Zulu Hart (38 page)

‘Or received Pulleine’s order to withdraw.’

The latter seemed the more likely scenario as first one company of troops, then another turned its back on the enemy and began to flee towards the camp. The Zulu regiments were quick to get over their surprise, rising from the ground and rushing towards the gaps in the line, causing the remaining companies to break before they were outflanked. George watched with horror as the lightly encumbered Zulus rapidly overhauled the lumbering British soldiers, weighed down by their rifles, heavy boots and a multitude of straps and pouches. Some turned and fought with fixed bayonets, selling their lives dearly, but most were stabbed and clubbed to death as they ran.

Cutting a swathe through the mass of running men were the two horsedrawn guns of
N/7
Battery, bouncing and crashing their way over the uneven terrain as soldiers clung desperately to their limbers; two officers, Major Stuart and Lieutenant Curling, rode alongside. With no time to mount the guns, most of the gunners were following on foot, easy prey for their eager pursuers. Once in the camp, the progress of the guns was slowed by the congestion at the saddle, giving Lieutenant Coghill, who had appeared from the direction of the column office on a roan charger, the opportunity to speak to Curling. But instead of sending the guns towards the Stony Koppie, where Durnford was organizing a last stand, Coghill sent them over the saddle and
himself
followed soon after.

‘What does he mean by sending the guns away?’ roared Durnford. ‘If we don’t stand together we’re all doomed.’

Suddenly reminded of Jake’s predicament, George swung round and squinted towards the right front of the camp, where G Company had been holding the extreme right of the rapidly disintegrating defensive line. Shielding his eyes from the glare of the early afternoon sun, he could see a body of redcoats, led by their two officers, Pope and Jake, struggling up the track towards the camp, closely pursued by cheering Zulus.

‘Colonel!’ yelled George. ‘G Company
have
broken. We must give them covering fire.’

Durnford took one look and concurred. ‘Independent covering fire for G Company!’ he bellowed. ‘And mind our men.’

George squinted down the sight of his carbine. Some of the rearmost redcoats were already mixed up with Zulus. He could feel his heart hammering against his chest. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his back. He wanted to fire but could not for fear of hitting Jake. Others, less particular, were firing into the oncoming mass of red and black as quickly as they could load. It was the right decision because it caused the Zulu chase to slacken momentarily, allowing about fifty redcoats to reach the bottom of the camp just seconds ahead of their pursuers. There, on the orders of their officers, they turned and fired a volley as the young men of the ringless Umbonambi Regiment, with their black shields and bunched white cow-tail necklaces, gained the honour of becoming the first Zulus to enter the camp.

As some redcoats fought the Umbonambi hand to hand, the rest of G Company fled up the track and made a second stand at the top of the camp, not far from Durnford’s position on the Stony Koppie. George could just make out Lieutenant Pope in the centre of his men, the sun glinting off his monocle as he fired his pistol into the approaching Zulu hordes. Next to him, also firing his
pistol,
was Jake. He had lost his helmet and his distinctive red hair shone through the drifting gun- smoke. George felt a brief moment of elation that Jake
was
still alive, quickly replaced by a knot of fear that his friend’s options were running out.

By now about seventy British soldiers, remnants from the companies holding the far side of the camp, had taken up a position on the lower slopes of Isandlwana, opposite the Stony Koppie, and the fire from all three strongpoints held the Zulus back long enough for most of the remaining fugitives - a chaotic crowd of men, horses, mules, sheep and oxen yoked to wagons - to cross the saddle in a cloud of dust and gunsmoke that made it difficult to distinguish friend from foe. Among the last of the horsemen to pass by George was the red-coated Lieutenant Melvill, carrying across his saddle the eight-foot wooden staff and leather case containing his battalion’s Queen’s Colour, a large gold-fringed Union flag with a royal cipher in its centre.

‘Bring it here, Melvill!’ shouted George, assuming the lieutenant’s intention was to use the colour to rally the troops. But if Melvill heard George’s cry, he ignored it and he carried on over the saddle, the only officer of the 24th Regiment to abandon his men.
Seconds
later warriors from the
impi’s
right horn swarmed on to the saddle, having passed round the back of the mountain, and drove into the exposed rear of Jake’s position, slashing and stabbing as they went.

