Company Of Spears

‘I reckon on two thousand, sir. And then that dust yonder must mean there’s as many more.’

Hervey peered through his telescope again at the distant cloud. No matter how green the country there was always dust. How distant it was difficult to tell – the featureless veld, the sun in their eyes – but it must be far enough not to have caught the rain of the predawn. Perhaps, then, they had a little more time than he supposed: these advance guards, as they must be, would probe rather than commit themselves to a fight if they were not sure of overwhelming their opponents. That, at least, was the received wisdom in His Majesty’s army. But it was perfectly possible that in Shaka’s they did things differently.

But where were the Zulu’s scouting parties? ‘Have you seen ought else, Corporal Wick? Scouts, men moving independently?’

‘No I haven’t, sir. Not a bird or nothing.’

Hervey was calculating as he spoke. The ground had no features by which to judge the distance perfectly, but since to the naked eye the Zulu were clearly afoot rather than mounted, by the usual yardstick it meant they were no more than seven furlongs off – say five since it was possible to make out their gait. And at their loping jog-trot (say five miles in the hour) – that would make seven or eight minutes at most before they closed.

‘Corporal Dilke, silent-signal for the troop and Rifles to advance at the trot.’

His trumpeter turned and began raising and lowering both fists (left for the Rifles, right for the troop) as if he were pulling a beam-pump.

In seconds the line of blue began advancing, then the green.

Meanwhile Hervey scanned the plain through his telescope. ‘Not exactly Chobham Common, is it, Corporal Wick?’ he said in a manner convincingly cool.

‘Sir?’

‘The last time I seem to recall you were scouting in similar circumstances.’

Wick looked at Hervey, astounded. ‘‘Ow’d you remember that, sir? It were years ago!’

The strange Shrewsbury vowels always reminded Hervey of school, where Wick’s father had been gatekeeper. ‘All of ten, I think. We did rather well in those manoeuvres, as I recall.’

‘Well we did, sir!’ But Wick had been an eighteen-year-old recruit; in ten years he had seen enough to know the difference between a field day and real fight. Nevertheless, if Colonel Hervey was conducting himself now as if he were at a field day, then who was he to worry?

Hervey checked the flanker scouts through his telescope. They were probing a furlong or so behind the ridge, left and right, keeping an eye on any little fold in the ground which crafty Zulu might use to outflank them. He took satisfaction in that: it was exactly as they had drilled at Hounslow. Things were working.

He glanced back at the advancing line of blue, and behind it the green. Two hundred yards, and a little more: it would do. ‘Corporal Dilke, signal “Halt”.’

The trumpeter stood in his stirrups again and raised his hand. The lines quickly came back to the walk and then halt.

Hervey observed the Zulu’s progress. Five more minutes, he reckoned. ‘Very well. Remain posted till I return, Corporal Wick.’ He reined Gilbert about and spurred into a gallop back down the slope, Fairbrother, coverman and trumpeter following hard.

Fearnley, and Welsh at his side, saluted as he approached. ‘Rifles loaded, but not carbines, Colonel,’ said the lieutenant.

‘Very good. Firelocks dry enough?’

‘I trust so, Colonel,’ replied Captain Welsh.

‘Very well. The Zulu are advancing in twelve columns, without skirmishers so far as I can see. I estimate perhaps two thousand in the mile hence, and as many more at least beyond them. I intend to try parley. Mr Fearnley, bring up the troop to just below the crest and then on to it when I go forward.’

‘Colonel.’

‘If parley fails, I reckon I can gain a minute at most on them back to the ridge. When you see that, I want you to take the troop to the left flank – the ground looks a fraction better that way – and stand ready in line in dead ground to take any advantage once they broach the crest. But listen hard for the trumpet for recall. No running on!’

‘Colonel.’

‘Captain Welsh, your company to check them as they broach the crest. Is the range to your liking?’

‘Two hundred and fifty yards, and Zulus tight-packed? Admirable, Colonel.’

Hervey was sure of it. He had watched the riflemen put bullet after bullet into the target at two hundred. ‘How many rounds can you get off from crest to here?’

Welsh had already calculated. He could fire two rounds a minute at least, and all his riflemen carried spare balls and powder flasks as well as the prepared cartridges; a charging Zulu might cover the ground in … a minute? ‘Five, perhaps six. Better we snipe them at the crest, though, and open a general fire as they come down the slope.’

And then they would have to remount in good time, Hervey knew: they could not take on an unending swarm of Zulu with the bayonet. He nodded. ‘Very well. Three rounds, then withdraw as they get to a hundred yards. Rally on that last ridge we crossed.’

‘Three rounds it will be, Colonel. One hundred and forty rifles: four hundred and twenty corpses.’

Hervey smiled. A happy warrior indeed, Captain Welsh. He supposed that if all his riflemen were of the same spirit, the horse-holders would be prodigiously frustrated.

A different voice now hailed him: ‘May I ride with you, Hervey? I should so very much like to see how these things are done.’

Hervey turned to see Sam Kirwan in his fore-and-aft, as incongruous a hat in the field now as once it had been commonplace. He smiled again: a happy warrior-veterinary. ‘Have you ever unsheathed that sword, Sam?’

The veterinary surgeon judged the question rhetorical.

But Hervey did not forbid it. Sam Kirwan reined up alongside Serjeant Wainwright, and opened his notebook.

Hervey at once took off back to where Corporal Wick stood resolutely observing the Zulu.

‘Still coming on, Colonel,’ said Wick as Gilbert almost stumbled to a halt next to him.

Hervey took out his telescope for one last look before the parley.

Sam Kirwan closed with him and slipped from the saddle. ‘Gilbert’s running uneven, Hervey. Let me take a look.’

Hervey had noticed nothing: any horse could stumble, and they were none of them too fresh. ‘What—’

‘Breathing’s very irregular, and the pupils are like saucers. Hervey, you’d better change horses. He looks as though he could drop at any moment.’

Hervey jammed the telescope back in its holster. ‘Very well, but after I’ve had the parley. This isn’t the time to be changing horses.’ He glanced behind.

The troop was beginning to come up the slope.

‘Time to introduce ourselves to the Zulu, I believe.’ He squeezed Gilbert’s flanks – just a touch with the lower leg – and the gelding stepped off at once.

There was no white flag. Hervey was sure it would mean nothing to the Zulu, and in any case he disliked the practice since it restricted his freedom of action. Instead the little party advanced towards what he presumed was the leading column, where he supposed he would find either the commander of this host or else an officer who would know where the commander was. Fairbrother rode at his side, and to the rear of them Wainwright and Corporal Dilke, and behind them Sam Kirwan.

They began to trot. Hervey felt at once that Gilbert had lost his spring. The horse was indeed tired; perhaps he would change to his second as soon as he got back to the ridge (Johnson, for sure, would be there waiting for him). But this slope was kind; they could take it in an easy canter down to the Zulu, and it would not tax them greatly to regain the crest afterwards – even if they had to make a run for it.

He glanced over his shoulder again. There was the troop in impressive line along the ridge, motionless, two hundred yards of blue and yellow, and white-topped. But, strangely, he found himself wishing it were a furlong of red: there were times (very few, but this was one) when he knew that Nature’s own colour of danger magnified the