Chapter 21

 

It was a big ship and Ogle swore that he did not recognise it. “That is no coastal trader,” he declared. “It has not been here before. I reckon it is Portuguese, perhaps putting in here on its way to their settlement up the coast.” The Portuguese town of Lourenço Marques was around four hundred miles north, well beyond Zulu territory. I knew of it as some of the Boers had visited the place, but the journey had been so arduous that many had died on the way.

Whoever commanded the ship knew about the sandbar outside the bay. They understood that a vessel that size would need to wait for high tide to get into the anchorage. We sat for most of the morning squinting into the sun, trying to make out the colours of its flag, which flapped briefly from behind a staysail. Ogle was sure he could see the red and green of Portugal, while a young African boy insisted that he could see the British flag. I did not care either way; I sat there holding Louisa’s hand with a ridiculous grin spread across my face. Whoever it was, they were sure to give us passage and wherever they were bound, it was almost certain to be better than here. With luck they would take us to a British port and from there we could start our journey home.

By noon, the tide was high enough for the ship to edge its way into the bay, I could just make out a man in the bow chains dropping a lead to measure the depth. A mainsail obscured the flag, but then as the ship reached the centre of the bay, we heard the rattle of the anchor chain and the vessel slowly swung on its new mooring. There, resplendent in the early afternoon sun were the British colours. I remember Louisa laughing with delight beside me: we were on our way home for certain. Then things got even better. Side on to the vessel we could see a lot of people on deck, far more than a normal crew. Unless my eyes were deceiving me, many of them were wearing red coats. I hardly dared believe that they were soldiers, for it would mean we were absolutely safe now. As they began to climb down into the boats, there was no doubt about it. “They are wearing kilts,” I announced unnecessarily as we could all see the fact for ourselves. “They must be a regiment of Highlanders.”

“But what are they doing here?” asked Louisa. “Do you think Ben has sent them to find us?”

“He has taken his sweet time if he has!” I exclaimed. “There seems to be just a single company of men, perhaps eighty of them. That is too few to fight anyone, but more than you would need to escort us back to the ship.” We would not have long to find out as their commander was already pulling towards us in the lead boat. He stood in the stern staring over the heads of the oarsmen towards us waiting near the jetty. Not one of us was armed, but he evidently thought five men and a woman standing on the shore necessitated the unfurling of colours. Soon a large Union Jack was flapping from a flagstaff in the boat, as if there was any doubt as to the identity of the kilted men in red jackets.

“Welcome to the town of Port Natal,” I called out as they came within earshot. “Or D’Urban as it has now been named,” I continued. All I got for my courteous greeting was a grim glare from the man, whose uniform showed that he was a major. From his expression you would have thought I had just goosed his mother.

“Stand aside!” he roared back, as though the six of us were likely to resist the arrival of the thirty soldiers in the longboat. “I intend to land,” he added pompously.

“And there was me thinking he was just taking a ha’penny tour around the bay,” chuckled Ogle. We all duly stepped back. The man was clearly full of his own importance, but as I needed him to give us passage, it would not do to antagonise him before he had even stepped ashore. The bow of the boat dug into the sand and the first of the soldiers jumped over the side. Their officer nearly stumbled as he ran down the thwarts of the boat to join them, snatching up the flag on the way. Splashing down onto the wet sand, he advanced halfway towards us, holding the staff in front of him as though it would frighten us away. The rest of his men tumbled out behind him and I groaned as I saw their piper begin to inflate his instrument. The peaceful morning was about to be ruined by that awful racket. Then, like Captain Cook claiming Australia, the officer plunged the pole into the dirt and began to shout “I claim this land…” He got no further before his voice was drowned out by that rising drone of a set of pipes beginning to play. Irritably, he turned on the miscreant with the instrument and barked, “Stop that damned noise!” I felt a moment of affinity with the major before he turned and glared at us again, before declaring loudly, “I claim this land for Her Majesty the Queen.”

It would have been more impressive if the flag had stayed upright. Instead he struck rock two inches down and the thing began to topple. He was forced to grab the staff again as he hissed at his sergeant, “Fraser, get some rocks to prop this up.” His sergeant dutifully rushed forward to pile some rocks about its base as did several of the other men.

