Flashman And The Tiger

He was right about the live ones arriving, too—as our wagon wheeled out of the village on to a great empty stretch of plain beyond it, we could see black figures gliding in among the huts on the far side, and by the time we were a furlong out on the plain itself, with the driver lashing like fury and the wagon rolling dangerously from side to side, they were breaking cover in pursuit. There must have been more than twenty of them, and I don’t recall a more fearful sight than that silent half-moon of racing black figures, each with his mottled red and white shield and fistful of glittering spears, their white hide kilts and garters flying as they ran.

"Udloko, unless I’m mistook," says Moran. "Good regiment, that. Let’s add to their battle honours, what?"

He had got a Martini from one of the wounded men who were lying pale and silent behind us in the jolting wagon, and now he snuggled the butt into his shoulder, keeping the barrel clear of the rattling tailboard, and let off four shots as fast as he could eject and reload. He hit three more Zulus—this at a range of two hundred yards, from a wagon that was bucking like a ship at sea, and at moving targets. I tell you, I was stricken between terror and sheer admiration.'

"Damnation!" says he, after his missed shot. "Bet he felt the wind of it, though." He saw me staring, and grinned. "Don’t be alarmed, old boy; just pass up the cartridge packets and I’ll have our gallant foes discouraged in half a jiffy, just see if I don’t!"

But when I applied to the wounded for more cartridges, damned if there was a round among them.

"Well, we’re sitting on half a ton of the things," says Moran, cool as you please, and tapped the ammunition boxes. "Let’s forage, shall we?" So we broke open a case—and it was carbine ammunition, quite unsuitable for Martinis. I swallowed my innards for about the twentieth time that day; all the boxes carried the same stamp. And there, still loping across the sun-scorched plain behind us, not apparently having lost any distance, were the twenty Zulus, looking as fit as fleas and a dam' sight more unpleasant.

"Now, that’s vexing," says Moran, laying down his rifle and unlimbering his Remington again. He spun the chamber. "Six shots—hm’m. Well, let’s hope none of the horses breaks a leg, what?"

"For God’s sake, man!" My voice came out in a dreadful squeak. "They can’t keep up this pace forever!"

"Who—the horses, or Ketshwayo’s sporting and athletic club?" He gripped the tailboard and weighed the distance between us and our pursuers. "I think, on the whole, I’d put my money on the blacks. More staying power, don’t you know? By George, can’t they run, though!"

"But, my God, we’re done for! They’re gaining on us, I tell you—"

"Quite," says he. "Better think of something, eh? Unless we want our hides stretched over some damned Udloko war-drum, that is. Let’s see, now." He stood up in the swaying wagon, clutching a support, and peered ahead under the canvas cover, resting a hand on the shoulder of the terrified nigger driver who was rolling his eyes and letting his team rip for all it was worth. "If I remember right, this blasted plain ends in a deep gully about a mile ahead—there’s a crazy kind of bridge over it … we came across it on the way up. It took the wagon, all right—but very slowly. ’Fraid by the time we get across our friends will be calling on us—an' six shots won’t go far among that crowd, even if I make every one tell—which I would, of course. Wait, though!" And he dropped down on one knee, pushing one of the wounded men aside and ferreting among the ammunition boxes.

I was hardly listening to him; my eyes were fixed on that line of steadily-running black figures, coming on inexorably in our wake. They were losing distance, though, it seemed to me—yes, there must be nearly a quarter of a mile between us now—but our beasts were tiring, too; they couldn’t keep up this speed much longer, dragging a heavy wagon behind them. When we reached the bridge, would there be time for the wagon to make its careful way across, before they caught up? … I scrabbled at Moran’s arm, yammering hopefully, and he grinned as he straightened up from his search among the boxes, holding up a large packet of waxed brown paper in one hand.

"There we are, sonny boy," says he, chuckling. "Thought I remembered it. Blasting powder—and a darling little primer! Now, watch your Uncle Jack!"