Company Of Spears

But the scouts were now motionless. Evidently the Zulu were at a safe distance still.

Hervey slowed to a trot as he came up behind the ridge, Fairbrother at his side, coverman and trumpeter a few lengths behind. He snatched his telescope from the saddle holster, reining to a halt beside Corporal Wick. And he stifled a gasp. On the parching plain beyond was a sight that set rats racing in his gut and stirred the darkest corners of his mind. It was as if twelve monstrous black snakes were making straight for the ridge, any one of them with venom enough to kill an entire troop, or else to coil and crush the life out of them. There were warriors in single file for as far as the eye could see – and see through the telescope – spears and shields in hand, loping across the dry, green veld at the pace of trotting cavalry. He had not seen killing-columns come on like this since Waterloo.

He was shaken as much by his own shock as the sight itself. He breathed deeply so as not to falter or gabble when he spoke; he prayed the cold sweat was invisible. ‘How many, Corporal Wick?’

‘I reckon on two thousand, sir. And then that dust yonder must mean there’s as many more.’

Hervey peered through his telescope again at the distant cloud. No matter how green the country there was always dust. How distant it was difficult to tell – the featureless veld, the sun in their eyes – but it must be far enough not to have caught the rain of the predawn. Perhaps, then, they had a little more time than he supposed: these advance guards, as they must be, would probe rather than commit themselves to a fight if they were not sure of overwhelming their opponents. That, at least, was the received wisdom in His Majesty’s army. But it was perfectly possible that in Shaka’s they did things differently.

But where were the Zulu’s scouting parties? ‘Have you seen ought else, Corporal Wick? Scouts, men moving independently?’

‘No I haven’t, sir. Not a bird or nothing.’

Hervey was calculating as he spoke. The ground had no features by which to judge the distance perfectly, but since to the naked eye the Zulu were clearly afoot rather than mounted, by the usual yardstick it meant they were no more than seven furlongs off – say five since it was possible to make out their gait. And at their loping jog-trot (say five miles in the hour) – that would make seven or eight minutes at most before they closed.

‘Corporal Dilke, silent-signal for the troop and Rifles to advance at the trot.’

His trumpeter turned and began raising and lowering both fists (left for the Rifles, right for the troop) as if he were pulling a beam-pump.

In seconds the line of blue began advancing, then the green.

Meanwhile Hervey scanned the plain through his telescope. ‘Not exactly Chobham Common, is it, Corporal Wick?’ he said in a manner convincingly cool.

‘Sir?’

‘The last time I seem to recall you were scouting in similar circumstances.’

Wick looked at Hervey, astounded. ‘‘Ow’d you remember that, sir? It were years ago!’

The strange Shrewsbury vowels always reminded Hervey of school, where Wick’s father had been gatekeeper. ‘All of ten, I think. We did rather well in those manoeuvres, as I recall.’

‘Well we did, sir!’ But Wick had been an eighteen-year-old recruit; in ten years he had seen enough to know the difference between a field day and real fight. Nevertheless, if Colonel Hervey was conducting himself now as if he were at a field day, then who was he to worry?

Hervey checked the flanker scouts through his telescope. They were probing a furlong or so behind the ridge, left and right, keeping an eye on any little fold in the ground which crafty Zulu might use to outflank them. He took satisfaction in that: it was exactly as they had drilled at Hounslow. Things were working.

He glanced back at the advancing line of blue, and behind it the green. Two hundred yards, and a little more: it would do. ‘Corporal Dilke, signal “Halt”.’

The trumpeter stood in his stirrups again and raised his hand. The lines quickly came back to the walk and then halt.

Hervey observed the Zulu’s progress. Five more minutes, he reckoned. ‘Very well. Remain posted till I return, Corporal Wick.’ He reined Gilbert about and spurred into a gallop back down the slope, Fairbrother, coverman and trumpeter following hard.

Fearnley, and Welsh at his side, saluted as he approached. ‘Rifles loaded, but not carbines, Colonel,’ said the lieutenant.

‘Very good. Firelocks dry enough?’

‘I trust so, Colonel,’ replied Captain Welsh.

‘Very well. The Zulu are advancing in twelve columns, without skirmishers so far as I can see. I estimate perhaps two thousand in the mile hence, and as many more at least beyond them. I intend to try parley. Mr Fearnley, bring up the troop to just below the crest and then on to it when I go forward.’

‘Colonel.’