Zulu Hart (41 page)

‘Sir,’ said George, ‘this is Lieutenant Henderson of the Natal Native Horse. He and his men narrowly escaped the Zulu encirclement.’

‘Are we glad to see you,’ said Chard to Henderson. ‘You’ll stay and help us out?’

Henderson nodded.

‘Thank you. I just need to decide how best to use you.’

‘Should they not form outposts to give us warning of any Zulu attack,’ suggested George, ‘and to slow it down, before retiring into the fort?’

‘Well, I’m no cavalryman,’ said Chard, ‘but that sounds a sensible tactic.
Lieutenant?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Henderson.

‘Good. In that case would you place one detachment down at the drift, and another beyond the
Oskarberg.
If the Zulus do come, your men are to hold them up for as long as possible. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ replied Henderson, before issuing the necessary orders. As rapidly as the
horsemen
had arrived, they dispersed.

‘What a stroke of luck,’ commented Chard. But George was not so sure. He could tell from the nervous sidelong glances of the black
horsemen
that they had little appetite for further combat. The fact that they had refused to ride to Durnford’s rescue was a bad sign, as was their overemotional response to the news of his death. He could see them opposing the Zulus’ advance for a time, but leaving their horses and throwing in their lot with the post’s defenders was quite a different matter. Only time would tell.

With the construction of the two mealie-bag walls almost complete, George went over to inspect the defences in the hospital. He knew from his conversation with Witt that many of the building’s nine rooms did not have interconnecting doors and could only be accessed from the outside. All these doors and windows had now been barricaded with mealie bags, effectively trapping the occupants like fish in a barrel; if the Zulus broke in there would be no escape.

George strolled along the back of the hospital and peeked through a loophole into the room on the left rear corner.
‘Anybody in there?’

Up popped a redcoat with a long, thin nose and a bushy moustache.
‘Who’s asking?’

‘Second Lieutenant Hart. And you are?’

‘Private Henry Hook, sir, the hospital cook.’

‘Is that so? Well, how do you feel about fighting rather than cooking?’

‘I don’t mind, sir. It’ll make a change.’

George marvelled again at the stoicism of the average British private. No wonder they made the best soldiers in the world. ‘Who have you got in there with you, Hook?’

‘Private Thomas, sir, and a Kaffir with a broken leg.’

‘Owen Thomas?’ said George, suddenly remembering the articulate young private who got himself flogged for stealing alcohol on the voyage.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can I speak to him?’

Hook’s craggy face disappeared from the hole in the wall and was replaced, a few seconds later, by Thomas’s familiar features. ‘Well, I’ll be,’ he said, recognizing George. ‘It’s Mr Hart, isn’t it, from the ship?’

‘It is indeed, though I’m now Second Lieutenant Hart. It’s good to see you looking so well.’

‘Thank you, sir. The African climate seems to agree with me. Not that our fellows in G Company would agree. Is it true they’re all dead?’

‘I’m afraid it is, Thomas. I was there and witnessed their last stand. But they sold their lives
dearly,
I can assure you of that.’

‘Including your friend Lieutenant Morgan?’

‘Yes, including him.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

George could feel his eyes pricking with tears.
‘So am I, Thomas.
But we’ve got our own problems to think about. I bet you didn’t bargain for this fix when you signed up to see the world.’

‘No, not exactly, sir.
But it’s what we’re paid to do.’

‘Quite right.
Tell
me,
is the African in there with you one of ours?’

‘No, he’s a prisoner. He was taken at Sihayo’s kraal.’

‘Well, keep a close eye on him. He might try to help his people if the Zulus attack.’

‘I don’t think he’s in any condition to do that, sir. But I’ll keep an eye on him, never fear.’

‘Good luck, then.’

On returning to the front of the redoubt, where a small gap had been left in the wall, George spied three men approaching on foot from the direction of the Oskarberg. One of them was Witt. ‘We meet again, Reverend Witt,’ said George, as the exhausted trio came up the path.

