Zulu Hart (44 page)

Reynolds looked round. ‘Hart, you’re alive!’

‘So it seems.’

‘Come over here, old fellow, and I’ll take a look at that arm.’

Reynolds inspected the wound. There were two neat gashes on either side of the bicep, both still seeping a little blood. ‘The good news is that it’s just a flesh wound, though it’s going to be a while before you can use the arm again. I’ll get it properly dressed and then you can rest.’

As the doctor worked, George began to take in the atmosphere of stunned relief in the camp, but all he could think was that it had been the most ghastly twenty-four hours of his life. His best friend was
dead,
as was the young soldier he had met on the ship, not to mention countless others, British and Zulu.
And why?
Because a handful of greedy and ambitious men had deliberately engineered a war for their own ends, and because a weak-willed general had allowed his strategy to be manipulated by subordinates with their own selfish agenda.

George’s melancholic thoughts were interrupted by Lieutenant Chard. ‘Hello, Hart. So you’re alive. But where on earth have you been?’

George blinked his eyes open. Chard was standing there, hands on hips, an enquiring look on his face. ‘Where have I been?’

‘Yes. We all thought you’d been killed in the hospital.’

‘No, sir, just wounded,’ said George wearily. ‘I managed to get out after the roof collapsed, but then must have blacked out through loss of blood. I spent the night lying amongst the enemy dead.’

‘I see. So you never had the opportunity to return to your post before you collapsed … ?’

‘No!’ said George indignantly. ‘In any case I was surrounded by hundreds of Zulus who would happily have dispatched me if they had known of my presence.’

‘All right, all right.
I need to get some details for my report, but I can see you’re tired so we’ll talk about this later.’

‘Lieutenant Chard!’ shouted a lookout from the roof above.

Chard stepped off the veranda and looked up. ‘What is it, Private?’

‘There’s a large column approaching the drift.’

‘Is it friendly?’

‘It’s hard to tell.’

‘Can you see any redcoats?’

‘A few, sir, but most are natives.’

‘Oh God,’ muttered Chard. ‘Please don’t let them be Zulus.’

Bromhead walked over, sipping from a bottle of Indian pale ale.
‘Something amiss, John?’

‘I don’t know. Your lookout’s reported a large column of natives heading for the drift. Some are wearing redcoats, but they could have got them from Isandlwana, or even from Chelmsford’s column. Better order your men to stand to.’

‘Stand to!’ roared Bromhead.

All around, the fatigued soldiers were rousing themselves, grabbing their rifles and taking their places on the reduced perimeter. George picked up a discarded rifle with his good hand and joined them. The men looked shattered but determined, and George knew they would fight tooth and nail if the column did prove to be hostile.

As the seconds ticked by, and no word came from the lookout, few spoke and the air was thick with tension.

‘What can you see?’ demanded Chard.

‘I can see a flag,’ called the lookout.

‘What kind of a flag?’ asked
Bromhead.

‘Does it matter?’ said Chard. ‘The Zulus don’t carry flags. It must be Lord Chelmsford.’

The lookout provided confirmation. ‘It is, sir. I can see
horsemen
, and white faces. They’re ours all right.’

‘Thank God,’ said Chard, bowing his head in relief. ‘Now, where’s that beer, Gonny? I’d kill for a swig.’

The first riders across the drift were the redcoats of Colonel Russell’s Mounted Infantry, followed a few minutes later by Lord Chelmsford, Colonel Crealock, Henry Fynn and the rest of the staff. Their arrival at the battered post was met with wild celebration as the able-bodied defenders danced jigs, threw their hats in the air and cheered themselves hoarse. Chard and Bromhead confined themselves to broad grins as they waited to greet the general in front of the smoking ruin that had once been the hospital.

Chelmsford dismounted and clasped both officers warmly by the hand. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep, his uniform crumpled, yet his expression was that of a condemned man granted a last-minute reprieve. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, with tears in his eyes, ‘we owe you our lives. We feared the worst when we saw the flames last night. I can’t tell you what a relief it was to hear your cheers and know the post was still in your hands. You have saved Natal. However did you manage it?’

