Zulu Hart (43 page)

As soon as the hole was big enough, George peeked through. The room was filling with smoke, and at the far end he could just make out Hook and Thomas standing in front of a narrow doorway, a small pile of Zulu corpses at their feet, men they had shot and bayoneted as, one by one, they tried to break in. A spear came whizzing past Hook’s head and clattered into the wall above George’s head.

‘Hurry!’ shouted Hook. ‘We can’t hold them for much longer.’

Withams started manhandling the patients through the hole, with George assisting. Some were walking wounded; others were just sick and were able to get through on their own. After the tenth patient came Withams himself.

‘Is that it?’ asked George.

‘There’s one more, a Private Connolly, with a bad knee. He’s refusing to move.’

George shouted through the hole, ‘Leave him! Save yourself.’

Thomas came first, grinning at George as he pulled himself out of the hole. But when it came to Hook’s turn he ignored George’s advice and grabbed hold of Connolly’s collar to drag him through as well. Roaring with the pain from his injured knee, Connolly was bundled through the hole, swiftly followed by Hook himself. Zulu shouts filled the room they had vacated.

‘Well done, Hook,’ said George. ‘Now I need you and Thomas to guard this hole while we get the patients through to the next room. What happened to the wounded Zulu, by the way?’

‘They killed him too.’

‘Is there anyone else left alive?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘All right.
Withams, start passing them through.’

Every so often a Zulu would try and squeeze through the hole that Hook and the others had used. But each time one emerged, Hook or Thomas would skewer him in the back, forcing the Zulus following behind to drag the corpse out of the way before trying again. Five had been killed by the time George called for Hook and Thomas to follow him through the hole into the end room, where Withams, the two Joneses and fifteen patients were waiting. With everyone assembled, and the two Joneses now guarding the hole with their bayonets, George climbed up to the window and signalled for Hitch and Allen to recross the space and help with the wounded.

The roof was burning fiercely now, and the flames had lit up the forty yards of no-man’s land that separated the hospital from the new defensive perimeter. But neither man hesitated, and both made it across safely, covered by fire from the storehouse and the line of biscuit boxes.

One by one the patients were helped by George through the window and into the waiting arms below; those who could walk were left to run the gauntlet alone. One of the last was the rheumatic trooper of the Natal Mounted Police. Moving at a painfully slow pace, the trooper had covered barely half the distance to the biscuit boxes when a figure moved out of the shadows to his right. Allen shouted a warning but it was too late. The warrior knocked him to the ground and stabbed him repeatedly before he, in turn, was killed by a bullet from Allen’s rifle.

By now the room was rapidly filling with black, acrid smoke. With a rag across his mouth, and barely able to see, George asked if there were any more patients left inside. ‘Only Sergeant Maxfield,’ replied Thomas. ‘But he’s delirious with the fever and won’t move.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Over there,’ said Thomas, pointing to the far end of the room where the two Joneses, coughing and spluttering, were still guarding the hole.

‘I’ll get him.
The rest of you, leave now!’

As Thomas and the remaining four redcoats scrambled, one after the other, through the window, George crawled on his hands and knees through the gloom, revolver in one hand and feeling with the other for a prone body. ‘Sergeant Max- field, can you hear me?
      
‘No reply.

‘Sergeant Maxfield?’

George could feel a hand. It was still warm. He tugged it but there was no response. Putting his hand on the man’s chest, he felt the warm, unmistakeable stickiness of blood and hastily snatched his hand away. The sergeant was dead, which could only mean one thing.

A sound to his left caused George to swing round, but not quickly enough, because the next sensation he felt was a searing pain in his left upper arm, as if his bicep was on fire. He fired wildly, missing his assailant, but the flash from the muzzle provided enough light for him to see a warrior, crouched low, ready to strike again with his
iklwa.
George fired again as the spear arced towards him, hitting the warrior in the jaw and blowing off the back of his head. The spear clattered to the floor.

The noise had attracted more Zulus.
George could hear
them crawling through the hole.

George’s left arm had gone numb, and he knew he could never reach the high window with his damaged right shoulder. He looked desperately around the room for a place to hide, but could see nothing large enough to cover him apart from a straw-filled mattress against the far wall. He scuttled over to it, his left arm hanging limply by his side, as more Zulus crawled into the room, their cries of anger signalling the discovery of their dead comrade.

George lifted the mattress as soundlessly as he
could,
thanking his lucky stars the room was murky, and crept under it. There was a good chance, he thought, that the smoke would soon drive the Zulus from the room, allowing him to escape through the barricaded door.

George held his breath as footsteps approached. He had two bullets left. If they discovered him and there were more than two of them, he knew he was done for.

The side of the mattress began to lift. He was about to fire when a huge section of the roof above fell in with a whoosh of flames and sparks, crushing the Zulus. The smell of burning flesh was overpowering, as was the heat, and George knew he had to get out fast or he would share the Zulus’ fate. Pushing the now flaming mattress aside, he stood and paused for a moment to get his bearings and then stumbled through the burning room towards the blocked doorway. Part of the barricade had been demolished by the falling roof, and it was a simple task for him to push over the remaining mealie bags and step outside into the cool night air, great lungfuls of which he greedily drank.

He crouched down and looked from side to side. There were no Zulus in sight, but he could hear them all around, noisily celebrating the destruction of the hospital. A volley of shots came from the far side of the post as the jubilant warriors made yet another attempt to overwhelm the reduced perimeter. To reach it George knew he would have to cross at least sixty yards of open ground, scale the original south wall and then gain entry through the gap in the biscuit boxes without being mistaken for a Zulu. To defend himself he had just two bullets. He weighed up the odds and decided that, with the battle still raging, it would be suicidal to try; far better to lie low until one of the periodic lulls in the fighting, then make his move. But where could he hide? Suddenly he remembered a small drainage ditch he had seen earlier, about thirty yards from the hospital in the direction of the Oskarberg. He began to crawl towards it.

