Warrior

But it was Fairbrother who got there first. He drove straight between Somervile and the nearest spear, cutting viciously at what would have been the lethal hand.

The warriors reeled at the sudden and unfamiliar, horse and blade. Two of them fell to the sabre's edge, and another to Somervile's second pistol.

Fairbrother's charger was disobliging, however, and circled large.

But Hervey had closed fast. He dropped the reins and drew his flintlock with his left hand, pulling back the hammer and firing into the face of a fourth warrior in one motion, his sabre cutting at the next. He put his horse at another, and the point finished the tumbled warrior.

The one remaining turned and ran. Hervey drew a second pistol, took angry aim, and brought him down at thirty yards.

'Somervile, you damned fool!' he bellowed as he turned, shaking with rage. 'You are not a soldier! Do as I say, for Christ's sake!'

Somervile looked thoroughly shaken. Indeed, he looked defeated.

'The kraal, now!'

'My dear Hervey,' he replied feebly, as if lost. 'I'm excessively grateful to you . . . and to you, Captain Fairbrother. I . . .'

Hervey cleared his throat. 'Forgive me; I spoke roughly. You fought like the devil.'

Corporal French had now joined them.

Hervey turned to him. 'Convey Sir Eyre to the kraal, if you please, Corp' French.'

'Colonel!'

'With your leave, Hervey?' asked Fairbrother, nodding towards the dragoons as they formed front midway to the advancing line of Zulus.

'By all means.' And then he smiled wryly. 'Not content with saving my life in this savage land, you save my reputation.'

Fairbrother returned the look of wryness in equal measure. 'I thank God I have only a reputation to make.' He touched his shako peak in salute and galloped off to the dragoons.

The two riflemen were doubling as best they could towards the scene of Somervile's blooding.

Hervey cantered up to them. 'You saw?'

'We did, sir,' they answered, breathing heavily.

'Yon little hill's a good place to see from. I'm sorry it's just the two of you, but we have at least cleared it!'

'Ay, sir. Very grateful on it we are,' they chirped, in the mordant humour of the battlefield.

As he returned their salutes and put his horse back into a canter, Hervey saw that the main body of Mbopa's force had begun advancing. He pulled up fifty yards in front of the sango to summon all the composure he could – not, for once, for the benefit of those who would derive encouragement from his mask of command, but for his own: he needed the clearest of heads to judge the action – to fight, or to make away. Ngwadi's warriors were beyond recall. They stood awaiting the charge of Mbopa's warriors with resolution and relish. If there were not so many more of Mbopa's Zulus now threatening their right flank, he would not have had to bring out the dragoons. And he could not withdraw his few riflemen – whose ammunition must now be depleted – for they were all he had left to cover his dash for escape with Somervile if the kraal looked like falling.

But for the steady crack of rifles – single, aimed shots – it was an eerily silent battlefield. Both the main body of Zulus and the two hundred on the flank advanced without battle cries or sound of any sort. Here before him, indeed, was a battlefield the like of Sparta, or Judea . . .

'Colonel Hervey, sir?'

French was back at his side.

Hervey smiled at the reassurance of a familiar face. 'Corp' French?'

'That Pampata, sir. Strong-willed is she. Young Toyne was detailed to cover her, but she's got herself her own little escort of warriors.'

Hervey shook his head. He could picture it well enough.

'And I missed being where I was meant to be again, sir – in that melee, I mean.'

'You did, Corp' French, but I perceive your sabre will soon be wanted,' replied Hervey, sighing, nodding towards Mbopa's host.

And even as he pointed, the numbers grew: as if to overawe Ngwadi's cohort at the very moment they needed their greatest resolve, three hundred more warriors rose up from behind the ridge, ready to hurl themselves down the slope and tip the balance of the fight. 'So now we see his design!'

'Ay, sir,' said French, grimly. He drew his sabre.

In half a minute more the eerie silence was gone. Now it was the clash of close battle.

And in but five minutes, the mathematics began telling, Ngwadi's line inching back.

Hervey spurred towards the riflemen. 'Corp' Cox, about face and extend! Enfilade if you please!'

Eight rifles against many hundred spears: a drop in the ocean – but what else to do?

Five minutes' enfilade fire, perhaps more, the shots finding their mark, but to no decisive effect.