The Horns of the Buffalo

by John Wilcox

  To Simon’s eye there was something wrong, something indefinable. Then he got it. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed. ‘They haven’t laagered the camp.’ True enough, there were no barriers - no rough thorn bush zariba, no trenches, no line of wagons erected on the periphery of the camp to halt a rush of attackers. The most elementary precaution to protect a column encamped deep in enemy territory had not been taken. What languid halfwit had neglected to protect the camp in the presence of the enemy? Covington? Surely it couldn’t be an officer with the experience and seniority of Chelmsford?

  Jenkins grunted and elbowed Simon. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the east. There, where the plain melted into a low line of foothills, a long column of soldiers - cavalry, wagons and marching infantry - could just be seen disappearing into the blue haze of the morning. As they watched, the last riders slipped from view.

  ‘What on earth’s going on?’ murmured Simon. ‘That’s more than a patrol. Why has he split the command like that?’

  ‘I don’t know, bach sir, but we’d better get down there damned quick and tell them about them black fellers.’

  The two men now both mounted the horse and urged the beast down the escarpment. There was no track and the descent was more difficult than it looked. It was some time, then, before they met the first British soldier on the plain, a mounted vedette who looked at them in amazement as the doubly burdened horse plodded towards him.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded, his carbine at the ready.

  ‘Lieutenant Fonthill and Private Jenkins of the 2nd 24th,’ responded Simon briskly, doing his best to sit erect with one arm around Jenkins’s midriff. ‘We need to see the CO immediately. Who is in command here?’

  The cavalryman, a volunteer member of the Newcastle Mounted Rifles, looked unimpressed. ‘You don’t look like soldiers to me, man,’ he said, covering them with his carbine. ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘It’s none of your damned business,’ snapped Simon. ‘Put that bloody thing down. There are twenty thousand Zulus just behind us and I’m damned if I’m going to be held up by some part-time soldier. Now, who is the officer in command and is he in camp?’

  The patrolman lowered his carbine. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pulleine, er, sir. The General has moved out this morning, so Colonel Pulleine is left in charge of the camp.’

  Nodding with a grin, Jenkins urged the tired horse on. About 300 yards from the camp they saw a second column of about 500 men, half of them mounted and most of them black, march out in good order towards the east. The black infantrymen wore red bandannas around their heads. Behind them, moving more slowly, rode a small contingent of white troops, pulling three strange box-like contraptions on wheels behind them.

  ‘Rockets,’ said Simon. ‘Now where the hell are they going?’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Jenkins over his shoulder as they approached the edge of the tent line, ‘I’ll ’ave to stop callin’ you bach, now that we’re back in the army, like.’

  ‘Quite right. Try and sit up straight and get a move on.’

  Watched by dozens of curious eyes, the pair threaded their way through the lines of the camp. Looking about him, Simon felt a faint but growing unease. He could not define the reason. Pickets were out, guards were mounted, soldiers were relaxing but properly dressed and rifles were leaning in regulation pyramids, ready to be snatched at the call of a bugle. He could smell coffee and hear a farrier at work on a horseshoe. All very normal for a column in the field, normal for a base camp awaiting the return of its commander - but a normality more suited to Salisbury Plain than an isolated unit camped deep in enemy territory.

  Yet there was something more. Simon pushed himself up on Jenkins’s shoulders to gain a better view and so establish the source of his disquiet. Of course there was the absence of a protective barrier, and perhaps it was also the way that the camp seemed to peter out on the part of its periphery not protected by the huge rock at its back, with only a handful of sentries spread thinly along the line. But it did not fully explain the air of oppression that hung over the place, as though the barometer was falling and a storm about to break. Yet the sky above was clear blue. What was wrong? Was he experiencing some extra-sensory premonition of disaster? Simon felt the hairs begin to prickle on the back of his neck.

  The pair reached the CO’s tent and Simon awkwardly slid to the ground, under the puzzled eye of the red-coated sentry. ‘Morning, Davies,’ said Simon. ‘Ask the Colonel if I can see him urgently. It’s important.’

