Zulu Hart (32 page)

George knelt down and felt Coghill’s knee. ‘There’s a lot of swelling. Do you think you can walk?’

‘I can try.’

George helped the grimacing Coghill to his feet. ‘Damn it to hell! It hurts like fury.’

‘Best sit down while I finish off here.’

Coghill did as he was told, waiting patiently while George checked the remaining huts. In one there was a pot of Zulu porridge still warming on a fire, but no sign of life. He was about to leave when he sensed someone behind him. He spun round to see an old man, his face wizened with age, rushing him with an assegai. Loath to shoot him and lose a possible source of valuable information, George dodged the feeble blow and struck the Zulu full in the face with the barrel of his revolver. The old man’s nose gushed with blood as he fell to his knees.

‘Drop the assegai or I’ll shoot,’ said George in Zulu, pointing his revolver.

The spear clattered to the floor.

‘Here,’ said George, handing the old man his handkerchief to stem the flow of blood. ‘Now tell me your name.’

The old Zulu was shaking with fear, but said nothing.

‘Answer me! Or I’ll personally see to it that every one of those women we saw running away a short time ago is hunted down and shot.’

It was, of course, an idle threat - one George was neither able nor willing to carry out - but the Zulu was taken in.

‘My name is Mpatshana.’

‘Good. That’s a start. So tell me, Mpatshana, what you know about Cetshwayo’s
impi.
Will it come soon?’

‘All I’ve heard is that it will camp near Siphezi tonight.’

‘Tonight?
Are you sure?’

‘That’s what my nephew told me. He left today to join the Uve Regiment.’

‘And what then?
Will the
impi
join forces with Matshana?’

‘I don’t know. But it will fight, you can be sure of that.’

Yes, thought George, nodding, I’m sure it will. ‘Thank you, Mpatshana. I’ll leave you in peace. But stay inside until we’ve gone; if my colleagues see you, they’ll want to take you prisoner.’

George left the hut and made his way over to where Coghill was sitting on the ground.

‘I’ve just had a very interesting chat with an old Zulu.’

‘What did he say?’

‘That the Zulu army is heading in this direction.’

Coghill punched his fist into an open palm. ‘Just my confounded luck: a battle in the offing and I’ll be confined to my campbed. Hopefully it won’t be the last. Help me on to my horse, would you, Hart? We mustn’t keep the general waiting.’

Dusk was beginning to fall as the mounted column passed through the outer infantry picket and rode the remaining mile to the camp. Pitched in the shadow of the mountain, it had appeared as if by magic: row upon immaculate row of eight- man bell-tents, grouped in order of regimental importance: to the right of the track, in pride of place, the tents of the 1st/ 24th, then the mounted troops, the artillery, the 2nd/24th and lastly the two native contingent battalions on the extreme left. Most of the wagons had been placed on the nek, the broad saddle of land to the rear of the camp, while the headquarters and hospital tents were pitched behind the centre of the camp, under the scarped face of the mountain. No attempt had been made either to entrench the camp or to laager the wagons in accordance with Chelmsford’s own field regulations. When Sub-Inspector Mansel of the Natal Mounted Police presumed to ask why, at the council of war held later that evening, Lord Chelmsford was brusquely dismissive. ‘Because, my dear Sub- Inspector, this is not a permanent camp. We shall remain here a couple of days at most. In any case, the ground is far too stony to dig and the wagons are needed to ferry up supplies from Rorke’s Drift.’

‘But, sir,’ persisted Mansel, ‘we know from the intelligence gleaned by Second Lieutenant Hart that the main Zulu
impi
is on its way. What if it decides to attack the camp?’

‘It won’t.’

‘But it could, my Lord. So would it not make sense to post a chain of picquets to the rear of the camp?’

‘No, it would not,’ said Chelmsford firmly. ‘You seem to forget that it is my troops that will do all the attacking. And even if the enemy does venture to attack, the mountain will serve to protect our rear.’

‘Might I make a suggestion, my Lord?’ offered Colonel Crealock.

‘Do.’

