by Saul David
'Sir,' said the officers, almost in unison. Bradstreet and Lieutenant Scott of the Carbineers led their men away, while Henderson and Davies transmitted the orders to their NCOs and the resupply began, each trooper riding forward in turn and being handed two packets of bullets.
George, meanwhile, had informed Durnford of Pulleine's intention to pull his troops back closer to the camp. 'Much good it will do him,' commented Durnford, pulling on his moustache. 'There are too many of them, George. They've hoodwinked us good and proper this time.'
'You should have listened to me, Colonel.' George couldn't help saying it.
'I know, and I'm sorry. I've always been a headstrong fellow. Do you think they'll blame me for this too?'
'Let's forget about blame while there are lives to save!'
'You're right. Our only hope is to collect all the troops for a last stand. Do you know where Pulleine is?'
'I imagine he's still at the column office.'
'Good. Come with me.'
George nodded, dashed to the back of the cart and untied Emperor. Seconds later he and Durnford were clattering between the tents of the lst/24th and the mounted volunteers, dodging the camp casuals who were making their way on foot, on wagons and on mules towards the top of the camp where the wagon track crossed the nek - the broad saddle of land between the hill of Isandlwana and the Stony Koppie - before dropping steeply towards the Manzimnyama stream on the first leg of its circuitous ten-mile route to Rorke's Drift. 'Like rats leaving a sinking ship,' remarked Durnford sourly.
Just before the nek they turned right and rode along the base of the mountain until they reached the tent that served as the column office. A corporal was burning papers on a campfire, a bad sign. 'Where's Colonel Pulleine?' demanded Durnford.
The soldier looked up, a sheaf of papers in hand. 'He and Lieutenant Melvill left a few minutes ago for the First Twenty-Fourth's tents to the right of the track.'
'Why?'
Before the soldier could reply, a limping Lieutenant Coghill appeared at the entrance to the tent. 'He's gone to save the battalion's colours. We lost both to the Sikhs at Chillianwala in the Second Sikh War and Pulleine doesn't want that to happen again.'
For a brief moment, as he tried to take in the lull absurdity of Coghill's explanation, Durnford was too stunned to speak. 'Is he insane?' he shouted, his face mottled with fury. 'The Zulus are about to overwhelm the camp and he's worried about the damn colours! If we don't shore up the right of our line, and prevent the Zulus from outflanking us, we're all dead men, every one of us. We need to get troops over to the nek, and I mean now. I don't care who they are, as long as they can hold a gun. Do you think you can manage that, Lieutenant?'
'I'll try.'
'Good, and you can start with him,' said Durnford, pointing towards the corporal. 'George, come with me. We'd better get over to the nek and see what needs to be done.'
On the way they passed the hospital tent, so full of casualties that Surgeon-Major Shepherd was treating the overflow of wounded on the ground outside. Durnford drew rein to warn him that time was running out. 'Surgeon-Major! We're trying to organize a last stand on the nek. You must make your way there now.'
Shepherd looked up from his patient, a redcoat with a jagged abdominal wound. 'What about the wounded?'
'They'll have to stay where they are. There's no time to move them.'
'In that case, Colonel,' said Shepherd, wiping his bloody hands on his apron, 'I'm staying with them.'
'Don't be a fool, Surgeon-Major,' interjected George. 'You can still save yourself. All the noncombatants are leaving for Rorke's Drift.'
Shepherd shook his head.
'All right,' said Durnford. 'We'll keep the Zulu horns apart for as long as possible. If you change your mind . . .'
'I won't.'
Durnford nodded and dug in his spurs, George following. They found the nek choked with wagons, their panic-stricken drivers yelling at their cattle and each other, desperate to get on to the Rorke's Drift track and away. Civilians on foot dodged round, and even over, the lumbering wagons, all heading in the same direction. 'This is hopeless,' shouted Durnford above the din as he urged his pony, Chieftain, through the traffic. 'We'd best make for the Stony Koppie beyond the saddle and rally there.'
From the rock-strewn lower slopes of the koppie, they had a panoramic view of the camp and the battlefield beyond. George could see a dense mass of Zulus pressing ever closer to the thin red and black line, not even continuous, which was defending the front of the camp. Already the Zulus had worked beyond the right of the line, Jake's G Company, which had been left exposed by Durnford's withdrawal from the donga. It was only a matter of time, thought George, before G Company itself fell back. He wondered what was going through Jake's mind. Was he frightened by the prospect of death, or just too preoccupied with loading and firing to dwell on the matter?
'Where the hell have Henderson and Davies got to?' asked Durnford, interrupting George's morbid thoughts. 'They've been gone for more than ten minutes.'
There was no sign of any black troopers on the nek. But other horsemen were forcing their way through the traffic, led by Bradstreet and Scott. Durnford waved furiously until the horsemen spotted him and made their way over. 'I hope you got some bullets,' said Durnford.
'We did, sir,' replied Scott. 'Fifty a man. Quartermaster London was killed by a stray bullet as he served us.'