“Well, now we have that out of the way,” I said in a voice dripping with sarcasm as the flag was finally freestanding, “perhaps I could ask you for a passage back to Cape Town in that ship.”

“Never mind that,” interrupted Louisa, “Who is this queen you are claiming the land for? What has happened to King Billy?”

I did not think it possible, but the officer managed to draw himself up even more as he glared down his nose at us. “His Majesty King William died in June last year. He has been succeeded by his niece, Her Majesty Queen Victoria.” His lip curled in contempt as he added, “I take it you are Boers to treat our monarchs with such disrespect.”

“Do I sound Dutch?” I retorted in my crispest English accent. “My wife and I were asked to visit here by the previous British governor and have since faced all manner of trials. Until now we have been unable to leave, but I am sure the current governor would be obliged if you would give us passage.”

“We have also met King Billy on a number of occasions,” added Louisa, grinning. She was clearly enjoying bringing this ass down a peg or two as she continued, “Unlike you, he was very keen on informality.”

“But the governor has been informed that the Boers have claimed this land for themselves,” the major protested. He was staring about, as though he expected a horde of angry Dutchmen to appear and try to tear down his colours

“They have,” I confirmed, “But that does not matter a damn. Nor will you claiming it for our new queen make a jot of difference. Is that what you have come for, to claim this territory back for the governor?

“Partly,” the officer admitted, but then he added something that left us all dumbfounded. “My orders are also to protect the Zulu from Boer aggression.”

We stood and gaped at him in astonishment. My mind could barely believe what my ears had just heard. “But… but what kind of half-witted, poxed imbecile could possibly think that the Zulus need protecting? Or that a single company of British infantry would be sufficient if they did?”

The major looked furious at the criticism. “Civilians cannot be expected to understand military matters or affairs of state. My orders come directly from the governor and are in accordance with the wishes of Her Majesty’s colonial office in London.” He gestured at the men behind him and those still rowing ashore, “We might be few, but the governor does not believe that the Boers would dare fire on British soldiers. We will give them a hot reception if they do.”

Ogle laughed in scorn. “You bloody fool,” he scoffed. “It is not the Boers you need to worry about. The Zulus don’t need your protection – they will slaughter you for breakfast.”

“My men are from the 72^nd Highlanders,” the major retorted indignantly. “One of the finest regiments in the British army. You have clearly never seen the Highlanders charge their enemy, sir.”

Ogle looked set to yell more insults, but I held out a hand to stay him. At this rate we would be left on the beach out of spite when the ship sailed away. Speaking quietly to calm the situation, I tried to put the young fool in his place, “As it happens, I do know a little about military affairs myself. I have also seen the Highlanders charge their enemy. In fact, I had the honour to command a company of the 74^th Highlanders while serving in India with the Duke of Wellington.”

The major’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “What is your name, sir?”

“Flashman, Major Thomas Flashman.” I noticed the sergeant look up at that. I continued, “I also served with the duke in Portugal, Spain and at Waterloo.”

“Mmm,” muttered the major, looking unconvinced. “This all sounds very convenient. From what I have heard, if all the men who claimed to be at Waterloo were actually there, you would have beaten the French by noon.”

“How dare you…” I began and I could sense Louisa bridling beside me. This jackanapes had just suggested to my face that I was a liar. I was damned if I would duel the villain over the insult, though, and I was just trying to work out what I could do, when the sergeant stepped forward.

“With respect, sir,” he tugged on his officer’s sleeve, “but I think I have heard of an officer called Flashman serving in the 74^th.”

“Are you sure, Fraser?” The major still looked dubious.

“Yes sir,” persisted the soldier. “It is an unusual name and this officer had quite a reputation.” I felt myself grow an inch taller. It was immensely gratifying to be remembered in this manner after over thirty years. Yet it was nothing less than I deserved, for I had – albeit inadvertently – saved the regiment when I had managed to open the rear gate of the fortress at Gawilghur.