‘Mr Hart,’ said Witt, breathing heavily, ‘and in uniform too. So I was right: you
were
on military business when you visited in August.’

‘Not exactly

‘Well, you shouldn’t have come back. The Zulus are coming.’

‘How many?’ asked
George.

‘A huge column is approaching as we speak,’ blurted out one of the others, an eccentric-looking fellow with a long red beard, and wearing a frayed alpaca frock coat that was turning green with age. ‘We thought they were Natal Contingent at first, fugitives from the battle. But as they got closer we realized our mistake. They’ll be here in minutes. We must leave while we’ve still got the chance.’

‘Too late for that, Padre Smith,’ said Chard, appearing through the gap in the wall. ‘In any case, our orders are to defend the post.’

George smiled at Chard’s change of tune. He was not a bad sort; just inexperienced and in need of a little moral encouragement.

‘You stay if you want, Chard,’ interjected Witt, ‘but none of you will leave here alive.’

‘But it’s your home, Reverend Witt. Are you not staying to defend it?’ asked Chard.

‘No. My priority is to my wife and children at Umsinga, and from the look of the damage your soldiers are doing to my home,’ he added, gesturing towards the loopholes in the side of the hospital, ‘there won’t be much left to come back to.’

Chard was about to reply when a gunshot sounded from beyond the hill to the rear of the post, followed by another, and finally a fusillade.

‘Zulus,’ said Smith nervously. ‘We’d better go inside.’

Chard led the way, telling the soldiers on either side of the entrance to wait until the
horsemen
had returned before they closed it up. George was about to follow when he spotted the black hood of Witt’s buggy disappearing up the track to Helpmekaar. He paused to watch its progress, wondering if he would have done the same thing in Witt’s position if Fanny and their children were waiting for him, and only tore his eyes away when he heard horses approaching from the back of the hospital. Henderson’s men rode into view, but instead of taking the fork to the post, they carried on up the hill after Witt.

Some of the defenders
manning
the front wall realized what was happening and gave off a howl of disapproval, catcalling and shouting. But only a single rider detached himself from the mass. It was Lieutenant Henderson, and by the time he had reached the front of the post, George and Chard had been joined there by Bromhead.

‘Where the devil are your men going?’ shouted Chard, his calm resolve shattered.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Henderson, ‘but they won’t obey orders. They saw the Zulus coming and bolted for Helpmekaar. I’ll do my best to rally some, but I can’t promise anything.’

‘You’re leaving too?’

‘I must follow my men.’

‘At least tell us how many Zulus we’re up against and how long we’ve got.’

‘Several
thousand,
and they’ll be here in under ten minutes.’

‘Christ,’ said Chard, the blood draining from his face.

As Henderson cantered off after his men, the three officers re-entered the fort to be met by a sea of anxious looks. ‘Why are they leaving, sir?’ asked Colour Sergeant Bourne, a short young man who looked scarcely old enough for his rank.

‘Because they’re bloody cowards,’ responded Chard.
‘But no matter.
We can hold out just as well without them.’

No sooner had Chard spoken than a commotion broke out near the rear wall of the redoubt where Captain Stephenson’s hundred black warriors were gathered in little clumps, chatting nervously and gesticulating in the direction of the retreating troopers. Suddenly one warrior, evidently the chief, vaulted on to the wall and urged the others to follow, which they did without hesitating. George and the other officers ran over, but by the time they reached the wall most of Stephenson’s men had melted into the surrounding countryside.

‘Why didn’t you stop them?’ Chard demanded of their startled captain, a rotund, red-faced colonial who did not look cut out for war.

‘It all happened so quickly. But let me go after them. I’m sure I can persuade a few to return.’ And with a nimbleness that belied his rotund physique, the captain scaled the wall and made off after his men, closely followed by his two white NCOs.

‘Wait!’ shouted Chard, but the trio kept running.

‘Shall I fire a warning shot?’ asked George.

But before Chard could answer, a shot rang out from further down the wall, hitting one of the corporals in the back and sending him sprawling to the ground.