‘If the police are nervous, we could always place a picket of native pioneers behind the camp.’

‘We could,’ said Chelmsford with a smile. ‘Will that do, Sub-Inspector?’

The
policeman
reddened, but said nothing.

‘Good. Now let’s move on to more pressing matters. Fynn, have you learnt anything today to alter your conviction that the Zulu army will make for the Mangeni Gorge?’

‘No, nor do I expect to,’ said Fynn smugly. ‘I have heard, however, that Chief Sihayo’s brother Gamdana is willing to lay down his arms. His kraal is on the edge of the Malakatha Hills, on the way to the gorge, and I intend to go there tomorrow morning to speak to him. He may well know the whereabouts of his brother.’

‘Good. I’ll come with you. So that’s settled. First thing tomorrow, Commandant Lonsdale will search the Malakatha Hills with his two battalions of Kaffirs, less four companies that will remain behind to guard the camp, while Major Dartnell takes the mounted police and volunteers along the old track that we used today. They are to link up in the vicinity of the Mangeni Gorge, and between them should determine whether any large parties of Zulus are occupying the ground to our southeast. Major Gossett will accompany the mounted troops.
Any questions?’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Gossett, raising his hand. ‘How many days’ rations will the troops require?’

‘You’ll be back by nightfall, so one will suffice.’

‘And what if we encounter the enemy, my Lord?’ asked Lonsdale, a short rotund man with a waxed moustache who had distinguished himself on the Cape frontier.

‘You’re to use your initiative of course, Commandant, but if in doubt, report back to me for further orders.
Nothing else?
Good. Get some sleep,
gentlemen
. Some of you have an early start.’

George left the headquarters tent convinced that Chelmsford was courting disaster. So great was the general’s contempt for his foe, so over-reliant was he on Fynn’s suspect intelligence, that he seemed happy to ignore every basic military precaution, including his own field regulations for column commanders to fortify
every
camp. And to top it all he was about to split his command, sending the weakest part of his force, the native contingent, on a wild-goose chase through some of the most difficult terrain in southeast Africa. None of it made any sense. If by some miracle Fynn had not invented his intelligence, and the main Zulu army
was
heading towards the Mangeni Gorge, what was the point of sending Lonsdale’s warriors in the same direction with only a portion of the mounted troops in support? But if Fynn was misleading Chelmsford for his own selfish ends, and the camp became the target as a result, it was in no way prepared to meet an attack.

Central Column’s camp, Isandlwana, 21 January 1879

George watched the dawn departure of Dartnell’s
horsemen
and Lonsdale’s foot battalions with a sense of foreboding. Yet the black troops seemed cheery enough, laughing and joking, and many carrying pots full of steaming-hot porridge which, given the uncertainty of their next meal, they were loath to abandon. They surged forward in an unruly mass, making little attempt to keep military formation, and looking for
all the
world like a swarm of bees as they advanced across the plain. Even on ponies, Lonsdale and his officers had trouble keeping up.

George looked up and could see, hovering directly above the plain, a dark, low-lying cloud that resembled the trail of smoke from a steamship. At first the cloud was tinted blood- red, but as the sky lightened it became ash-brown with golden edges, a glowering presence that seemed to augur ill. George shivered, though the temperature was far from cold, and returned to his tent to snatch a last hour or two of sleep before his morning reconnaissance with Lord Chelmsford.

Shortly before nine o’clock, after a hearty breakfast of boiled ham and eggs in the headquarters’ mess-tent, Chelmsford and his staff rode out of camp and took less than an hour to reach the kraal of Chief Gamdana, Sihayo’s brother, on the edge of the Malakatha Hills. There was no sign of life and, fearing a trap, Chelmsford sent Fynn ahead to investigate. He confirmed that the kraal was empty, though some of the fireplaces contained ashes that were still warm, a sign that the departure was recent.

‘Has Gamdana been playing us false, do you think?’ Chelmsford asked Fynn.

‘It’s possible, my Lord, though it’s also possible he panicked at the sight of Lonsdale’s warriors. They would have passed close to here.’

