Company Of Spears

Atop the ridge the black host suddenly halted. Perhaps they caught their breath, he thought. Perhaps they surveyed the veld to their front. Either way it was a sight that he – all of them – would not forget, for this was the first clash of arms with Shaka’s army. The Zulu were an unknown enemy; they had terrified the tribes of the far-eastern Cape for ten years and more. It was inevitable that the greatest native power would in due course fight the King’s men. And this was the moment. Hervey marvelled at it – before wondering if he would live to tell.

Every officer’s telescope was now trained on the black line.

‘Not quite a thousand,’ said Captain Welsh matter-of-factly. ‘But not many short of it.’

Quicker than had Hervey, he had calculated the length of the ridge, and the part of it the Zulu occupied: twelve hundred yards of warriors close-packed.

Hervey had no reason to dispute it, but he had hoped the frontage would be far less, for there was now a considerable overlap (the Rifles fronted no more than two hundred yards).

There again, he had no intention of letting the Zulu close with them. ‘Three rounds then, Captain Welsh – in your own time.’ As the captain touched the peak of his shako to acknowledge, the first of the snipers’ shots rang out. One of the warriors in the centre of the line fell face down, dead. A great, painful moan swelled the length of the line, as if the death of one was the wounding of all.

Hervey felt a strange shiver in his spine. The battlefield was never so silent a place as here: no artillery, no musketry from opposing clouds of skirmishers; just a single shot, and a thousand voices – not so very different from the battles of the Old Testament on which he had feasted as a boy.

And then another shot, and another, and then several more. And every time a warrior falling. Hervey could not help but think that this was the way to give battle: sniping at the enemy from a distance, perhaps even picking out the men who would direct the fighting. He wished he had a troop of horse artillery with him. They would soon have the range, and shrapnel would fell these men in droves.

Why did the Zulu stand instead of advancing? Or withdraw behind the crest? Did they not comprehend what powder and ball was? Was it possible that so successful a tribe did not know of firearms? How he wished (did not the Duke of Wellington himself always say?) he were able to see over the other side of the hill.

Were they waiting for the rest of the impi? Would the attack, when it came, be not this single line of a thousand warriors, but several?

That, however, made no difference to his intention here: three rounds and then withdrawal. And in any event he could rely on Fearnley to judge keenly how to wield the troop to advantage. No, he was curious only in what the attack would tell him about the wiliness of the Zulu in battle – and therefore how he might play them as his little command fell back towards Somerset’s main force.

‘Here they come!’ said Welsh purposefully.

Hervey quit his thoughts and pushed his telescope back in its holster; and then almost at once he took it out again, for as the Zulu swarmed down the slope he observed that they left behind a knot of men on the ridge, which he supposed at once to be Matiwane (he now wore a great feathered headdress) and his staff. He recalled how at one point during the battle at Waterloo a horse gunner had told the Duke of Wellington that he had Bonaparte within range, and asked leave to open fire. The duke had refused him, saying that it was not the business of one commander-in-chief to fire upon another. Hervey had never quite believed it – even less understood it. Yet now he had a curious sense of why the duke might have been moved to say so, for he felt as if he would be shooting a magnificent perching bird if he fired on Matiwane. Ignoble deed! And yet he approved – cheered – the sniping of mere legionary warriors. It was not to be fathomed.

‘Captain Welsh, see yonder, in the middle of the ridge – the plumes. Might one of your men try his hand?’

Captain Welsh arranged it at once. ‘Serjeant-major! Corporal Cloete!’

They doubled to the company commander. He gave them the order.

The two sharpshooters doubled forward ten yards, and lay prone. Each took careful aim and fired.

The two rounds struck home, though the feathered target remained upright. It was extreme range, and the two riflemen calmly corrected their point of aim for the second barrel.

But before they could fire, other warriors surrounded the chief: a shield of flesh.

The serjeant-major fired; a warrior-shield fell dead.

Corporal Cloete fired an instant later but another Zulu had already taken his place.

The serjeant-major was reloading furiously. ‘We can do it, Cloete, even if it takes a dozen apiece!’

But before they could, more Zulu swarmed on to the crest to shield Matiwane.

‘As you were!’ called Hervey. This was a diversion they could ill afford.