by Saul David
'Draw your weapons,' roared Durnford. 'We'll conduct a staggered withdrawal. One troop firing while the other takes up a position four hundred yards to the rear, and so on. Take the Edendale Contingent back first, Lieutenant Davies. Henderson's Basutos can hold here. Volley-fire at six hundred yards, if you please, Lieutenant Henderson.'
'Yes, sir,' replied a baby-faced officer with a droopy moustache. 'Troop dismount.'
George followed the troopers' lead, sliding off Emperor and handing his reins to one of the men in charge of the ponies. Drawing his Martini-Henry carbine from the bucket in front of his saddle, he joined the firing line. His heart was going like a steam-hammer as he fell on one knee, loaded the carbine with a cartridge from his pouch and adjusted the sight.
'On my command,' shouted Durnford, pistol in hand.
George raised the carbine to his shoulder. The Zulus were barely half a mile away now, with one fleeter-footed warrior, possibly an induna, a good ten yards ahead of the main body, his headdress bobbing as he sped across the turf. George drew a bead on the leading warrior. There was something about his lean physique, the way he moved, that seemed familiar. But he pushed all thoughts to the back of his head, held his breath and waited for the order.
'Fire!'
The volley from fifty carbines was deafening. George peered through the smoke, half expecting the Zulus to have halted, or at least slowed. But they were still coming on as before, with the odd gap in their ranks as evidence of the damage the carbines had wrought. Of the leading warrior there was no sign.
'Reload and adjust your sights to three hundred yards.'
George ejected the cartridge by depressing the lever behind the trigger, but his hand was shaking so much he had trouble placing the next bullet in the breech.
'Come on, Hart,' said Durnford with a frown, 'we haven't got all day.'
George took a deep breath to calm himself and pushed the bullet home.
'Fire!'
The Zulu front rank seemed to shiver as the bullets slammed into flesh and bone, but those who fell were simply hurdled by the warriors behind, their pace never slacking.
'Mount up,' instructed Durnford. 'We'll pass through Davies's Zikalis and form a new line behind.'
George was no sooner in the saddle than he heard, from back down the plain, a hideous shrieking noise as one of Russell's rockets arced towards the plateau in a trail of white smoke and yellow sparks, exploding with a loud boom. 'Russell must have seen Zulus on the plateau above him,' said Durnford. 'We'd best make straight for the camp or they might cut us off. Follow me.'
They passed through Davies's men, shouting for them to mount up and follow, and as the plain narrowed between the conical hill and the edge of the plateau they came upon the remnants of Russell's battery. Four bodies lay beside a single iron trough, the one that must have been used to fire the rocket. There was no sign of the escort, the mules and the remaining gunners.
'Leave them,' said Durnford from his horse.
'What about the others?'
'There isn't time. We've got to get to the camp before the Zulus.'
George looked back the way they had come. The pursuing Zulus were less than half a mile away and closing fast. Up on the plateau the crack of carbine and rifle shots was growing louder and more persistent. So much for Zulu caution, thought George, as he pursued Durnford and his men along the plain.
As they approached the Nyokana Donga — a dry watercourse with steep sides that bisected the plain a mile from the camp - Durnford raised his hand to slow the column. He could see from the presence of helmets and carbines that the donga was partially occupied by a mixed force of around fifty men from various mounted regiments. They had left their horses in the cover of the donga and were manning the lip of its steep, east-facing bank. Durnford at once ordered his men to do likewise, extending the defensive line towards the heights, with Davies's Zikalis on the extreme left.
George followed Durnford as he sought out the officer in command, Captain Bradstreet of the Newcastle Mounted Rifles. 'Who placed you here, Captain?' asked Durnford.
'Colonel Pulleine, sir,' replied the officer, his walrus moustache only a shade smaller than Durnford's. 'He'd just received news from one of your officers, Captain Barton, that a huge Zulu impi was advancing on the camp.'
'What other defensive arrangements has he made?'
'He's sent two companies of British infantry up on to the plateau to support your troopers, and placed the remaining four companies and the guns along the front of the parade ground.'
That meant, George knew, the main defensive position was at least half a mile from the camp, and protected by just 600 British soldiers. It was a line, moreover, that had no defence against an attack from the rear, and one that was far from unbroken, with dangerous gaps between its three strong- points: the troops on the plateau, those in front of the camp and the horsemen with George in the donga, who were themselves 500 yards to the right front of the main position.
'What about the native contingent?' asked Durnford.
'They're supporting the British infantry in both positions.'
George looked over his left shoulder and could just make out a thin line of redcoats, some kneeling, others lying down, almost certainly the men of Jake's G Company. Then there was a gap before more redcoats, some NNC and what looked, at a distance, like the two seven-pounder guns, which were firing at an unseen target on the heights.
Durnford turned to Bradstreet. 'Tell me, Captain, has Pulleine informed Chelmsford of our predicament?'
'He has, sir. He sent a message informing the general of heavy firing to our left front.'
