Zulu Hart (39 page)

George paused next to a trooper he had served with in the Carbineers, a twin by the name of Tarboton. He was lying on his back, his chubby face unmarked; but his tunic had been torn open and his stomach opened up from breastbone to waistband by a single assegai cut, the red of the wound contrasting starkly with the white of his skin. The ground beside him was slick with blood and guts, and black with flies.

George gagged and, with Jake also in mind, felt a murderous urge to strike back and kill the first Zulu he came across. The wait was short. Over the next rise, as the stream began to fall away to a final ridge that led down to the wooded banks of the Buffalo, he saw a warrior crouched over his victim, so engrossed in his mutilation that he did not hear the horse approaching. From fifteen yards, George drew a bead on his back and fired, the bullet entering between the Zulu’s shoulders and tumbling him across his foe. George’s satisfaction was brief because, seconds later, alerted by the gunshot, four more warriors came hurtling through the bush, bloody spears to the fore. ‘
Usuthu
!’ they chanted as they spied their prey.

George fired one shot, which missed, and urged Emperor down the rocky slope, the Zulus in pursuit. Fifty yards ahead he could see a sergeant of the 24th, near to exhaustion as he stumbled and tottered down the hill. Spotting George and the Zulus behind, the sergeant implored, ‘For God’s sake give us a lift.’

There was no time to stop, so George offered his left hand and managed to pull the sergeant up behind him. But a throwing assegai whistled through the air and thudded into the sergeant’s back, causing him to grunt with pain and tumble from the horse. George urged Emperor on, down the hill towards the ridge that overlooked the Buffalo, all the time expecting his own back to explode in pain.

At the ridge a bottleneck had been formed by a small crowd of fugitives, all anxiously glancing back up the hill as they waited their turn to descend the precipitous path that led down to the river. George recognized a number of officers, including Major Stuart of the Artillery, Lieutenants Coghill and Melvill, with the latter still clutching the colour, and Lieutenant Smith-Dorrien, who was helping to bind with a handkerchief the badly wounded arm of a mounted infantryman.

‘Move!’ screamed George. ‘The Zulus are right behind me.’

The crowd surged forward in panic, as a couple of the cooler hands fired beyond George at the Zulus charging down the hill. There were at least fifty Zulu pursuers now, and it was obvious to George that if he joined the melee he was doomed. So he yanked Emperor to the right, desperately searching for an alternative route down the cliff, and was rewarded by the sight of a blue patrol jacket leading a horse through some scrub. He followed suit, dismounting at the entrance to the scrub, and was about to ask the officer if he knew where he was going when shouts and screams to his left heralded the arrival of the Zulus. The officer glanced back in alarm.

‘Don’t stop!’ hissed George. ‘They’ll be here any moment.’

The officer turned and plunged down the slope, his horse- slipping and sliding behind him. George followed, his shoulder screaming with pain every time Emperor dug his hooves into the loose surface of stones and slippery rock. With about a hundred yards to go to the river, and the rocky path getting steeper by the step, a warrior burst out of the undergrowth and on to the path between the two men.

‘Usutbu!’
he roared, as he ran downhill and, before the officer could react, drove his assegai into the flank of his mount, the startled horse shrieking with pain before collapsing to the ground, its legs twitching. The officer ran, but not before loosing off a single hurried shot that came closer to hitting George than the Zulu, who, by now, had turned and was heading back towards him. George fell on one knee, aimed his revolver and pulled the trigger. There was no discharge, just a metallic click. The gun was empty. George gripped its barrel, ready to use it as a club.

The Zulu came on at the run, his large rawhide shield covering his body and his spear ready to strike. Anticipating a stab on his left side, George sidestepped at the last moment to his right, driving his shoulder into the Zulu’s shield and knocking him off balance. For a second the two were locked together, the Zulu trying vainly to stab George round his shield. But George managed to grab the edge of the shield and pull it to his left, exposing the side of the Zulu’s head, which he struck as hard as he could with the gun butt, the loud crack more like a shot than a blow. The Zulu slumped to the ground.