Chard spoke first. ‘I don’t rightly know, my Lord. There were so many of them we never thought we could hold on. We shot them down in the hundreds but they just kept coming. It went on for hours, long into the night.’

‘How many did you lose?’

‘Fifteen dead, my Lord, and about the same number wounded, two seriously. We were down to our last box and a half of ammunition when they gave up.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Chelmsford, shaking his head in admiration. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it possible.’ For a moment he seemed lost in wonder; then, as if suddenly realizing that the occasion demanded more of him, he said, ‘You have performed one of the most courageous feats of resistance in the history of the army, and you and your men deserve every accolade. Were there any particular acts of gallantry?’

‘My Lord,’ said Bromhead, ‘every man was a hero. I lost count of the times that I thought the perimeter was gone for good, only to see someone put himself bodily in the breach and beat them back with a bayonet. With the hospital gone …’

‘The hospital, you say?’ pressed Chelmsford, when Bromhead paused.

‘Some of my men were stationed in the hospital, my Lord. They helped to rescue the patients after we’d been forced to abandon that part of the perimeter in the evening. The Zulus set fire to it. And the rooms in the hospital have very few connecting doors. The soldiers were forced to knock holes in the walls as they moved from room to room.’

‘How many patients did they save?’

‘Thirteen, my Lord. Only four perished.’

‘Incredible. Who was the last man out?’

‘I think it was Second Lieutenant … No, in fact it was Private Hook.’

‘Fetch him, will you, Bromhead? I should like to congratulate him.’

A sergeant was dispatched to fetch Hook, who was making tea for the wounded and sick in front of the storehouse. He appeared a minute or so later, an unlikely looking hero in his shirtsleeves, with his braces hanging down.

‘Lieutenant Bromhead tells me,’ said Chelmsford in a fatherly tone, ‘that you were the last one out of the hospital and that - thanks to you and four others - the patients were saved.’

‘Not the last one out, my Lord,’ said Hook, a sheepish expression on his face. ‘That was Lieutenant Hart, who was organizing the rescue, like.’

‘Did you say Lieutenant
Hart
? Second Lieutenant George Hart?’

‘Yes, sir, though I never heard his Christian name.’

Chelmsford turned to Bromhead. ‘You never mentioned Hart. I thought he’d perished at Isandlwana.’

‘No, my Lord.
He escaped before the end and brought us an order from Colonel Durnford to fortify the post and hold on at all costs.’

‘Did he indeed? And he was also involved in the hospital rescue, Hook?’

‘Yes, sir.
Second Lieutenant Hart helped me and Privates

Thomas and Withams get the patients through a hole we’d made in the wall and into the end room, where we met up with Bob and Bill Jones and the patients they was guarding, fifteen in all. The two Joneses guarded the hole while we got the patients out through a small window, assisted on the outside by Corporal Allen and Private Hitch. One patient was killed crossing the yard, but the rest escaped.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Lieutenant Hart told the five of us to get out, and Thomas was the last.’

‘And Hart?’

‘He went back to get Sergeant Maxfield: he was delirious and refusing to leave. That was the last we saw of the second lieutenant. We thought he was dead. That is, until this morning, when I found him unconscious in a ditch outside the post, with a badly wounded arm. He was the real hero of the rescue, sir. We couldn’t have got out without him.’

At this point Colonel Crealock leant forward and whispered in the general’s ear. Chelmsford nodded and asked, ‘Where is he now?’

‘On the veranda of the storehouse with the rest of the wounded, my Lord.’

‘Thank you, Hook. The gallant deeds you and your comrades performed last night will not be overlooked. But now I should like to speak to Second Lieutenant Hart in private. Can that be arranged, Chard?’

‘Of course, sir.
I’ll have him moved to a room in the storehouse.’