'Nothing else? I think he could have been a bit more specific.'
'Here they come!' shouted a Carbineer to their left.
The same warriors who had pursued Durnford from iThusi were making straight for the donga. Most were carrying black shields, the sign of a young regiment.
'Fire!' ordered Durnford, and 150 carbines obeyed. Down went Zulus in heaps, but others kept coming.
George reloaded as fast as his fumbling fingers would allow, just in time to join the second volley. Again, the donga was momentarily wreathed in a thick bank of white smoke, which hid the defenders from their onrushing foe and seemed to take an age to clear. Boom went the carbines on Durnford's command and more warriors fell. And so it went on, until the advance of the Zulu left 'horn' slowed, faltered and then came to a stop, the warriors lying down behind bushes, folds in the ground and the corpses of their comrades. Some fired their rifles from this prone position; others rose up between volleys to gain forty or fifty yards before taking cover.
Once the attack had stalled, Durnford ordered independent fire and remounted. With his withered left arm thrust into the pocket he had had sewn on the front of his tunic, and his body exposed above the top of the donga, he rode up and down the line, encouraging his men with jokes and praise. 'Well done, my boys,' he urged, 'keep it up. It's too hot for them.'
But as the Zulu counter-fire began to find its range, with bullets pinging off the lip of the donga, the big African sergeant major became concerned for Durnford's safety and pleaded with him to keep down. 'Please, Inkhosi, it's too dangerous.'
'Nonsense,' replied a smiling Durnford. 'These Zulus couldn't hit a house at fifty paces.'
With the firing incessant, more and more carbines jammed, their brass shells refusing to eject. Each time Durnford calmly dismounted, held the gun between his knees and winkled out the cartridge with his knife. But there was soon a far more serious threat to the defenders' rate of fire than the odd jammed cartridge. Each man had ridden out of camp that day with seventy rounds of ammunition, but after thirty minutes of constant firing, very few had more than ten rounds left.
George brought the problem to Durnford's attention. 'Colonel, we need more ammunition.'
'Do you think I don't know that? I've already sent a messenger back but he hasn't returned.'
'He might have been killed. I'll go. Where are y
our supply wagons?'
'They were en route and should have reached the camp by now. If not, try and scrounge some rounds from another regiment. But hurry. We can't hold out for long.'
George untied Emperor's knee-halter, mounted and rode hard up the track for the camp, his body hunched forward to produce the smallest possible target for a stray bullet. About a third of the way there, he came upon the right edge of Jake's G Company, arrayed in two staggered lines roughly ten yards apart, with ten yards between each prone soldier, providing a rifle for every five yards of front.
'Where's Second Lieutenant Morgan?' George shouted to the nearest redcoat.
'Over to the left,' replied the soldier, barely pausing in his repetitive task of loading, aiming and firing. George found him in the centre of line, near Pope, directing the fire.
'George!' said Jake, looking up. 'What are you doing here? Is Chelmsford on his way?'
'No. He was convinced the Zulus wouldn't attack and sent me back with orders for Pulleine to send on supplies.'
'The bloody fool. So where are you headed?'
'Back to the camp to fetch ammunition for Durnford, who's holding the donga up ahead. How are you for bullets?'
'We're running through them fast. We've sent runners back but they haven't returned.'
'I'll see what I can do. I won't be long.'
George dug in his heels and Emperor cantered on down the track towards the camp. The mood was very different from when he had ridden in an hour and a half earlier: then it had been calm and unconcerned; now it was like a disturbed wasps' nest with civilians and soldiers, black and white, running in all directions, some leading mules with boxes of ammunition strapped to their back, others carrying weapons and heading for the firing line. One or two, with furtive looks over their shoulders, were edging towards the nek at the back of the camp where the track dropped away towards Rorke's Drift, unconvinced that the British had enough troops to hold the camp.
'You,' shouted George at one such young voorloper, 'where are you going?'
The man ignored him and hurried on.
With no sign of Durnford's supplies, George made straight for the ammunition wagon at the back of the Carbineers' tents. It was occupied by the quartermaster, a strapping fellow called London, who was busy handing out packets of bullets to a long line of waiting soldiers. George rode to the head of the queue and shouted, 'Quartermaster, I need ammunition now. Colonel Durnford's mounted troops are almost out.'
'Officer or no, Hart, you'll wait in line like everyone else.'
'You don't understand. The situation's critical.'
'It's critical everywhere. You'll wait your turn.'
George looked beyond London to the huge pile of mahogany ammunition boxes, each one containing sixty ten-round packets. One of London's assistants was going from box to box with a screwdriver, removing the two-inch brass screw that secured the box's sliding lid. 'Let me help that fellow, Quartermaster. We'll be here all day.'
'There's no point. We've only got one screwdriver.'
'Ye gods!' roared George, looking right and left for an alternative supply.
'Try the Second Twenty-Fourth next door,' suggested London. 'They've only got one company in the firing line and should have plenty of bullets to spare.'