  Private Ivor Davies, once a member of Simon’s platoon when both were stationed at Brecon, regarded the dishevelled figure before him with astonishment. A diet of milk and mealies had done nothing to fill out Simon’s frame and his shirt was torn at the side and bloodstained at the shoulder where the spear wound had been roughly bound by Jenkins. The cotton pile on his corduroy breeches had long since worn away, leaving a thin, gauze-like fabric through which his thighs could be glimpsed. Both riding boots were scuffed and down at heel. But the young man’s eyes shone brightly as they looked at the soldier.

  ‘Good lor’,’ exclaimed the sentry. ‘It’s Mr Fonthill. Where’ave you come from, then, sir?’

  ‘Never mind that. Get inside quickly and tell the Colonel I’m here. Move sharply now.’ Simon turned to Jenkins. ‘Hang on here. I might need you.’

  Within seconds Simon was sitting before Pulleine and telling his story. When he had finished, the Colonel, a square man with a red face, frowned. What he had been told by this bright-eyed scarecrow seemed incredible: a spying mission, a visit to the Zulu king’s camp, escape from Ulundi, a successful fight with a superior number of pursuing warriors, a report of the whole Zulu army on the march . . . It was all a bit much. Too damned much. And hadn’t he heard something about this young subaltern . . . some sort of disgrace? On the other hand, what was he doing out here, looking like an Afrikaaner in the middle of Zululand? He couldn’t exactly be a Zulu spy. He’d heard of disgraced men going native, but there was something about this fellow that didn’t fit with that. Better be careful.

  ‘A whole damned impi, eh? How many would you say?’

  Simon sighed. ‘Can’t be sure, sir. Anything between fifteen and twenty-five thousand. They were moving fast, towards the north of your line here. They will know you are here and they’re bound to attack. Can you re-call that column that’s just gone off to the east? I think you will need them.’

  The Colonel shrugged his shoulders. ‘Umph! That’s Durnford with his blacks and the rocket battery. We heard gunfire in the direction of Lord Chelmsford’s column, so Durnford’s gone off after him to help. Couldn’t stop him. He’s senior to me, you see. Wanted to take some of my men, too, but I wouldn’t let him. Now he could be in a mess if the Zulus catch him on the plain. But we will be all right here. I’ve got seventeen hundred men, including six companies of the regiment. I’ve got plenty of vedettes and pickets out. We can’t be taken by surprise. I hope Johnny Zulu does attack. I’ll give him a bloody nose.’

  Simon swallowed. How could he convince this bluff regular army officer that, just for once, a well-armed British column could be vulnerable to spear-carrying aboriginals? How could he shake the complacency and arrogance of privilege and order, the inbred superiority of class? He must try.

  ‘But sir. The camp isn’t laagered. The Zulus attack so quickly. Twenty thousand of them could be upon and through us in no time.’

  Pulleine’s eyebrows raised. ‘None of my doing. The General didn’t feel it necessary. Difficult to do with all the to-ing and fro-ing over the trail back to the frontier. What’s more, the ground’s too damned hard. Can’t get a bloody shovel in. Anyway, that’s none of your business, young man. I—’

  He was interrupted by a subaltern. ‘Sorry to break in, sir, but . . .’ He looked askance at Simon. ‘Good heavens! Fonthill?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said the Colonel testily. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Firing to the north, sir. Must be Lieutenant Cavaye’s company. W
e can’t see anything, because they are over the brow of the hill. But another thing, sir. It looks as though Colonel Durnford has turned back on the plain and is trying to regain the camp.’

  Pulleine nodded imperturbably. ‘Very well. Have the Adjutant stand-to the camp.’

  He turned to Simon. ‘It could be a false alarm. We’ve had the whole camp on stand-to already once this morning. But in view of what you’ve told me, this could be the real thing.’ He buckled on his belt and revolver. ‘Sentry.’ Davies doubled inside. ‘Take this officer and his man to the quartermaster and have them issued with rifles and ammunition. Oh, and . . .’ he gave Simon a half-apologetic smile, ‘get them something to wear and something to eat. That’s all, Fonthill. Well done.’

