There was a small farmhouse, its roof ripped off by artillery fire and the walls smashed and mostly knocked down. On the eastern side she found a small storm cellar for storing goods, accessible through an opening covered with a thick wooden plank. As quietly as possible, she pulled the plank up and peered in. She slid the shovel inside, then followed it. It was not large enough for her to fit with the case and suit.
Earhart began to dig.
“They are fighting in earnest,” Lincoln said as he shifted through the mound of telegrams on his desk. As the day had changed into night, the situation had become a little · clearer. “All around Gettysburg is as you said it would be,” he added, glancing up at his wife.
Mary Todd Lincoln was in the middle of the room, seated on a couch. Her head was back and her eyes were closed. She was in the midst of one of her migraines and although Lincoln had insisted she take to bed, she had refused.
“As near as I can tell, reading general-speak,” Lincoln continued, “today was a stand-off with heavy casualties on both sides. The latest cable from Meade says he will hold his ground. Now if General Lee would oblige and attack him, tomorrow — this day, actually — might bring some conclusive result.”
“What happens here,” Mary said, “what happens now, is not as important as the larger war, the larger battle.”
“It matters to the men who will fight the battle,” Lincoln said. “Those who will die or be maimed for life.”
Mary opened her eyes. “1 know. But. Not only will there be a greater!O~ achieved but this will change the tide of the war. Our war.”
“Will it end it?”
Mary Todd Lincoln closed her eyes once more. “No.”
The emotion behind that single word hit Lincoln in the chest and remained there, a heavy weight. For the last two years the cry had been to have peace by Christmas. By his wife’s tone he knew now there would be no peace by this Christmas. The tide may change today but it would be a long time going out.
Ahana packed her gear up while Shakan waited. There were campfires on the plain below Isandlwana, whether British or Zulu, she neither knew nor cared. Against the dark sky, there was a blackness on the top of Isandlwana.
Ahana threw the backpack over her shoulder and nodded. Shakan led the way off the conical hill and toward the pass to the south of Isandlwana.
As they reached the plain, a small war party of Zulus suddenly appeared out of a dong a, brandishing their spears, the metal covered with dried blood. One of them ran toward Ahana ready to strike.
Shakan stepped between them and raised her hand. Surprisingly, the warrior came to a complete halt.
“You will let us pass,” Shakan ordered.
The warrior backed up, but one of his fellows did not. The second warrior cocked his arm back to throw his spear, when the leader of the party cut him down before he could let loose.
The leader waved his spear, indicating they could go by.
Having the bulk of Isandlwana between their location and where the battle had taken place meant that the small group of soldiers manning the missionary outpost had not heard any of the battle that had just been fought. Bromhead kept his men at work, improving the defensive position and also preparing some of the supplies to be loaded on the oxen wagons that were supposed to come from the main camp.
Chard had gone over to the camp at Isandlwana in the morning to get further orders and returned about noon. He’d then gone back to work with a platoon of Bromhead’s infantry, improving the ford.
At a quarter past three in the afternoon, they received the first indication that something was wrong as two riders appeared, pushing their mounts hard. Chard hurried · back to the station, arriving just as the riders did.
Chard and Bromhead stood shoulder-to-shoulder just outside the mealie bag wall the men had built as the two riders pulled up. They were from the Natal National Police, locals, and both looked as wide-eyed as their mounts.
“They’re gone,” one cried out.
Chard glanced over his shoulder, noting that some of the men were edging closer to the wall, trying to hear what was happening.
“Easy, man,” Chard said, as he stepped forward and took the man’s reins. “Who’s gone?”
“All of them. Isandlwana. Every one of them. Dead.”
“Chelmsford?” Bromhead asked, confused about who exactly the man was referring to.
“No,” the man gasped as he tried to catch his breath. “Chelmsford took off with a column. Those he left behind. All of them. The Zulus wiped them out. There’s thousands dead.
“Lower your voice,” Bromhead hissed, knowing it was already too late, that the word was spreading through their camp.
“Where are the Zulus now?” Chard asked.
The man gave a hysterical laugh. “Coming here. Right this way. Thousands and thousands of them. We saw them.” The man gestured vaguely to the northeast. “On the march. Coming fast.”
“All right,” Chard said. “Take your mounts into the station — ”
“To hell with you,” the man jerked his reins, pulling the bridle out of the Chard’s hand. Before another word could be said both men were galloping away.
“That was helpful,” Bromhead said.
Chard turned and looked back the way the men had come. There was no sign of the Zulu, but as an engineer he knew this terrain could bide an entire army until it was just about on top of them.
“We have quite a few sick and wounded,” Bromhead said.
“And?” Chard asked as be used his binoculars to take a closer look, searching for a dust cloud, any sign.
“We have some wagons,” Bromhead said. “We could evacuate to Helpmakaar across the border.”
“We have some wagons,” Bromhead said. “We could evacuate to Helpmakaar across the border.”
“We didn’t respect the border,” Chard noted, “what makes you think the Zulu will respect it?”
“There will be more men at Helpmakaar to help defend.”
“We’d never make it,” Chard said. “We’re better off here, with some walls, then out on the track. Let’s finish the defensive preparations.”
There were a couple of things they had not done yet, since it would require damaging the buildings, but Chard saw no option now. Rifle loopholes were knocked in the walls of the buildings. He also directed the mealie bags and ration boxes that had been stacked to load onto wagons that apparently were never going to come, to instead be used to build up a final wall, a last outpost in front of the storehouse where they could retreat to if the outer wall was breached.
It was clear that word of what the rider had said had already spread throughout the camp. Men worked with a high degree of earnest, while many a worried eye was cast to the northeast. Chard sent out scouts to the nearby hills to give them some warning.
Even as the scouts moved out, everyone noted a cloud of dust approaching rapidly along the track that led to Isandlwana. Bromhead ordered the men to stand-to, and they exchanged mealie bags for weapons.
They were not needed as the incoming forces were recognized as cavalry as they got closer. Approximately one hundred men, militia, came galloping up, not even slowing as they raced by the camp, despite Chard’s attempts to get them to. Obviously, they knew what was coming and had no desire to hang around.
“It’s your damn country!” Chard yelled at one of the officers as he tried to intercept him.
“It’s your damn war,” the man yelled back as he lashed his horse.
As quickly as they had approached, the cavalry was gone.
“This is getting a bit awkward,” Bromhead observed. Chard silently agreed. The native contingent in the camp was restless, muttering among themselves. Muttering turned to panic when one of the outposts carne running down hill toward the station, crying out a warning.