by Bob Bidecant
(Twenty-four years later.)
2.1
It was Taylor’s second day tied to a wooden picket fence in South Africa’s screaming heat. At least he thought it was but he wasn’t certain of anything. He was trying to think of something to take his mind from the situation he was in and the pain that was brought with it. He was so thirsty his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. Lifting his head was painful due to the gash he had received when he was rendered unconscious. He couldn’t open his left eye fully as the dried blood was so thick but he glanced briefly at the others tied alongside him to see if they were still alive. Lifting his gaze up higher he looked again at the bodies lying around the mission they had been sent to protect, he could see about twenty five of his men lying dead around the mission grounds. Men that only two days earlier were talking about their love ones or jokingly about other men’s loved ones. Each one a completely different character that he came to know, admire or despair of. All individual characters but together a formidable fighting force, the staggering amount of black warriors lying between them a testimony to their professionalism and courage. He had known some of them since he was fifteen years old. They were his friends, they were his family. The attack had been so fast and unexpected that they had no chance to retreat back into the safety of the mission itself. They were still sleeping inside their tents when it came. They had made camp within the mission grounds and posted sentries all around the low walls surrounding it. There had been no sightings of Zulus in this area and their posting at the Danish mission was even envied by the other squadrons as an easy assignment. The majority of the regiment had been sent further north into Zulu lands where the trouble was expected. The attack started an hour before dawn.
Private Thomas Henryman was suffering from eye fatigue, with no moon that night looking out into the pitch black strained his eyes until they watered. He did not see the warrior who had stripped himself naked to avoid making a sound and who had covered himself in mud to blend in with the dark of the night, until he leapt up in front of the wall and with the stealth of a hunter cut his throat silently with one flick of his knife. The main party of over three hundred warriors had quietly reached to within two hundred yards of the mission in the dark without being noticed. The other four sentries met the same fate.
As dawn broke a war cry rang out signalling the attack, banging spears against animal hide shields and running barefoot across the last hundred yards at a breath taking speed they ran through the lines of tents. With no warning from the sentries who already lay dead the troops were still sleeping when the attack came. They rallied and scrambled for the weapons, which were stacked outside their tents. They were left no option but to fight where they stood out in the open. This was what the Zulus wanted and it gave the advantage to them. Within minutes of charging they had overrun the rows of white tents. Some troopers killed before they had time to reach their rifles. Outnumbered and without the protection of the stonewalls, they fell quickly one after the other.
The fight had lasted less than ten minutes. Taylor awoke with a start. Instinctively he grabbed the sabre hanging beside him and leapt out of the tent straight into a large Zulu. They both fell backwards but Taylor got to his feet first and swung his sword at the man’s neck cutting deeply into it. Without stopping he looked quickly at the carnage and knew was no chance of the men regrouping, it was a melee.
‘Every man for himself, get back to the mission.’ He screamed as he shot two more warriors. Walking backwards as he fired, he tripped on a tent peg and fell over the outer wall landing awkwardly. He dropped his sabre as he landed on his back, the wind knocked out if him. Ignoring the pain in his back, he rolled to one side to avoid a spear that dug into the dirt next to his head. He saw a rifle laying an arm’s length away. Praying it was loaded he reached out for it and swung it up towards the warrior that stood above him, his knife ready to stab him in the chest. Taylor pointed it into the man’s face and pulled the trigger. The Zulu fell back landing on Taylors legs. Taylor leaned forward to push him off and then everything went black. That was the last thing he remembered of the fight.