Zulu Hart (42 page)

By now the assault on the south wall had stalled, caught in the crossfire from the two buildings, but a burst of firing from the end of the hospital suggested a switch in the focus of attack.

‘Every second man to the north wall.
Go!’ shouted Chard.

George joined the sprint across the compound and made it to the wall in front of the hospital at the same time as the Zulu attackers. A fierce hand-to-hand fight developed, with the defenders shooting and bayoneting every Zulu who tried to cross the wall. With no time to reload his carbine, George drew his revolver and was blazing away when the man next to him, a tall, fair-haired young soldier, had his rifle pulled from his grasp by a huge warrior. Defenceless, the private was seconds from being speared when George shot his assailant in the face, the bullet leaving a tiny entry hole but carrying away the back of the warrior’s head in a shower of blood and skull fragments.

More Zulus joined the struggle, and their weight forced the defenders back towards the hospital veranda, enabling a handful of warriors to leap over the wall. George could see to his left a Zulu trying to wrestle the rifle off a white- faced corporal of the Army Hospital Corps. But the corporal refused to panic and, clinging to his weapon with one hand, managed to grab a bullet from his pouch, reload his weapon and fire. The Zulu shuddered and fell, only releasing his grip as he lay twitching on the floor.

Supporting fire from the hospital now drove the Zulus from the space in front of the veranda, enabling the defenders to return to their post at the wall. A couple of soldiers went round the Zulu casualties, ruthlessly dispatching those who displayed any signs of life with shots and bayonet thrusts.

‘Is that necessary?’ George asked one.

“Fraid so,’ intervened Bromhead, who, like George, had shot a number of warriors with his revolver
. ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’

In his heart, George realized now that both sides would fight to the death, the defenders because they had to.

He flinched as a bullet smacked into the mealie bag he was leaning on. More shots struck the ground behind him. He turned round and could see little puffs of white smoke coming from the ledge of rocks and caves that ran along the centre of

Oskarberg Hill to their rear.
Having failed with their initial assault, the Zulus had surrounded the post and were firing from behind every scrap of cover, including the five-foot wall in front of the hospital and the rough stone kraal to the right of the storehouse. With the advantage of height, the Zulu gunmen on the Oskarberg had a clear field of fire into the unprotected backs of those, like George, who were
manning
the north perimeter. Yet, thankfully, most were poor
marksmen
, with a tendency to fire high, and proved as dangerous to their own side as to the British.

For much of the remaining hour of daylight, the Zulus launched a series of piecemeal attacks against the hospital and the north wall from the orchard and some brush to its front. After each attack the Zulus would melt back into the thick undergrowth while their comrades provided covering fire. Then, after a brief pause, they would rise as one and rush the wall, the bolder spirits trying to grab the eighteen-inch lunger bayonets that barred their passage. But a burst of gunfire and a flurry of bayonet thrusts were enough to clear the wall and send the warriors scuttling for cover.

With darkness falling, George was crouched behind the wall, checking his pockets for more ammunition, when he noticed a slight figure crawling along to his right. As the figure got nearer, he could see it was Padre Smith, dragging beside him a helmet full of rifle bullets, handfuls of which he was doling out to each defender.

‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any for this?’ George asked, waving his revolver.

‘Sadly no,’ replied a grim-faced Smith, seemingly recovered from his earlier loss of nerve. ‘You could ask Bromhead. But before you do, could I ask you to caution the men about their swearing? I’ve never heard the like.’

George chuckled. It was not unusual for soldiers, in the heat of battle, to let off steam by swearing. ‘Let them be,

Padre,’ he replied. ‘If it makes them fight harder, then so much the better.’

A hand tapped George on the shoulder. It was Bromhead. ‘Good work, Hart. I saw you save Private Hitch’s life earlier. He’s one of my best young soldiers, and I wouldn’t want to lose him.’

‘It was a lucky shot,’ said George, grinning. ‘Talking of which, I don’t suppose you have any spare revolver bullets?’

