there was frost in the low places when they started out.
A little before noon they saw the granite dome of Isandhlwana standing out against the sky and unconsciously they quickened their pace. Isandhlwana, the Hill of the Little Hand. Sean was limping for his boot had rubbed the skin from one heel. His hair was thick and matted with sweat and his face was plastered with dust. Even army bully beef is going to taste good, said Sean in English, and Mbejane did not answer for he did not understand, but he was looking ahead with a vaguely worried frown on his face.
INkosi, we have seen no one for two days, march. it comes to me that we should have met patrols from the camp before now. We might have missed them, said Sean without much interest, but Mbejane shook his head. In silence they went on. The hill was closer now so they could make out the detail of ledge and fissure that covered the dome in a lacework pattern. No smoke from the camp, said Mbejane. He lifted his eyes and started visibly.
What is it? Sean felt the first tingle of alarm. N'yoni, said MbeJane softly and Sean saw them. A dark pall, turning like a wheel slowly, high above the hill of Isandhlwana, still so far off that they could not distinguish the individual birds: only a shadow, a thin dark shadow in the sky. Watching it Sean was suddenly cold in the hot noonday sun. He started to run.
There was movement below them on the plain. The torn canvas of an overturned wagon flapped like a wounded bird, the scurry and scuffle of the jackals and higher up the slope of the kopje the hunch-shouldered trot of a hyena. Oh, my God! whispered Sean. Mbejane leaned on his spear; his face was calm and withdrawn but his eyes moved slowly over the field. Are they dead? Are they all dead? The question required no answer. He could see the dead men in the grass, thick about the wagons and then scattered more thinly back up the slope. They looked very small and inconsequential. Mbejane stood quietly waiting. A big black kolbes vulture planed across their front, the feathers in its wing-tips flated like the fingers of a spread hand. Its legs dropped, touched and it hopped heavily to rest among the dead, a swift transformation from beautiful flight to obscene crouching repose. It bobbed its head, ruffled its feathers and waddled to dip its beak over a corpse that wore the green Hunting Tartan of the Gordons. Where is Chelmsford? Was he caught here also?
Mbejane shook his head. He came too late. Mbejane pointed with his spear at the wide spoor that skirted the battlefield and crossed the shoulder of Isandhlwana towards the Tugela. He has gone back to the river. He has not stopped even to bury his dead. Sean and Mbejane walked down towards the field. On the outskirts they picked their way through the debris of Zulu weapons and shields; there was rust forming on the blades of the assegais. The grass was flattened and stained where the dead had lain, but the Zulu dead were gone sure sign of victory.
They came to the English lines. Sean gagged when he saw what had been done to them. They lay piled upon each other, faces already black, and each one of them had been disemboweled. The flies crawled in their empty stomach cavities. Why do they do that? he asked. Why do they have to hack them up like thatF He walked on heavily past the wagons. Cases of food and drink had been smashed open and scattered in the grass, clothing and paper and cartridge cases lay strewn around the dead, but the rifles were gone. The smell of putrefaction was so thick that it coated his throat and tongue like castor oil.
I must find Pa, Sean spoke quietly in almost a conversational tone.
Mbejane walked a dozen paces behind him.
They came to the lines where the Volunteers had camped.
The tents had been slashed to tatters and trampled into the dust. The horses had been stabbed while still tethered to their picket lines, they were massively bloated. Sean recognized Gypsy, his father's mare. He crossed to her. Hello, girl, he said. The birds had taken her eyes out; she lay on her side, her stomach so swollen that it was as high as Sean's waist. He walked around her. The first of the Lady-burg men lay just beyond. He recognized all fifteen of them although the birds had been at them also.
They lay in a rough circle, facing outwards. Then he found a sparse trail of corpses leading up towards the shoulder of the mountain. He followed the attempt that the Volunteers had made to fight their way back towards the Tugela and it was like following a paper chase. Along the trail, thick on each side of it, were the marks where the Zulus had fallen. At least twenty of them for every one of us, whispered Sean, with a tiny Ricker of pride. He climbed on up and at the top of the shoulder, close under the sheer rock cliff of Isandhlwana, he found his father.
There were four of them, the last four: Waite Courtney, Tim Hope-Brown, Hans and Nile Erasmus. They lay close together. Waite was on his back with his arms spread open, the birds had taken his face away down to the bone, but they had left his beard and it stirred gently on his chest as the wind touched it. The flies, big metallic green flies, crawled thick as swarming bees in the open pit of his belly.