George grabbed Emperor’s reins and plunged on down the slope, almost losing his footing as the path stopped abruptly on the edge of a precipice. Thirty feet below, down a sheer rock face, lay the Buffalo River, swollen by recent rains into a broad, fast-moving torrent. The only way down was to jump, a desperate course of action that the officer must already have taken. As George weighed up his own chances of avoiding the jagged rocks poking above the foam, the sound of running feet made up his mind. Hauling the terrified horse behind him, he jumped, hitting the water hard, but fortunately not the rocks. The cold, racing current closed above his head, spinning him round as he fought desperately to regain the surface. He could not tell up from down, and was close to drowning when his hand touched and then gripped Emperor’s tail.

George was towed through the water and deposited, coughing and heaving, and utterly exhausted, on the shingle of the Natal bank. Bullets pinging off the rocks close to his head brought him to his senses. The Zulus had reached the far bank and, unwilling to brave the rough water, were taking pot shots at those who had been lucky enough to escape. George crawled behind a large boulder and found his hiding place already occupied by the officer from the path, sodden and not a little shamefaced.

‘You might have helped me with that Zulu,’ said George. ‘I was out of bullets.’

‘Me too,’ said the officer with a grimace, clutching his lower leg.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘I twisted my ankle as I hit the water. It’s swollen like an orange.’

‘Well, we can’t stay here. The Zulus are probably crossing as we speak. If I help you up on to Emperor, will you promise to wait for me at the top of the hill yonder?’

The officer nodded, and George broke cover to find Emperor grazing behind a thorn bush, oblivious of the gunfire. He led him back and helped the officer into the saddle. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’ asked George.

‘James Hamer. I’m Durnford’s commissariat officer.’

‘Why weren’t you with him earlier?’

‘I went with the two mounted troops on to the plateau. We found the Zulu army sitting in a valley, in perfect order, quiet as mice and stretched across in an even line. When they saw us they charged.’

‘Any survivors from the two troops?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘All right, you’d better be off. But top of the hill, mind,’ said George, wagging his index finger, ‘and no further.’

Hamer spurred up the rocky slope, dodging between cacti and thorn bushes, as George followed on foot, his waterlogged boots squeaking at every step. He had barely covered thirty yards when a voice cried out, ‘Help me, please!’

He looked back and could just make out the red-coated figure of Lieutenant Melvill in the water, still clutching the Queen’s Colour. He had lost his mount and was being swept towards a large rock in the centre of the river, atop which clung an officer of the Native Contingent in a blue tunic. As Melvill was swept past, he threw the colour to the officer. But in catching it the officer lost his hold on the rock and was also taken by the current.

George ran towards the bank and was joined there by Lieutenant Coghill, still mounted on his tall roan charger. Meanwhile Melvill and the officer had been washed into a stretch of still water, though neither had the strength to reach the bank. George at once waded in to help, with Coghill following on horseback. A fusillade of shots rang out from the far bank, most striking the water but one hitting the biggest target, Coghill’s horse. It staggered and fell, pinning the lame Coghill beneath it in the shallow water. George freed the spluttering officer and pulled him to safety, shouting at the others to leave the colour and save themselves. They did so and both, in turn, were helped the last few yards to the bank by George.

‘Thank you, Hart,’ said Melvill, his stomach heaving with exertion. ‘I just wish I could’ve kept hold of the colour for Colonel Pulleine’s sake.’

‘Did he tell you to save it?’

‘No, he was killed in his tent soon after the Zulus entered the camp. But it’s what he would have wanted.’

George knew the loss of a colour was the biggest disgrace that could befall a British regiment. Was that the real reason Melvill took it, he wondered, or just a convenient excuse for saving his own skin? ‘Never mind the colour,’ he said with a dismissive wave, ‘we won’t escape with our lives if we don’t get up that hill. Do you think you can manage that?’

Melvill nodded, as did the other officer, a Lieutenant Higginson of the Native Contingent.

‘What about you, Coghill? How’s your knee?’

‘Not good. But if someone assists me I should be all right.’

‘He’s all yours,
gentlemen
,’ George said to the two able- bodied officers. ‘I would help but I’ve got an urgent message to deliver to Rorke’s Drift. My horse should be waiting for me at the top of the hill. Good luck.’