Bromhead frowned. ‘I’m running out myself. I can give you half a dozen.’

‘Six rounds!’

‘Take them or leave them.’

‘I’ll take them.’

Bromhead handed over the bullets and left. As George loaded his revolver, mindful that each bullet would have to count, a voice shouted, ‘Here they come again!’

‘Stand to! Stand to!’ roared Chard from the direction of the storehouse. ‘They’re attacking from both sides.’

George peeked over the wall and saw to his dismay a solid line of warriors bearing down on the north wall; a quick look over his shoulder confirmed that the south wall was also under attack.

‘Oh Christ!’ muttered a Welsh private close by. ‘We’re for it now.’

‘Fire!’ shouted Chard, and more than a hundred Martini- Henrys complied, bringing down scores of Zulus. But there were many more to take their place, and barely had a second volley been fired before the front rank of warriors had reached the walls on both sides, stabbing, clubbing and hacking at the defenders. George ducked to avoid a flying knobkerrie, and as he rose to his feet a head-ringed warrior clambered on to the wall, stabbing spear in hand. Before he could bring his pistol to bear, the Zulu was springing through the air towards him. George avoided the spear, but not the man, and the pair went down in a sprawling tangle of limbs. The Zulu lifted his assegai for the killing blow, but as his arm came down, George caught it by the wrist and held the fearsome blade inches from his chest. Grunting with exertion, the Zulu was using both hands to drive the spear home; George fought fiercely to prevent him, but fraction by fraction the tip was getting closer.

In desperation, George called out in Zulu, ‘Don’t kill me, brother.’

For a brief moment the Zulu relaxed his pressure and looked at George quizzically. He was about to say something when his body jerked and the tip of a bayonet emerged from the centre of his chest, and was just as quickly withdrawn. He looked down at the wound in surprise and then collapsed. A large hand pulled the Zulu corpse aside and helped George to his feet. It was Corporal Allen.

There was scarcely time for thanks before George and his rescuer had resumed their places on the wall, George using a discarded rifle and bayonet to save his remaining bullets. For a time they kept the Zulus at bay, inspired by the example of Commissary Dalton, who was coolly moving up and down the barricades, fearlessly exposing
himself
and using his rifle to deadly effect. But as more Zulus joined the assault, it became obvious to George that they could not hold out indefinitely, and that the time to withdraw to the inner redoubt was almost upon them.

Crouching low, he ran across the open ground to where Chard was directing the defence from an eight-yard gap in the centre of the biscuit-box wall. ‘Sir,’ said George, ducking as a bullet passed close, ‘I think it’s time.’

Chard nodded. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. Private,’ he said to the nearest soldier, ‘tell Lieutenant Bromhead and everyone in the vicinity of the hospital to fall back on the second line.
Quick now.’

‘Sir,’ saluted the private, before setting off at the run.

Chard turned to George. ‘That should reduce the area we need to defend by at least two-thirds.’

‘Yes, but what about those
in
the hospital?’

‘As I said before, they’ll have to take their chances. We’ll give them what covering fire we can.’

By now the word had spread and the withdrawal to the gap in the biscuit-box wall had become a stampede, with Bromhead, in true officer fashion, bringing up the rear. ‘Not a moment too soon, John,’ he said, gasping for breath. ‘I don’t think we could have held them for much longer.’

George scanned the dark compound they had just vacated, expecting at any moment to see warriors pour over its now undefended perimeter. But, as yet, the Zulus seemed unaware of the withdrawal and only the occasional shot from the hospital gave an indication of their continuing presence outside. Then, through the gloom, George saw a small flame flickering on the edge of the hospital roof. ‘My God,’ he shouted, ‘they’ve set fire to the thatch. We must
do
something.’

‘What can we do?’ said Chard, helplessly.

George looked across at the hospital. On the left side of its end wall he could just make out a single high window. It was the only possible escape route, but would the defenders use it? And what about those unfortunates like Hook and Thomas in sealed rooms on the far side of the hospital? How would they get out unless someone showed them the way? Someone had to take the initiative or all the hospital’s occupants would die. He thought of Jake and how he had been powerless to save him. Well, he was not powerless now and, suicide mission or no, he would never forgive himself for not trying.

