by John Wilcox
The Welshman bent and cupped his hands, half throwing Simon astride his mount. Then, with a practised hop and a jump, Jenkins was on the back of his. ‘Where to now then, sir?’
Simon squinted at the compass in the darkness. ‘This way. We’ll follow the line of the paddock until we hit the thorn fence and then follow that down to the entrance. I think that’s safer than going down the centre. Wrap your blanket tightly around you and don’t sit upright. Slouch, the way the Basuthos do. Make it look as though we’re going out to tend cattle.’
Like ghostly sentinels, slumped in their saddles, the two picked their way between the beehives, slowly and quietly so as not to excite the dogs who came to sniff at their passing. They saw some shapeless forms outside hut entrances here and there, probably sleeping off the excesses of the first fruits ceremony, but little other signs of life as they met the thorn barrier and turned south, to Ulundi’s only entrance.
Simon rode in the lead, his eyes darting from side to side from beneath the cowled blanket. He drew in a long, slow breath as dimly, from the darkness, a wide gap emerged in the fence and he began to make out the squatted figures of Zulu guards on duty at the entrance. He felt his heart racing and his tongue ran over parched lips but his main concern was what would happen if he had to kick his horse into a gallop. His seat in the saddle had improved considerably, but . . . in the saddle only. He felt perspiration seep through his breeches on to the bare back of his mare. Carefully he eased himself along the horse’s vertebrae. There would be no question of drawing the Colt if trouble arose. He would need both hands just to stay on the horse, let alone control it. If the worst came to the worst, he would let go of the bridle and put his arms round the horse’s neck.
They plodded on, turning slowly to ride out through the entrance of the stockade. As they did so, one of the guards rose from his haunches, lifted his spear and spoke gutturally. Whether it was a greeting or a challenge was unclear, but, hardly turning his head, Simon raised a languid hand and grunted unintelligibly in reply. For a moment it seemed as though they would be stopped as the Zulu pointed his assegai blade at them and followed their progress past him with it. Then with a grunt he squatted again.
Once beyond the gate they urged their horses into a gentle canter. ‘Didn’t know you spoke Zulu so well,’ said Jenkins, pulling alongside Simon. ‘Was it all those lessons, then?’
‘Oh shut up,’ said Simon. He was in no mood to joke about Nandi. Her words had penetrated deeply, reviving the self-doubt about his actions and making him feel ashamed. ‘Keep your wits about you. We’re not out of the wood yet.’
They rode as hard for the first hour as their precarious seats, the rough ground and the darkness allowed. Then, as the dawn sent long red tongues splitting the dark sky, Simon called a halt. They shifted uneasily in their seats and looked around as the sun burst over a distant hill. They seemed to be alone on the undulating plain. Covered with stunted grass, burned yellow and brown by the sun, it stretched to low dark hills in the west and seemed to be broken only by the occasional thorn bush and a few paper bark acacia and white pear trees. They knew from experience, however, that it was fissured by dongas that could hardly be seen until they were upon them. Behind them there was no trace of Ulundi, nor was there any sign of a trail. Overhead a goshawk circled, and nearby, a hidden trumpeter hornbill called.
‘There’s not much cover for ’idin’ by day, now, is there?’ ventured Jenkins, shading his eyes and looking around him.
Simon nodded agreement. ‘I don’t know how far we have come from Ulundi but it can’t be more than, say, ten miles or so, at the pace we’ve been able to make.’ He squinted into the rising sun behind them. ‘A Zulu war party can cover that distance easily. I think we are too close to Ulundi to hole up for the day, anyway, so let’s keep moving.’
He kicked with his heels and the pair set off again, the horses picking their way fastidiously over a rocky outcrop that ran down from a slight rise immediately to their right.
It was from over that rise that the Zulus materialised, spilling over the top in that effortless, loping run that seemed to take all kinds of terrain in its stride. There were about ten of them, stripped down for war and carrying large shields. Jenkins saw them first and, without a word, drew the Navy Colt from his waistband, extended his arm and coolly fired at the leading Zulu, at a range of about one hundred yards. The shot kicked up the earth at the man’s feet.