The encirclement was almost complete. George knew it, and Durnford knew it too. ‘Get your horse, George,’ said the colonel as he scribbled in his notebook. ‘I want you to take this message to Rorke’s Drift. The officer in charge is to fortify the mission and hold it at all costs.’

‘The Zulus are behind us. I’ll never get through.’

‘You can at least try. If you stay here, you’ll perish.’

George looked at the scene of horror before him. Apart from the three enclaves of resistance, the camp was in the possession of thousands of Zulus who were slashing and clubbing every living thing they encountered. He could not avert his eyes as one warrior dragged a young blond-haired drummer boy from his hiding place in the back of a wagon and slit his throat. He did not want to die like that. But he did not want to leave Jake either.

‘Can I take Second Lieutenant Morgan with me, Colonel? Two will have more chance of getting through than one.’

‘All right, but you must leave now.’

George took the note and tucked it into his tunic. Durnford offered his good hand and George clasped it. It was surprisingly delicate, like a girl’s. ‘Do you have any personal messages you want me to deliver?’ asked George, ducking his head as a bullet zipped overhead. ‘If I get through, that is.’

‘Tell Fanny I love her and always will. And tell her she was right and I was wrong. I shouldn’t have fought in a war I didn’t believe in. But I had to try to exorcize my demons.’

‘And have you?’

‘I think so. Now go.’

George ran over to Emperor, untied his knee-halter and vaulted into the saddle. ‘Don’t let me down now,’ he whispered to the horse.

The Zulus were close now and had all but overwhelmed G Company below the nek. One officer was still standing, and it looked like Jake. As George spurred towards him, the officer shot two of his assailants in quick succession.

‘Jake!’ bellowed George as Emperor burst between a knot of Zulus, clipping one warrior and sending him flying.

Jake heard his friend’s cry. He turned and waved, a look of hope on his face, but as he did so, his features seemed to freeze. He staggered a few paces forward, dropped his revolver and fell to the ground, a throwing spear protruding from his back.

‘No!’ bellowed George, just thirty yards away and closing fast.

A warrior tried to grab George’s reins but he shot him with his carbine, the bullet blowing off the top of the man’s skull in a red and grey spray of blood and brains. He looked back to where Jake had fallen and could only see a Zulu squatting on the ground, hacking at something with his
iklwa.
That something, he realized, was Jake. It was too late to save him.

He fired at Jake’s killer and missed, but the bullet was close enough to cause the warrior to turn his head. The broad, handsome face was unmistakeable. It was his cousin Mehlokazulu. As the pair locked eyes, the Zulu seemed to nod. George had never felt such hatred towards another human being. But with more warriors closing in, the chance of avenging Jake’s death had gone and, with a final cry of anguish, George turned Emperor and galloped towards the lower slopes of the Stony Koppie, hoping to cross the top of the nek before the Zulus completed their encirclement.

Some Zulus on the low part of the nek saw his intention and raced uphill to cut him off, the tough soles of their feet seemingly impervious to the thorny ground. But Emperor was quickly into his stride and, realizing the
horseman
would win the race, one warrior stopped to hurl a throwing assegai, which would have caught George in the shoulder if he had not twisted his body at the last moment, allowing the spear to pass harmlessly by and clatter into the rocks beyond.

Thrown momentarily off balance, George grabbed Emperor’s mane to right
himself
, and would have done so if the panicked horse had not slipped on a rock. Horse and rider went down, George hitting the ground with a sickening thud that loosened his grip on the carbine. Nursing a badly bruised shoulder, he staggered to his feet. Emperor had also risen from the fall and was standing barely ten yards away, his flanks still quivering with shock.

‘Please don’t let him be injured,’ muttered George, as he stumbled towards the horse.

