The Kraals of Ulundi, page 23
‘Have the Basutos still not shown, sir?’ said the troopers’ corporal to Carey. But he had no chance to answer.
‘I fear they may have reported to the wrong place,’ said Louis. ‘But we are enough, I think. We are not going too far. And they can follow on. In any case, it seems we have a guide of our own.’ He nodded towards the Zulu who was squatting in the dirt, fondling the terrier’s ears. ‘But does he have a horse?’
‘He’s a Zulu, Your Highness,’ said Carey. ‘They can outrun our cavalry over considerable distances.’ He conjured the ubiquitous nightmare image, of the way the Zulus had pursued and butchered the horsemen attempting to flee the massacre of Isandlwana back in January. Before the months of stalemate. Before this second invasion of Zululand that was now finally begun. The main column – the Second Division – had crossed the Blood River into Zululand on the previous morning with the intention of marching directly on Cetshwayo’s capital at Ulundi, while the First Division would support them from the south.
‘All the same,’ said the Prince Imperial, ‘we shall make better progress if he is mounted. He can ride, I suppose?’
The corporal – Carey recognised him as Jimmy Grubb – spoke to the guide. Fluent IsiZulu. The fellow nodded.
‘Excuse me, Your Highness,’ said Lomas. ‘But you think he’ll be able to handle Tommy, sir?’
A moment of uncertainty, a sudden doubt, almost of fearful premonition, passed over the Prince Imperial’s face and then vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘he may take Fate. I shall ride Tommy after all. Change the saddle will you?’
Carey felt rebuffed yet again. Diminished in his authority. Yet he found himself struggling for a way to reassert himself. He was not at his best in any case. The rebuff from Chelmsford. The feverish remnant of his lingering malaise. His self-doubt about its nature. The lasting effects of the shock which perpetually jolted his innards each time he recalled seeing William McTeague enter the camp at Utrecht with the returning burial detail. His shame at having hidden himself away until the Major – he still thought of McTeague as the Major – had left again with his little band of renegades, seemingly on some errand for Drummond. The incredulity that gnawed upon his soul, that their paths should so nearly cross again after this amount of time, this distance. And almost before he knew it, they were all mounted and making their way out of the laager, past the Scotch wagon barricades, past the well-wishers who always appeared whenever Louis put himself on show. And Deléage was there, naturally.
‘Do you have time to wait for me to saddle?’ said the correspondent.
For a self-professed Republican, thought Carey, he has an astonishing fondness for this particular member of the royalty.
‘There’ll not be much of interest for Le Figaro today, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘Only seven or eight miles. Find a spot to pitch the next camp. That’s about it.’
‘You can join us there,’ said the Prince, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘And Carey is correct. This little excursion will not be very interesting. Not for you anyway, Deléage. You have already been much further into Zululand than I have. Still, I shall try to inspire something exciting for your dispatch.’
Carey worried that it should not be anything too exciting. He began to feel more relaxed, however, when they came up with Lieutenant-Colonel Harrison and one of the infantry majors, both of whom fell in alongside them.
‘Ah, Carey,’ said Harrison. ‘It seems that Shepstone’s Basutos have paraded in the wrong place. You should wait while we find them for you.’
‘We’ll carry on slowly, sir. Do you think somebody might instruct them to follow and meet us en route?’
‘Certainly,’ Harrison replied, and relayed the instruction to his own orderly. ‘In any case, Major Grenfell and myself will join you for a while. At least as far as Thelezeni.’
It took them an hour to cover the seven miles from Kopje Allein to the site chosen for the army’s first camp at Intelesi. A pleasant hour. Distraction from his woes. Chat about Wimbledon – Hartley would win, surely. Gossip about the Grace brothers, the scandal of their expense claims – a gentleman ought not to make a profit from playing cricket, after all. The Prince Imperial’s affection for Trollope – the latest two-volume novel an absolute delight. So that Carey began to relax once more. He may only have known Louis for a couple of weeks but he admired his dash, despite the jealousies. It had been amusing during their previous patrol together, just a few days before, to see him charging away alone in pursuit of fleeing Zulus, despite Colonel Buller’s earlier admonition. But the Prince’s élan assumed an entirely distinct complexion now that they would be alone within this patrol.
