Death on a Pale Horse - By Donald Thomas Page 0,10

field-glasses, the hunter made out that something had gone badly wrong with the Royal Artillery battery, forward of the perimeter on the northern flank. He was not surprised at this, though it was something of a bonus, a tribute to the incompetence of whoever had left the gunners there. Perhaps it was simply that Cetewayo’s inexperienced young warriors had learnt the lesson of the battle more quickly then anyone had expected. By their movements, it was plain that they knew that lesson now.

After a shell had been fired, the iron monster that belched fire and smoke was powerless against them for almost a minute while it was loaded again. At the moment of its discharge, they had only to drop flat on the earth in the long dry grass until the flight of the thunderbolt passed over them. The weapon that fired it was then at their mercy, as they rose to their knees, to their feet, and surged forward again with spears poised to take their revenge.

Each time the artillery gunners reloaded, the officers of the beleaguered battery were striving to keep the tribes at bay with revolvers and swords. But during these pauses, the weight of numbers had begun to tell. In this reversal of fortune, the artillerymen were also in danger of being overwhelmed, cut off in the path of a continuing advance.

The only recourse was to save the guns, and the order was given. In a rapid manoeuvre, the teams struggled to get their field pieces to their horse-drawn limbers and then back within the camp perimeter. The dark-uniformed crews at each of the seven-pounders began hauling them away. Training and discipline accomplished this in less than half a minute. On the right, the 1st Battalion of the 24th Foot, on Pulleine’s order, opened a covering rifle fire on the tribesmen as they swarmed round the retreating gunners. Drivers whipped up the horses while guncrews jumped for a seat on the limbers. A spear, launched at short range, pierced an artilleryman’s back even as he snatched for a hand-hold. At a distance, his cry was audible but brief.

The limber wheels lurched and jolted forward over uneven ground, their crews and passengers hacking at the heads and hands of the tribesmen following them. Elsewhere, the last of the gunners ran alongside the vehicles, the warriors close behind them.

A retreat by British artillery in the face of the tribes was a reverse, but it was not yet the rout that the hunter had envisaged. His glasses showed him Colonel Pulleine striding back to his tent, then pausing. He was looking up at the skyline, the hills above the plain. What could he hope to see there, in the white glare of noon? Perhaps Lord Chelmsford’s column returning. But as he looked to left and right, he would sense a growing stillness across the field of battle. And in that stillness the colonel would know, as the quiet observer had known for many hours, that he and his entire force were doomed to die.

To the south, on the right of the position, the red lines of the infantry were still holding firm, for the attack had been lighter. On the left, where the artillerymen had found refuge, the crackling volleys of the rifles sputtered and died. The forward ranks were almost face to face with the enemy. A metallic rattle and scraping followed the chilling command that echoed down the lines of white helmets and scarlet tunics from officers and NCOs:

“Company—Fix bayonets!”

Pulleine must have wondered how it could have come to this. Perhaps he might guess. More likely, he would die and never know the reason. With the precision of a guards regiment on a drill square, the endangered platoons and companies had drawn bayonets in unison, counting three as the steel flickered bright in the sun, then clipping them in a single movement to the hot barrels of the rifles.

With a howl of expectant triumph, Cetewayo’s warriors flung down their shields, raised their fine-honed assegais in powerful fists, and rushed upon the redcoat line. The bayonets of the 24th held them for an instant. But as each rifleman sank his blade under the breastbone of an assailant, a new wave of the warriors broke over his position. Before the bayonets could be withdrawn, the first riflemen were cut down by the Uvi and Umcijo.

The 24th infantry pulled back, leaving dead and wounded on the rough grass over which the line of the advance swept forward. The Natal Cavalry,