Company Of Spears

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.

He drained the cup. Almost at once his head began to swim. ‘Is there a very lot of gin in this, Johnson?’

Johnson shrugged.

Hervey looked at the pile of letters on the table beside his bed: from home, from Hounslow, from the Horse Guards, from Kezia Lankester – all unanswered. Tomorrow he would make a beginning, perhaps, if he continued well; and if Johnson didn’t poison him with his cures.

‘Have you seen Serjeant Wainwright?’

‘I ’ave, sir. We ’ad a wet in t’canteen last night on account o’ ’is new stripe.’

Hervey nodded. ‘And you, Johnson?’

‘Ah’m all right, sir. Al’a’s am.’

He nodded again. Yes, Johnson was always ‘all right’. Except for the unfathomable business of the coral; or rather, his refusing to confide in him about it. It was good to have him back, and the same Johnson as in the best of times.

‘I mean that you did fine service. Never more so than when you brought up Molly when Gilbert fell. I’m excessively grateful.’