With just a couple of yards to go, he could hear someone behind him with a footfall so soft it could only be a Zulu. He reached for his holster and was fumbling with the flap, not helped by his injured shoulder, when a voice spoke in Zulu. ‘We meet again, cousin.’

George spun round to see, not ten yards off, the grinning face of Mehlokazulu. His powerful, nearly naked body was streaked with dust, sweat and gobbets of blood; not his own, but that of his victims. In his left hand he clutched his shield, in his right an
iklwa
, its blade red with Jake’s blood.

‘That soldier you just killed was my friend,’ said George.

Mehlokazulu scowled. ‘That soldier invaded my country and deserved to die, as do you for betraying your people.’

George wondered if he had time to draw his revolver before Mehlokazulu closed with him. Probably not, he decided, and the shot would just bring other Zulus. ‘I may share your blood,’ he said, inching back a little closer to Emperor, ‘but the Zulus are not my people. Your father said as much, and he’s right.’

‘But why fight against us?’

‘I’m a soldier. I was ordered to.’

‘You lie. You seek revenge, for your grandmother, and for Nandi, and it will cost you your life.’

‘Haven’t you killed enough, cousin?’ asked George, desperately stalling for time.

‘No, and I’ll go on killing until every white invader is dead.’

George glanced over Mehlokazulu’s shoulder as if someone was approaching. As his cousin turned to look, he attempted to mount Emperor, but was hampered by his injury and had barely got his foot in the stirrup when the razor-sharp blade of an
iklwa
was placed against his throat.

‘Prepare to die, cousin,’ said Mehlokazulu.

George closed his eyes, waiting for the cold searing pain as the blade sliced through his neck. It never came because a second voice shouted, ‘Stop, brother! Let him go.’

‘Why?’ protested Mehlokazulu.

‘You have the same blood. And he’s not like other white men. Remember the Lower Drift. He tried to prevent this war.’

It must be Kumbeka, thought George, the junior induna he had met while the ultimatum was being delivered. But would Mehlokazulu listen to him?

‘But he failed, didn’t he, and now he must die.’ George could feel the blade starting to bite into his throat.

‘No!’ shouted Kumbeka. ‘There are many white men still fighting in the camp. Let us wash our spears in their blood, and not in the blood of a good man such as this.’

Mehlokazulu seemed torn. ‘If I let him go now I will live to regret it. I killed his friend in the camp and he hates me for it. I could see it in his eyes.’

‘You fear his vengeance? You surprise me, brother. But if you need reassurance, I’m sure your kinsman will provide it.’

George could just make out Kumbeka to his right. ‘If he lets you go, white man, will you swear never to set foot in Zululand again?’

‘Yes,’
came
the instant reply.

‘Then go!’ said his cousin at last, lowering his spear. ‘And don’t come back.’

George scrambled on to Emperor’s back, nodded his thanks to Kumbeka and urged Emperor down the hill without looking back. One day, he vowed, he would have his revenge; but first he had to survive. The world had seemed to stand still during their conversation. Now it started again in a maelstrom of dust and din.

The valley ahead was a vision from hell, its downslope littered with corpses, dead livestock and stationary wagons, their contents scattered all around. The track to Rorke’s Drift was completely blocked by a dense crowd of Zulus, and most of the fugitives had veered off to the left down a rock-covered slope. George followed and at the bottom of the slope came to a deep donga in which the two guns had come to grief, held fast in dense scrub. Zulus were milling about the guns and, anxious not to attract their attention, George pressed on, following the twisting course of the donga for a mile or so until it opened into the marshy bed of a tiny tributary of the Buffalo River.

Gunshots rang out from the far bank. George peered across and could just make out, through thorn bushes and scrubby trees, a small and ever-dwindling band of redcoats, assailed on all sides by scores of Zulus. He knew he could do little to help and carried on along the stream, drawing his pistol with his uninjured left hand. The route was littered with the detritus of flight: blankets, hats, clothing of all description, guns, ammunition belts, saddles, revolvers, and even shields and assegais, which the Zulus must have discarded in their haste to kill the invaders. And everywhere lay the mutilated bodies of the fugitives: white and black, young and old.