After a few yards he bumped into a body and, fearing the worst, lay still. Fortunately it was lifeless and he crawled on. Using his last reserves of strength, he managed to locate and roll into the shallow depression, covering himself as best he could with his cloak. He lay listening to the sounds of battle, preparing himself for the terrifying journey he must make, but he was losing blood all the time and soon his head began to swim and he lost consciousness — only to be revived by the full weight of a warrior stepping on his wounded arm.

‘Aaagh!’ he cried in shocking pain before remembering his predicament.

‘Sorry, brother!’ said a voice in Zulu. ‘I didn’t see you. Are you badly hurt?’

The warrior was so close that George could smell his stale sweat. He knew that if he shot the Zulu the noise would bring others.

‘Help me, brother,’ said George, raising a filthy hand. As the Zulu bent to grasp it, George pulled hi m off balance down to the ground. Using the last of his strength, and with excruciating pain shooting through his arm, he grappled for the warrior’s spear and, with a force he would never be able to explain, wrenched it from his grasp and plunged it into his throat. Blood
gushed
warm across them both as George blacked out.

Rorke’s Drift, 23 January 1879, 6.30 a.m.

George’s sleep was fitful and fevered. He dreamt he was back in the hospital, trapped in a smoke-filled room as the flames crept nearer; next he was running in the dark, pursued by an unseen foe; and finally he lay shivering in a ditch, hands clamped to his ears, as Zulus all around chanted songs of praise.

Someone was tugging at his right hand, threatening to pull his damaged shoulder out of its socket. This time he knew he did not have the strength to fight. This was the end. This was death. He thought he should open his eyes to face it.

He blinked and saw not a Zulu but a redcoat with a determined expression, doing his damnedest to relieve George of his grandfather’s signet ring. It was Private Hook, one of the last men to escape from the burning hospital.

‘Unhand me, you thieving rascal!’ croaked George.

Hook’s eyes widened. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, dropping George’s hand like a hot coal. ‘You were lying so still, like, I reckoned you were dead.’

‘And so you thought to rob me?’

‘A ring’s no good to a dead man, sir.’

‘But I’m not dead, am I?’

‘No, sir.
My mistake.
I’m glad to see you made it out safely.’

George nodded and sat up. He was confronted with the sightless stare and sickening, metallic smell of his blood- soaked Zulu victim, lying barely two feet away. Beyond the corpse were many more, a veritable carpet of tangled limbs and torsos that stretched all the way to the post.

George had half expected to see the storehouse in ruins, the defenders all slain, but, lining the ramparts, as they had done all night, were the gallant survivors of B Company, 2nd/24th. They had done it, exulted George; the post was safe and Chelmsford’s line of retreat secure.

George rose unsteadily to his feet. He felt faint from loss of blood, and it was as much as he could do to stagger a couple of steps towards the post, trying to avoid the bodies of dead Zulus as he did so.

‘Looks like a nasty scratch you’ve got there, sir,’ said Hook, noticing the blood soaking George’s left sleeve. ‘Let me give you a hand.’ Placing George’s right arm on his shoulder, he helped him towards the post. ‘Keep a keen eye out, sir,’ observed Hook as they walked. ‘I almost had my rifle taken from me by a Zulu who was shamming. I shot him in the end, but it was a close shave.’

‘Tell me about the fighting last night. What happened after the hospital was burnt?’

‘It was touch and go, sir. They drove us out of the stone kraal next to the storehouse, and Lieutenant Chard ordered us to make a last redoubt to put the wounded in. I thought it was all over then; we all did. But everyone fought like tigers, especially Lieutenant Bromhead, and the Zulus eventually lost heart.’

‘When was that?’

‘Well, the last full-scale rush was made at around nine thirty, though they kept firing from all sides until midnight. After that, the firing gradually died down, and by daybreak had stopped completely. Most left then, except for a few still gathered on a hill to the southwest. Before they left, though, they sang songs, like they were literally singing our praises. Sent a shiver down your spine, it did, sir.’

Well, that explains the singing in my dream, thought George.

‘Did Private Thomas make it?’

Hook shook his head and sighed. ‘I’m sorry to say he was killed during the final attack. He was trying to save a mate. It’s a crying shame after his heroics in the hospital. He was a fine young lad and deserved better. Did you know him well?’

‘Well enough,’ said George quietly. The news of Thomas’s death had suddenly drained him of what little energy he had left, and if Hook had not been supporting him, he would have fallen.

‘You all right, sir?’ asked Hook, tightening his grip.

‘Not really,’ said George, after a pause, ‘but I’m alive.’

‘And so, you’ll be pleased to hear, sir, is your horse.’

‘Is he? That’s wonderful. Where is he now?’

‘In the stone kraal.
We found him grazing in the vegetable garden, without a care in the world.’

George smiled ruefully. ‘I wish I felt the same.’

Hook helped George through a gap in the mealie-bag wall and into the inner redoubt. It was a shambles. Cartridges, shells, spears, bayonets and discarded helmets littered the floor. Everywhere
lay
sleeping soldiers, their faces blackened by gunpowder and soot from the hospital. Some were sitting next to the redoubt that Hook had mentioned, a tall circular structure a good twelve feet in diameter and at least twenty high. It was empty, the wounded having been removed to the storehouse veranda, where they lay in one long row, their bodies swathed in bloody bandages. Among them George recognized Dalton, Allen and Hitch, the last of whom was being tended to by Dr Reynolds.

‘One more for you, Doctor,’ said Hook cheerily.