“A reputation?” repeated the major as I beamed in satisfaction.

“Yes sir. My first sergeant served with him in the 74^th.” Fraser glared at me and then continued in a scandalised tone, “He told how this officer once forced the entire regiment to bathe in a river.”

“Really?” There was a hint of interest now in the major’s voice. His nose twitched in distaste, perhaps at the proximity of his sergeant, who must have smelt ripe after days in the close confines of a ship in the summer heat. He gave me a reappraising look and then could not help but glance back at the calm sea behind him. It was obvious what he was thinking and several of his command were already looking alarmed.

“It gets worse, sir,” Fraser continued. Pointing an accusing finger, he added, “This officer burned the regimental pipes.” There was an audible gasp of horror from the nearby piper, who suddenly clutched his instrument to his bosom as though it were a babe and he was in the presence of Herod.

“Is that it?” I demanded, furious that these were the episodes that had passed into regimental legend. “What about me saving the regiment at Gawilghur, or warning them of the charge of the Rajputs?”

“Or the Persian commander you killed in single combat,” added Louisa. “You still have his sword at home.”

“Er, yes that too,” I agreed hesitantly, for I had not been entirely honest with Louisa about how I had beaten the Persian. “What is the name of this fellow with a very jaundiced memory of my service?” I demanded.

“Sergeant McTavish, sir.”

“Well I have never heard of the villain,” I insisted. “He has probably made it all up and was not even there.”

“Oh, but he was, sir,” Insisted Fraser. “He was attacked by a crocodile when you made them bathe. He wore a tooth from the beast around his neck, I have seen it myself.”

“Wee Jock!” I gasped in surprise. My mind filled with the memory of the scrawny young drummer boy trying to drag his ‘big lizard’ out of the water.

“Yes, I remember him,” added Louisa, “such a sweet child.” Fraser frowned, puzzled, clearly struggling to equate the man he remembered with that description.

There was no point denying things now. “So Jock made it to sergeant,” I confirmed. “Is he still alive?”

“No sir,” replied Fraser. “He died five years back of fever, but he held you in high regard,” the man finally conceded.

“I apologise, sir,” the major drew himself up to attention. “Please forgive my bad manners, it was inexcusable to doubt you.” He held out his hand, “I am Major Charters.”

I grudgingly took the proffered paw, “Well if you arrange passage for my wife and I on that ship, we will say no more about it.”

“That is very generous of you, sir,” replied a chastened Charters. “Would you mind if I ask, were you also at Assaye, sir?”

“Yes, I was at Assaye,” I admitted. That day was the most famous of the regiment’s battle honours and one Wellington considered his finest victory: a beleaguered line of redcoats advancing into the maw of fifty cannon and then routing an army several times their size. There was no need to tell him that I had watched most of the action from a rooftop in the village behind the Mahratta lines.

Having established my military experience, I gestured up the beach, “Perhaps, Major, we could have a word in private?” We strolled a few yards along the sand while Louisa stayed back with the others. “What exactly are your orders?” I asked.

“I have a proclamation signed by the governor to claim this town and surrounding land for the Queen. I am also to remind the Boers that they are still seen as British citizens and subject to British law. As you are a friend of the former governor, you will recall that the colonial office forced him to give back land he had taken from the Xhosa. Now London is concerned that the Boers are seizing land from another African kingdom, with no justification other than force of arms.”

“And London wants the Boers to move back into the colony, to help build its prosperity and pay taxes to the Crown?” I suggested.

“You surely do not support the brutal suppression of the native people, sir?” queried Charters. “It is our duty to protect them from Boer aggression.” We had reached the top of the beach now and the major caught sight of some of the older Zulus moving in their huts on the other side of the settlement. “I say, do you think one of those men could carry a message to the Zulu capital to let them know that we are here to aid them?”

I shook my head in despair at his ignorance before replying. “I have met Dingane, the Zulu king. He might be a treacherous tyrant, but he is no fool. He knows damn well that once white farmers get a foothold on his rich, fertile kingdom, they will want more of it. He does not want any whites in his kingdom at all. That is why he slaughtered Retief and his followers”

“But surely he has heard that the British government tries to deal fairly with African kingdoms,” Charters queried. “He cannot equate us with these rapacious farmers.”

