Chapter 24

 

A horn sounded from a ledge high up the escarpment to our right and a distant voice shouted a command in Zulu. Before my eyes the white lumps on the plain began to break apart. The nearest had been several hundred yards away and I swear you would not have given it a second glance. It was just a white cow resting on the ground after the rain, surrounded by plenty of beasts that were very real. Yet now as I watched, the white hide began to separate into five shield shapes. Behind them Zulus rose from where they had lain on the ground, raising spears triumphantly and shouting. The sound was indistinguishable at first, but then I recognised it as they settled into a chant: Bulala. Kill.

With a great sense of trepidation, I looked back the way we had come. The black cows behind us, which had also been indistinguishable from real beasts from the top of the escarpment, were also transforming into well over a thousand warriors. All across the plain, the huge herd that had attracted the greed of the Boers, was rising to trap them. Real cattle amongst them bolted in panic as the shouting began, although most of those had been placed near the river to aid the deception.

“There are bloody thousands of them,” I whispered, almost in awe as I stared across the river. My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shooting ahead. The informant, still with his hands bound behind his back, had spurred his horse into a gallop and was charging through the river towards his comrades. A volley of shots from the betrayed Dutch followed him, but none struck home.

Like me, the Boers were staring about them in bewilderment at the sudden change in their circumstances. I like to think that a lifetime of unpleasant surprises caused me to recover first. “We have to go back!” I shouted at the men about me. “We can’t be trapped down here.”

“It’s too late,” replied Pieter, twisting around in his saddle. “They are already at the bottom of the escarpment.” He was right; a hundred Zulus already blocked the route back up but many hundreds more were running in from the west. I swore vehemently. I had been dismissive of the Zulu generals, who had found no way to break a laager, but the swine who had planned this ambush was an evil genius. The informant had played his part well, luring us in with tales of the ‘royal herd’. And once we were down the slope the deception continued, with cattle herders and the supposed rump of Dingane’s army drawing us east, away from the ‘cattle’ who would shut the door of the trap behind us. Riding back up that steep path to the top of the escarpment would be a slow and precarious business. With assegais hurled at man and beast, we would be like ducks in a shooting gallery. A wounded horse could easily knock half a dozen down the cliff. Pieter was right; I could see that it was too late, but as I looked at Zulus rushing in from all directions screaming for our deaths, I could see no escape at all.

I felt that all too familiar sense of rising panic. Staring up at the top of the bluff to our right, I could still make out a tiny figure in a dress standing with Pretorius and the others. Was she going to watch her husband torn to pieces before her very eyes? It seemed inevitable. We had a cliff to our right, thousands of Zulus boring in over the river to our left and at least a thousand more blocking the only way out behind. In front the five hundred Zulus who had already crossed the bottom of the meandering ‘S’ curve in the river, were defending the far bank, more confident now that reinforcements were streaming in.

“We have to go on,” shouted Pieter above the rising noise of war cries and shooting. “If we can get past them and onto the plain, our horses can outrun them.” There was a bloody big ‘if’ in that sentence, but he was right, it was our only hope. Landsman, commanding the front of the column must have reached the same conclusion. He was now leading his men into the water in front, while more Boers gave withering supporting fire from our bank. I felt bile burn the back of my throat and I tasted coffee again at the thought of fighting through that lot. “Come on!” called Pieter, urging his horse forward with the others.

Landsman was already halfway across, his horse rearing as an assegai shaft struck the creature on the head. Incredibly, the Zulu on the far side were falling back as they were assailed by a hail of lead from our bank. More Boers pushed their horses into the water and soon the first were climbing the far shore. I was happy to let them spearhead our retreat, for I have never found being in the front a healthy place to be. Yet as I glanced over my shoulder, my stomach spasmed once more at the sight of hundreds of the murderous bastards now charging down the bank behind us. I remember muttering a prayer and making fervent promises to the Almighty if only He would let me live. “I will never leave the shores of England again,” I vowed, as I coaxed my mount down the bank and into the water.

Several Zulus were floating face down and a horse was lying on its side in the shallows, its legs thrashing wildly, unable to get up. The noise was deafening: the crash of guns, thousands of angry voices calling for our death, the screams of men and animals, much of it echoed off the cliff face to our right so that it seemed we were surrounded. By the time I was halfway across the river there must have been two hundred Boers milling about on the far shore, shooting and shouting, driving the enemy back. We were in a desperate plight and this was the time for clear and decisive leadership, yet inexplicably this was the very moment that the Boer force broke in two.