  Outside the tent, Simon could now hear the gunfire to the north, although there was no other sign of trouble. The bugle sounded the stand-to, but even then there was no air of rush or obvious anxiety. Quietly and in orderly fashion, the men abandoned their camp tasks, put on their helmets, buttoned their jackets and took their rifles from the stacks before falling into line. If the bugle’s tone had not been so peremptory, the atmosphere might well be described as soporific.

  It was then that Simon was able at last to pinpoint the cause of his unease. It was not just the fact that the camp had not been laagered or trenched. It was this air of almost smug complacency that seemed to hang over the place like a witch’s curse. He caught Jenkins’s eye and saw a sharpness in it - as near as the Welshman ever came to showing disquiet.

  ‘I’ve got a feeling, bach sir,’ said Jenkins in a low voice, ‘that we’re goin’ to be in a battle at last - an’ a nasty one at that.’

  Simon tried to smile but found that he could not.

  Chapter 14

  The sentry took them to the QM’s tent, where the Colonel’s orders were relayed to a rather sceptical quartermaster sergeant, new to Simon. ‘Can’t give you red jackets . . . sir,’ he said, wiping his moustache. ‘Blue patrols all right?’

  ‘Bugger the jackets,’ said Jenkins. ‘Give us the rifles.’

  ‘That’ll be enough from you,’ snapped the NCO. ‘And say “Quartermaster” when you talk to me.’

  ‘That will do, Q,’ said Simon gently. ‘There is some need for haste because the camp is about to be attacked.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Now please sign here. Two blue patrols, one officer’s, one Other Ranks’. Two Martini-Henry rifles and seventy rounds of ammunition each. Just there, sir. That’s where you sign. And underneath, on the duplicate, please. You keep one and I keep the other.’

  Contemptuously, Jenkins ignored the quartermaster and spoke to Simon. ‘We’ll need lungers, look you.’

  ‘Ah yes, Q. Two bayonets, please. Yes, yes, add them to the dockets and I will sign.’

  Now equipped, Simon and Jenkins found a cook, who interrupted the dousing of his fires to give them cold sausages, bread and cheese and lukewarm tea. Munching and drinking, their rifles slung over their shoulders, the two men walked to the edge of the encampment. In front of them, Pulleine had positioned his troops in a long line, about 800 yards out from the camp and, thought Simon, much too far away. For the moment it was incomplete, with gaps here and there, mainly left by the company that was now moving up the hill to the north, presumably to reinforce the troops out on patrol over the spur, whence came the firing. Most of the line was taken by the regular troops of the 24th Regiment, all of them, Simon noticed, from the 1st Battalion. That meant that Covington and the 2nd Battalion must have gone off with Chelmsford. The men of the 1st Battalion, plus one company of the 2nd that had been on picket duty out on the plain, now stood in two ranks, the rear rank a yard or two behind the front, with the men in staggered positions so that they could fire between their comrades. There was about four yards between each man, and so the front line was stretched perilously thin, with fewer than 600 men to cover almost a mile.

  At the north-western face there was a rise, and here cannon were being manhandled into place. Between the camp and the southern end of the line stood contingents of Natal Kaffirs and bunches of white mounted volunteers, seemingly uncertain of their roles. Behind Simon and Jenkins in the camp scores of men - orderlies, grooms, bandsmen and civilians from the Commissariat - were milling about, and there was a general air of confusion. The contrast with the two lines of men was obvious and disconcerting.

  Simon grabbed the arm of a fresh-faced subaltern who was hurrying past and who was unknown to him. ‘What’s the name of this place?’ he asked.

  In tones redolent of the best public school - indeed, he looked as though he had only just left the sixth form - the young man replied: ‘Difficult to get your tongue round it, actually, old boy. I think this rock thing is called Isandlwana.’ He pronounced it - correctly, as Simon was to discover later - ‘Ee-sant-klwaanah’.

  Jenkins looked at the slim back of the boy as he strode away, and crammed the last crust into his mouth. ‘I don’t like the look of it, bach sir,’ he muttered, wiping the crumbs away. Jenkins was a survivor, always had been - from dirty cradle, through the childhood beatings on the farm, a hundred fights on building sites and the abuse of the Glasshouse. He could look after himself and rely on himself. But this was different. If his fate was in the hands of la-di-da schoolboys and fat old colonels who didn’t know how to defend a camp, then he felt uneasy. ‘I’m not much of a general, see, but shouldn’t we be in a square or somethin’?’