‘I suspect the former. He’s probably gone to join Chief Matshana. Either way, there’s nothing more to be done here, so back to camp,
gentlemen
; I hear the cook’s got beefsteak for lunch.’

George could bear Chelmsford’s insouciance no longer. ‘My Lord,’ he said as Chelmsford was about to move off, ‘I know Mr Fynn’s intelligence suggests the main Zulu army is heading for the Mangeni Gorge, but would it not make sense, to be on the safe side so to speak, to send another reconnaissance patrol up the Ulundi road as far as Siphezi Hill? I’d be happy to go along as an interpreter.’

Chelmsford reined in. ‘That’s very selfless of you, Hart, but I need you with me. Your suggestion, however, is a good one. Colonel Crealock, have Russell send a patrol to Siphezi Hill.’

‘Very good, sir,’ replied Crealock, his frown betraying his distaste for a general acting on the advice of a second lieutenant. ‘But with most of the mounted troops absent today, I suggest we keep the patrol as small as possible. An officer and four riders should suffice.’

‘Very well, and inform Russell his men are to take no risks. If they see Zulus they are to report back immediately. To camp, gentlemen,’ added Chelmsford, spurring his horse on. ‘Lunch
awaits
.’

So beautifully
laid
was the table in the headquarters mess- tent, with its crisp white linen and sparkling silver cutlery, that the setting could have been mistaken for a Pall Mall club. Chelmsford saw no sense in roughing it on campaign unless it was absolutely necessary, and though he never touched a drop of alcohol himself he was happy for his staff to partake. The meal, as a result, was a jovial affair, with the imminence of battle encouraging one or two to drink more than was advisable in the middle of the day. Chelmsford was all bonhomie, regaling his staff with tales of the famous Abyssinian Campaign, which he had accompanied as Sir Robert Napier’s adjutant-general. ‘If you think Zululand poses supply difficulties,’ he said, leaning back in his chair, ‘you should have been in Abyssinia in sixty-eight. We had to move an army of ten thousand men across three hundred miles of roadless mountain and desert, with not a drop of water to be had. And yet we managed it, thanks to British ingenuity, scrupulous staff work and first-rate intelligence. Any of you heard of a chap called Speedy?’

‘Wasn’t he Napier’s political,’ remarked Crealock, ‘who went native and used to dress in lion skins?’

‘He was indeed, Colonel. Knew the country like the back of his hand, and ran a first-class network of spies. A bit like our own Mr Fynn.’

Fynn raised his glass of claret. ‘You’re too kind, my Lord.’

George inwardly seethed. He was now more convinced than ever that Fynn had faked the intelligence for his own ends, and that Crealock knew this. George could bear the company no longer, but as he tried to think of a reason to excuse himself, the steward hurried up to Chelmsford and whispered in his ear.

‘Gentlemen,’ announced Chelmsford, ‘we have an unexpected guest. Chief Gamdana has chosen to grace us with his presence after all.’

All eyes swivelled to the tent flap through which walked the younger brother of Chief Sihayo, a man George had last seen on that fateful night at kwaSoxhege. Leaner than his elder brother, and with far less natural authority, Gamdana looked ill at ease, his eyes darting from side to side. He was dressed like a chief, with a profusion of necklaces and an impressive headdress of otter skin and widow-bird feathers, but something about his shifty demeanour suggested a man disgruntled with his lot.

‘Do come in, Chief,’ said Chelmsford, making no attempt to rise from his seat. ‘We missed you earlier, but no matter, you’re here now. I take it you’ve come to submit.’

‘I have,’ said Gamdana in Zulu, causing Chelmsford to turn to Fynn for the English translation.

‘Ask him where his weapons are,’ said Chelmsford. ‘He knows he can’t submit without them.’

Fynn did so. ‘He says they’re outside.’

‘Well, have them brought in. No need to break up the party early.’

Fynn went outside and returned with four of Gamdana’s warriors, each clutching an armful of spears and firearms. They dumped them on the ground next to Chelmsford’s seat.

‘Is that it?’ asked the general.

Gamdana nodded.