Landsman led his advance party to the right, splashing over another curve of the river towards the bottom of the cliff. He must have been hoping that there would be a path along the bank that would enable him to skirt the attack. De Lange led the second group to the left, the route that led directly up onto the plain and the space to escape. Both leaders were yelling at the Boers to follow them and I saw several men change from one group to the other. Confusion was now added to my terror, for they were all bellowing in Dutch and I could not understand a bloody word. To dither would prove fatal and so I went left with De Lange, largely because that was where Pieter and the men around me headed.

We had only gone a few yards when I swiftly realised that I had made a mistake. We were on the Zulu side of the river now and the white-shielded warriors began to run in amongst us. De Lange organised his riders into a broad front of around sixty, who began to fire into the throng. As they did so they turned back to reload leaving those behind to take their place. Suddenly, to my horror, I found myself on the front line, with a pall of musket smoke from their earlier volley obscuring my view of the yelling fiends in front.

“Push forward!” yelled Pieter beside me, urging his mount on so that he could see what he was firing at. The last thing I wanted to do was ride closer to the enemy, but I had the sense to know that I would be even more vulnerable if they charged through the smoke with their spears. Our only hope was to keep them at bay with our guns. If we were reduced to hand-to-hand fighting, the huge imbalance in numbers would ensure we were overwhelmed. I kicked my heels back in the nick of time for they were nearly on us. Bringing the shotgun up, I blasted two with one barrel, watching as they both tumbled away. I just had time to swing the gun round and blast another with the second shot. Then I was turning back myself as replacements pressed forward into the line. My hands were shaking so badly that I spilt powder as I tried to reload. Fumbling, I managed to get loopers down each barrel. There was no time for ramrods so I did what I saw the others doing, knocking the butt on the saddle pommel to shake the charges home. There was barely a chance to put powder in the priming pans before I found myself in front again.

This time I did not charge forward; our line was moving back, and it was not hard to see why. There must have been at least a thousand of the white shields in front of us. They had coalesced into a solid line. We heard a steady thud as their short stabbing spears beat against the white leather hides, interspersed by shouts of “Bulala!” It was the most sinister rhythm I have ever heard. I ducked as an assegai flew over my head. There were far fewer of the throwing spears than I expected. They must have used most of them in their earlier battles with the Boers and had not been able to make many more. One man stepped out from the line and, turning his back on me, began to rail at his fellows. He was clearly exhorting them to some new mischief. There is only one way to deal with rabble rousers like that: I raised my gun and fired, just as he punched his spear into the air. Metal fragments in the looper flayed his back open and pitched him into the shields beyond. There was a roar of outrage from their owners who began to move forward as one.

“Oh Christ!” I yelled as I wheeled my horse away in panic. I was immediately impeded by a line of mounted Boers preparing to fire. “Get out of the damn way!” I shrieked at them while they cursed me in turn for blocking their shot. As my horse started to push its way through, one of them fired a musket almost next to my head. I felt the heat of the muzzle flash on my cheek and my ear was ringing from the noise of the discharge. Disorientated, I pushed on; there was no way that they were stopping that lot. My mind had gone blank apart from a sheer, naked terror as I stared about and saw enemies on all sides. Men were swinging musket butts down on Zulus all around them. I remember hearing a high-pitched scream over the din and looked up to see a Boer with an iklwa point buried deep in his belly. The Zulu wrenched his spear free and turned, hunting for another victim. He was just yards away and looked at me, a mad rage in his eyes. He had already taken two paces forward when I got the gun up. For an awful second I could not remember which barrel I had fired. I cocked the left and breathed a sigh of relief as the butt slammed into my shoulder from the recoil. The Zulu was dead, and I suspected the Boer he had struck would not be long after him. He swayed in the saddle, holding his guts but another rider helped steady him and lead his horse away. I did not see any more after that, for I was in a headlong retreat. For once I was not alone. I looked about me to see that the whole Boer line was now galloping back alongside.