At the Intelezi camp site, Harrison was keen to get about his business, to ready the place for the arrival of the Division’s main force.
‘By the way, Carey,’ said the Colonel, ‘if you still want to verify your sketches of the next leg, there should be enough time. Just as far as the Ityotyosi perhaps. But you will wait for Shepstone’s fellows, won’t you?’ And Carey agreed that he would, delighted that he would, after all, have the chance to reconnoitre the route that Chelmsford had declared impassable. Though the Acting Quartermaster-General had barely left them before Louis, without any word being exchanged, spurred the grey and headed on. The troopers looked confused for a moment, then followed him. Carey cursed silently, touched his dust-coloured helmet in salute to the Major and did likewise.
‘Take care,’ shouted Grenfell. ‘And don’t get shot!’
The Prince Imperial turned in his saddle.
‘Oh no,’ he called. ‘I’m sure Carey shall take good care of me.’ And he trotted on. Superficially, it was a pleasant enough retort, but Carey thought that he detected contempt in his voice.
*
Carey fumed as they made their way up the spine of the ridge above the Ityotyosi Valley, from the highest point of which they would be able to complete their drawings and route maps in line with the clearance given them by Harrison. The day was becoming warmer, the vague scent of wood smoke and damp grass. The silver chime of curb chain on cheek piece. Creak of leather. Raucous cry of the ibis. Talk between the troopers and the Prince Imperial was all about their farms now; about their fear of the Zulus – and their respect for them too; about the damned Boers, who had mostly stood aside as spectators to the war even though a few of them had chosen to fight alongside the British; about whether they might get the chance to capture some Zulu cattle while they were out here; about their sense of belonging – a sentiment that Carey, in common with much of the invading army, certainly did not share. So he lifted his voice to the Lord. Proverbs Three, verses twenty-three to twenty-five.
‘“Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall not stumble. When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid. Yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet. Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked, when it cometh.”’
Grubb came alongside him.
‘We heard about your exploits at Dyer’s Island, sir,’ said the corporal, as though it were some sort of consolation. ‘Fine show, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.’
A pity about Alderton though, thought Carey. The incident at Bushman’s River still weighed heavily on him.
‘You see?’ shouted Louis. ‘Already mentioned in dispatches. You might spare a little glory for the rest of us!’
He means, thought Carey, for the great-nephew of Bonaparte. But Grubb’s reminder of his abilities as an officer helped to buoy him in turn as they reached a pan-flat section of the ridge, the vantage point he had been seeking.
‘Prepare to off-saddle…’ Carey shouted, but Louis looked at him, seemingly puzzled.
‘Here, Carey?’ he said. ‘But surely we will not be staying long enough. A few sketches and then back to the camp, no? We shall simply loosen the girths for a while.’
Once more the troopers looked to Carey in some consternation. It was a feeling he shared. On the one hand, Louis was correct. And there was little point in making the men off-saddle simply to prove a point. They would not thank him for it. Yet his authority was again at stake. And not for the first time.
‘Loosen your girths for now,’ he said. ‘We can always off-saddle if we decide to stay longer.’
He knew that he should at least make his feelings known to the Prince Imperial. But even this seemed like a weakness. And, anyway, he was trapped. He liked Louis. Yet he had seen him on more than one occasion pay mere lip service subservience to those in true authority – though it seemed to Carey that the Prince Imperial always in truth considered himself their superior, rather than the reverse. And Carey, son of the Vicar of Brixham, had been raised in that rigid class structure that bred unquestioning respect for royalty in each of his bones. So he settled, mute, beside the Prince while they sketched the valley and river crossings below. It was the ground that he had already surveyed, the same ground about which Chelmsford had stung him, but he was no more certain now about its suitability than he had been on the previous day. All that long grass made it difficult to judge. But then his thoughts strayed back to his father, remembering that this was Sunday and feeling himself accursed that he was missing yet another Church Parade. He checked his watch. 2.40pm. And they had still not eaten, nor had a brew.
