The Kraals of Ulundi, page 4
Shaba felt a glow of pride. Glory. Though he could not be sure that the shot which had surely killed this man was truly his own. But he shouted ‘USuthu!’ in any case, his voice cracked and parched, his hunger and thirst suddenly returned to him with a vengeance. And it was indeed a moment for vengeance. For all those who lay heaped upon the grass. For Somopho Magwendu. For Umdeni kaMthinga.
*
He picked up his friend, and dragged him as carefully as he was able down the steep terrain. If I followed the instruction, he thought, I would leave him behind. They say that those torn apart by the guns can never be healed. But this wound is from a blade. It may not be too deep. But he knew in his heart that this was illusion, that the hurt was grievous. So he half-carried, half-dragged Umdeni along, not descending fully to the valley floor but edging along the slope, traversing each gully towards the place from which they had first observed the camp, to the rise from which Ntshingwayo still directed the battle.
It took a long time, and he constantly feared that he would be seen by one of the izinduna, instructed back to the fight. But there seemed to be many with the same thought and task as himself so that, when he eventually hauled his friend up onto the plateau, he found the grassland littered with wounded warriors. Wounded so badly. Grotesque images to scar the brain forever. As though some great Vulture Spirit had been at work, baring bones, stripping faces of their flesh, devouring eyes, turning chest and belly cavities inside out.
‘Are we winning?’ whispered Umdeni, the muscles of his face rigid with pain. He had begun to froth at the mouth as though, somehow, the wound was in his lungs. There was a small cut, almost a long scratch above his left hip and then, above it, the deep puncture, still oozing blood. He had been grinding his teeth even when unconscious and when awake, as now, seemed to suffer violent pain in his back, his innards clearly damaged beyond any healing power of the medicine men. The spasms were getting worse and worse.
Shaba looked down at the ridge.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The Bender of Kings has reformed. They are sweeping away those cattle stealers.’
But it was a lie.
The iNgobamakhosi had indeed rallied but had died in droves trying to take the hillock and its wall of rocks. And now, on the other side, the last of the Skirmishers and Sharp Points were being driven from the cattle laager and the higher ground beyond. At every point, the amabutho were falling back, leaving unfathomable numbers of slain behind them.
‘Then it is a good time to die,’ said Umdeni.
‘Whey,’ replied Shaba. ‘Something in your water again? There is never a good time to die, fool. And it is certainly not your turn today.’
But he saw the pain seizure again, the torture in Umdeni’s yellowing eyes. And below, as the regiments streamed towards Shaba, he saw the horsemen once more, riding out from the large wagon enclosure. The same horsemen who had started the battle would, it seemed, now finish it.
‘You are a bad liar, Shaba kaNdabuko,’ said Umdeni. ‘Slayer of Red Soldiers, Worker of Iron. And my friend. But you cannot be with me anymore. I have a journey to make now.’
Shaba’s eye was caught by a curious sight just a short way below them. Two warriors – older married men from the AbaQulusi Clan, he thought – were too badly wounded in the legs to stand. But they sat leaning together, still holding the good rifles that they must have taken from the whites at eHlobane. Each of the gun muzzles was held below the other’s chin, both exploding at the same time.
‘I could make the journey with you,’ said Shaba.
Umdeni focused upon him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You must go home. Take care of your beautiful sister. Raise cattle. Marry well. Be a maker of sharp iron. And my friend…’ A spasm of pain bit into him. ‘I am sorry. About your eye.’
He gripped Shaba’s fingers, shook them, then threw them aside and averted his gaze.
Shaba touched his friend’s head. Just once. Then took his shield, his spear, and left. But he did not stray too far. There was a place where a gulley opened on to the plateau from still higher ground, a cluster of rocks at its head where a single man could conceal himself well and still see all that happened below. So Shaba kaNdabuko watched through tear-misted eyes, all through that long evening as the horse soldiers hacked at his fleeing people, stopping to kill the wounded, often with their own spears. As though shooting them with bullets or cutting them with swords was too good for the fallen, a waste of the whites’ resources.