‘Bloody popgun,’ cursed Jenkins.
The report, however, caused Simon’s startled horse to rear. As he slid down the beast’s back, Simon just had time to grab a handful of its mane to break the force of his fall. Nevertheless, he hit the rocky ground with a crash that momentarily winded him and sent his revolver, which had been loosely tucked into his breeches, spinning away across the rocks. As he rose to his knees, Simon saw his horse bolting away to the western horizon and a throwing spear clatter into the rocks at his feet. There was no sign of Jenkins and Simon realised with sudden despair that he was back to where he had been in that donga some four months ago. This time, however, he had no rifle and no horse. Grabbing the spear, he turned to face his assailants, who were now almost upon him and had fanned out to surround him.
Then, with a scream that seemed to rise in pitch as it bounced back from the low rocks around them, the Welshman suddenly appeared. His horse, too, had taken fright and bolted, but Jenkins had turned him in a declivity and now he thundered towards the centre of the Zulus like an apocalyptic horseman, his steed at full gallop, his right arm extended aiming the Colt. Simon heard the crack of the revolver but had no time to follow Jenkins’s charge. Spear in hand, he ran to a small passage between two rocks and turned to face the first Zulu.
The warrior came at him at a run, his right hand holding the short stabbing spear, his left extending the war shield, top down, as an offensive weapon. It was the Zulu’s speed that saved Simon. As the native lunged at him, Simon grabbed the tip of the shield and pulled it down so that the bottom of the central pole became entangled in the man’s legs and he sprawled headlong. Quickly turning, Simon plunged the throwing spear between the prostrate man’s shoulder blades, twisted it and withdrew it. For the second time in his life he heard the sound of the iklwa.
There was no feeling of disgust this time because two more Zulus now confronted him. These warriors were more cautious than their fellow. Chests heaving, they stood off at six paces, their black eyes regarding Simon intently as they split to edge around him. Simon noticed that they both had the fibre circlet waxed into their hair and that their shields were of black and white hides. He sprang to his right, where the rock formed a head-high escarpment, and there he stood at bay, his back to the rock. He had a moment to bless the fact that he had the longer, though lighter, throwing spear to fight with rather than the shorter assegai. At least he had a length advantage and he presented the weapon now to the Zulus, low and two-handed, as though it were rifle and bayonet.
The long incarceration at Ulundi, with poor food and little real exercise, had weakened Simon somewhat, but at least he was carrying no surplus weight and his build-a slim five foot nine, with narrow hips and a fair breadth of shoulder - gave him ideal balance. There was no time for fear. Wide-eyed, he stood and waited, every sense alive.
The stand-off continued for perhaps twenty seconds, as, close at hand, Simon heard more revolver shots. At least Jenkins was selling his life dearly. Then the attack began, skilfully, as befitted older, more experienced warriors. Both Zulus presented their shields to Simon, from his left and right quarter, and then thrust at him with their spears around the edge of the shields. The first thrust lightly penetrated his left shoulder and sent a sharp pain through his body. But the Zulu had been too cautious, too uncommitted to the stroke, and the blade had not sunk far beneath the skin. The other warrior’s stab came low and Simon was able to parry it and momentarily spin the man round on to the other’s shield, exposing him so that he was able to kick him quickly in the genitals with h
is riding boot. Then, with a series of desperate lunges around the shield, Simon drove the first man back. But this foray took him away from the rock and left his back unprotected. He turned to find two more Zulus dropping down from the top of the escarpment, their spears raised.
Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, came the clatter of hooves on rock and, once again, that high-pitched yell, and Jenkins came charging down the gully. It was impossible for his shooting to be accurate while riding but his first shot hit a rock and sent a splinter into the eye of one of the Zulus who had dropped down behind Simon. The man screamed and fell to the ground, clutching his face. Another shot, this time at point-blank range, ripped through the second Zulu’s shield and took him in the chest. The horse attempted to jump over the warrior whom Simon had kicked and who was now trying to climb to his feet, but a flying hoof caught his head and laid him low again. The gully between the rocks was little more than twelve feet wide and Jenkins’s charge forced both Simon and his original opponent to flatten themselves against the rock as the Welshman galloped through. Simon was the first to recover. As the Zulu turned his face, wide-eyed from watching Jenkins wheel at the gully’s end, Simon’s spear took him just below the cheekbone and penetrated deeply. With a cry he dropped his shield to put his hand to his face and Simon struck again, this time in the breast.
