The Horns of the Buffalo (35 page)

Then a spear clanged into the rock at his foot and Simon rose and presented his bayonet once again as the mêlée swung back towards him and engulfed him. He tried to remain astride Jenkins, thrusting desperately with his long bayonet and, where he could, ramming cartridges into the breech of his rifle and firing into the black figures around him, but the surge of the fighting took him away, up the hill.

Nothing in Simon's short life - his childhood imaginings, his months of disciplined training, his adventures so far in Zululand - had prepared him for this battle. All around him leaped the black warriors, hacking and thrusting, their spearheads scarlet, their bodies glistening and their yellow eyeballs rolling and painting them, as though with a last distinguishing mark, as the devil's mercenaries. The acrid smell of cordite, the heat, the dust and the din of screams, battle cries and - less frequent now - rifle shots all merged into a barbaric assault on the senses, horrifying beyond any one man's imagination. It was a hell's kitchen of a blood bath that defied rationality, and now, a kind of hysterical exultation took possession of Simon, turning him into a hyperactive combatant, plunging repeatedly at his assailants until, once again, he somehow gained a moment's respite in the middle of the maelstrom.

Drawing in deep draughts of hot air, he looked desperately for Jenkins, even crouching in a desperate attempt to catch a glimpse of his body on the ground through the thicket of legs. By now he was completely disoriented and was only saved - for an undefended back in that free-for-all meant death sooner or later - by the arrival of about a dozen red-coated infantrymen, fighting coolly shoulder to shoulder in a circle and inching up the hill under the command of a bearded sergeant, whom Fonthill vaguely recognised.

‘Come in 'ere quick, Mr Fonthill sir,' the veteran shouted. ‘Got any ammo?'

Simon dug into his pockets and hurriedly handed round most of what remained of the cartridges. ‘I must get back,' he gasped, gesturing downhill. ‘My man's gone down there.'

The sergeant shook his head. ‘No way you can do that, sir,' he said. ‘You'd never get through, and anyway, these bastards disembowel the wounded and the dead as they go. I've seen'em doing it.' He looked with approval at Simon's rifle. ‘Lucky you've got a lunger. The Zulus don't like the bayonet. You wouldn't 'ave lasted five minutes with a sword. Now,' he shouted to the others, ‘those with ammo pick off the buggers with the throwing spears. We'll take the rest with the bayonets. On the left there, keep edging up this bloody 'ill.'

Shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, the little group slowly made its way up to the neck below the rock, while the tide of warriors ebbed and flowed all around them. Sometimes it appeared as though the Zulus seemed to ignore them and they were able to shuffle onwards without hindrance. But mostly the warriors were all around them, thrusting with their assegais or swinging their knobkerries in great loops. Simon occasionally caught glimpses of other knots of redcoats, standing back to back and presenting their bayonets to their assailants, but the multitude of Zulus pressing around them made it impossible to link up to form a more sophisticated defence.

A thrown spear caught the sergeant through the throat and he sank to the ground coughing, his beard turning bright red. Simon, brutalised and machine-like, stepped over him, his weary arms holding up the long rifle, presenting and thrusting, presenting and thrusting. It was true, the Zulus seemed to respect the bayonet - and with some reason. With lunger fitted, Simon's rifle had become a stabbing weapon just under six feet in length, compared to the assegai's four feet, and time after time, his adversary would fade away to find easier pickings elsewhere. But it was desperately tiring work and Simon's arms and shoulders were now aching with the effort of wielding his heavy weapon and he could hardly see for the perspiration that poured down into his eyes. As he fought, the words ‘Jenkins is dead' echoed through his head. His friend, his only real friend, had gone. His own fate hardly seemed to matter.

Once he saw, rising above the crowd, a young red-coated drummer boy skewered on a spear and held up as some sort of trophy. The boy could not have been more than thirteen years old and his eyes were wide open, as if in astonishment. Then he was gone.