He watched hundreds die. He could hear some of the warriors begging for mercy. But why should the white men spare them? he thought. For we take no prisoners either. It makes no sense to take prisoners. And they are no different from us. Though they have no rituals to follow. So perhaps they will help Umdeni after all. Yet he thought not. For they might not have ritual, but they had hatred. They had revenge. And he had heard the stories, like everybody else, of the evil things done to the wounded warriors left behind after the fight at the Drift, at KwaJimu. So he was proud that Umdeni kaMthinga did not beg when, finally, they came for him. He had no iklwa of his own with which he could be killed, of course. Instead, they picked up an old musket and beat out his brains.
Shaba remembered Umdeni then as he had been in life, the times they had spent together as boys, as udibi. The ear-piercing that marked them by age. The ukungcweka, the sparring match with sticks between them that had taken his eye. And he would have given the other gladly now also to keep his friend beside him.
‘So,’ he murmured, ‘spears were truly washed well today. Though the spears that were washed are not our own – but those of the red soldiers.’
Chapter Two
Thursday 3rd April 1879
Carey was thrown from his bunk as the troop ship struck.
He cursed himself for not rigging his lee-cloth but he had been so damned tired when he finally reached his berth that he had given it no thought. Thirty-six straight hours on duty at Table Bay, after all. Dried out in the Alfred Basin and the Clyde’s skipper, Captain Luckhurst, insisting that they could not proceed until every inch of the ship’s coating had been inspected; Borthwick’s patent anti-fouling composition liberally daubed wherever it was needed. Hot work. Filthy work. The new drafts and every available coolie pressed to the task. But worth it, by God, if it meant arriving all the sooner at Durban and delivering the drafts to fill Chelmsford’s tragically depleted ranks. Worth every suppressed curse and complaint he heard whispered behind his back; worth every moment of lost sleep if he, Lieutenant Jahleel Carey, could gain the promotion in Zululand that had eluded him during all his service in the West Indies and subsequently.
‘Is it normal in the army, then,’ his father had sneered, ‘to still be a lieutenant at thirty-one?’
And he had promised Annie that this campaign would be the making of him. Promised himself… well, so many things.
He steadied himself against the side of the bunk as the Clyde’s freshly cleaned hull began to grind and settle once more, plates screaming, shuddering up through the bulwarks. There was a single storm lantern, barely enough light to see his shipmates. But he could hear them plain enough. Oaths. Curses. A hint of fear. Then boot-nails slipping and drumming down the companion-way.
‘All officers on deck, gentlemen!’ It sounded like Colour-Sergeant Stephens.
‘What the devil’s happened, Colour-Sergeant? And what time is it?’ cried Carey.
‘Just turned four-thirty, sir. And gone aground, it seems. But the Colonel says right away, sir, if you please.’
Carey struggled into his clothes, his undress uniform. Difficult task, given the angle at which the vessel lay, lifted at the bow. Among the confusion he hauled his way out onto the still dark boat deck and eventually located the Colonel at the starboard rail with the skipper, the first mate, and several other officers from the ship and from the drafts.
The Colonel peered into the heavy fog. ‘Put her astern, Captain?’ he was saying.
‘I think not, Colonel. That’s the mistake the Birkenhead made. The rocks opened her up like a sardine tin. We’ve three feet of water in the hold already and the pumps not coping at all.’
Carey saw the look of dismay on the faces of his companions at mention of the Birkenhead. But it caused Carey to smile. Involuntarily. How typical of life to treat him this way. To give him yet another chance. Another beginning. And then to pull the rug from beneath his feet. But in all the risks that he had considered before volunteering for Zululand, he had never once contemplated the possibility of being taken by sharks. Then he pulled himself together. The guilt, of course. He felt the eyes of the Lord upon him. Those lost from the wreck of the Birkenhead deserved something better than his dark, self-deprecating humour.
