Zulu Hart (29 page)

‘Just one, my Lord,’ said George. ‘Could I ask whether any instructions have been issued on the subject of noncombatants? There are bound to be women and children in Sihayo’s kraal.’

Chelmsford raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Gentlemen, we have a humanitarian in our midst; never a good thing in war. But the answer to your question, Hart, is yes, I have issued instructions. I expressly told both battalions of NNC, when I spoke to them two days ago, that no women or children were to be injured in any way. I also told them that no prisoners were to be harmed. I hope that’s satisfactory?’

George ignored the sarcasm. ‘Very much so, my Lord, in so far as the native troops are concerned, but have our white troops been told?’

Chelmsford snorted. ‘You forget yourself, Second Lieutenant Hart. A British soldier doesn’t need to be told how to behave on the battlefield. He knows.’

‘Sir,’ interrupted Crealock, ‘might I make a suggestion?’

‘Please do.’

‘If young Hart is so keen to make sure our troops don’t get out of hand, why don’t we let him accompany the lead battalion of the Native Contingent? Then he can relay back to us any vital information.’

‘Good idea.
All right with you, Hart?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said George. From the look of satisfaction on Crealock’s face he suspected he was being deliberately put in harm’s way, but there was not a lot he could do about it.

‘Good. Now if there are no further questions, would you all return to your units and make your final preparations?
Happy hunting, gentlemen.’

The advance began as the first streaks of dawn appeared from the direction of Sihayo’s kraal, away to the northeast. Captain Shepstone and his Carbineers led the way in open skirmishing order, followed by Chelmsford and his staff, the rest of the mounted volunteers, the Natal Native Contingent and the four companies of redcoats. The flanks and rear of the column were protected by Mounted Infantry.

The old traders’ track had been reduced to a quagmire by days of heavy rain, and even the horses had difficulty lifting their hooves clear of the sticky mud.

‘Damn it,’ said Chelmsford, peering down at the ground as he rode. ‘This track’s going to need lots of work before the guns and wagons can pass over it. Crealock, what’s your opinion?’

Crealock nudged his horse forward until he was level with his leader. ‘I’ll get the sappers on to it, my Lord, but it could take up to a week.’

‘A week!
I can’t spare a week. We’re barely into Zululand and already the problems mount. My God, if we carry on at this rate we’ll be lucky to reach Ulundi by Easter.’

Two lengths behind Chelmsford, George caught the gist of the conversation, but his mind was distracted by other matters, not least the imminent prospect of combat. He had killed before, of course, but that was in the heat of the moment. This was different: a planned assault on a natural fortress that was bound to cost many lives on both sides, possibly even his.

An hour into the trek and a Carbineer cantered back from the head of the column.
‘A message from Captain Shepstone, my Lord.
The Zulus are driving their cattle back towards Sihayo’s stronghold.’

‘I must see for myself. Gentlemen, follow me.’

Chelmsford spurred his horse forward, George and the others trailing in his wake, and came to a halt next to Offy Shepstone and a knot of troopers on the crest of the next rise. Below them the track fell away to a shallow stream, and beyond that, to the left of the track,
rose
the towering red cliffs of a huge gorge. A large herd of cattle, several hundred strong, had just forded the stream and was being driven by a handful of frantic Zulus towards the gorge’s entrance.

‘My Lord,’ said Shepstone, his eyes flashing with excitement, ‘there is still time to intercept them before they reach the gorge. May I advance with my squadron?’

‘No, you may not, Captain,’ said Chelmsford. ‘There’s no knowing how many Zulus are hiding in the gorge. It might be a trap.’

Shepstone looked towards Glyn, silently imploring the column commander to intervene. Glyn averted his eyes.

‘Colonel Glyn will carry out the attack as planned,’ continued Chelmsford. ‘Carry on.’

George kept his head down as he stumbled across the familiar broken ground that lay between the Bashee River and the mouth of the gorge. Bullets were flying in all directions, and already a warrior of the Native Contingent had gone down with his thigh streaming blood. Up ahead, the short figure of Major Black turned and shouted in his broad Scotch accent, ‘C’mon, men, stay together.’

