes, although one of the Nguni people like the ‘pure’ Zulu, had for a decade resisted incorporation into Shaka’s greater Zulu kingdom. In the course of evasion, however, they became a marauding tribe as troublesome as the Zulu to the Xhosa and others of Kaffraria. But at the time of Hervey’s brush with them the precise status of Matiwane’s warriors was unknown, and their depredations were lumped together with those of Shaka
in the reports reaching Cape Town. Scholars also disagree: while published sources have tended to make Matiwane non-Zulu, later academic research has not been so certain. For instance, John Burridge Scott in a very thorough doctoral thesis (The British Soldier on the Eastern Cape frontier 1800-1850, University of Port Elizabeth, 1973) calls Matiwane’s tribesmen unequivocally Zulu. And, indeed, after Shaka’s death Matiwane declared his allegiance to the new king, Dingane, Shaka’s half-brother – as Matthew Hervey, his dragoons and the Mounted Rifles will discover to their cost in future adventures.

  THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON’S CAVALRY

  AN EXPLANATTORY NOTE

  Here is a picture – a very incomplete one – of the cavalry in the Duke of Wellington’s day. The picture remained the same, with but minor changes, until after the Crimean War nearly half a century later.

  Like the infantry, the cavalry was organized in regiments. Each had a colonel as titular head, usually a very senior officer (in the case of the 10th Light Dragoons, for instance, it was the Prince of Wales; in the case of the fictional 6th Light Dragoons it was first the Earl of Sussex and then Lord George Irvine, both lieutenant generals) who kept a fatherly if distant eye on things, in particular the appointment of officers. The actual command of the regiment was exercised by a lieutenant-colonel. He had a major as his second in command (or ‘senior major’ as he was known in the Sixth and other regiments), an adjutant who was usually commissioned from the ranks, a regimental serjeant-major (RSM) and various other ‘specialist’ staff.

  A cavalry regiment comprised a number of troops identified by a letter (A Troop, B Troop, etc.), each of a hundred or so men commanded by a captain, though in practice the troops were usually under strength. The number of troops in a regiment varied depending on where it was stationed; in Spain, for instance, at the height of the war, there were eight.