' You've got plenty of bullets,' roared George in frustration.
'We're doing our best.'
George galloped along the back of the 2nd/24th's tents, sneaking a glance to the front of the camp where the firing seemed, to him at least, to be dropping in intensity. The scene that greeted him at the 2nd/24th's ammunition wagon was, if anything, even more chaotic. A crowd of men were clamouring for bullets, but the florid-faced Quartermaster Bloom- field, wearing shirtsleeves and braces, was having none of it. 'I've signed for this ammo,' he said in his Geordie accent, 'and it's only going to the Second Battalion. All the other units have got their own supplies.'
'I'm from G Company of the Second Battalion, sir,' piped up one young drummer boy who could not have been more than sixteen.
'Give that boy some packets,' said the quartermaster to his assistant. 'The rest of you can scarper.'
'Are you insane?' barked George. 'The Zulus are about to break through and you're worrying about which units you're supplying.'
'I've got to account for every bullet, and if you think . . .'
George stopped listening. He needed bullets and nothing was going to stop him from getting them. He dismounted, tied Emperor to the front wheel of the ammunition wagon and walked round to its back flap, which he began to untie.
'What are you doing?' asked a voice.
George swung round to see Lieutenant Smith-Dorrien, the long-chinned officer who had delivered Chelmsford's message to Durnford. 'What does it look like I'm doing, Lieutenant? That fool Bloomfield will only supply his battalion, so I'm taking matters into my own hands.'
Smith-Dorrien nodded. 'Good thinking. Let me help.'
Together they untied the flap and removed the wagon's back board. Then they grabbed the nearest ammunition box by its rope handles and threw it to the ground.
'Christ, that's heavy,' said George, gazing down at the solid two-foot-long mahogany container.
'Stop complaining,' said a grinning Smith-Dorrien as he reached for the next box. 'It only weighs eighty pounds.'
When they had a dozen on the ground, they set about breaking them open, George with the butt of his carbine, Smith-Dorrien with a rock. The noise of splintering wood brought Bloomfield round from the front of the wagon. 'For heaven's sake,' he said to Smith-Dorrien, 'don't take that, man. It belongs to our battalion.'
'Hang it all,' replied Smith-Dorrien. 'You don't want a requisition slip now, do you?'
'Yes, I do. You're not entitled to those bullets.'
'Well, we're taking them anyway,' said George, 'and if you try to stop us I'll put a bullet between your eyes.'
Bloomfield was about to respond, but the look on George's face made him think twice and, muttering to himself, he retreated back round the wagon.
'Right,' said George. 'I think we've got enough bullets. Now we must get them to Durnford.'
'Where is he?'
'Holding a donga about a mile from the camp.'
'You'll need a cart. Wait here.'
Smith-Dorrien reappeared a couple of minutes later with a mule harnessed to a small cart, and together they threw the contents of six boxes — 3,600 rounds in all - into the back.
'I'll get going,' said George, as he hitched Emperor to the rear of the wagon. 'You organize some more for the infantry and let's pray we meet later. Good luck with the rest.'
'Thanks. I'll need it.'
George climbed into the box seat and whipped up. But with the mule refusing to go faster than a jog-trot, George was still moving along the back of the camp when he was overtaken by Lieutenant Melvill on a tall black charger. 'Hart! Where are you going?'
'I'm taking ammunition to Colonel Durnford in the donga.'
'Good, you'll save me the journey. Can you ask Durnford to pull back his men closer to the camp? Colonel Pulleine wants to tighten the defensive perimeter.'
'To where?'
'To a line a couple of hundred yards in front of the tents. He's already withdrawn the two companies on the plateau; they're now holding the far end of the camp.'
'I'll tell him, but it's going to be very difficult for the men in the firing line to disengage. Look what we're up against . . .' George swept his hand along the thick mass of Zulus pressing towards the camp, from the spur above the camp to the plain in front of the donga, where more and more warriors were edging to their left in an effort to outflank Durnford's position. They were making a low, musical murmuring noise, like a swarm of bees getting closer and closer. 'If the men fall back, the Zulus will charge. We need a redoubt. Why hasn't Pulleine laagered the wagons?'
'Have you any idea how long it takes to do that? There isn't time. Just deliver the order, there's a good fellow.'
George whipped u
p, shaking his head in disgust, and had just turned on to the wagon track when he sighted Durnford and his men galloping back from the donga, the dust rising behind them in a thick cloud. They came to a juddering halt next to George's cart. 'We couldn't hold out any longer,' explained Durnford, his dusty face streaked with little runnels of sweat. 'We're almost out of bullets and they were getting round our flank. I see you got some more.'
'Yes, but only about twenty per man.'
Durnford turned to the officers behind him. 'Lieutenant Henderson, give your men thirty rounds each and then try and locate our supply. Davies, you do the same. The volunteers and mounted police can seek out their own supplies. We'll rendezvous on the nek in five minutes. No longer. If we can't keep the horns apart the camp is doomed.'