Time Commander (The First Admiral Series) (25 page)

The origins of the Anglo-Zulu War of 1879 were shrouded in the mists of claims, counter-claims, and argued opinions of later historians that made up the political skulduggery of the Victorian Colonial Era. The British, in a well-established, but poorly defended colony in Natal, were bordered to the north by the powerful and aggressive Zulu Empire. Since the early part of the 19
th
Century, the Zulu had been hungrily absorbing the other, smaller, tribes of the area into their empire; usually by military force.

Whether it was a combination of good old-fashioned British Imperial expansionism, the nervousness of a powerful, threatening army on the border, or just senior officers and officials seeking personal glory; Lieutenant-General Frederic Augustus Thesiger, the 2
nd
Baron Chelmsford was sent into Zululand in early 1879. Chelmsford; an experienced and competent officer, had led three columns into Zululand. It was the central column; which had crossed the Buffalo River into Zululand that had camped in the shadow of the mountain of Isandlwana on the evening of January 21
st
, 1879.

The following day, Chelmsford made the major error of splitting his forces whilst in enemy territory, taking more than half of his troops on a wild goose chase in search of the Zulu army to the west of the Isandlwana position. The Zulu army was, in reality, prowling the hilly country to the east of the Isandlwana position. Upon discovery by a British cavalry patrol the Zulus had attacked the Isandlwana camp immediately, ensuring that they had the all important element of surprise. Despite outnumbering the British forces by about sixteen to one, the initial Zulu attack had been contained. However, the British line eventually faltered, allowing the Zulu to invest the camp and all but wipe out the British contingent. Of the fifteen hundred British soldiers who fought at Isandlwana, only fifty survived the disaster.

The part of his mind that was Teg Portan quickly saw the flaws in the British positions. There was no defensive perimeter at the Isandlwana camp. From the description of the battle, Teg Portan would have noticed that the British firing line was spread too thinly over too much ground. The advantage that the British troops had was their superior technology in the shape of their firearms. The British had rifles that could kill or maim an enemy at over one thousand yards. The most effective strategy, to Teg Portan, would have been to pack the ranks of British soldiers close together and shoot down the Zulu as they attacked.

By cold mathematical logic, the British riflemen; firing ten to twelve rounds per minute, should have inflicted such high levels of casualties on the Zulus that they would be compelled to withdraw, in under ten minutes. A confused command structure in the camp also contributed to the disaster.

Chelmsford had left a Major, named Pulleine, nominally in charge of the camp. However, the arrival of a Lieutenant-Colonel named Durnford; who seemed to have the same gung-ho streak of perceived personal invincibility that George Armstrong Custer had possessed, added confusion to the mix. From the battle narrative, it appeared that the collapse of Durnford’s forces on the right wing of the battle was what allowed the Zulu to shatter the British lines. The more that Billy read of the battle, the more that the patriot within him had to acknowledge that the military realist; Teg Portan, was right. The British troops had simply been out generalled by a native army that their commanders had very badly underestimated.

Setting the folio down on the table, Billy sat back on the sofa and began to outline his Time Warrior strategy. Taking a long sip of Thallar, Billy knew where the British commanders had gone wrong and he knew how to correct those errors. There would be no “Washing of the Spears” as the Zulus had called the bloodbath at Isandlwana that day, not this time.

Not if Billy Caudwell had any say in the matter.

“
Now remember, it’s only dinner,” Elizabeth Caudwell nervously smoothed the imaginary creases out from her bright-red evening dress.

Standing in front of the full length mirror in her plush New York hotel suite, she surveyed the result of almost five hours of preparation for an evening meal with a man she had met only the day before. The dress, which had cost over four hundred dollars, fitted her so perfectly that it could almost have been made for her. Whoever had made it had been a genius, it accentuated her breasts and hips, but drew attention away from her midriff. It had taken almost two hours of viewing dresses that appeared to have been spray-painted onto those stick-thin models in the fashion house, before she had chosen this particular creation, along with four other similar gowns.

Her hair had been styled like that attractive blonde woman in that popular TV show that everyone was talking about. The hotel stylist, with the flamboyant taste in clothes; multi-coloured, striped trousers and a peach shirt with frills at the cuffs and down the front, had told her that she had a very elegant and beautiful neck that he should accentuate. In the worst French accent Elizabeth had ever heard, he had chattered and talked nonsense for nearly two hours as he created the masterpiece that became her hairstyle. The effect on Elizabeth was magical. Suddenly, she was able to see what Jean-Pierre had meant about her neck and shoulders; the swirl, which had appeared so tight in the mirror, felt light and comfortable.

After the make-up artist had worked his particular brand of magic, Elizabeth could barely recognise the vision that stared back at her from the mirror.

Elizabeth adjusted her bosom; so as not to show too much cleavage from the plunging neckline, and with one last look in the mirror and a deep sigh, she pronounced herself ready to be seen in public.

Grabbing her matching handbag, Elizabeth headed for the door of her six hundred dollar- per-night suite. Never, in all her life, had she stayed in such expensive accommodations. Even on her trip to London to sign her contract with Teddington Publications, she had slept in a twenty pound-per-night hotel; which she considered to be extravagantly expensive at the time. Still, this suite had a lovely view of Central Park, and apart from the occasional wail of police sirens, it was a wonderful memory of New York City.

Locking the door behind her, she made her way to the elevator. The red high-heeled shoes that she wore felt comfortable, and at the same time, showed off her shapely lower legs. She would most definitely be keeping this outfit for when she returned home. The thought of home, of John and Billy, made her pause at the elevator door.

“
What are you feeling so guilty about?” She was unable to shake off the feeling that she was about to do something wicked and forbidden.