“Earlier this year, the British settlers here led an army of over a thousand men against Dingane in a combined attack with the Dutch. I am one of just a handful of survivors. Dingane’s army then burned this town to the ground, slaughtering everyone they could find. The best thing you can do is put us all on that ship and take us back to Cape Town.”

“I can’t do that. I have orders to stop the Boers from attacking the Zulus.”

“Well you are too late. Pretorius and his army have already set off and nothing you can say will stop them. They are all fired up with religious fervour. I rather suspect that the Zulus will not need your help to defeat them. Not only that, once they discover you are here, they are likely to send an army to attack you too.”

The fool actually laughed at that. “I am sure that a volley and our bayonets will see them off.”

“You have no idea what you are up against, do you?” I asked with growing anger.

“As well as my Highlanders,” he boasted, “I have three field pieces back on the ship and ten gunners from the Royal Artillery. I am sure that they will be enough to see off a rabble of tribesmen armed with spears.”

“There will probably be at least ten thousand of them when they come,” I told him quietly, taking a grim satisfaction from the growing look of shock on his features. “Some will be mounted and with captured guns, but it is not those you need to worry about. The main force will attack in a formation resembling a bull’s head. You can form up and fire into the centre, but the horns will curve round and take you in the rear. Your guns may well take a few hundred down, but that will not stop them. When they get fifty yards off, the sky will be filled with their throwing spears. Those that survive that onslaught will have to face waves of them running in with shields and short stabbing spears. A skilled man with a bayonet might beat one or two, but not with a third Zulu shoving a spear into his back. Remember, I have seen both a Highland charge and a Zulu attack. Trust me when I tell you that you should not let that ship depart while your men are still ashore. Without it to escape to, you will not stand a chance.”

“But then how do the Boers beat them?” he asked. I explained that in the open the Dutch were beaten too and how it was only when they were in their laagers, which gave them protection from the spears, that they could keep the Zulus at bay. “If you want to stay here, you need to build a stone castle with its own water supply, similar to those they had in medieval times,” I told him. We both knew that he did not have the manpower for that.

“Well even if it is too late, I am still duty bound to send to Pretorius the governor’s order not to attack the Zulus.” He patted a pocket, which must have contained the governor’s demand. “If he presses on regardless, he will have to answer for his actions afterwards. The governor has also instructed that any gunpowder here is seized and any further deliveries of Boer powder to the port are confiscated.

“I suspect the governor will be the least of Pretorius’ concerns,” I replied. “We heard this morning that Dingane has learned of the Dutch preparations and has gathered a huge army to confront them – up to fifteen thousand men, commanded by some of their best generals.” I pointed to the camp of our friendly Zulus and suggested, “They can carry your message to the Dutch camp, who will be able to direct them on to Pretorius. But include a note to the camp to let them know that you are here with a ship.”

“Why should I do that?” asked Charters puzzled.

“Because this Pretorius seems far more concerned with God-bothering than fighting. If he is defeated, there will be hundreds of defenceless women and children in desperate need of a safe haven.”

“But my orders are to protect the Zulu, not their enemies.” Charters sounded uncertain, still trying to match instructions from London and Cape Town with the realities he now faced.

I had a sudden memory of the long lines of tiny wrapped corpses after the massacre and was determined it would not happen again. But Charters was clearly anxious to please his superiors and so was easy to manipulate. “The governor will win support from all the Dutch remaining in the colony by saving as many of them as we can,” I told him. Then I looked him in the eye, “Can you imagine what they would say in London, or indeed in this new queen’s court, if they learned that you sailed away from here, leaving hundreds of defenceless women and children screaming for help on the beach to be massacred?” He blanched at that. ‘Obeying orders’ would be no defence for such an action. He would be pilloried in the press and shunned by society.

“No, no, of course not. You are right, but we will need to load additional food and provisions onto the ship for these extra passengers.”