George urged those warriors around him to keep moving, but the gunfire was so intense that many had already gone to ground. As he tried to drag one to his feet, a bullet whizzed uncomfortably close to George’s ear, causing him to duck. He let go of the warrior, fell to one knee and fired his carbine in the direction of the enemy muzzle flashes. The heavy foliage and mass of creepers made it impossible to see individual targets, but the mere act of firing made him feel better.

The sound of running feet caused him to look behind. Heading towards him at full pelt, and looking alarmingly like Zulus, was the support battalion of the 2nd/3rd NNC, led by a young officer in a blue patrol jacket. Clean-shaven and tanned, he was wearing the type of light-coloured slouch-hat favoured by colonials.

‘Am I glad to see you,’ said George. ‘We can’t advance without covering fire. Where the
devil are
the four companies of the Twenty-Fourth?’

‘They’re scaling the high ground to the left, which is why we’ve been sent up in support. I’m Lieutenant Henry Harford, by the way, staff officer to Commandant Lonsdale, the commander of the Third NNC.’

George introduced himself and asked if he had heard Harford speaking Zulu.

‘You did. I was brought up in Natal before joining the Ninety-Ninth Regiment. I’d like to chat more but you may have noticed there’s a battle on. Where’s Major Black?’

‘Up ahead.’

‘Good. Let’s go.’

The two of them set off at a run and found Black crouching behind a large boulder. Next to him was a huge white-faced corporal, wrapping a field dressing round his foot.

‘Hot work, sir,’ said Harford.

‘I’ve been in worse fights, Lieutenant,’ replied a smiling Black.

Typical Scottish soldier, thought George; never happier than in a battle.

‘Do you know where they’re firing from, sir?’ asked Harford.

Black pointed ahead to a mass of rocks, caves and crevices that lay at the foot of the sheer wall of the ravine. ‘They’re in there. You’re welcome to try and flush them out.’

‘Thank you, sir. I will.’ Harford had barely finished his sentence when he fell to his hands and knees as if hit. George rushed forward but found Harford busy putting an insect into a small tin box.

‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘Oh, just collecting this beetle,’ said Harford, grinning. ‘It’s very rare.’

‘I’m sure it is. But this is hardly the place.’

‘We entymologists have to take every opportunity we can get. Right, that’s him safely stowed. Let’s see about these Zulus.’

By now the bulk of Harford’s warriors had come up and they were sent by Black to work their way round to the left of the caves. Harford preferred to climb the cliff to the right of the caves, and George offered to go with him. Ten minutes later, halfway up the cliff, they reached the base of a horseshoe-shaped ledge of rocks that curved away round the gorge. Directly opposite them on the far side of the ledge was the mouth of a large cave, below which were suspended several dead Zulus caught in monkey-rope creepers and thick undergrowth. Muzzle flashes indicated the presence of more Zulus in the cave.

Harford was inclined to hold his position until the rifles of the lst/24th were in a position to provide covering fire, but George wanted to press on, knowing the destruction of the main kraal would take place as soon as the defenders had been overcome. He began to climb round the ledge towards the cave, signalling for Harford to follow. It was tough going as they clambered over a jumble of huge rocks, and at least twice George almost lost his footing and tumbled into the valley below. Then, barely thirty yards from the mouth of the cave, a Zulu popped up from behind a rock, put the muzzle of his musket to George’s head and pulled the trigger. Time froze.
Snap!
went
the cap, but no explosion followed. The musket had misfired.

George raised his carbine but already the Zulu had dropped his faulty weapon and was scampering back towards the cave. He yelled an oath and set off in pursuit, firing at the Zulu’s back.

‘Did you get him?’ shouted Harford, as he followed George over the jumble of rocks.

‘I think I might have winged him. Come on. He can’t have got far.’

They came upon the wounded Zulu at the entrance to the cave. He was clutching his side and in obvious pain. ‘Lay down your spear,’ said George in Zulu. ‘If you surrender quietly, I’ll see no harm comes to you.’

