Hervey 10 - Warrior (34 page)

But morning came peacefully, if overcast. Hervey had lain with his telescope trained on the distant kraal from the first signs of daylight, and observed only stillness – no smoke of cooking fires, no singing, no calling of the herd boys. He could not recollect so complete a flight in Spain or in India, and wondered on the fear that wrought it; and the peril which fear of that degree threatened.

They breakfasted quickly – cold, just smoked cheese and rum. He had considered striking camp and quitting the hillside while it was dark, but he could not be certain that his patrols would detect Mbopa's men in the pitch black, and to be caught off balance so might have gone badly for them. And so he had decided instead to follow the Indian practice –
chota hazree,
'little breakfast', then two hours' marching before an hour's off-saddling, a good mash of tea, and boiled bacon and biscuit.

They would divide into two parties. Somervile would go first to Ngomane's kraal, at Nonoti, and tell him what had happened (Pampata said they would find him willing to believe them, for the chief minister had always mistrusted Mbopa), and the other party would alert Ngwadi, Nandi's son, Shaka's best-loved half-brother.

Somervile had thoughts that Ngwadi might be vice-regent, for there would be need of a native minister. And when Pampata revealed that Shaka's son, by her great rival Mbuzikaza, would be at Ngwadi's kraal, raised by a nurse in the greatest secrecy, he became certain of it. Pampata should not go, therefore, to the chief minister's kraal, but to Ngwadi's, escorted by Hervey: she knew the way (it was a hundred miles, perhaps more), and was confident of her welcome there.

This troubled Hervey at first. His prime duty was the safety of the lieutenant-governor. But by degrees he accepted that this did not require his being at Somervile's side at all times: Fairbrother would accompany him to Ngomane's kraal, and Fairbrother he trusted as himself. It was not, after all, hostile territory, except (perhaps) where Mbopa stood. But he did insist that the major part of the force, the Rifles and half the dragoons, would escort Somervile to Nonoti; Captain Brereton he would take with him to Ngwadi's kraal.

Somervile's party was first to move off. So eager was Somervile to leave, indeed, that he himself disassembled his field bed while his two servants folded up his tent. He wished to arrive at Ngomane's kraal before Mbopa or his news, although Pampata said that even if they galloped the ten miles to Nonoti, they could not be sure of it, for news, especially evil news, travelled fast in this country.

Hervey's party was delayed, however. Pampata had first to be instructed – coaxed – into the saddle, and before that, accoutred in a manner more suitable for the journey (both for comfort and modesty). Johnson found her a pair of overalls, and a cape, but as they were making ready to leave, Pampata suddenly shrieked in dismay: she had left in the kraal the one thing that would reassure Ngwadi that she spoke the truth, for only death would have parted Shaka from it – the little toy spear with the red wooden shaft which Nandi had given him when a child. With a deal of gesture and pointing, she managed to make Hervey understand.

Reluctantly, he agreed to let her retrieve it, fretting that the sun was risen a good way further – half an hour and more, now, since Somervile's party had broken camp.

They formed column of twos – twenty-odd dragoons – and struck off, mounted, down the hill towards the kraal, Pampata's bat-horse on a lead rein in the charge of Farrier Rust.

At Shaka's private entrance to the
isigodlo,
in the outer fence, they halted. Hervey told Brereton to withdraw a hundred yards to the north and keep a sharp lookout over the kraal while he and Pampata went inside.

When the dragoons had withdrawn, the two slipped silently into the royal quarters. As they rounded the guard hut, Pampata gasped in delight: the
isigodlo
was covered in white blossom – a heavenly sign that her lord was favoured!

Hervey smiled, for not only was the blossom delightful, it was the first note of joy he had heard in Pampata. She was a stranger, but her grief had touched him.

'I would see the resting place of
Nkosi,
' she said.

Hervey hesitated . . . But he could not deny her one last glimpse of the grave. He nodded.