De Lange shouted something, but again in bloody Dutch! For a moment I had no idea where we were going, but then I realised we had little choice: we had to ride after Landsman’s party and hope they were making better progress. We splashed once more through the river, the middle of the ‘S’ this time, heading towards the escarpment and the sound of new gun fire. Suddenly, there were more Zulus in front of us, but they were facing the other way. Then they heard the thunder of hooves behind them and turned in alarm, fear on their faces as they found themselves trapped between the two Boer groups. There was no choice but to charge straight through them. Hardly any of us were loaded. I changed my grip on the shotgun to hold it by the hot barrels, swinging it like a club beside me. One of the first to retreat, I found myself in the front line of horsemen. I watched as a Zulu in front of me whirled round, raising his shield and drawing back his stabbing arm. There was little I could do to avoid him. I was hemmed in by more horsemen on either side and further ranks of them behind. I swung the shotgun butt and may have even closed my eyes, for all I remember is feeling the wooden stock make solid contact with something. Then I was through, man and mount mercifully unscathed. Yet any relief was short-lived, for we had just jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

I stared ahead in horror, for Landsman had brought his men up a path that just led to the blank wall of the escarpment. It was in every sense of the phrase, a ‘dead end’. They had dismounted, forming a laager with just their horses, and had been firing over their saddles. As I pulled up and glanced nervously behind at the white shields still on our tails, De Lange swept past and started yelling at Landsman. I did not need a translator, for he was pointing east and looked furious. Landsman’s followers were doomed if they stayed in their laager. There was no escape up the cliff. They could only fight until they ran out of ammunition and then they would be overwhelmed. As I stared at that escarpment, I had white shields running up behind and at least a thousand black shields still charging in from our right. Our only hope now was to go left, to the east, over the top curve of the ‘S’ in the river. There were still Zulus coming in from that direction, but we just had to pray that our combined force could punch its way through. I hurriedly reached into my satchel to reload the shotgun while Landsman’s party remounted. I saw Biggar pointing and the Port Natal Zulus ran forward to lead the new advance. They began to spread out to drive off the nearby enemy, but we did not wait for them, or at least I didn’t. I knew instinctively that this was a race – we had to break out before Zulu reinforcements, running in from across the Ulundi Plain, could trap us for good. The sight of Zulus fighting against Dingane’s forces enraged the enemy and many of the fiends came running for them, howling blue murder. Four warriors charged one of Biggar’s lads to my left, yelling their heads off. They had foolishly run forward in a tight group and so I took aim and gave them the contents of a barrel. There was a bang, a puff of smoke and the thud of the butt once more against my shoulder and then the odds were evened. The survivor of the group still standing looked bloody and I doubted he would put up much resistance. My Zulu comrade shouted something in thanks and raced forward to finish him off.

More enemies were lining the far bank of the river and I fired the remaining barrel at them and hurriedly reloaded while I waited for the rest to catch up. I was not foolish enough to try and cross by myself.

Suddenly, Biggar appeared. “Wait for the others,” he shouted unnecessarily as he reached into his satchel for another cartridge.

“Do you think we will make it?” I shouted back at him. As I did so I glanced over to our left. The white shields had guessed our intentions and the first of them were already splashing through the water further upstream to cut us off.

“We will be in good company if we don’t,” Biggar replied enigmatically. I assumed he was referring to his sons, but did not have time to ask, for a growing thunder of hooves heralded the arrival of the entire Boer force. For the first time they rode in a block of over five hundred horsemen. It was a formidable sight. The Zulus on the far riverbank started to edge back. Those that did not move quickly were blasted by a flurry of fire as De Lange led the Boers without hesitation into the water. They were soon up the far bank too, shooting lead into anyone who got in their way. It happened so quickly that I began to believe we might have a chance after all. I splashed once more into that dammed river in their wake. The far bank was littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, but they were all Zulu and I galloped on until I was safely in the rear of the Boer formation. Biggar and his warriors were now running along behind. To my surprise, most of the Port Natal force had survived.

There was more gunfire coming from my left now. The white shields were trying to attack the flank of the horsemen. De Lange was organising his men to fire volleys to keep them back, but this only slowed us up. As our retreat suddenly stalled, it allowed more of the white shields to cross the river and join their comrades in the struggle. Large rocks and thorn bushes growing near the river also got in the way and soon the riders were milling about in confusion. If you expected your correspondent to join this desperate effort, well, you really don’t know me at all. There was only one tactic that would serve here: panic-stricken flight and leave the devil to take the hindmost… which was certainly not going to be me.