Bromhead ran over to discover the culprit. ‘Who fired that shot? I gave no permission to fire.’

The soldiers defending that part of the wall looked sullenly defiant, but said nothing.

‘I’m not going to ask you again. Who fired that shot?’

‘I did,’ said a bearded sergeant. ‘The cowardly bastard deserved to die.’

‘That’s as may be, Sergeant,’ responded Bromhead. ‘But it wasn’t your decision to make. I’ll deal with you later.’

George was more worried about Chard and the effect this latest desertion had had on his fragile confidence. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve got about ten minutes before the Zulus get here. Don’t you think we should use that time to reduce the size of the perimeter? We’ll never be able to defend the existing area with the men we’ve got left.’

Chard was staring out over the wall, in the direction Stephenson’s men had gone, and seemed not to hear. Then he replied, ‘There’s no time.’

‘What about an inner redoubt?’ persisted George. ‘We could use the heavy wooden biscuit boxes to build an inner wall from the edge of the storehouse to the mealie-bag wall to its front. That way we’ll have a smaller area we can withdraw into if we can’t hold the original perimeter.’

‘Yes,’ said Chard enthusiastically, as if suddenly rejuvenated by George’s suggestion. ‘Good idea. Half the garrison can get on with that, while the other half man the walls.’

‘And the patients?’

‘What about the patients?’

‘We can’t leave them in the hospital or they’ll be cut off when we move behind the biscuit boxes.’

‘I’m sorry, Hart, but that’s a risk we’ll have to take. There’s no time to move them now. We’ve got enough on our hands building this new wall.’

Events proved Chard right, because it was still just two boxes high, and far from complete, when a lookout on the thatched roof of the storehouse reported the approach of a huge Zulu column from behind the Oskarberg.

Bromhead put down the box he was carrying. ‘How many are there?’ he shouted to the lookout, an anxious quaver in his voice.

‘Four to six thousand, sir,’
came
the reply.

‘Is that all?’ muttered a wag close to George. ‘We can manage that lot very well for a few seconds.’

‘Stand to,’ bellowed Chard, drawing his revolver and making for the rear wall closest to the Oskarberg.
‘Volley- fire at five hundred yards.
Wait for the order to fire.’

George grabbed his carbine and took his place on the south wall between a private and the sergeant who had shot the fleeing white NCO. He could feel his heart racing as he waited, not for the first time that day, for the Zulus to come within range. He had been lucky so far, very lucky, he told himself; but would his luck hold?

He was about to find out. From round the west side of the Oskarberg trotted the Zulu vanguard, a dense mass of warriors from the veteran Utulwana Regiment with white shields and otter-skin headbands, and bristling with spears and knobkerries. At a signal from a mounted induna, they made straight for the centre of the south wall, between the hospital and the storeroom, where George was standing with his carbine propped on a mealie bag.

‘Here they come!’ shouted the sergeant in a thick Irish accent.
‘As thick as grass and as black as thunder!’

George drew a bead on the lead warrior, a magnificent- looking six-footer whose long stride was eating up the ground, and held his breath.

‘Fire!’ commanded Chard.

The south wall erupted in a wreath of flame and smoke, bringing down Zulus in heaps. George’s bullet passed through the lead warrior’s soft rawhide shield and thudded into the left side of his chest, lifting him in the air and depositing him on his back, his outstretched right arm still clutching his
iklwa.

‘Reload and adjust to two hundred. Steady. Steady.
Fire!’

More gaps were torn in the Zulu line, but on they came now in small rushes, using the cover provided by the trees, banks and brick cookhouses at the back of the post to approach within fifty yards of the mealie-bag wall. Chard had ordered independent firing by now, and George scanned the undergrowth, looking for a target. Suddenly a warrior leapt up from the grass barely twenty yards away and loosed his throwing spear. George saw it late, but swayed just in time, the spear passing harmlessly over his shoulder and thudding into the red earth behind. He snapped off a shot in retaliation and saw the warrior fall.