For a moment Simon stood still, trembling. Then he was aware of a horse at his elbow.
‘Well done, bach sir,’ cried Jenkins. ‘Couldn’t ’ave done better meself. Now,’ he reached down a hand, ‘climb up behind me and ’ang on for dear life. There are some of ’em still left and we’ll ’ave to ride through ’em to get out of ’ere.’
With one foot on the rock face, Simon scrambled up behind the Welshman, just managing to retain his spear as he did so. They turned to ride out of the gully but three warriors appeared, assegais raised. Jenkins turned the horse about, only to find two more Zulus barring their exit.
‘Which way d’you fancy, then, sir?’
‘Go for those two. Charge straight at ’em. The Zulus are supposed to be frightened of cavalry. I’ll use the spear as a lance.’
Jenkins chortled. ‘Very good, then. Excuse the noise. It’s a bit Celtic like but it gees up the ’orse, an’ me an’ all.’
He kicked the horse’s flanks savagely, let out that piercing shriek once again and the startled beast sprang towards the two Zulus, who were tentatively advancing. The spectre of the yelling black-visaged Welshman bent low over his mount and the lowered spear was too much for the warriors. They broke and fled and the horsemen were through and away on to the plain, pursued only by two thrown spears, which fell way behind them.
For four minutes they rode at the gallop, Jenkins skilfully guiding the horse between rocks, dongas and bushes while Simon clung to the sweaty back of the Welshman, both arms around his waist and the spear standing out awkwardly across them, like a tightrope walker’s balancing pole, crashing through branches as they charged through the scrub. Eventually, the exhausted horse was allowed to drop to a walk and the riders studied the plain behind them. There was no sign of pursuit.
‘I think they had had enough anyway,’ panted Simon. ‘We must have put down half a dozen between us.’
Jenkins grasped the hands clenched round his midriff for a moment. ‘Easier for me with a pistol than for you with just a spear.’ He spoke gruffly, unable to turn so that Simon could not see his face. ‘Honestly, bach sir. You fought like a Welsh collier back there with that bit of spear, like. Old Coley with ’is bayonet couldn’t ’ave done better. I’d like Mr Bloody Covington to ’ave seen you, so I would.’
The pair fell silent as the tired horse picked its way forward. Simon, strangely touched, now occasionally adjusted its course with the help of the compass.
‘It’s due west we want,’ he said, ‘and that’s roughly the way my horse bolted. We might just find her. Once we have put some distance between us and the Zulus, we’d better look for a kopje where we might be able to find cover and yet command some sort of view of the plain. We don’t want to be surprised again.’
So they made their way westward across the plain, finding cover by early afternoon and then rising very early to make as good progress as they could in the darkness. On the third day, tired and hungry, they were late rising and the sun was up before them. The fugitives had camped between two high rocks on a kopje that afforded them a good view all around. To the south-west they could see a distant high peak, not a mountain but bigger than a hill, that stood out on its own. It had a flat-topped appearance and from it Simon felt that they should be able to catch a glimpse, at least, of the Buffalo. They had decided to make for it in the morning. They had been unable to find Simon’s horse and travel, therefore, had been slow. Taking it in turns to ride, their every step had been marked by the need for caution and vigilance. However, they had seen no living soul - until now.
As Simon fed their horse with a handful of yellow grass growing high above its reach, his eye caught a quick flash of reflected sunlight to the north. With infinite care, he climbed to the top of the rock and, slowly, raised his head above its edge. For a moment, he saw nothing. Then, less than a mile away, his eye picked out a column of what looked like black ants moving quickly across the plain, sometimes disappearing as it wound its way sinuously down into a donga, then coming into view again before vanishing once more behind a hill. The flashes of light came momentarily as the sun caught a steel spearhead. Thankfully, Simon realised that the course of the column was away from their kopje. It was moving from east to west - and at a fair speed.