'Poor bastard. Tell your men to dismount and form a line facing the plain. Pope's company can't hold on much longer, and when it breaks we need to give it covering fire.'
The two officers did as they were told, detailing a handful of troopers to hold the horses while the rest knelt in two lines on the edge of the koppie. No sooner were they in position than George noticed the sound of firing from the centre of the battlefield begin to lessen in intensity until it ceased altogether.
'Christ, Colonel,' said George to Durnford, 'they must have run out of ammunition.'
'Or received Pulleine's order to withdraw.'
The latter seemed the more likely scenario as first one company of troops, then another turned its back on the enemy and began to flee towards the camp. The Zulu regiments were quick to get over their surprise, rising from the ground and rushing towards the gaps in the line, causing the remaining companies to break before they were outflanked. George watched with horror as the lightly encumbered Zulus rapidly overhauled the lumbering British soldiers, weighed down by their rifles, heavy boots and a multitude of straps and pouches. Some turned and fought with fixed bayonets, selling their lives dearly, but most were stabbed and clubbed to death as they ran.
Cutting a swathe through the mass of running men were the two horsedrawn guns of N/7 Battery, bouncing and crashing their way over the uneven terrain as soldiers clung desperately to their limbers; two officers, Major Stuart and Lieutenant Curling, rode alongside. With no time to mount the guns, most of the gunners were following on foot, easy prey for their eager pursuers. Once in the camp, the progress of the guns was slowed by the congestion at the saddle, giving Lieutenant Coghill, who had appeared from the direction of the column office on a roan charger, the opportunity to speak to Curling. But instead of sending the guns towards the Stony Koppie, where Durnford was organizing a last stand, Coghill sent them over the saddle and himself followed soon after.
'What does he mean by sending the guns away?' roared Durnford. 'If we don't stand together we're all doomed.'
Suddenly reminded of Jake's predicament, George swung round and squinted towards the right front of the camp, where G Company had been holding the extreme right of the rapidly disintegrating defensive line. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the early afternoon sun, he could see a body of redcoats, led by their two officers, Pope and Jake, struggling up the track towards the camp, closely pursued by cheering Zulus.
'Colonel!' yelled George. 'G Company have broken. We must give them covering fire.'
Durnford took one look and concurred. 'Independent coveri
ng fire for G Company!' he bellowed. 'And mind our men.'
George squinted down the sight of his carbine. Some of the rearmost redcoats were already mixed up with Zulus. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his back. He wanted to fire but could not for fear of hitting Jake. Others, less particular, were firing into the oncoming mass of red and black as quickly as they could load. It was the right decision because it caused the Zulu chase to slacken momentarily, allowing about fifty redcoats to reach the bottom of the camp just seconds ahead of their pursuers. There, on the orders of their officers, they turned and fired a volley as the young men of the ringless Umbonambi Regiment, with their black shields and bunched white cow-tail necklaces, gained the honour of becoming the first Zulus to enter the camp.
As some redcoats fought the Umbonambi hand to hand, the rest of G Company fled up the track and made a second stand at the top of the camp, not far from Durnford's position on the Stony Koppie. George could just make out Lieutenant Pope in the centre of his men, the sun glinting off his monocle as he fired his pistol into the approaching Zulu hordes. Next to him, also firing his pistol, was Jake. He had lost his helmet and his distinctive red hair shone through the drifting gun- smoke. George felt a brief moment of elation that Jake was still alive, quickly replaced by a knot of fear that his friend's options were running out.
By now about seventy British soldiers, remnants from the companies holding the far side of the camp, had taken up a position on the lower slopes of Isandlwana, opposite the Stony Koppie, and the fire from all three strongpoints held the Zulus back long enough for most of the remaining fugitives - a chaotic crowd of men, horses, mules, sheep and oxen yoked to wagons - to cross the saddle in a cloud of dust and gunsmoke that made it difficult to distinguish friend from foe. Among the last of the horsemen to pass by George was the red-coated Lieutenant Melvill, carrying across his saddle the eight-foot wooden staff and leather case containing his battalion's Queen's Colour, a large gold-fringed Union flag with a royal cipher in its centre.
'Bring it here, Melvill!' shouted George, assuming the lieutenant's intention was to use the colour to rally the troops. But if Melvill heard George's cry, he ignored it and he carried on over the saddle, the only officer of the 24th Regiment to abandon his men. Seconds later warriors from the impi's right horn swarmed on to the saddle, having passed round the back of the mountain, and drove into the exposed rear of Jake's position, slashing and stabbing as they went.
The encirclement was almost complete. George knew it, and Durnford knew it too. 'Get your horse, George,' said the colonel as he scribbled in his notebook. 'I want you to take this message to Rorke's Drift. The officer in charge is to fortify the mission and hold it at all costs.'
'The Zulus are behind us. I'll never get through.'
'You can at least try. If you stay here, you'll perish.'
George looked at the scene of horror before him. Apart from the three enclaves of resistance, the camp was in the possession of thousands of Zulus who were slashing and clubbing every living thing they encountered. He could not avert his eyes as one warrior dragged a young blond-haired drummer boy from his hiding place in the back of a wagon and slit his throat. He did not want to die like that. But he did not want to leave Jake either.