  Simon nodded absently. His mind was now a mixture of apprehension, because he shared Jenkins’s doubts, and excitement, because he had never been in a major action before. But he hated this waiting. He could see, up towards the foothills of the escarpment to the north-west, what seemed to be men of the rocket battery dismounting and deploying their strange weapons. To the south, horsemen - he presumed they were Durnford’s troops - were riding back to camp. Closer at hand, in the centre of the plain, a company of the 24th who had obviously been on picket duty was marching quickly back to the lines.

  Jenkins was right. The two files of infantrymen seemed pathetically insubstantial, lining up so far out on the plain, without cover and away from the tents and the limbers. Simon threw away the remains of his sandwich. His mouth was far too dry to make the bread and cheese edible. He thought of the speed of the Zulus and the ferocity of their attack in the gully. Would they be able to turn these fragile lines? And would the men of the 24th suspect this? He walked towards the rear rank, the better to see their faces.

  These were the best soldiers in the world. Unlike the forces of the other great powers of Europe and America, the British Army was always fighting. At any one time, somewhere in the world, the British Tommy would be fixing his bayonet or squinting through his rifle sights to keep the Queen’s Empire together. These men of the 1st Battalion were fresh from the Kaffir wars in the south, and even the youngest had seen battle, while the veterans had fought Pathans, Malays and Ashanti tribesmen over the last few years.

  The word about the Zulu, however, had spread: about his bravery, savagery and skill in battle and of how he had conquered all of the tribes in southern Africa. So, as Simon looked down the line, he noted perspiration trickling down sun-browned cheeks and tongues licking lips as dry as his own. Now that they were in line, called by the bugle, the lacklustre air of complacency had disappeared. The distant firing signalled to these experienced men that this was a real call to arms, even though the Zulu could not yet be seen. The general air of oppression he had noted earlier now seemed to have localised and settled above each white helmet. He looked out across the plain. ‘Why don’t they come?’ he murmured. ‘Why don’t they come?’

  ‘Godstrewth!’ The exclamation came from Jenkins, who was pointing to the lip of the plateau to the north. The skyline was alive with tiny black figures - it was difficult to avoid the ant analogy again. They swarmed over the edge of the escarpment, and at what seemed, even at that distance, to be remarkable speed began debouching on to the plain. The black mass stretched for ab
out two miles along the rim and it continued to cascade over the edge. The watchers in the line saw a brief flash from the rocket battery, stranded out on the plain, before it was engulfed.

  The pace of events now began to quicken as the two men watched. The solitary company that had been on picket duty reached the line and took up position either side of the cannon. As they did so, the guns began to boom, sending up eruptions of red dust and earth among the advancing mass in the distance. To the right, Durnford’s mounted men suddenly disappeared into a large donga about a mile from the camp. They immediately re-emerged, dismounted, manning the edges of the donga, and began pouring rapid fire into the Zulus.

  ‘That’s our southern flank covered, anyhow,’ breathed Simon.

  To the watching pair’s left, on the northern end of the line and much closer to them, a company of the Natal Native Contingent appeared over the skyline, running in disarray back to the camp. A moment or two later, three companies of the 24th came into view over the spur, retreating in impeccable order and firing in sequence as one company fell back on the other. Behind them came the Zulus, a black mass whose advance seemed only slightly retarded by the volleys poured into it. As they neared the camp, the companies deployed smoothly, joining up with the line and bending it round so that the northern edge met the high slope of the rock, the native troops falling in with them. The line, then, was now complete in the north, but not in the south. There it was manned by a contingent of black levies at the furthest point from the enemy, and between their position and that of Durnford’s men out in the donga lay a wide gap.

  ‘Look, bach,’ said Jenkins, nodding towards the Zulus. He could have been watching a football match, except that he was frowning and his lower lip was doing its best to swallow his moustache. ‘Look at ’em. They’re comin’ on in that buffalo’orn shape you told me about. Lovely to see, isn’t it? Except they’re so fast . . .’ His voice drained away almost to a whisper. ‘An’ there’s so many of the buggers.’