He called Jenkins to join him. ‘How many do you think?’
The Welshman whistled noiselessly. ‘Difficult to tell, but there must be thousands. Look, they’re still coming. Maybe fifteen . . . twenty thousand.’
Simon shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘It must be the main Zulu army. They’ve clearly come from Ulundi. But where are they going?’
‘Well,’ said Jenkins, absent-mindedly picking at his ragged moustache, ‘if they’re after us, they’re goin’ the wrong way.’
‘No. Cetswayo’s not going to send twenty thousand warriors after us. They are going to attack the British central column, for sure. So we must be quite near the army.’ Simon squinted to the west and then to the south. ‘I wonder where the hell it is. I wish we had binoculars.’
He weighed the odds. The Zulus probably knew the exact position of the column. They were bound to be aware of the movement of so large a body of men within their own territory. Their capacity for making the most of natural cover meant that they could probably hide a couple of impis and take the British by surprise. But surprise or not, Chelmsford would be on his guard in enemy country and there would be a battle. The chances were that Simon and Jenkins would get caught up between the two forces like grain in a grinding mill. For a moment, he considered the chances of making directly for the Buffalo River and the comparative safety of Natal. With luck, and by keeping well away from the direction in which the Zulus were travelling, they could make it without being detected. Anyway, they were in a poor state to fight, and two men could make no difference to the outcome . . .
He shook his head and turned to Jenkins. ‘We must try and find the column and warn it before the Zulus attack.’
Jenkins blew out his cheeks but said nothing, and the two men slithered down the rock and untethered their horse. With Jenkins mounted and Simon walking a few paces ahead, they set course for that flat-topped rock that stood out above the horizon to the south-west. From it, Simon reasoned, they should be able to see the British camp if it was within a ten-mile radius. With the Zulu force only a little to the north, both knew that it would have been infinitely wiser to have stayed under cover all day. Their horse was weary and underfed - they could not afford to let it stop and graze - and with two men on its back, it would be difficult to outrun a Zulu patrol, let alone a couple of impis. The need to find the British army, however, was imperative, and neither man questioned it.
Throughout the day they made their cautious way under the hot sun, both heads continuously twisting to scan the surrounding country, Jenkins, as the best shot, holding the Colt. Once they saw a black-backed jackal slip through the long yellow grass, and the occasional purple crested loerie looked down at them from a blue sky puffed with white cloud balls. The plain seemed devoid of human life. Yet both men knew that they were not alone in that place, that somewhere near, large numbers of their own kind were marching on a collision course - encircling them, perhaps - out there in the low rolling hills and among the rocks and dried water courses.
That night they camped again without a fire, and even the man off watch lay half awake, with an ear cocked for a rustle in the grass or the crack of a broken twig.
They rose on the morning of 22 January 1879 to find that they were near the edge of a plateau, the detail of which had been obscured in the brief twilight of their encampment the night before. A half-hour’s march after sun-up brought them to the tip of the escarpment, which, in fact, did not decline sharply but fell away in gentle billows to a new plain below them. To their right, the escarpment marched to the west-north-west, gradually getting higher before it fell away in the distance. It was the plain below, however, which caught their attention. To the south and a little to their right, not much more than a mile away, it was dominated by the hill whose summit they had first discerned a day and a half ago. A bare block of sandstone that glowed dully red in the morning sun, it ran away from them, stretching some 500 yards in length along a rocky outcrop and then rising to about 500 feet at the flat-topped peak. Below its east-facing side the British column had made its camp.
The white bell tents shone brightly on the dull plain. They had been pitched in a straggling line running NNE to SSW at the base of the rock, the line bulging at the centre to encompass a cluster of wagons. Faint blue spirals of smoke curled into the sky from a score of campfires and the sun glinted intermittently on cooking pots and the other accoutrements of an army in the field. Faintly, despite the distance, the two men heard the low grunts of bullocks and the clash of utensils.