'Can I take Second Lieutenant Morgan with me, Colonel? Two will have more chance of getting through than one.'
'All right, but you must leave now.'
George took the note and tucked it into his tunic. Durnford offered his good hand and George clasped it. It was surprisingly delicate, like a girl's. 'Do you have any personal messages you want me to deliver?' asked George, ducking his head as a bullet zipped overhead. 'If I get through, that is.'
'Tell Fanny I love her and always will. And tell her she was right and I was wrong. I shouldn't have fought in a war I didn't believe in. But I had to try to exorcize my demons.'
'And have you?'
'I think so. Now go.'
George ran over to Emperor, untied his knee-halter and vaulted into the saddle. 'Don't let me down now,' he whispered to the horse.
The Zulus were close now and had all but overwhelmed G Company below the nek. One officer was still standing, and it looked like Jake. As George spurred towards him, the officer shot two of his assailants in quick succession.
'Jake!' bellowed George as Emperor burst between a knot of Zulus, clipping one warrior and sending him flying.
Jake heard his friend's cry. He turned and waved, a look of hope on his face, but as he did so, his features seemed to freeze. He staggered a few paces forward, dropped his revolver and fell to the ground, a throwing spear protruding from his back.
'No!' bellowed George, just thirty yards away and closing fast.
A warrior tried to grab George's reins but he shot him with his carbine, the bullet blowing off the top of the man's skull in a red and grey spray of blood and brains. He looked back to where Jake had fallen and could only see a Zulu squatting on the ground, hacking at something with his iklwa. That something, he realized, was Jake. It was too late to save him.
He fired at Jake's killer and missed, but the bullet was close enough to cause the warrior to turn his head. The broad, handsome face was unmistakeable. It was his cousin Mehlokazulu. As the pair locked eyes, the Zulu seemed to nod. George had never felt such hatred towards another human being. But with more warriors closing in, the chance of avenging Jake's death had gone and, with a final cry of anguish, George turned Emperor and galloped towards the lower slopes of the Stony Koppie, hoping to cross the top of the nek before the Zulus completed their encirclement.
Some Zulus on the low part of the nek saw his intention and raced uphill to cut him off, the tough soles of their feet seemingly impervious to the thorny ground. But Emperor was quickly into his stride and, realizing the horseman would win the race, one warrior stopped to hurl a throwing assegai, which would have caught George in the shoulder if he had not twisted his body at the last moment, allowing the spear to pass harmlessly by and clatter into the rocks beyond.
Thrown momentarily off balance, George grabbed Emperor's mane to right himself, and would have done so if the panicked horse had not slipped on a rock. Horse and rider went down, George hitting the ground with a sickening thud that loosened his grip on the carbine. Nursing a badly bruised shoulder, he staggered to his feet. Emperor had also risen from the fall and was standing barely ten yards away, his flanks still quivering with shock.
'Please don't let him be injured,' muttered George, as he stumbled towards the horse.
With just a couple of yards to go, he could hear someone behind him with a footfall so soft it could only be a Zulu. He reached for his holster and was fumbling with the flap, not helped by his injured shoulder, when a voice spoke in Zulu. 'We meet again, cousin.'
George spun round to see, not ten yards off, the grinning face of Mehlokazulu. His powerful, nearly naked body was streaked with dust, sweat and gobbets of blood; not his own, but that of his victims. In his left hand he clutched his shield, in his right an iklwa, its blade red with Jake's blood.
'That soldier you just killed was my friend,' said George.
Mehlokazulu scowled. 'That soldier invaded my country and deserved to die, as do you for betraying your people.'
George wondered if he had time to draw his revolver before Mehlokazulu closed with him. Probably not, he decided, and the shot would just bring other Zulus. 'I may share your blood,' he said, inching back a little closer to Emperor, 'but the Zulus are not my people. Your father said as much, and he's right.'
'But why fight against us?'
'I'm a soldier. I was ordered to.'
'You lie. You seek revenge, for your grandmother, and for Nandi, and it will cost you your life.'
'Haven't you killed enough, cousin?' asked George, desperately stalling for time.
'No, and I'll go on killing until every white invader is dead.'
George glanced over Mehlokazulu's shoulder as if s
omeone was approaching. As his cousin turned to look, he attempted to mount Emperor, but was hampered by his injury and had barely got his foot in the stirrup when the razor-sharp blade of an iklwa was placed against his throat.
'Prepare to die, cousin,' said Mehlokazulu.
George closed his eyes, waiting for the cold searing pain as the blade sliced through his neck. It never came because a second voice shouted, 'Stop, brother! Let him go.'
'Why?' protested Mehlokazulu.
'You have the same blood. And he's not like other white men. Remember the Lower Drift. He tried to prevent this war.'
It must be Kumbeka, thought George, the junior induna he had met while the ultimatum was being delivered. But would Mehlokazulu listen to him?
'But he failed, didn't he, and now he must die.' George could feel the blade starting to bite into his throat.