was possible to see through field-glasses from the camp that Strickland, distinguished by the white band round his wide-awake hat, remained on his horse. Perhaps in the stillness he was puzzled by that strange, unaccountable buzzing of a vast army of bees.
Presently he could be seen dismounting cautiously and guiding his horse to the sharp edge of the ravine, where it dropped to the level of the lower hills. He walked alone to the lip of the rift, stood on the edge where the ground sloped away, and looked into the narrow gorge.
A moment later, he was seen with his foot in the stirrup, turning his horse about. He flung himself astride and spurred at full pelt upon the astonished patrol of Pulleine’s Lambs, stretched in the grass, talking and laughing.
The message, though out of earshot from the camp, was never in doubt.
“Ride for your lives! The tribes are in the ravine! Thousand on thousand of them! Ride for the camp or we shall all be lost!”
The puzzled vedettes on the camp perimeter saw through their glasses the Volunteers snatch at their bridles, jump for their stirrups, and gallop in wild retreat down the slope of the plateau. Still Cetewayo’s warriors lay low with perfect discipline while the British camp was quiet and unprepared for an assault. Something like a battle-cry now sounded thinly at this distance. Then the first ranks of the tribesmen rose silently into view along the ridge with their oval shields and assegais. At the two ends of their great line, the horns of the formation forming the Zulu impi were coming down towards either side of Pulleine’s men while the centre pinned the defenders down. Worse still for Pulleine, he was to be trapped with his back to the mountain.
Watching this across the quiet veldt, the horseman stood by his dappled mare and heard a sharp but distant crackling of rifles, like dry twigs in a fire. It seemed the best thing to be up and gone. As he mounted, Pulleine was in the opening of the tent again, tunic unbuttoned and a towel in his hands.
“Sar’ Major Tindal!”
“Firing on the north plateau, sir. Mr. Strickland and the mounted detail riding back!”
“Mr. Spencer!” Pulleine roared at his junior captain. “Sound the Alarm and the Fall-In. Keep your glasses on the north plateau and report!”
The colonel turned back into his tent, buckling his belt on, testing the angle of his scabbard and revolver holster. The onlooker knew what must happen next, as surely as if he had rehearsed it all himself. In a final glance, he saw that Pulleine’s eyes appeared set with anger, as surely as they would soon be stilled in death. The colonel was no doubt composing the phrases he would use when Strickland reappeared. Despite the injury that still seemed secretly to burn his flesh, the watching hunter felt no hatred, rather a cold satisfaction at what must happen. The dice had rolled. The outcome was no more to him now than the stars in their courses, the shining masters riveted in the sky. He untethered the dappled mare from the fence and led her away, glancing back from time to time.
Somewhere among the tents, a boy bugler of the regimental band sounded the Alarm and, after a moment’s pause, the Fall-In. The heat of noon rang with the shouts of NCOs, of troopers cursing as they buckled on their webbing while they ran. In a moment more, the air sounded to cries of “Company, A-ttention! Right dress!”
“Sir!” Spencer’s words carried as he ran towards the colonel’s tent, his voice steady but its pitch high, “enemy now in force on the north plateau! The ridge is thick with them!”
“Very well, Mr. Spencer. Companies to their positions on the perimeter. Where are Colonel Durnford and his troopers?”
“No sign, sir.”
“He may find himself cut off. He and Lord Chelmsford.” Pulleine’s face was still tense with anger. “I’ll be damned if I don’t have that fool Strickland court-martialled!”
But his tone of voice and the unease in his eyes suggested that he now thought himself the greater fool of the two. He took his field-glasses from their case again, glancing across to see that the companies of the 24th Foot were doubling forward to their positions. Then he strode off to survey the perimeter defences. Lieutenant Coghill, acting adjutant in the absence of Chelmsford’s party, caught him up.
Watching from the saddle, the hunter knew that the field-glasses would prove that Spencer had been right. For almost