The Horns of the Buffalo (36 page)

Simon was aware that the members of the patrol were gathering round, listening to the conversation. ‘I've been held a prisoner by Cetswayo but I escaped and got to the camp just before the attack. There is no time to be lost.' He spoke with tired emphasis. ‘You must tell the General that he is in great danger, because I believe he has been lured away by the Zulus, who will now attack him. I must go to Rorke's Drift and Helpmakaar to warn them.'

He half turned to mount his horse, but as Simon had been speaking, incredulity had been growing in Covington's face. That arrogant sneer that Simon remembered so well replaced the look of astonishment and the Colonel grasped Simon's shoulder roughly and swung him round. ‘Oh no, Fonthill,' he said. ‘You're not going anywhere. You've been up to your old tricks, haven't you? Running away again. I don't believe a word of this rubbish. Sergeant, place him under arrest. This time you will be court-martialled, young man. I'll see to that.'

As Covington spoke, a great anger began to well up inside Simon. The agonies of the day - Jenkins's death, the horror of the battle, the memories of brave men dying - all merged in his mind into a great hatred of the sneering figure before him, who was now gripping his shoulder so tightly that he could feel the pain start again from the spear wound. Simon knocked away Covington's arm, swivelled from the hip and punched the man as hard as he could. It was a perfect uppercut, taking the Colonel cleanly on the point of the jaw and knocking him prostrate on the ground, where he lay, momentarily stunned.

Simon turned coolly to the sergeant. ‘Now, where is the General?'

The sergeant's mouth was hanging open. What he had heard and seen seemed to have stupefied him.

‘For God's sake, man,' Simon shouted. ‘Where is the General?'

‘Ah, er . . . he's about twelve miles or so back, up in the hills, er, sir.'

‘Right.' Simon gathered the reins of his horse and put one foot in the stirrup. He gestured to Covington, who was beginning to stir. ‘Tell that bloody man when he recovers that I've ridden to the border to give warning about the Zulus attacking. And tell him from me that if he doesn't ride back now and warn the General, I will make sure that he is the one who is court-martialled, not me.'

The sergeant suddenly seemed to remember that his commanding officer had been struck. ‘Hey,' he said. ‘You can't ride off. I don't know who you are but you've just struck a superior officer and I've got to place you under arrest.'

Simon swung into the saddle and looked down at the gaping faces below him. ‘Balls,' he said. He dug in his heels and set off for Rorke's Drift.

Simon pushed his horse as fast as he dared. There had been no attempt at pursuit by Covington's men but he knew that he had little time if he was to reach the mission station at Rorke's Drift before the Zulus and give warning so that some sort of defence could be mounted at Helpmakaar. He had no idea of how many men Chelmsford would have left at the river crossing, but it was highly unlikely that it would be enough to stem the horde of warriors who would cross the Buffalo, so his only realistic hope was that the invading impi would stop to take snuff and regroup before making the crossing. It was just possible that he could arrive in time to help the mission station garrison pull back to Helpmakaar. He took out the old timepiece that had somehow survived his many vicissitudes in Zululand. Two forty. God, it was only three hours or so since he and Jenkins had ridden into camp! A lurid, horror-filled lifetime had been packed into that time. Jenkins . . . Covington. What was the penalty for striking a senior officer? He forced himself to look ahead and not back.

He reached the Buffalo to find that it was in flood, with angry brown water bubbling between rocks. He turned his horse to the north and, after an anxious few minutes, found a track leading down to what, in normal times, would have been a drift. Now the crossing looked ugly but he put the reluctant horse into the strong current and found that by part swimming and part scrambling they could reach the safety of the Natal bank. Kicking in his heels, he forced the animal to climb the steep bank ahead, and at the top turned north again, following the riverbank for a while. Nandi had told him that the mission was set about 300 yards back from Rorke's Drift beneath a large hill known to the missionaries as Oskarberg, which was distinctive enough to be seen for some distance. Accordingly, he rode away from the river, in the hope of avoiding any parties of Zulus who might have crossed upstream and who would, he felt sure, follow the bank to the Rorke's Drift crossing.