For the next few days Port Natal was a hive of activity. Messengers were duly dispatched, guns brought ashore and sacks of mealie and dried meat loaded onto the ship. Charters must have reflected on my words, for he also seized a warehouse owned by a man called Maynard, which was the only stone building in the town. In it was stored nearly a ton of Boer gunpowder, which was likewise confiscated. The major used the warehouse as the centre of a defensive bastion that he now had his men set about constructing. He appropriated another wooden building nearby as a barracks for his men and instructed some to dig a well for fresh water. The rest of his command was employed cutting wood for timber, making bricks from river mud and building a palisade around the seized buildings. He called the place Fort Victoria after our new monarch, although I doubt she would have felt any more flattered if she had seen it, than D’Urban if he had inspected what was left of his town.

It took two weeks to build the basic structure and while construction had kept the Highlanders occupied, I seethed with frustration. I did not want Charters preparing to stay on this wretched shore; I wanted him planning to leave. The sooner Louisa and I got our boots on the deck of the ship in the bay the better. The major had ordered more supplies loaded aboard and its master estimated that for a short trip down the coast we could load at least another two hundred souls aboard. I did not relish that embarkation. Memories came back of those pitiful Zulus on the beach screaming for help when I was on the Comet with the Owens and Captain Gardiner. This time I thought that the ship would be full to the gunwales, with possibly the ship’s boats in tow loaded with women and children. Even then, there might be some left behind on the shore. The bay of Port Natal was wide and protected by promontories on either side and a sand bar out to sea. The waters were calm here, but out in the ocean there were often huge waves from the southern seas, not to mention man-eating sharks. I doubted any towed and heavily loaded boats would survive the journey. Having been lost at sea in such a craft before, I would make damn sure that Louisa and I travelled on the ship.

“Well it is no Tower of London, but I think Fort Victoria might make a Zulu chief think twice before attacking us.” Charters and I stood on top of the stone warehouse as he proudly surveyed his defences. He pointed at the guns that had been brought ashore and now rested in new emplacements. “We have explosive shells for those; neither the Boers nor the Zulus will have ever faced anything like them. They could kill hundreds as they approach, and from quite a range too.” He sighed contentedly before adding, “There may be less than a hundred of us, but with cannon, musket and bayonet I think we could certainly see off a thousand, possibly two.”

I did not want the fool getting any ideas of staying and so I was quick to puncture his dreams. “And what if ten thousand attack at night? Your vaunted cannon will be of little use then. The first you will know that they are here will be when they are swarming over your walls, more numerous than ants.” I pointed out to the distant hills. “We have to rely on our scouts to warn us of the enemy approach and their numbers. You can stay here if you want, but at the first sign of those devils coming this way, my wife and I are being rowed to the ship.” There were definitely advantages to being a civilian, I thought. Not only was it permissible to retire at the sight of the enemy, you could even boast of it.

“Well, let’s see what numbers they send against us first,” insisted Charters. “It might just be a delegation of their chiefs, for I still cannot believe that this Dingane fellow would dare to take on the might of Britain.”

“That is probably what the poor devils who died in those blackened circles thought too,” I said, pointing to where the local Zulus had been burnt to death in their own huts. “They thought that they were under British protection.”

“There was no British flag or force of arms here then,” insisted Charters pointing to the colour flapping from his newly installed flagpole. “I dare say that this Dingane thought that they were rebels to his own rule. That is quite different to being soldiers of the Queen.” I had to grudgingly admit he had a point and I stayed silent. Emboldened, he continued, “The artillerymen were asking again if they could test fire their guns. It would help them put in range markers.”

“That is out of the question,” I insisted. “They would hear such gunfire at least ten miles away, twenty with the wind blowing in the right direction.” To the best of our knowledge, news of the ship and soldiers at Port Natal had not yet reached Umgungundlovu, although we were overlooked by a range of hills, which concealed our activity. It was only a matter of time before some unwelcome eye peered in our direction. “We need to give ourselves as long as we can,” I continued, “so that we have time to react once we get news of Pretorius…” I was interrupted by an unwelcome droning sound, “Never mind the noise of shellfire,” I grumbled. “It’s bad enough that the bloody piper is sounding off morning, noon and night. I glared at the offending man and added, “If you had ever heard what the Zulus call music, you would know that this din is just awful enough to attract them.”

