a mile along the edge of the northern plateau, the horizon-line had become a dark undulating mass of humanity. They had come from nowhere, as it seemed, for the night patrol had reported nothing. Metal tips of their razor-sharp assegais glittered in strong light, and at this distance the tawny-coloured animal skins covering their shields seemed to float on their bodies like debris on a tide.
At the nearer end of the plateau, Strickland’s men were still careering in panic towards the camp in a motley stampede, a retreat as undisciplined as a donkey-race. The rocket-battery would never limber up in time to withdraw. Though well-armed, it was about to be marooned in the centre of the plain. But Durnford’s mounted column was now riding back in good order from the eastern foothills. Its men began to dismount and take up a defensive line just forward of the main camp, where the boulders of the dry river donga offered good cover for the riflemen.
Pulleine’s voice still carried across the lines.
“I want Mr. Pope and his platoon brought in now! If the tribes attack down the slope, they’ll be on top of the pickets before we know where we are.”
Coghill saluted and rode away.
Strickland and his Volunteers were at last cantering across a flat stretch of plain towards the camp. Durnford’s riflemen were in place, making their forward line of defence among the rocks of the donga. The companies of the 24th and the other regiments still under Pulleine’s command formed a formidable double rampart across the approach to the camp perimeter. With its Martini-Henry breech-loaders, this red-coated infantry presented a constant wall of fire. The kneeling sections fired first and those standing behind fired over the first rank’s heads while those kneeling reloaded. The aim was sure, disciplined, and regular. Even at quarter of a mile, the effect of such volleys would make a shambles of the close-ranked battalions of the tribes.
By now, the rocket-battery was isolated. Its launching-troughs on their limber-wheels stood well ahead of the main defensive line. But the camp was secure beyond question. Indeed, at the sight of the double line of infantry, the tribal army at the plateau’s foot appeared to hesitate. The massed bodies swayed a little, side to side, while a hymn-like chant rose slow and mournful to the white heat of the sky.
“u-Suthu! u-Suthu!”
Sometimes the warriors would make a brief demonstration with shields and spears, beating the rhythm of a tattoo, only to withdraw. Whatever their chiefs promised, even this phalanx—a mile long and eight or ten men deep—faced slaughter at the hands of mechanised weaponry. The artillery battery was now trained on their approach.
Pulleine lowered his field-glasses as Coghill returned. The hunter glanced again as his mount rambled on inconspicuously. Chelmsford would be five miles to the south-east by now, following the Malagata range. Coghill had his despatch-book and pencil out. There was only one message to send, and the mounted hunter could echo every word.
“Return at once with all your force. Zulus advancing in force from the left front of the camp.”
The hunter had seen and guessed enough. With Strickland’s return, there were scores of men in uniforms identical to his, Natal Volunteers scattered throughout the camp. Once again, no one would pay him the least attention. It was all just as he had calculated. He saw that a mounted messenger and three escorts, one of them a black-coated guide, were making their way to the western perimeter by the foot of the col. He had only to follow at a distance, apparently bringing up the rear as one of the despatch riders. Best of all, Her Majesty’s infantry had been taught that he would not be worth challenging as though he were a British “regular.” The ruffians of the Volunteers did not count as true soldiers.
Behind him, he heard a single battle-cry of the human tide as it burst from its line on the plateau and surged in mass formation down the slope to the plain. Then it came on silently and in perfect order, the war-chant stilled. Glancing back, he saw that the individual warriors were almost distinguishable. Their advance spread and formed a human phalanx across the scorching grassland. Then Cetewayo’s young men broke into a slow rhythmic run, with all the professional precision of British regiments moving in double-time.
Despite the apparent security of Pulleine’s main position, the rocket-battery had delayed too long. Major Russell, his bombardier, and the eight troopers had chosen to make a fight of