After an hour of difficult riding, he crested a hill and there, about half a mile ahead of him, loomed the swelling that must be Oskarberg. But he had no eyes for that, for his vantage point also gave him a distant view of the Zulu side of the river and of the track that undoubtedly led down to Rorke's Drift. There, covering the gentle incline into Zululand, as far as his eye could see, sprawled hundreds - thousands? - of Zulus. He had arrived at the crossing at the same time as the Zulu horn. He was too far away to see the condition of the impis but the question now was: were the Zulus resting for a moment before making the crossing and launching the attack, or were they preparing to retreat back into Zululand? He protected his eyes with his hand and focused hard. No, clearly they were resting. If they had made an attack and been successful they would surely be on their way into Natal; if they had been repulsed, they would be limping back into their homeland. They were probably taking snuff and, as Simon had learned from Dunn, the light narcotics they often imbibed before a battle to prepare themselves for combat. Once more he dug his heels into the flanks of his tired horse and urged him on.

Twenty minutes later he was looking down at the mission station from the crest of the Oskarberg. To his amazement, the garrison of the little station had not left for Helpmakaar. On the contrary, they had clearly decided to stay and fight, for as he watched, he saw preparations being made to defend the station. The post consisted of two low thatched buildings about thirty yards apart, facing the river, with a square stone kraal at one end to act as a cattle pen. Soldiers were now manhandling wagons and what Simon recognised as large boxes of biscuits and mealie bags to form two defensive lines, linking the two buildings. Obviously this had been a supply base for Chelmsford's army and these supplies were now being pressed into service to defend the post. But - Simon's mind raced - hadn't Nandi mentioned that this was a forward hospital, too? Were the sick and wounded still inside or had they been sent back to Helpmakaar? He tried to count the able men working - less than a hundred, although there were some coloured horsemen milling around outside the barricade. The fools! How could they withstand an attack by four thousand Zulus? They would have had pickets out at the crossing and would know how many warriors they would have to face. Why hadn't they left? He urged his horse down the steep hillside, taking it at an angle, for the surface was made up of treacherous shingle and stone.

As he reached the bottom, a sad-faced officer with moustache and sideburns and wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of the 24th came forward to meet him. Simon recognised Gonville Bromhead, from the 2nd Battalion, and was not surprised to see him. Bromhead, considerably older than Simon, was regarded as a competent officer and came from a distinguished military family, but his promotion prospects had long been hampered by a chronic deafness which meant that he - and therefore his company - was often allocated tasks which would not impose heavy demands upon him. He had obviously been left behind to look after the hospital away from the difficulties and glory of the advance into Zululand. An invading column was no place for an ear trumpet.

Bromhead raised his heavy black brows. ‘Fonthill! Didn't expect to see you here. Where did you come from?'

‘Isandlwana. There's been a terrible massacre. Do you know about it?'

‘The battle? Is that where you've come from? I hear there's been a terrible to-do.'

Simon raised his voice. ‘There are a couple of Zulu impis who are about to cross the river to attack you. Why didn't you leave? Oh, never mind. Are you in command here?'

‘Command? Me? No. Major Spalding. But he's gone to Helpmakaar. Chap called Chard, a lieutenant of engineers, is in command. He's senior to me, you see.' Bromhead looked over Simon's shoulder. ‘Look here. You'd better come inside the perimeter. We've been told that a whole Zulu corps is coming this way. Did you see 'em?'

Simon nodded resignedly but led his horse behind Bromhead through the last gap in the defences. As they passed through, shirt-sleeved men of Bromhead's company pushed a couple of hundred-pound biscuit boxes into the gap and then threw equally heavy sacks full of mealies on top of them. The perimeter was now closed.

Lieutenant Chard, a big, black-bearded man, approached Simon and the formal introductions were made by Bromhead. ‘God,' Chard said, ‘you look all in. But I'm afraid you've fallen from the frying pan of one battle into the fire of another.'

Simon shook his head. ‘Don't worry about that. But does Helpmakaar know about the defeat and have they been warned that the Zulus are on their way?'

‘Oh yes.' His voice took on a sarcastic note. ‘Plenty of gallant soldiers have left Isandlwana to ride by us and break the news in Natal.'