“Did you really burn their pipes?” asked Charters, chuckling, and with, I thought, a note of envy in his voice.

“Yes, but they were more the tattered remains of the instrument left after Assaye.” I smiled, “But feel free to follow my example.”

The following morning our messengers returned from the Boer camp. Despite their white flags, they had been captured and held for several days and their messages confiscated. It was unclear then if the letters for Pretorius had been sent on to the intended recipient, for the Boers in the camp had decided to respond on his behalf. Their reply, signed by several claiming to be ‘representatives of the people’, demanded Charters restore the gunpowder to them. They insisted that they must be able to defend themselves in what they described as ‘their perilous situation’.

Quite how perilous that was, began to come to light two days later, when a pair of our Zulu scouts encountered one of Dingane’s messengers. Before he died, the man revealed that the whole Zulu army was closing in on the Boer force, who were unaware of their presence. Already the king was planning a celebration in anticipation of his victory. This was just what I had feared. I had never met this Pretorius, but nothing I had heard about him indicated any military experience. I doubted he knew an enfilade from an enchilada dish I had once enjoyed in Mexico. By all accounts, he put far more faith in his gospels than his guns. It seemed only a matter of time before his force was destroyed.

Over the next five days I rode twice down the trail to the south, half expecting to see a column of dishevelled refugees hurrying in our direction. Each time the path was empty but when I returned to Port Natal the second time, I spotted someone approaching the town from the west. It was a lone runner and while I did not recognise him, some of the Zulus in the camp did, for they rushed out to help him into town. It was one of Biggar’s warriors and the news he carried was astonishing.

God knows how far he had run without stopping, for it took him a full minute to get his breath. As he gasped, he reached into a pouch around his waist and handed me a scrap of paper. On it was scrawled: Zulus beaten and routed. Now marching on palace – AB. Alexander Biggar was clearly a man of few words, but his news was scarcely credible. They would have been fighting deep inside Zulu territory. Just five hundred of them defending their laager against over fifteen thousand Zulu would be quite an achievement. When I had been part of a defence against ten thousand, we had only just held our line. Yet if Biggar was to be believed, Pretorius had not just fended off his enemy, his men had sent them fleeing from the field. As I passed the paper to Charters, the runner was getting his wind back and gasping out more astounding details.

“He says there so many Zulu dead that they blocked a river and turned the water red,” translated Ogle. “There are gullies full of bodies and those that were left were chased off by Boers on horseback.”

“How many Boers were killed?” I asked.

Ogle asked the man and then challenged him on the answer, but the runner was insistent. “He says none of the Boers were killed,” Ogle gasped. “I can’t believe it, but he says that just three men were wounded, including Pretorius, who was speared in the hand.” Slowly we gathered more details. The Boers had seen the Zulu in time and built their laager next to a river containing a hippo pool. This meant that the Zulu could only attack on three sides. The Dutch goaded their enemy to make assaults in huge waves so that their muskets and cannon could take a terrible toll. Boers also rode out on horseback to attack the flanks of the charging impis so that they were assailed on three sides. According to the runner, they fought for most of the day like that. Despite having their leading generals present, the Zulus did not vary their tactics or try to burn the laager as they had with us before. They just kept repeating the same kind of attack and getting the same result. Eventually, more Boer horsemen rode out and drove them away entirely.

If we had any remaining doubts over the Boer victory, these were resolved by new visitors. The first was a Dutchman who had ridden from their camp to ensure we had news of their triumph. He claimed that there were at least three thousand Zulu dead. He also told us that the battle had taken place just thirty miles from Umgungundlovu. Already Pretorius and his army were advancing on the capital in the hope of bringing Dingane to justice for the murder of Retief and his men, as well as the massacres amongst their laagers.

