Company Of Spears

‘Lion claws. Well, well. Methinks he protests too much.’ He jabbed the Xhosa’s neck again. ‘Not everyone is a son of Gaika, but you are!’

The man made no sound. He dare not deny his affinity with so great a chief.

‘Bull’s-eye, Hervey! God only knows how many Xhosa there are in that scrub, but they’ll be powerfully determined to be in on us now. Our best chance is to set light to one of the fires so they’ll know he’ll be a dead Gaika’s son if they attack.’

It went against Hervey’s every instinct to light up the camp when they were not being attacked: the Xhosa could stand off and observe them all night, counting the odds, reckoning an assault would be an easy affair. Yet what option did they have, for the attack must now surely come? ‘Light the fire,’ he said.

‘Pandours’ve ‘oofed it, sir!’ came Johnson’s cheery report.

Corporal Wainwright fired his carbine and then reached for the pistols at his belt.

In the flash from the second shot Hervey saw a Xhosa fall. ‘Good shooting,’ he said quietly. ‘Now the fire.’

Wainwright struck a match, searched a few seconds for the powder trail and then lit it. The flame ran fast and strong, and the dry brushwood, sprinkled liberally with more powder, exploded in a fiery crackle.

Fairbrother immediately began dragging his captive towards the blaze, knife still at his throat. ‘Let them have a good look first,’ he growled.

Hervey had already decided they couldn’t sit it out, not with the two pandours gone. ‘Johnson, get the torches and bring five horses.’

‘Ay, sir.’

It took him a quarter of an hour – which seemed an age. Meanwhile the fire gave a strong and steady light, so there were no false alarms. Wainwright, his carbine reloaded, turned about continuously, slowly, to cover any approach. Hervey explained his intention meanwhile: they would walk towards Trompetter’s Drift until it was safe, and then they would outdistance the Xhosa in a mounted dash. They had six torches – if Johnson could find them: one and a spare he would take himself to lead; two torches Johnson would have for Fairbrother, and the other two Wainwright would carry at the rear. The Xhosa from whose shoulder they had removed the ball would be left by the fire: there his fellow tribesmen would see him, and Hervey’s obligation to a prisoner would be discharged.

‘ ’Ere, sir!’

Hervey could not see a thing except what the fire illuminated, his night eyes quite gone.

‘Can you come closer?’

‘I’ll try, but one of ’em’s being a dog!’

Hervey edged towards the voice, sabre drawn (a pistol would need reloading). He smelled the horse sweat before he could make out the shapes. ‘Well done, Johnson. Five in hand: the sarn’t-major shall hear of it!’

‘That’s all right then.’

Hervey could picture the expression on Johnson’s face. Things were becoming desperate, yet there was no cause for despair for as long as the Sixth remained the Sixth, however small a detachment or far-flung. ‘Where are the torches?’

‘Under t’stirrup leathers, sir – fust three on mi left.’

Hervey felt his way until he found the end horse’s saddle, uncrossed the stirrup leathers and took one of the torches. He found his matches, struck one and held it to the tar-cloth. In a minute or so the flame had taken a good hold. ‘Follow me.’

The horses were untroubled by the torch, which was as well since every one of the party would have his hands full. By the light of the fire, Hervey distributed the reins and the other two torches, told Johnson the plan, found his bearings and with no more than a ‘good luck!’ made ready to strike out for the trail they had come by from Trompetter’s Drift.

The captive Xhosa, his hands now bound, and prompted by the point of the knife, shouted something half defiant, half pleading. ‘Abantu

Hervey started.

‘He says what I told him to say,’ rasped Fairbrother. ‘That I’d cut his throat if any of them tried to stop us.’

‘Has he said how many of them there are?’

‘A dozen or so. But how can you believe a man with a knife at his throat?’

Hervey smiled to himself. What fortune had brought them together, this man so skilled in the ways of ruth-lessness, and of fieldcraft, and yet of such sensibility? And how had these qualities been dismissed to the Half-Pay List?

For three wearying hours they tramped – edged – along the Trompetter’s Drift trail, seeing, hearing, smelling the sudden death that lurked in the dark beyond the range of the torches, as deadly as the night cobra. The captive Xhosa kept up his distancing calls, the point of Fairbrother’s urging knife twice drawing blood, and a dozen nerve-tearing times Wainwright fired at shadowy shapes, dextrously reloading his carbine with one hand.

The close scrub at last gave way to open grass. Here, Hervey reckoned, was their best chance of remounting without the Xhosa overwhelming them in a sudden rush; and from here they could kick hard and put a safe distance behind them.

He stopped, and turned. ‘Johnson and Wainwright mount! Close up and put your pistols to the Xhosa’s head.’

It took but a few seconds.