He half expected the
ndlunkulu
to have been rifled, but the great palace-hut was exactly as before. Pampata quickly found the spear, and a string of beads that had belonged to Nandi, but tears filled her eyes at the sight of the bed of leopard skins on which she and her lord had spent many a loving night.

'
Yiza,
come away,' said Hervey, softly, taking her arm.

Outside, Pampata braced herself, resolved to do what she must. They hurried to the inner entrance of the
isigodlo,
and thence for the grain pit.

But a sudden movement at the far side of the byre made him push her roughly to the ground and flatten himself beside her.

A cowherd, or a guard returning? '
Hlala!
Stay!' he whispered.

He inched towards the nearest hut to spy from the cover of its walls.

Pampata inched after him. Hervey tried to stop her, but she struggled with his restraining hand, and with a strength that took him aback.

'What is it you see?' she demanded, beneath her breath.

He gave up the struggle, rising to his knees to get a clearer look across the enclosure.

Pampata leaned on his shoulders to see. 'Mbopa!' she gasped. 'The hyena returns!'

Hervey's blood ran cold. He watched, trying to slow his rapid breathing as Mbopa and his henchmen picked over the blossomstrewn ground.

'He wears red!' hissed Pampata, angrily gripping his shoulders.

Mbopa was a hundred yards off, but the red-lory feather at his neck was plain to see.

Pampata was now beside herself. 'He declares himself a chief, though he is nothing but a common dog – and a murderer!'

Hervey tried to calm her –
subdue
her – fearing she would run at Mbopa and decry him in front of the guards. He struggled to explain: 'We must . . . watch what he does. If he looked for Shaka's body and . . . could not find it, he . . . might think it is . . . concealed here.'

But her eyes burned. She made to rise.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, made her look at him, stared hard into her eyes to impress his meaning.

She gave up struggling. She understood. There was even something in her look which spoke of relief to be yielding. Here was someone she might trust, whereas all her own people had done was wail in despair.

He motioned for her to inch back.

But Mbopa's men were now hastening towards the
isigodlo.

He pushed her to the ground again and flattened himself beside her.

They heard the warriors going in by the far opening in the hedge, not thirty yards from them – the bravado of those entering a forbidden place. He nodded to her; they crawled inside the hut.

But their line of escape was cut. They could only pray.

XVIII
PURSUIT

Minutes later

The Zulu ran in like hunting lions – from nowhere, with bewildering speed, pouncing, bringing down.

Brereton's right marker fell to a spear he did not even see, though a seasoned lance-corporal.

The dragoons, sitting at ease, smoking, exchanging the crack, were suddenly fumbling for sabre or carbine, too late to do other than desperately fend off the
iklwa.

Zulu dashed in low, spears ripping open the bellies of the horses, demounting the wretched dragoons to be finished off by others that followed.

Private Hanks, enlisted but a year, fell under his trooper's dead weight and fought like the devil as two warriors taunted him with the
iklwa
point and feinted with their shields, before disembowelling him alive.

Corporal Connell, Brereton's coverman, spurred forward to the aid of his captain, managing to get between his charger on the offside and the taller of two spearmen. He drove his blade down hard – Cut Two – but the toughened cowhide shield took the edge. The Zulu sidestepped and thrust his
iklwa
into Connell's thigh. The corporal's sword arm swung full circle, and the sabre came down again to an exposed head. The Zulu fell instantly to his knees, blood bubbling from the cleft in his skull like water from a spring. Connell was only a length in front of Brereton as he reined hard left to deal with the other warrior – but too late, for Brereton had taken a spear in his left side, deep. The Zulu, in his surprise at bettering so braided an adversary, stepped back instead of turning to meet the coverman. Connell, sabre lofted again, made his third cut in as many seconds more, and sent the man to his maker. Dropping his reins, he grabbed Brereton to hold him in the saddle, but a third Zulu sprang from nowhere to drive his iklwa through Connell's spleen.