The next day six Zulu deserters jogged into the camp. They had been at the battle but did not want to be near Dingane when he learned that his army had been beaten. One of them had relations among the Zulus living with us and wanted to join our community. Given that just a few months before, the Zulu army had burned the settlement and slaughtered everyone they could find, I was surprised that these men were welcomed so easily among their people. They insisted that Dingane was the villain. His soldiers had to obey his commands, or they too would be killed. Yet they assured us that the king’s days were coming to an end. They explained that two of Dingane’s half-brothers had been killed in the battle with the Boer force, which had heavily impacted the morale of the Zulu army. It would also greatly increase the king’s fury at their defeat. Having been bloodily repulsed at the laager, they had no confidence that Dingane could defend his capital. Like countless deserters before them, they insisted that they were not alone and whole impis had fled to escape the wrath of their king.

It was hard to judge how much of their tale was true. I am certainly not one to condemn a man for running away from battle. Yet I could well imagine that morale in the Zulu army must have suffered. This had been the climactic clash between the best of the Zulu kingdom and the largest Boer force. The Africans had been soundly beaten. Much as I begrudged giving Pretorius the credit, the better weaponry and tactics he had employed had won the day. I was also pleased to know that he had not spent too much time on his knees afterwards giving thanks for his triumph. I did not doubt that some Bible-thumping had taken place, but he clearly had not lost the momentum of his victory. If the Zulu army was deserting en masse, then catching Dingane defenceless in his capital would be the sweetest end to the campaign. I chuckled at the thought, for it meant that we would soon be going home.

For Charters and the new British governor, however, news of the Boer victory was nothing short of a disaster. With their territory in Natal now secure, even more Boers were likely to come over the mountains to join families already here. That meant the British colony would be losing more of its most experienced and hard-working farmers. I doubted that the governor would let them go that easily, but if the Crown wanted to reclaim Port Natal, it would now take a lot more than a company of Highlanders. I tried to persuade Charters that the game was up: the Boers had won and there was no point in trying to protect the Zulu now. If he were to march his men between the opposing forces, he was likely to be attacked by both sides.

“The best thing to do is sail back to Cape Town,” I told him, with not a little self-interest. “Take the seized powder with you if you want. The confidence of our Dutch friends will be high now and there is a good chance that hundreds of them will soon turn up here demanding it back. You will be hard pressed to refuse them. No one will thank you for starting another war.”

“This is Crown land now,” he protested. “I could not abandon it even if I wanted to.” He paused, frowning. “Anyway, their victory sounds suspiciously one-sided to me. Have you ever heard of such an imbalance in casualties?”

I had to admit that I had not.

“We only have their word for their success,” continued Charters. “That note from your friend Biggar could have been a forgery. It was extraordinarily brief; you would think that they would want to boast of the details.”

“Possibly, yet the runner who brought the message sounded convincing. In any event the other Zulus here believed him. And what about those deserters?”

“They could have been coached. Even if the Boers really have won, they may have taken heavy casualties, which they would want to hide from us so that they appear stronger than they really are.”

I thought that Charters was clutching at straws, not wanting to believe unfavourable news. Yet he was adamant that he wanted more proof before he would believe the scale of the Dutch victory.

As things turned out, I did not have to wait long to receive another example of Alexander Biggar’s handwriting addressed to me. It came the next morning and read: “Palace captured, defenders put to flight. Can you come, need to know where Retief and men are buried.” The runner confirmed the contents of the note and explained that the Zulu army had disbanded. He had passed dozens of them on the way to the coast, all returning to their villages.

“That is all very well,” I grumbled, “but the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could not drag me back to that hell hole again. I will draw them a map and they can find things from that.”

To my surprise, an objection came from the last person I would have expected. “You cannot let Alexander down,” insisted Louisa. “He has been so good to us and those men deserve a Christian burial.”
“He can find the bones from a map,” I countered. “Anyway, I thought the last thing that you would want is for us to be separated again.”

“We would not be separated, for I will come with you,” she replied. Patting her scarred leg, she continued, “I am bored staying here. I want to see where the man who caused my limp and so much pain lived. If he is dead or a captive, so much the better.”

