Warrior

Zulus' country which the British traders at Port Natal had noted ('surveyed' would have been too exact a term for the exercise). He had had a dozen copies made, drawn in an indelible ink by the troop clerk, and he had been able to commit every detail to memory. He tucked the map into an inside pocket of his dolman, confident that when he next took it out it would be to add to it rather than to consult.

It was in refastening the black buttons of the dragoon-fashion coat that he became conscious of the occasion: the expedition was the last time he would wear the green of the Rifles. Next he would exchange the blue of the Sixth for the scarlet of the infantry. He would thereby leave behind the world of semi-independence that was the light dragoon's (and in large measure the mounted rifleman's too) for the close order and volleying of the Line. And he thought to savour it one last time. He certainly had no intention of trying to re-form the 81st Foot in the image of the Sixth, for he had seen for himself the effect of volleying often enough. He had begun to doubt the musket, thinking it a thing of antiquity, for the rifle was more accurate and had the greater range. Single, aimed shots were surely the future? But then at Umtata, even against a foe as active in using ground as any he had seen, Colonel Mill's double rank of red (six volleys in every minute) had been as solid a wall as on that day in 1815 when the cream of Bonaparte's Grande Armee had tried to break its way through to Brussels. The shock of so many muskets firing as one was ever great. 'They came on in the old way, and we saw them off in the old way!'

The Zulu selected their lines of advance with cunning, using the folds of the ground to conceal their approach (in the prelude to Umtata he had twice found himself all but surrounded), but they fought shoulder to shoulder. Fought with the utmost courage. Rarely had he seen an opponent persist in the face of such volleying as the Fifty- fifth's. Then again, it had been the first time they had even seen a wall of red, let alone felt its fire.

How intelligent were these Zulu? Shaka, by all reports, was a warrior whose instinct for battle had forged the entire Zulu nation. Hervey could not but imagine that he would be thinking even now how to recast his army, in light of the reports of Umtata. Whatever Somervile might gain from this expedition by way of a treaty, he himself had but one object beyond the lieutenant-governor's safety: to discover how Shaka meant to fight if it came to war.

Reliant dropped anchor. Port Natal was but a sandy bay, with only a wooden jetty, though a fair haven; and a very fair prospect. Hervey thought he had never spied so pleasant a spot – the still blue water, the breakers beyond the sand bar, the wide, white beaches shimmering in the spring sunshine; and the rolling green hills, with here and there a red scar where the earth was scraped bare by the hand of nature or those of the settlers, few that they were. It was a land well watered, fertile, rich with game. He perfectly saw why its native tenants would be jealous of any that might threaten their title, although Shaka had been generous in welcoming the white man, making a gift of the bay, indeed.

Why, then, did Shaka wish to take the territory of the Xhosa? It was not nearly so abundant. Whence came the impulse for this difaqane, as the Xhosa called it, this crushing and scattering of every neighbouring clan and tribe? Could it really proceed from some urgent need of the Zulu for land? Or was it from something within Shaka himself? By all accounts he was no mere savage, rapacious, as any predatory beast. It seemed to Hervey that the selfmade king of the Zulu perceived the situation of a nation without natural borders – the necessity for an active policy of war rather than waiting only on the defensive – as perfectly as had Frederick the Great himself . . .

Fairbrother, who had been observing the shore from the other side of Reliant's quarterdeck, came across to where Hervey stood, by the starboard shrouds. 'Well, Colonel Hervey, what emotion is masked by that countenance of command?'

Hervey turned. 'I was contemplating the relative draughts of our ship and of the Severus. She went in unchecked, and yet we scraped our bottom a good minute on the sand bar – and she with a deck of twelve-pounders and all.'

It was true that Reliant had followed exactly the course of the accompanying brig, but Fairbrother was disinclined to believe that nautical details were occupying his friend's mind at this time. Nevertheless he humoured him. 'I had half hoped that we would be grounded, for I wanted to see what the steam tug would do. She's been of no use since we set sail.'

That was to be applauded, however, for they had had favourable airs since putting out of Cape Town. They had, in fact, made the passage in five days: a steady nine knots.

Hervey shrugged. 'I fancy if she had grounded we could have lightened her by swimming the horses ashore, and she would have refloated of her own accord. I swam my best mare further at Madras, and that through breakers twice as big as those yonder.'

He had expected they would have to swim them ashore here too, but the Reliant's master reckoned on getting close in – a hundred yards, he had promised. And he was as good as his word, for Reliant was now swinging round on her bow anchor, so that they would be able to get out the horses from the larboard entry port, but a stone's throw from the beach.

The master's words of command interrupted their speculation. 'Let go!'

The stern anchor dropped to arrest the swing.

At once Serjeant-Major Collins began mustering the dragoons. They would land by boat to be ready to catch the troopers (he had already chosen the lead horses, those good to call, so that the more wayward animals would herd-to in the shock of finding themselves in the water).

'A boat for yourselves, gentlemen?' asked the bosun.

Hervey looked about for Somervile, for it was his decision. 'I don't see the lieutenant-governor, Mr Caute.'

'I believe I saw him go to his cabin as we came in the bay, sir.'

'Mm.' A letter to write, perhaps – a despatch for the returning tug to take. 'I myself am content to stay aboard until the horses are ashore.' There was little he could do until his own chargers were disembarked; and in any case, he wished to observe what Captain Brereton did.

Somervile came on deck five minutes later, by which time the first of the boats was in the water and pulling for the beach. Another was pulling from the shore and making for Severus. 'Our welcoming party, I perceive,' he said, observing its white-faced occupants. 'Not unreasonable for them to suppose we are aboard the brig.'

'Especially not as one of them wears the uniform of the service, Sir Eyre,' replied Fairbrother, his telescope lighting on a dark blue jacket. 'Mr King, I imagine.'

Somervile looked content. 'Our expedition begins well, then.'

Some moments of contemplating the prospect followed until Fairbrother broke silence. 'Ah, the boat is now bound for us,' he reported, seeing it striking out again from Severus.