The little circle was reduced to eight now, they were out of ammunition and fighting only with bayonet and rifle butt. Nevertheless, they had reached the summit of the neck, and in another brief break in the fighting, Simon was able to look about him once more. To the west, down the hill, most of the defence had been completely eliminated and the warriors were racing through the tents and commissariat lines, looting and shouting. There was no sign of Jenkins, of course, and there was no way he could have survived. Up the ledges of the great rock, other small bands were still holding out, firing and bayoneting. To his right, Simon observed a middle-aged officer with drooping moustaches and an injured arm methodically directing fire on Zulus - the impi's right horn? - who had swept round the eastern side of the rock. He was doing so, Simon realised, in an attempt to keep clear an escape route to the south-east, the track to Rorke's Drift and the Buffalo crossing, along which a motley line of fugitives were riding, running and hobbling, including a battery of artillery which had somehow managed to limber up before the Zulus were upon them.

Riderless horses were now cutting small channels through the mêlée and they had the effect of breaking up the little groups of organised resistance that remained as they charged, eyes wide with fear, in different directions. The moustached officer had fallen and the organised firing ended. Simon stumbled over the red-coated bodies of two officers. He recognised Lieutenants Pope and Godwin-Austin, great friends who, inseparable in life, now lay side by side in death, their monocles still firmly clasped in their eye sockets. The carnage continued but the battle was over. It was every man for himself now.

His comrades gone and Jenkins dead, Simon faced his own end with a coolness that surprised him. He was amazed that he had lasted this long. He had fought and he would go on fighting until he was brought down. Fumbling in his pouch, he discovered three cartridges. He pressed one into the breech and walked down the trail, carrying the rifle at the point of balance. Calmly he aimed at and brought down a Zulu who was chasing a limping infantryman, then a second who appeared, spear raised, before him. Pressing the last round into the breech, he fired at a third warrior but missed. Only the bayonet now.

Then, close behind him, he heard a horse's shrill scream. He turned in time to see a riderless horse crash into a small knot of Zulus and scatter them, bringing one to the ground as a hoof caught his knee. This had the effect of halting the animal as well as dispersing the warriors and Simon was able to grab the trailing bridle and clumsily insert one foot into the stirrup. There was blood on the saddle but a tasselled cavalry sabre still in its scabbard. As Simon hauled himself astride, he felt for the first time a glimmer of hope. Drawing the sword, he dug in his heels and set the horse down the track to the south-east.

The original herdsman's track had been broadened by Chelmsford's wagons on the advance but Simon could see that it was now completely blocked by Zulus. The road to Rorke's Drift was no place to be. Most of the fugitives had peeled off and were trying to make for the Buffalo across country. The thin line stretched away: soldiers in various uniforms, although none in the scarlet of the 24th Regiment; some cavalry, their horses wide-eyed, their riders low on their necks; infantry, most of them black, some attempting to run, some plodding resignedly; horses, their saddles empty, resisting every attempt to catch them. Everywhere, however, were the Zulus, leaping from the rocks at the side, running in and out of the fugitives on the marshy ground, stabbing and hacking at the hurrying men.

The tragic tableau stretched ahead as far as Simon could see, the sorry remnants of Pulleine's command being harried and cut down as they ran the gauntlet along the four miles to the Buffalo River. Despite the advantage of being mounted, Simon realised he would be lucky to survive on that route. Pulling his steed's head round, he set the horse to gallop back the way he had come. It was a gamble, but he reasoned that by going against the flow of the fugitives, out on to the plain, he might have a chance of surviving and even, perhaps, of making Chelmsford's column that had marched off to the east.

It proved surprisingly easy. Flailing his sabre at the few Zulus who tried to spear him down, Simon was quickly away from the scene of the battle. Looking over his shoulder, he realised that those warriors who were not pursuing the fugitives were looting the tents and the wagons. Some had already been put to the torch and, judging by the whoops, he realised that the liquor store had been found and breached. He slowed the horse to a walk and rode towards the low hills he could see ahead of him.