“
It’s only dinner with a business acquaintance,” she convinced herself once more.

As she tried to shake off the feeling, Elizabeth climbed into the empty elevator, and found herself surrounded by her own image from the mirrored walls. Again, she checked that her lipstick was straight for the dozenth time, that her hair hadn’t come loose, and that her eye-shadow hadn’t smudged. Then, checking her cleavage once again, she decided not to adjust it this time.

“Well, if you’ve got it, Elizabeth…” She glared at her reflection as the elevator door opened with a sharp PING sound.

Walking through the opulently decorated, marble-floored lobby of the hotel, Elizabeth once again marvelled at the time and expense that must have been lavished upon this place.
Yes
, she thought to herself,
I could get used to living in places like this
.

“
Good evening, Missus Caudwell,” the reception clerk called from behind his desk.

“
Good evening, James,” Elizabeth said.

The hotel seems to have a policy of employing only people with photographic memories,
she considered.

Then she realised that as a best-selling author, she was going to be recognised by her readers everywhere that she went. As she drew closer to the broad and inviting restaurant doors, she began to feel the butterflies in her stomach. She also found herself starting to breathe slightly more heavily than she normally did, and her face felt flushed.

The Maitre D’ greeted her with a pleasant smile, and bid her good evening, again, using her name.

Oh, the price of fame and fortune
, she revelled, still flattered that someone else had recognised her.

“
Erm, I’m meeting a gentleman this evening, a Mister Lindstrom, from Millinghouse Publications?”

“
Ah, yes, Mister Lindstrom,” the Maitre D’ said, “please, follow me, Missus Caudwell.”

The restaurant itself looked like something from a Hollywood movie. The great crystal chandeliers hung from the cream-coloured ceiling and shot sparkling shards of brilliant light across the crowded room that danced and rippled across the walls and ceilings. The art deco mirrors arced and fanned across the brightly coloured walls giving a greater illusion of space, whilst at the same time making the place feel more crowded than it really was. The conversations, slightly above the level of a murmur, took place over immaculately groomed tables covered in starched, brilliant white linens and gleamingly polished silver cutlery. The cutlery politely clinked and clacked against the finest china, whilst expensive crystal glasses held even more ridiculously expensive imported wines.

The waiting staff, as immaculately turned out as the Maitre D’, hovered around their areas of responsibility, responding to the requests of their charges with ruthless politeness and efficiency.

“
It’s Elizabeth Caudwell!” a female voice whispered in a polite New York accent.

“
Who’s she?” Her gruff male companion’s accent was not quite so polite.

“
She wrote that Lost Little Angel book, you know, the one about the mother whose little daughter died?”

“
Oh,” the male voice grunted, “she the only broad in this world that ever lost a kid?”

The first voice to recognise Elizabeth was at once taken up by other diners, and like wildfire, the presence of the celebrity author was noted by the host of faces that turned to view the famous stranger in their midst. From the great throng of diners, one brave, solitary woman in a blue dress stood defiantly on her feet, and began to applaud.

“Lillian, you’re making a spectacle of yourself!” Her anxious female companion looked embarrassed.

“
It’s Betty Caudwell! Bravo, Missus Caudwell!!” Lillian led the blue gowned diner into a round of applause.

And, gradually one by one, then in pairs, and threes, then as a whole congregation, the patrons of the restaurant rose to their feet and applauded Elizabeth. Elizabeth, oblivious to the grand surroundings and the recognition of her fellow diners, suddenly found that her feet had become as heavy as lead.

From a distance of twelve feet, she clearly recognised the broad muscular shoulders and close-cropped blond hair of Peter Lindstrom. She instantly felt her heart beating a little faster, her mouth starting to dry, and the room suddenly became oppressively warm.

Catching her breath, Elizabeth forced one foot in front of the other, dragging herself to the table that had been reserved for them that evening by Peter Lindstrom. Her empty stomach rebelling with anxiety, she stepped forward, noting that Lindstrom was wearing one of those old fashioned shirts where the collar didn’t go all the way round. Still quite unable to believe that she was feeling like a giddy schoolgirl approaching her first crush, she followed the Maitre D’, hoping that she wouldn’t trip over her own feet.

Aware of the commotion around him, Peter Lindstrom turned in his seat and caught sight of Elizabeth approaching through the host of standing and applauding diners. Recognising her, he flashed that dazzling white smile that made her rebelling empty stomach feel like it had turned a complete somersault. Somewhere in a far away haze, she heard a small, pathetic whimper, unaware that the sound had come from her. Feeling slightly dizzy, and with that dreadful queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, she had enough presence of mind to manufacture the world’s most insincere forced smile.

Rising to his feet as she arrived at the table, Elizabeth barely noticed the black silk lapels to his immaculately tailored dinner suit, the dazzling white dress shirt, black cummerbund and bow tie.

She simply drowned in his perfect blue eyes, grinning like some village simpleton from a badly written Victorian novel. Behind her, the Maitre D’, bursting with pride at serving such a famous and popular guest, expertly drew out her chair and asked her to be seated.

For the first time, something other than Peter Lindstrom entered her consciousness, and she sat down with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, glad to be sitting down before she fell down.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“
You seem to have caused quite a commotion, Missus Caudwell.” Peter Lindstrom smiled.

“
I’m sorry?” She was still focussed on his pale blue eyes.

“
Your public is greeting you.” Lindstrom indicated the other diners looking in their direction.

Turning to her left, Elizabeth was suddenly aware of the other diners standing and applauding. When the realisation dawned upon her that the diners were applauding her, she jumped in her chair as if it had delivered an electric shock.