While Louisa was now largely recovered from her wounds, I would not hear of it. I was adamant that a map was the best solution, that is until Charters came to talk to me. “If you were to go to their capital,” he mused, “then you would be ideally placed to confirm the remaining strength of the Boer force and whether or not the Zulus have truly been beaten. You have friends amongst them; they will trust you with the truth.”

“And what if the Zulus have not been beaten?” I pressed, “I could be right in the soup again. Not that I care for myself, you understand,” I lied, “but my wife would insist on coming with me.”

“They must have been pushed back well beyond their capital or they would have defended it,” he reasoned. “You would need to go no further than that.” He gave me a shrewd, calculating look and added, “Of course, if the Zulus are beaten, then I would have no reason to keep the ship in the bay. It would be safe to let it return to Cape Town for more supplies and to take any passengers with it.”

So there we had it, a naked bribe: do as Charters asked and then, at long last, start the journey home. Given that I had argued against releasing the ship while there was a chance the Zulus could attack, I could hardly change my tune now. Yet it was a hundred and fifty miles to Umgungundlovu, much of it over rough terrain. The few older Zulus we had in camp would struggle to keep up with horses, never mind scout ahead for danger. The idea that Louisa and I could ride all that distance alone was preposterous. Even if I took both the shotgun and musket I had kept from the battle at Gatsrand, we would still be horribly vulnerable. We did not know the trail and there were all manner of ravines and gorges to get lost in. There were lions and a menagerie of other wild animals that could do us harm. It would be just my luck for us to be charged by another wild elephant.

Even if we escaped everything that Mother Nature could throw at us, we knew that Zulu deserters were roaming the same territory. Many would have lost comrades in the recent battle. Two white people, neither in the first flush of youth, would prove a tempting target for vengeance. It was a preposterous notion and I did not waste a moment in rejecting the idea. I listed all my objections to Charters until even he was at a loss as to why anyone would risk such an ordeal, especially with their wife in tow. It was decided that the truth of the Boer claims would be revealed in due course. We would just have to wait.

Fate can be a capricious mistress when she is trying to tempt your plums over the flames of danger once more. Having resolutely made my decision, I was making my second attempt at a reasonably accurate map, when I heard riders galloping up and being challenged by the sentries outside. I pricked up my ears when I heard them announce they came from Pretorius. I watched from the window of my quarters as they were granted access to Fort Victoria. Covered in dust from their journey, their beards made their grim scowls look even more forbidding. They stared about them at the gun emplacements and soldiers, muttering angrily between themselves. They looked as bitter about what they saw as a dairy maid finding a drowned rat in the cream bowl. Charters came out to meet them and I made sure that I was close enough to eavesdrop.

“We heard that you have seized our gunpowder,” their leader stated, coming straight to the point. “You have no right to take it. The powder is our property, and we want it back.”

“And you can have it back,” agreed the major amiably, before his voice hardened. “As soon as you give me an undertaking that all Boer forces will return south of the Tugela River and stay there.” This would restore to Dingane all the territory he had just lost and give him the opportunity to regroup. Most importantly, it would also enable Charters to claim that he had protected the Zulus as ordered. He also doubtless imagined that their king would feel indebted to him. Yet he must also have known that the Boers would never agree. They stood and glowered silently at him for several seconds, but surrounded by curious Highlanders, there was little that they could do. They turned to leave but Charters followed them to the gap in the new palisade. They were nearly there when the leader stopped and turned to Charters again. I did not catch it all, but I distinctly heard the word ‘Flashman’.

A minute later and a kilted redcoat found me in my quarters drawing a picture of the execution hill and escorted me out to join the gathering. I had already guessed what they wanted. The Boer leader, reluctant to return empty-handed, must have known about the request for me to join them to help find Retief. Now he and his men were offering to give me an armed escort back to Umgungundlovu. I had little excuse to refuse now and Charters nodded encouragingly as the proposal was made. At first, they objected to taking Louisa too – it was no place for a woman, they told me. I wholeheartedly agreed and offered to return to my cartography but then I noticed one of the riders whisper in their leader’s ear. The man nodded his assent and so it was that we found ourselves heading once more into the Zulu kingdom.