Flashman And The Tiger

I screamed and closed with him, seizing his right wrist as the spear-point swung at my breast, my hand slipping on that oily skin; I drove a knee at his groin, butting him for all I was worth and trying to bite his throat—all I got was a mouthful of monkey-, skin collar, and God, how he stank! A shot crashed right beside my ear, and the Zulu fell away, his face a mask of blood.' I never even saw who had shot him, nor did I pause to inquire, for as I reeled away to the side of the wagon, here came a gun-team thundering past, with an artilleryman crouched on one of the leaders, lashing at the beasts and at the Zulus who raced alongside trying to spear him from the saddle. Behind the team the gun was bouncing over the ground, with some poor devil clinging to the muzzle, his feet trailing in the dust, until a Zulu, leaping behind, dashed his brains out with a knobkerrie.

You don’t think twice at such moments; you truly don’t. I had one glimpse that still stays in my memory—of that rock-strewn slope, covered with charging Zulus spearing the last knots of defenders; of men screaming and falling; of a sergeant of the 24th rolling on the ground locked with a black warrior, while the others paused to watch; of a bullock lumbering past, bellowing, with an assegai in its flank; of bloody corpses, red-coated or black-skinned, sprawled among the dusty ruin of broken carts, ration boxes, and fallen equipment; of hate-filled black faces and polished black bodies—all that in a split second, and then I went over the side of that cart in a flying dive on to the gun that was racketing past, clutching frantically at the hot metal, almost slipping down between barrel and wheel, but somehow managing to stay aboard as it tore onwards, bouncing left and right, towards the little saddle of ground that runs from Isan’lwana hill.

How I survived the next minute I don’t know. I clung to the gun, keeping low, hearing a spear glance clanging from the metal; a club caught me a blow on the shoulder, but I stuck like a leech, and the gun must have picked up speed, because the closest Zulus were suddenly lost in the dust-cloud, and for a moment we were clear of the immediate pursuit, the driver still holding his seat on the leader and yelling and quirting away as the team topped the crest and went careering down the far slope towards the Rorke’s Drift track.

The slope was thick with fugitives, white and black, a few mounted but most on foot, going pell-mell down to the broken ground and distant scrub with only one thought in mind—to get away from the merciless black vengeance behind us. They seemed to be making for a deep ravine about half a mile to the left, where it seemed to me they were sure to be caught by the left "horn" of the Zulu army as it came circling in; I struggled up astride the gun and bawled above the din to the driver to bear right for the Rorke’s Drift road. He cast a terrified glance over his shoulder, pointing frantically and shaking his head; I looked, and my heart died. Already, round the far side of the Isan’lwana hill, the van-guard of the Zulu right "horn" was streaming down like a black lance-head to cut the track; I . could make out the green monkey caps and plumes of the Tulwana regiment. Five minutes at most, and the ring of steel would have closed round Isan’lwana, and God help anything white that was still inside.

There was nothing for it but the ravine, and we rushed down the slope at breakneck speed, the driver lashing the exhausted horses, and Flashy going up and down astride that damned barrel like a pea on a drum. I stole a glance back, and beyond the scattered groups of running fugitives I could see the first ranks of the Zulu "chest" coming over the hill; this won’t do, my lad, thinks I, we’ll have to move a deal faster if we want to see Piccadilly again. The gun lurched under me, sickeningly, there was a yell of alarm from the driver ahead, and by God the right rear-wheeler had broken a trace and was veering madly off to the right, head up and snorting; she stumbled and went down as the second trace parted, and I shot off the gun as it slewed round, hit the ground with a fearful jar, and went rolling arse over elbow, tearing the skin off shoulder and knee on the rock-hard earth before I fetched up winded within a yard of the fallen horse.

I had a hand on its mane as it thrashed up again, hooves flying, and you may be sure I wasn’t the only one. Half a dozen fugitives had the same notion, and one, a sergeant gunner, was half-aboard the beast. "Mine, damn you!" roars he. "She can’t take two!"