Cornet Petrie, new out of Eton and the only other officer, by sheer agility held off three jabbing spears for a quarter of a minute, until he too fell to their combined points.

Two dragoons, old hands, stood back-to-back as their horses thrashed on the ground, entrails spilling out like offal on a butcher's block. It took a full minute for four times their number to cut both men down.

One by one the rest of the dragoons fell. Not a shot was fired – for there was not a carbine primed. Private Johnson, astride a Cape pony, holding Hervey's charger and his bat-horse twenty yards off, turned to make away, but a Zulu running like a gazelle caught them and lunged with his spear before he could get them into a gallop.

Johnson kicked out blindly, deflecting the point, which pierced his pony's flank instead. The startled mare and bat-horse bolted, but the charger stopped, the reins, looped round Johnson's wrist, jerking him clean from the saddle.

The Zulu pulled him to his knees roughly, raising his spear for the thrust to the heart. Suddenly the charger squealed, sprang forward and took off after the pony, dragging Johnson a hundred yards before both horses stopped. He scrambled to his feet, half stunned, swearing foully. He hauled Hervey's rifle from the saddle sleeve, checked there was a percussion cap in place, then dropped to one knee to take unsteady aim at the pursuing warrior.

The shot was ear-splitting. The bullet found its mark, a perfect mark, in the Zulu's breast.

'Bastard kaffirs!' spat Johnson. 'Bastard, bastard, bastards!'

He took the cartridge bag from the saddle and began reloading as he walked back towards the slaughter.

He fired three times – and three more Zulu fell. Only when he was too close to reload again did he perceive the danger, or that there was no dragoon still standing.

Hervey, hearing the first shot, had made to rise, but stopped himself just in time as warriors began running from the isigodlo in alarm.

One shot: what was Brereton
doing
?

And then three more.

But all he could do was wait – and trust to Brereton to deal with whatever it was.

They lay a long ten minutes. When at last he thought it safe enough, they began to crawl towards the inner line of huts. From here they were able to work their way, one hut to another, to the edge of the
isigodlo,
and thence dash, crouching, round its thorn fence to the serving-girls' entrance in the outer thorn fence on the far side of the kraal. They crawled on hands and knees for three hundred yards, and then another hundred, leopard-like, through the long, ungrazed grass just without the kraal, which was reserved for the serving-girls to gather flowers, to a bushy rise to the north-west. He reckoned he might be able to see the troop from here.

He peered above the waist-high grass, but could see nothing. What was Brereton doing? All he had told him to do was watch the kraal. Had he taken off in pursuit of Mbopa's men?

They crawled onto the forward slope, to a wild pear tree. He rose to his feet, out of sight of the kraal, to gain a clearer view.

He froze. His gut felt as if it had been torn open. Even without his telescope he could see – Zulu, a hundred and more, stripping the dead like the peasants at Waterloo. Here and there a troop horse stood obligingly. The rest were vulture meat.

There would be no human survivors. This much he knew. And Johnson would be there. What could have happened that twenty men were overwhelmed, and but a few shots? If some had got away, where were they now? Why could they not show themselves? The Zulu could not touch them beyond a spear's throw. Why, in that case, had those who escaped not just retired out of range to fight back with the carbine? Even if Brereton had lost his head there was Serjeant Hardy . . . No; Hardy was with Somervile. He had insisted that Hardy go as first cover. But there was Connell . . .

He lowered himself to his forearms again, his face drained of all colour, his eyes misted.
Johnson
– his old friend, Georgiana's old friend, Henrietta's: he had not drawn a sabre or carbine in years. This was no sort of death for his old friend. It was no death for anyone. Not a soldier's death with but four shots. Had they been duped? Had the Zulu approached them under parley flag, and then turned on them treacherously? How could he know? How would he ever know, unless he caught Mbopa and made him speak the truth?