I galloped past, yelling at them to ride on. “Come on!” I implored. “We have to outpace them, or we will all die!” While they spoke Dutch among themselves, most understood English and they could also comprehend the sense in what I was saying. The Boer I had seen stabbed earlier was still on his horse, held there by men riding on either side and they were the first to turn and join me. Yet others were hesitating. I watched as an unintelligible debate broke out among the mass of riders. Some were pointing at me and to the now near empty plain to the north and others gesturing at the gunfire currently keeping the white shields at bay. I might not have understood a word of what was being said, but it was clear I was winning the argument. More horsemen turned to join me and so I urged my mount on, up the slope onto the plain. It was a relief to see the riders behind me as I had not fancied crossing the vast expanse on my own. It was still pock-marked with scattered groups of Zulus that had made up the more distant ‘cattle’, running in to join their brothers. I stared around again to see that the trickle of riders had become a flood. De Lange must have realised what was happening and given up on the fight, for now the whole Boer force was riding as one in my wake.

The white shields were still on our heels, though, and beginning to catch Biggar and his Zulus who were falling behind. Landsman yelled something and around fifty Boers broke away and looped back to fire a volley into the front of the enemy force to slow them down. As they returned up onto the plain I breathed a sigh of relief: we had made it. The few Zulus we could see were scattering away from us. None of them fancied taking on five hundred horsemen. Then as I looked back to confirm that Biggar’s warriors were managing to maintain a distance from their pursuers, I saw the escarpment beyond and felt another pang of alarm. Despite my best endeavours, Louisa and I were separated again. This time there were several thousand murderous Zulus between us, and she only had a dozen old or wounded Boers for protection. They all had horses, though, and I tried to comfort myself with the thought that having seen the battle from above, they would ride away at the first sign of Zulus approaching the laager.

We kept up a steady pace across that plain for two hours. At first every few minutes a group would wheel back and fire into the white shields, but they gradually fell further back. Biggar and his warriors fell back too, but not by as much. Our only casualty during that time was a horse. It had a deep spear wound in its side and finally stumbled and fell, unable to get up. Its rider put it out of its misery and climbed up to share another’s mount. The horses had fared worse than the men, for there were at least half a dozen with a double burden on their backs. The other mounts had been lost at the river crossings.

Eventually, we judged it was safe to stop for a while. Men and animals needed time to recover from the shock of the Zulu attack. Several of the Boers were sporting wounds, some of which were quite deep cuts that needed quickly bandaging. To my astonishment, every single man who had set off down the escarpment was still with us. The one I had seen stabbed in the guts had the worst injury by far. His clothes were soaked in blood and it would probably have been a kindness to leave him to die in peace. We left him to rest in the grass while we drank from water bottles and argued over what we should do next.

Most were convinced that having driven us off, the Zulus would now climb the escarpment and burn the laager. They swore and cursed at that possibility, many having got themselves into debt to buy their wagons in the first place. I privately hoped that they did burn the wagons, for it would force Pretorius and more importantly, Louisa, to withdraw. My fear was that they would stay there until nightfall and find that the Zulus had encircled them in the dark. When I expressed this concern, De Lange was insistent that we would be back in the laager by dusk.

“How the hell will we manage that?” I queried and others nodded in agreement. I was not alone in thinking this was impossible.

“Well we cannot keep riding north when everything we have is to the south,” he started. “We cannot go up the escarpment on the same path we came down, it is too slow and narrow. But we can ride to the west, out of sight of the Zulus across the top of the plain. Then we will ride south again, cross the river and go up the shallower path that we were going to drive the cattle up.”

“That is too obvious, they will be expecting us to do that,” protested another Boer called Potgieter. “We must abandon the laager and ride further to the west. That way we can avoid the Zulu army entirely.” I was not sure if this was the same Potgieter who had abandoned Uys to his fate, but he certainly divided his audience. Some shouted their agreement while others, some hoping to keep their wagons, shouted him down. It sounded a far more sensible approach to me, and if it were not for the fact that Louisa was in the laager that he was so casually dismissing, then I would have been all for his scheme. Thankfully, the majority, including Landsman and his followers, agreed with De Lange. We would try to make it back to the wagons and there, hopefully, I would be reunited with Louisa. All were sure that if we could reach it, we would be able to fight off this Zulu army from within the safety of the laager. It was a much smaller force than they had beaten before from within the circle of wagons. That was all very well, but I had a nasty feeling that the Zulu general, who had the cunning to come up with this ambush, would not be so obliging as to let us get back to the plateau unopposed.