Sean sat down beside his father. He picked up a discarded felt hat that lay beside him and covered his terribly mutilated face. There was a green-and-yellow silk cockade on the hat, strangely gay in the presence of so much death. The flies buzzed sullenly and some came to settle on Sean's face and lips. He brushed them away.
You know this man? asked Mbejane.
My father, said Sean, without looking up. You too. Compassion and understanding in his voice, Mbejane turned away and left them alone. I have nothing, Mbejane had said. Now Sean also had nothing. There was hollowness: no anger, no sorrow, no ache, no reality even. Staring down at this broken thing, Sean could not make himself believe that this was a man.
Meat only; the man had gone.
Later Mbejane came back. He had cut a sheet of canvas from one of the unburned wagons and they wrapped Waite in it. They dug his grave. It was hard work for the soil was thick with rock and shale. They laid Waite in the grave, with his arms still widespread in rigor mortis beneath the canvas for Sean could not bring himself to break them. They covered him gently and piled rocks upon the place. They stood together at the head of the grave. Well, Pa - Sean's voice sounded unnatural. He could not make himself believe he was talking to his father. Well, Pa - he started again, mumbling selfconsciously. I'd like to say thanks for everything you've done for me. He stopped and cleared his throat. I reckon you know I'll look after Ma and the farm as best I can, and Garry also. His voice trailed away once more and he turned to Mbejane.
there is nothing to say. Sean's voice was surprised, hurt almost. No, agreed Mbejane. There is nothing to say. For a few minutes long-a Sean stood snuggling to grapple with the enormity of death, trying to grasp the utter finality of it, then he turned away and started walking towards the Tugela. Mbejane walked a little to one side and a pace behind him. It will be dark bare we reach the river, thought Sean. He was very tired and he limped from his blistered heel.
Not much farther, said Dennis Petersen. No, Sean granted. He was irritated at the statement of the obvious; when you come out of Mahobals Kloof and have the Baboon Stroom next to the road on your left hand, then it is five miles to Lady-burg. As Dennis had said: not much farther.
Dennis coughed in the dust. That first beer is going to turn to steam in my throat. I think we can ride ahead now. Sean wiped at his face, smearing the dust. Mbejane and the other servants can bring them in the rest of the way. I was going to suggest it. Dennis was obviously relieved. They had almost a thousand head of cattle crowding the road ahead of them and raising dust for them to breathe. it had been two days drive from Rorkes Drift where the Commando had disbanded. We'll hold them in the sale pens tonight and send them out tomorrow morning, I'll tell Mbejane Sean clapped his heels into his horse and swung across to where the big Zulu trotted at the heels of the herd. A few minutes, talk and then Sean signalled to Dennis.
They circled out on each side of the herd and met on the road ahead of it.
They've lost a bit of condition, grumbled Dennis looking back. Bound to, sad Sean. We've pushed them hard for two days. A thousand head of cattle, five men's share of Cetewayo Is herds, Dennis and his father, Waite, Sean and Garrick, for even dead men drew a full share. How far ahead of the others do you reckon we are?
asked Dennis. Dunno, said Sean. It wasn't important and any answer would be only a guess: pointless question is just as irritating as obvious statement. It suddenly occurred to Sean that but a few months previously a question like that would have started a discussion and argument that might have lasted half an hour. What did that mean? It meant that he had changed. Having answered his own question, Sean grinned sardonically.
What're you laughing at! asked Dennis. I was just thinking that a lot has changed in the last few months. Ja, said Dennis and then silence except for the broken beat of their hooves. It's going to seem funny without Pa, Dennis said wistfully. Mr Petersen had been at IsandhIwana. It's going to seem funny being just Ma, the girls and me on the farm. They didn't speak again for a while. They were thinking back across the brief months and the events that had changed their lives.
Neither of them yet twenty years of age, but already head of his family, a holder of land and cattle, initiated into grief and a killer of men. Sean was older now with new lines in his face, and the beard he wore was square and spade-shaped. They had ridden with the Commandos who had burnd and plundered to avenge Isandhlwana.
At Ulundi they had sat their horses behind the ranks of Chelmsford's infantry in the hot sun, quietly waiting as Cetewayo massed his impis and sent them across open