 

Out on that plain, Simon felt strangely alone without Jenkins. He forced himself not to think of his dead friend but to consider what the Zulus might do now, after their great victory - and what a victory it must seem to them! Never before could such a body of trained European soldiers, armed with the latest weapons and with veteran infantrymen at its core, have been wiped away so completely by native spearmen. Simon shook his head sadly. The Zulus must have taken frightening casualties from those volleys of the 24th but they so outnumbered the British column that Cetswayo's army would still remain intact and would waste little time in wiping out those pathetic fugitives on the trail. What would it do now? Come across the plain behind him and attack Chelmsford, or . . . Simon suddenly stiffened in the saddle. Of course! That right horn of the buffalo that swept round behind Isandlwana - it would mop up the survivors of the battle and then go on to attack Natal. That great fear of Lamb's that the Zulus would pour across the frontiers of Zululand into the lush pastures of Natal had become a reality at last.

He looked behind him. He had ridden too far now to see the camp, or what was left of it, although the great finger of Isandlwana still pointed to the sky, but there was no sign of warriors following him, no black ants swarming across the plain to finish off Chelmsford. Simon reined in his horse to stop and think. Cetswayo had probably sent a separate force to decoy the British general into the hills ahead and ambush him there. He remembered Dunn's words, ‘He's no fool, you know . . .' Not a fool - more a skilled general. He had divided the British force and eaten it up piecemeal. He would rest his warriors for a while and then let them loose on Natal. This offensive move was the best defence he could possibly make of his homeland, for both of the other columns were bound to turn back to protect the British province. Simon gave a grim smile. They had called Shaka ‘the Black Napoleon' but it suited the shrewd Cetswayo better.

Simon looked up at the sun. He wondered how long the King and his generals would rest the victorious army before it crossed the Buffalo into Natal. Perhaps, if he could ford the river well east of the Rorke's Drift crossing, he would be able to ride to the mission station and give the alarm so that some sort of defence could be mounted at - what was the place further back there? Ah yes, Helpmakaar - in time to rebuff the Zulus and re-call the other columns. He glanced to his right, to the south. It looked easy riding to the Buffalo and his horse was still comparatively fresh. He pulled its head round.

As he did so, a flash of light to his left made him pause. He stood in the stirrups, shielded his eyes and focused hard. There it was again. Zulus? Possibly, but the light was not sharp or bright, as reflected off a spearhead. It was duller and - yes, it flickered again. More like sunlight bouncing back from a gun barrel or a horse's harness. He sat for a moment, undecided, then dug in his heels and rode towards it. If it was Chelmsford, he must warn him. If it was a Zulu patrol, they would not have horses and he could outride them.

In twenty minutes he could make out a small party of dismounted horsemen, and in another five he realised that he was approaching a British patrol which had stopped to take refreshment, for a small fire had been kindled. He rode up to them and, with some difficulty, slipped to the ground.

‘Who are you?' he demanded of a sergeant who rose to greet him. ‘And where are you from?'

Before the sergeant could answer, a familiar voice came from the back of the group: ‘All right, Sergeant, I'm coming.' And thrusting from the back, where he had been adjusting a saddle cinch, strode Lieutenant Colonel Covington.

Recognition was not immediately mutual, for while Simon could not fail to know who stood before him, a puzzled frown puckering that handsome brow, Covington took a moment to take in the bedraggled sight that confronted him: the gaunt, sun-browned and somehow familiar face, the long, unkempt hair atop a dust-covered figure and boots that gaped at the soles. Who on earth . . . and then: ‘Good God. Fonthill!'

‘Colonel,' said Simon. ‘Look. There's been a terrible disaster at Isandlwana. The Zulus have attacked and wiped out the whole column. Virtually everyone has been killed. You must tell the General. I am going to ride into Natal and warn the settlers there, for I fear that Cetswayo is planning to cross the Buffalo and attack them.'

The blue eyes stared at him unbelievingly. ‘What's this you're saying? The whole column wiped out? That's impossible. The General left seventeen hundred well-armed men there.'

Simon sighed. ‘I know, sir. They've been overwhelmed.' His voice began to break. ‘The killing was awful.'

‘Don't talk rot, man. Look, where the hell have you been, anyway? You're wearing a uniform jacket, civilian trousers, and what's left of your boots wouldn't grace a rubbish bin. You're an absolute disgrace.'