In minutes they were with Fearnley at the picket line, and with just enough elevation to see what they faced. The sight shook Somerset, as it first had Hervey – the order, the discipline of it, not at all the horde of savages he had imagined.
‘We must suppose they know we are here,’ said Hervey. ‘They’ll likely make a probing attack at once, or else try again to encircle us, though the river will confound them in that. May I recall the outposts?’
Somerset was less confident than an hour ago. ‘Yes … by all means … do.’
Trumpeter Roddis repeated the call until Hervey saw the outposts acknowledging, and then bid him cease.
The Rifles were trained to the bugle too, but Captain Welsh had decided instead on signals by whistle in order to avoid confusion. Hearing the recall of the picket line he gave three long blasts – the order to stand to arms.
‘It will now depend on each rifleman’s initiative,’ said Hervey, and to Somerset’s evident discomfort.
The outposts came in at the trot, tall in the saddle though the horses looked weary. Each dragoon saluted as he passed the two colonels, eyes on Hervey but Somerset acknowledging with a finger to the peak of his cap. They had done their work, they had done it well, and they knew it. Once across the river they could dismount and take a little ease before it was their turn again. For it would be their turn again; it always was. When the men with the rifle and the musket had done their work it would be theirs to turn defeat into rout – to make vulture meat of the fleeing enemy so that they might not turn again. It was a grim business sabring those who no longer wanted to fight, but it had to be done lest the next day these fleeing men became resolute once more. To think otherwise was nothing but sentiment – dangerous sentiment.
Rifle fire began on both far flanks almost at the same time. Hervey marvelled at the evident ability of the Zulu to coordinate the movement of the two horns of the crescent formation. And then the firing spread along the entire front as the main columns began approaching, still hidden by the prodigious grass.
But not, apparently, hidden to the gunners. A shell buzzed high over him and to the left, bursting twenty feet above the ground three hundred yards in front. Hervey smiled to himself. Never had he known an artilleryman to miss his opportunity. How he was able to place his fire so accurately, and have the shrapnel shell explode at the precise height, was quite beyond him. He was only grateful for it; vastly grateful. It was, in truth, how war should be made.
‘Colonel Hervey?’
He turned to see his lieutenant, and detached himself from Somerset’s party to confer with him. ‘All eager, Mr Fearnley?’
‘Indeed, Colonel. Minnie has wind aplenty left.’
Hervey glanced approvingly at Fearnley’s second charger. Minnie – Minerva – had won one of the regimental races at Hounslow that year. She looked in as hale condition now as then. ‘The intention for you now is clear?’
‘Exactly clear. I think I shall be well pleased to see that ford.’
A cry like hounds breaking covert turned every head. The staunchest heart faltered for a moment as Zulu rose up from the ground like corpses on the Day of Judgement, swarming, stabbing, grunting like rutting pig.
Hervey saw two of Somerset’s staff tumble from the saddle, and then Somerset’s own horse fall to its knees, and Somerset himself half under it, his escorts desperately lashing out with sword and pistol.
Hervey spurred for him at once, sabre drawn, Fairbrother and the others close on his heels. He cut left and right, taking a passing spear in the thigh though not feeling a thing.
Fairbrother sprang from the saddle beside Somerset like a tumbler at a fair, drawing his revolver and firing three shots in quick and lethal succession at the nearest Zulu.
Wainwright and Roddis circled, keeping a dozen others at bay while Hervey and Fairbrother pulled Somerset from beneath his charger and heaved him astride Hervey’s mare.
Fairbrother emptied his revolver as Hervey vaulted on her quarters to support the winded colonel.
Hervey turned his mare on her hocks and dug in his spurs, fending off a Zulu and losing grip of his sabre in the process.
Fairbrother managed to clamber into his own saddle, draw his second pistol and shoot the Zulu before he could take advantage.
But the horde was already reluctant to follow: every rifle within range was now turned on them.
As he glanced back, Hervey could see but a handful of black shapes haring for the cover whence they’d sprung. He heard Welsh’s whistle repeated along the front, the desperate recalling of his riflemen. They had done their work. They had stood their ground, shot well, broken up a surprise attack that would have prevailed against all but the most resolute.
As his mare splashed into the ford, and yet another artillery round whistled overhead, Hervey saw the Fifty-fifth standing like a red stone wall. Not for the first time he blessed the legionary infantry who would now bear the brunt of the fight. And he cursed himself for doubting them, as he cursed Somerset for doubting his Rifles.
XXVI
BATTLE HONOURS
Cape Town, six weeks later
Hervey sat with a blanket about his shoulders in a cane chair by the window while his Hottentot bearer changed the bed linen for only the second time that day. He was getting better, no doubt of it: for the best part of a week the bearer had changed the linen three times daily.
‘‘Ave a bit o’ this, then, sir,’ coaxed Johnson.
Hervey took the enamel cup in both hands. He no longer trembled, but he felt strangely weak still, and he did not wish to spill Johnson’s precious brew.
‘Good God!’ he spat, his face contorted as he swallowed. ‘What infernal sort of tea’s this?’
‘It’s not tea, it’s whistlejacket.’
Hervey shook his head. ‘Johnson, I feel wretched enough without guessing games.’
‘Whistlejacket: gin ‘n’ treacle.’
‘One of your orphanage purgatives, was it?’
‘It’s right good for thee. None o’ t’stuff t’surgeon give thee did owt.’
Hervey was not inclined to dispute the latter, and thought it best to oblige his groom – for all his doubt as to the whistlejacket’s efficacy and all his certainty as to its ill taste.
Unquestionably he was feeling better, however. He had not yet regained his appetite, but at least he now cared. It had been a longer than usual attack of the fever, though several days had passed without his having any knowledge of them. At least there was no more pain from the wound in his leg. He would soon see two scars, a dozen years, but only inches, apart, and each made not with bullet or shrapnel, or even sabre, but with the thrusting point, as primitive a thing as any of the ancients’. There was no weapon too short in the hand for a brave man.
He sighed, but with some contentment. He had done well; he knew it. Everyone from General Bourke to the rudest burgher had told him. He had blooded the Rifles, and ably, and proved their worth. And in the fight at the river, the red and the blue and the green had worked with such mutual and effective support that the Zulu had never been able to close with them and test the power of their short spears. Matiwane had left so many men dead at the ford that it would be many months, if not years, before they would have the temerity to challenge the King’s army again. Kaffraria could expect a little peace; and wise counsel in Cape Town ought to be able to make good use of it. That was what Somervile had said to him before this fever had taken hold.