Simon sighed. ‘I thought I would be the first,' he said. ‘But look, I think you should get out right away and make for Helpmakaar.'

‘No, we thought about leaving, but we have sick and wounded here and we could never have made it to Helpmakaar by wagon. The Zulus would have overrun us in the open and cut us to pieces. We decided to stay here and fight it out. We have plenty of ammunition and we can hold them up all right.'

Simon looked around him. The little post hardly presented the appearance of an impregnable fortress. A shelf ran round the base of the Oskarberg about four hundred yards away, high enough to command the interior of the post - and Simon had seen the Zulus at Isandlwana picking up Martini-Henry rifles. If they could shoot accurately, they could cause problems. Mealie bags had been thrust underneath the wagons, and the two lines of boxes and sacks looked substantial enough, but they stood less than five feet high. The two buildings formed the end of the redoubt and jutted out vulnerably. As Simon watched, he saw bayonets breaking through the plaster walls as rifle loopholes were made from within.

‘How many men do you have?' asked Simon.

Chard pulled at his beard. ‘I've got the eighty chaps of Bromhead's B Company, plus about thirty odds and sods of sick and wounded, some who can fight, some who can't.' He nodded to the building at the western end of the post. ‘That's the hospital and the weakest of them are in there. Difficult to defend - lots of little rooms with doors and windows facing outwards but no interconnecting corridor - but I've put a handful of men in with the sick to cover 'em. They've got the worst job but we've just got to do the best we can.'

He gestured to where a string of Natal Native Horse were trotting round the base of the Oskarberg to ride towards the drift. ‘These chaps are Durnford's men who rode in from the battle and I've sent them out as a cavalry screen to hold up the Zulu attack. They are a godsend. And, as you can see,' he pointed to where native troops armed with rifles outnumbered the infantrymen of the 24th at the barricades, ‘we have also picked up a whole bunch of the Natal Native Contingent. In all I've got about three hundred and fifty men. Just about enough to line the walls and keep the Zulus out. Now,' he smiled at Simon, ‘you can probably make it if you ride to Helpmakaar. Or you can stay and help us. But you'd better make your mind up fast.'

Simon sighed. ‘Of course I'll stay.' He was tired, his shoulder throbbed and his mind was in turmoil. Jenkins had been killed and he had hit Covington. He might as well stay and die with the rest of them - there was certainly no hope of surviving in this ramshackle little fort. ‘Put me where I can be of most use.'

Chard was about to reply when the horsemen who had trotted out to defend the crossing and the base of the Oskarberg were seen galloping back to the post. But instead of reining in at the barricades, they rode straight past - their faces creased in fear and their eyes wide. Their European officer pulled up and shouted across the barrier to Chard: ‘There are thousands of the bastards coming, man, and my lot have had enough. They won't take orders.' And with that, he dug in his spurs and rode off towards Helpmakaar, following his men.

A patter of shots was heard as the last of the riders rounded the hill, and that was enough for the native infantrymen manning the barricades. They threw away their rifles, vaulted the barricades and followed the mounted troops up the track towards Helpmakaar and safety. An angry shout went up from the men of the 24th at the mealie bags and some of them fired their rifles after the running men.

Chard looked around in horror. His barricades were now stripped of more than half of their defenders and huge gaps had appeared in the line. ‘My God!' he murmured, as much to himself as to Simon. ‘I'm down to a hundred and ten men.'

He turned to Simon. ‘I don't have enough bodies to man three hundred yards of barricades now,' he said. ‘Take six men and stretch a line of biscuit boxes across the middle of the compound from the front of the storehouse here to the middle of the wall over there, to bisect the yard. We can fall back here when we can't hold the line any longer. We'll just have to leave the poor devils in the hospital to look after themselves. Quickly now, they'll be on us soon.'

Indeed they were. Simon had hardly begun to detail a handful of men from the wall when he heard a cry from a look-out: ‘Here they come. Black as hell and thick as grass.' He looked up and saw the first impi swing into view around the flank of the Oskarberg, running in that flat, loose lope and aiming straight for the back walls of the post.