‘Right men,’ he called. ‘Time to off-saddle and make some tea.’ Then he turned to Louis. ‘A shame though,’ he said, ‘that we can’t take a closer look at the terrain down there. More of an adventure too, perhaps.’
‘Eh bien, Carey,’ said Louis. A smile played on the lip below his boyish moustache at the mention of adventure. ‘This is such a dull place. And if we need to take a closer look, well, there is a kraal down there.’
He pointed to the spot, perhaps two miles away. Carey thought he recognised it, for it lay just to one side of the route he had proposed to Chelmsford. But he was suddenly unsure of himself. It was, after all, considerably beyond the limit that Harrison had set them. Yet the Prince Imperial was already tightening Tommy’s girth and the troopers began to follow suit. Dammit! thought Carey. They’ve assumed that I’ve agreed this. Now I’ll just look a fool if I seem to be changing my mind. But Carey had noticed earlier that the Prince’s saddle was hardly in the best of condition. The strap holding the pommel wallets, for instance, looked fit to fall apart. Perhaps a chance to reassert his authority.
‘Your Highness,’ he said. ‘With respect, some of that stitching seems to be coming undone. And that strap looks like it’s made of paper. Perhaps you should change the saddle for a fresh one when we get back to camp?’
‘Thank you for your observation,’ replied the Prince. ‘But it is perfectly satisfactory, Carey. It was my father’s. At Sedan. And what possible harm can there be? Besides,’ he whispered, ‘you cannot scold me for the condition of my leather when you cannot even care for your own boots!’
Carey glanced down involuntarily at the dilapidated state of his footwear, felt himself rebuffed yet again. Diminished. A boor for even raising the matter of the saddle. And almost before he knew it, Louis was leading the way down the slope, though stopping often to adjust his breeches, to ease the painful itch. Across a spruit, through a dry gulch, closely followed by the Zulu guide, then the line of troopers with their adopted terrier running to heel and, at the rear, Carey himself, knowing that the Prince Imperial had somehow subverted his command.
A mile or more through the tall grasses of the open veld, picking their way between the termite-hills which made much of the countryside so hazardous to horsemen. There was a donga that carried a thin stream southwards into the Ityotyosi and Carey stopped at its edge, satisfied himself that there were no serious impediments for the army’s wagons here, despite Lord Chelmsford’s views. Then, with the dried seedheads of local tamboekie brushing and sighing against his poor boots, he trotted towards the kraal itself – a cluster of six beehive huts around a central, empty stone cattle enclosure, beyond which stood plantations of man-high mealies.
‘Corporal Grubb,’ said Carey as they approached, ‘does the kaffir know this place?’
The Zulu seemed edgy, answered Grubb’s fluent IsiZulu in a low whisper.
‘He says that it’s the umuzi of Sobhuza.’
I’m not sure, thought Carey. It could be the same kraal. They all looked pretty much the same, of course. And so did the land. But he had at least been to a similar place only a week earlier. With Watson. And the words of advice stayed with him.
‘Only off-saddle half your men at any one time. The other half should remain mounted while the rest eat. Then swap them over. Oh, and avoid mealie fields at all costs, won’t you, Carey? You could hide an entire regiment of Zulus there.’ But Louis had already ordered the whole troop to dismount. They were in the process of knee-haltering the horses when the Zulu emerged from one of the huts, clutching some charred sugar canes.
‘He says they’re still warm, sir,’ said Grubb. ‘He doesn’t like the feel of the kraal either. Reckons he heard a dog. Zulus are never far from their dogs, sir.’
‘We saw no sign of a fire when we were up on the ridge,’ said the Prince Imperial. ‘And it was probably just your terrier that he heard. Anyway, are we completely sure we can trust him? He’s one of them after all, isn’t he?’
‘He hates Cetshwayo as much as we do, Your Highness,’ Grubb replied. ‘Same as all the native contingents we’ve got fighting for us.’
‘That will do, Grubb,’ said Carey. ‘Let the men eat but make sure they keep their eyes open.’