The Zulu did as he was told, and then squatted down in an act of submission.

‘Is there anyone else in the cave?’ asked Harford.

The reply was negative.

‘I’d better check,’ said Harford to George.

‘Be careful,’ said George, his carbine trained on the wounded Zulu, the narrowness of his own extraordinary escape from death only now beginning to dawn on him.

‘I will.’

As Harford crept slowly into the cave, appealing to any Zulus inside to give themselves up, George expected at any moment to hear the sound of gunfire or a cry of pain. But it never came, and after an anxious wait of a couple of minutes, he was relieved to see Harford reappear with three uninjured prisoners in tow. ‘There’s another one inside,’ declared Harford. ‘But he’s too badly wounded to move. We’d best get back. Was that your first time in action, Hart?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good for you.’

Having retraced their steps to the valley floor, George and Harford were met by Chelmsford, Glyn and their respective staffs. ‘Well done, you two,’ said the general from his horse. ‘We’ve been watching your gallant efforts for some time.’

‘Thank you, my Lord,’ replied Harford. ‘But I can’t take credit for the climb round the cliff. That was Hart’s idea and he led the way.’

‘You’ve both done well. Now, what have we got here?’ said Chelmsford, gesturing towards the four Zulus.

‘Prisoners, my Lord, as per your instructions.’

‘I’m perfectly aware of their status. What I’m querying is their condition. The youngest looks forty if he’s a day. Hardly in their prime, are they?’

‘Well, no, sir,’ interjected Harford. ‘But they fought bravely all the same.’

‘That’s as may be, Lieutenant,’ said Colonel Crealock, leaning from his saddle. ‘But the absence of younger warriors confirms my theory that the cream of the Zulu army will not stand and fight. Why, there can’t have been more than three hundred warriors in opposition to us today. And as soon as the Twenty-Fourth flanked them, they scuttled off as fast as their legs could carry them.’

‘Crealock’s right,’ said Chelmsford. ‘It’s not a good sign. If we can’t force these blighters to stand and fight we’ll never end this war.’

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching
horsemen
. Offy Shepstone and the Natal Carbineers were the first to appear, one trooper with a Zulu corpse across the front of his saddle.

‘What happened?’ asked Chelmsford as Shepstone reined in next to him.

‘It was heavy going, my Lord, and when we did finally reach the high
ground,
most of the Zulus had already gone. We could see a number of them away in the distance, most on foot and even a few on
horseback
. About thirty of the bolder spirits stood their ground and we managed to kill ten of them. One’s dressed like a chief, which is why we brought his body back.’

‘Show me,’ said Chelmsford.

The trooper tipped the corpse on to the ground. He was of medium build, about twenty years old, with the tall headdress of an induna. He had a bullet hole in his temple, from which ran two small rivulets of blood, but his face was unmarked and still recognizable.

‘Does anyone know this man?’ asked the general.

‘I do,’ said George. The last time he had seen those features was the night Sihayo’s wife had perished in the
isibaya.
It was the face of his cousin, one of the two murderers. ‘It’s Mkhumbukazulu, the son of Chief Sihayo.’

Chelmsford turned to his civilian advisor. ‘Is he right?’

‘Yes,’ said Fynn. ‘I know him well.’

George stared down at the sightless corpse. He had hated Mkhumbukazulu that night of the murder, as he had hated his brother and father, but his death was still a shock.

‘Excellent. Sir Bartle will be pleased. Now you’re sure, Fynn, it’s not the elder brother, Mehlokazulu?’

‘Quite sure, sir.
Mehlokazulu is much more heavily built. He’s also a junior induna of the Ngobamakhosi Regiment and, as such, will have been with the rest of the army at Ulundi for the First Fruits Ceremony.’

‘Yes, of course. Well, no matter, his time will come. A good day’s work,
gentlemen
; all that remains is to destroy Sihayo’s kraal. Colonel,’ said Chelmsford to Glyn, ‘have you given the necessary orders?’