‘Good, and then I would like to speak to you again.’

George had demanded to know why he was being separated from the rest of the wounded, but the soldiers who assisted him would only say it was at the general’s request. So none the wiser, still angry with Chard for his grudging attitude and discomforted by the nagging pain in his arm, he was in exceedingly low spirits by the time Chelmsford and his scheming military secretary made their appearance, shutting the door behind them. George had been put in the main storeroom off the veranda, a large space with a single high window that was packed with boxes of tinned meat and biscuits. George’s campbed occupied most of the remaining floor space, leaving just enough room for two rough wooden chairs, which Chelmsford and Crealock now occupied.

‘I’m glad to see you made it, Hart,’ said Chelmsford. ‘You’ve got quite a story to tell your grandchildren.’

‘I have indeed, my Lord,’ said George coldly, ‘and not all of it reflects credit on those involved.’ He glared at Crealock.

‘No, indeed,
which is why I choose to speak to you in confidence.
Lieutenant Chard has informed me of your services yesterday. Very creditable, I must say, up until the point you went missing.’

‘Missing?
I was—’

‘Trying to avoid capture? Lying low for a while? I understand. You’d had a long, traumatic day. Anyone would have done the same thing.’ George was furious at Chelmsford’s imputation, but the general raised his hand for silence and continued. ‘But I’m not interested in that so much as the sequence of events at the camp yesterday. You were
present,
I take it, during the battle?’

‘I was.’

‘And you spoke to Colonel Durnford?’

‘I did. I accompanied him on his reconnaissance out of the camp with the intention of carrying on back to the Mangeni, in line with your orders. But the Zulus attacked and I never got the opportunity.’

‘So you say, but can you explain why, in contravention of a direct order to take command of the camp and act on the defensive, Durnford took part of his force away from the camp and thereby enabled the Zulus to overwhelm it? If he had concentrated his force, and utilized the material at hand for a hasty entrenchment, I feel sure the Zulus would never have been able to dislodge him.’

‘You may be right, my Lord. I said the same to Colonel Durnford at the time. But he had received a report that the Zulus were retreating, and wanted to intercept them before they could attack
you.
He did not, however, disobey orders, because he was never told to take command of the camp. The order he received, written by Colonel Crealock here, simply instructed him to march at once to the camp with all his force. I know because I read it.’

Chelmsford turned to Crealock. ‘Is that true?’

‘No, sir,’ said Crealock, his face betraying no hint of his mendacity. ‘I distinctly wrote he was to “take command” of the camp. And on arriving at the camp he should have inherited the orders that Clery left for Pulleine, namely that he was to act strictly on the defensive.’

George listened in disbelief. He knew that Crealock was lying, but with Durnford dead it would be difficult to prove. What George could not decide was whether Crealock was acting on his own initiative or with Chelmsford’s encouragement. He suspected the former, because the motive was obvious: to exonerate Chelmsford for the disaster at Isandlwana and put the blame on the dead Durnford, a convenient scapegoat; only that way could Crealock hope to obscure the real reason that he and Fynn had encouraged Chelmsford to split his force and attack Matshana.

‘That’s not how I remember it, my Lord,’ said George, ‘but there’s one way to settle this. I assume Colonel Crealock made a copy of the order?’

‘Of course,’ said Crealock, ‘but I left the order book in the camp and it’s probably been destroyed.’

‘Very convenient.
I can see what you’re trying to do, Colonel, but it won’t wash. I know what I read.’

‘What you
think
you read,’ said Chelmsford, rising to his feet in annoyance. ‘Do you doubt the colonel’s word? It’s your word against his. Who do you think is going to be believed? But let’s not bicker. I’m going to be honest with you, Hart. I made mistakes during the campaign, I know that now. I relied too heavily on Fynn’s intelligence, and missed the signals that the Zulus were planning to attack the camp. But I still maintain that if the troops had been properly handled, the camp could have been saved. They weren’t, and Durnford must take the blame.’