Coffee and tea were brewed. Each pair of men shared a small tin of bully and a couple of stone-hard biscuits. Talk turned to a piece that somebody had read in the Illustrated London News about the luxuries enjoyed by their troops in the Afghan Campaign. Lucky bleeders, somebody grumbled. I should speak to the Prince, Carey thought, before we head back. But Louis was already asleep in the afternoon sunshine. So he pondered instead their wider situation. Not really a soldier’s place to do so, of course, but he had found himself caught up the same as everybody else with Frere’s insistence that the war was necessary – civilisation against savagery; villainous warlike Zulus; the need to bring them the Bible and European justice. But then it had become clear that there was no Government authorisation for the war. Indeed, little justification for it at all. But now that they were here, the task had to be completed. And Isandlwana avenged, of course.
*
He checked his watch again. 3.20pm. They should move soon. But he could still not quite bring himself to shake the Prince Imperial awake. So he sat beside him. Clumsily, until Louis stirred.
‘I was dreaming about my great-uncle,’ he said. ‘Have you studied his campaigns, Carey? Egypt. Italy. Marengo. The creation of the Empire. The glory. The victories.’
The whole of Europe under Bonaparte’s heel, thought Carey.
‘I always thought he was lucky at Marengo,’ he said. ‘It’s a poor commander who sits in his headquarters all day with his army strung out along a six-mile front. They were in full retreat towards San Giuliano by the time he arrived on the field. At what hour? Three in the afternoon? If Desaix hadn’t arrived…’
‘But Desaix did arrive, Carey, did he not? And my great-uncle knew that he would arrive. You know what he said, don’t you? In war, luck is half of everything.’
Louis patted the sword at his side.
‘I seem to recall that he was depending on Grouchy’s arrival at Waterloo also,’ said Carey. ‘Perhaps he should have kept hold of that fine blade instead of giving it to Ney.’
‘Perhaps. But it is a strange irony that, without his downfall, we should not be here, you and I.’
They had discussed this previously, the Congress of Vienna’s decision in ’15 to give control of the Cape Colony to Britain.
‘We need to move,’ said Carey.
Louis took his own elegant gold pocket watch from his breeches, flipped open its case and wound the mechanism.
‘Oh, just ten minutes more,’ he said. ‘And I promise to obey your every command on the way back, Lieutenant.’
Carey nodded, wandered over to check his own mount, looking forward to their return to camp, to vindicating his choice of route, and was almost instantly surprised to hear the Prince Imperial calling to the men.
‘Collect the horses,’ shouted Louis, and the troopers instantly began to pack their belongings, to knock the dottles from their pipe bowls, and to begin gathering the mounts that were now scattered across the kraal. The process took only minutes, but long enough for Carey to seethe at this further undermining of his authority. And across this fretful concern, other elements began to play themselves slowly through Carey’s consciousness once more. The dead ground of tall and waving ’boekie grass. The dog abandoned by its owner. The still warm embers. Watson’s warning…
‘Prepare to mount,’ Louis commanded. And the troopers each placed their left foot in the stirrup. All except the Zulu guide whose bay mare, Fate, was still knee-haltered. No sign of the fellow.
‘Where…?’ Carey began.
He heard the guide at the same moment as he saw him, the splash of red from his head-band, breaking from the mealies and waving his arms, eyes wide and white. Shouting something.
‘Mount!’ shouted Louis, turning to see what was happening.
Ripples in the grass. Smoke. A single shot. Then a ragged volley. And a mass of Zulus burst from the tall grass, some with rifles, the rest with shields and assegais. It was chaos. The Zulus screaming USuthu! USuthu! The horses terrified, bucking and plunging. Carey the only one already in his saddle, his mount rearing. Clinging to the pommel, trying to recover the reins as the beast broke into a run towards the donga. He glanced back, saw two of the troopers following him but another, still on foot, speared in the back. Rogers, he thought. Then Grubb and another man who could not quite get his feet in the stirrups. The Channel Islander, Le Tocq, on the move too but only with his belly over the saddle. The Zulu guide down on the ground. The rise and fall of assegais.