He pointed up at the window. ‘That’s the only way out. If I can get through it I can guide them out.’

‘
Don’t be a fool
, man,’ scoffed Chard. ‘You’ll never get them across the open ground.’

George knew that Chard was right, that his chances of success were slim. He thought of the heartbreak he would cause his mother if he didn’t make it; of his passion for Fanny and respect for Lucy; of the father he had never known — the man who, indirectly, had brought him to this; and of the things he had not yet achieved. Was he prepared to throw away even the slim chance he now had of surviving for them?
he
asked himself. And he realized that the answer was yes. ‘I’ll stand a better chance if someone volunteers to help me.
Any takers?’

George looked eagerly at the soldiers clustered behind the biscuit boxes. Most avoided eye contact, including Chard and Bromhead, but one man stepped forward.

‘I’ll help, sir,’ said Private Hitch. ‘I owe you that.’

‘And you can count me in,’ said Corporal Allen in his gruff Geordie accent. ‘Hook’s a mate.’

‘Good. Once I’m in, you’d best return here and wait until the patients are ready to come out.
All right?’

‘Sir,’ they said in unison.

‘And I’d appreciate it if you’d provide covering fire, Lieutenant Chard.’

‘Of course.’

‘Right, let’s go.’

With George in the lead, they sprinted across the open ground to the hospital, the light from the burning thatch casting long shadows as they ran. One or two shots were fired at them, but the majority of the Zulus who had made it to the far side of the mealie-bag walls were keeping their heads down as they waited for the next assault. ‘Help me up!’ said George.

Hitch linked his hands and hoisted George up to the window while Allen covered them with his rifle. George looked inside and could see six patients lying on makeshift beds raised a few inches off the hard dirt floor by bricks. Two soldiers were firing through loopholes in the hack wall. He tried the window but it was secured from the inside, so he used the butt of his revolver to smash the pane. One of the startled soldiers pointed his rifle.

‘Don’t shoot!’ urged George. ‘It’s Second Lieutenant Hart. You’ve got to get out. The roof’s on fire.’

‘Some of the patients are too badly wounded to move, sir,’ said the soldier, a tall young Welshman with a bushy moustache.

‘They must try. If they stay, they’ll die.’ George climbed through the window and dropped to the floor. The room was long and thin with no interconnecting doors. George counted four injured men sitting huddled in the far corner. ‘What’s through that wall at the end?’

The other soldier, much older than the first, replied, ‘Another sealed room.’

‘Any patients?’

‘No, but I think there are some in the room next to that. I don’t know how many.’

‘What are your names?’

‘We’re both Private Jones, sir,’ said the older soldier. ‘I’m Bill; he’s Bob.’

‘Right, Bill, you keep a lookout for Zulus, and Bob and I will try and break through to the room next door. Once we’ve got everyone gathered in here, we’ll start passing the wounded through the window. No point in alerting the Zulus until we’re all ready to go. Any tools about?’

‘There’s a pickaxe, sir,’ said Bob.

‘Good. Pass it here.’

George set to work with the pickaxe, while Bob assisted with his bayonet; it only took a few minutes to knock a hole through the plaster and thin course of mud bricks. George poked his head through.
‘Anyone there?’

There was no reply. George wriggled through, and as he did so he could hear banging from the opposite wall. Someone was trying to break through. ‘Who’s there?’ shouted George.

‘Private Withams,’ said yet another Welsh voice.
‘With Hook and Thomas and eleven patients.
The smoke is getting worse. For God’s sake help us!’

‘Hold on.’ George retrieved the pickaxe and began widening the small gap that Withams had made from the far side. Above he could hear the hiss and crackle of flames as they inched along the rain-dampened thatch; black smoke was beginning to seep through the ceiling. He knew it would not be long before the roof collapsed.