George set off at a gentle trot, stopping every few hundred yards to catch his breath. He was tired and thirsty, and felt strangely light-headed as the sun bore down on his uncovered head. About halfway up he heard two pistol shots from lower down the slope, but the intervening scrub obscured his view. Then, shortly after reaching the summit, as he searched in vain for Hamer and Emperor, Higginson rode over the lip on a sweat-streaked horse.

‘Whoa!’ shouted George. ‘What happened to Melvill and Coghill?’

Higginson looked uncomfortable, unwilling to meet George’s eye. ‘They said they couldn’t go another step, and that I was to carry on without them.’

‘They
told
you to leave them?’ asked George disbelievingly.

‘Yes.’

‘What about the shots?’

‘We were being followed by two Zulus. Coghill killed them.’

‘And the horse?’

‘I found him by chance. He must have thrown his rider.’

Higginson’s nervous manner told George he was lying. ‘Why didn’t you offer the horse to Coghill? He can barely walk.’

‘I was going to, but as I got near I could see they were surrounded by Zulus. They’re both dead.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes. Now, I must be going.’

‘Hold up! I’ve got to get that message through to Rorke’s Drift, and I can’t do that without a horse. There’s no sign of mine, so will you lend me yours? Either that or take the message yourself.’

‘Sorry,’ said Higginson, digging his heels into the exhausted horse’s flanks. ‘I’ve done enough for one day.’

George tried to bar his way, but was booted roughly aside. ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he shouted after the departing horse.

George sat on the ground, head in hands. He knew that Rorke’s Drift was upriver, and that to reach it he needed to keep the Buffalo valley on his right. He knew he must make the attempt, not least because Jake’s old B Company was defending the drift and, for all he knew, they were about to be attacked by the whole Zulu army, fresh from its victory at Isandlwana. Having failed to avenge Jake’s death, he could at least try to save his men, Thomas included.

Yet many doubts gnawed at his resolve. What were the chances of him reaching Rorke’s Drift on foot, unarmed and with a damaged shoulder? And even if he did make it, would he arrive in time to make a difference? Was there any point in throwing his life away unnecessarily? He felt certain someone else would pass on news of the defeat. He had done his bit. His duty now — to his mother, to Fanny, to Lucy — was to survive. At least, that was what he started to tell himself. But the more he tried to justify not going to Rorke’s Drift, the guiltier he felt.

At last he made up his mind. He would go because it was the right thing to do, and hang the consequences. He got awkwardly to his feet and was about to set off when, from the direction of Helpmekaar, the sound of hoof beats heralded an approaching rider. Had Hamer had second thoughts? A riderless Emperor provided the answer as he cantered round a bend in the track, his ears pricked and his saddle askew.

George was delighted. ‘Whoa!’ he shouted, hands
raised
.
‘Easy, boy.’
He caught Emperor’s reins and took a moment to calm him. ‘So you threw Hamer, did you?’ he said to the horse, as he adjusted his saddle. ‘Well done. I hope the selfish bastard broke his neck.’

George looked at his watch. It was 2 p.m., which gave him at least three hours of daylight to deliver Durnford’s message. ‘Please, God, let me be in time,’ he muttered to himself, as he hauled his tired and battered frame into the saddle and pointed Emperor in the direction of Rorke’s Drift.

Near Rorke’s Drift, 22 January 1879, 2.30 p.m.

George was barely awake as he guided Emperor round the track that skirted the west side of the Oskarberg, the steep rocky hill that lay between him and the supply depot at Rorke’s Drift. Up since 1.30 a.m., he had ridden more than thirty miles and fought in a desperate and shocking defeat, barely escaping with his life. He was physically and mentally exhausted, and wanted nothing more than to slide off his horse and sleep. Yet something kept him going. Not military duty as such; he had done his bit and more. Rather a determination to do the right thing by Durnford, who had given him a viable excuse to leave the battlefield, and who himself had paid the ultimate price for his rash miscalculations. But he was also fiercely determined that Jake’s death would not be for nothing, and that he, a survivor from Isandlwana, would help to save the men of his friend’s former company.