‘Then shall we not float again at high tide, sir?’ said Colonel Davies. He sounded impatient, as though the answer was obvious. He had, after all, begun his service to the Queen as a midshipman in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.
‘I take it you never sailed these waters, Colonel? Tidal range is marginal. We’re at High Tide now, just about. According to the Almanac, only six feet and three inches above Chart Datum. At Low Tide, the rocks will show but by then the water in the hold will be too deep to carry out any repairs.’
‘But this can’t be the Birkenhead Rock, surely?’ said Davies. ‘Are the reefs not charted, Captain?’
‘We rounded Danger Point some time ago. If the fog had settled before we entered the bay, I should have set a course further to seaward, bearing south-east to take us around Dyer Island and the Geyser. As it was – and given your need for haste – it was perfectly reasonable to make for the channel. We were caught out, sir. Slowed to eight knots. Doubled the watch. But the helmsman…’
Caught out like many others, thought Carey. The Windsor Castle only the previous October, as well as the Birkenhead.
‘It’s rather academic, at the moment, wouldn’t you say?’ said the Colonel. ‘So that’s it. We’ve struck Dyer Island?’
‘It appears so, Colonel. And aground both fore and aft.’
Davies turned to his own officers.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Assembly to be sounded, gentlemen. Captain Brander to post sentries over the boats and the spirit room. Time to test the mettle of these fellows, I think.’
‘Marching order, sir?’ said Carey.
‘No, Lieutenant, they can assemble in their sea kit for the time being.’ The ship lurched once more, shifted astern slightly, so that they all grabbed for the rail or any other hand-hold. ‘My God,’ the Colonel continued, as the Clyde shook to another stop, ‘will she go down so soon?’
‘I’ve ordered the anchors to be laid out, Colonel,’ said Luckhurst. ‘That will hold her for now. But go down she will, sir. There’s no doubt of that!’
*
The men of the newly formed ‘D’ Company, 1st Battalion, 24th Regiment of Foot – one of five companies on board destined to replace those so shamefully lost at Isandlwana – were a decent bunch for the most part, Carey had found. There were eighty-seven other ranks in D Company, slightly less than intended, but not a bad haul considering the meagre amount of time that must have been available to the recruiting sergeants as they visited the public houses scattered through the towns and villages of counties bordering the Welsh Marches. As usual, the healthier and more wholesome types were from agricultural stock, sprinkled with the customary collection of more insipid industrial labourers, a few from the criminal fringe. But all enticed to escape their previous circumstance by an offer of the Queen’s Shilling. His own responsibility for them was only temporary, but they gave him a sense of pride. And, at least, a captain’s duties for the time being. A decent bunch, thought Carey. But always at least one bad apple in any barrel.
‘Permission to speak, sir?’ said Private Brock, and Carey shuddered. Brock was a hard-drinking, ungodly man.
Confound the fellow. Another grumble, no doubt.
‘What is it, Brock?’ Carey noted the satisfaction on the soldier’s mouth at the realisation he had made a mark.
‘Beggin’ pardon, sir. But will we be issued with our proper uniforms, sir? It’s bleedin’ perishing up ’ere.’
‘Watch your lip, Brock,’ said Colour-Sergeant Stephens. ‘And if you’ve got any questions, speak to your corporal, or speak to me. But don’t be troubling the officer, now. He’s got better things to worry about than your kit, lad!’
‘And you’ll all be warm enough before too long,’ said Carey, knowing that the white cotton drill in which the men had assembled would be perfectly adequate for the work that lay ahead. The scarlet serge frock coats and Oxford mixture trousers of their service dress had all been safely stowed in the hold after the last Marching Order Parade on the previous Sunday.
It can stay there too, thought Carey. At least until we get the men safely ashore. But he could not help thinking that they looked slightly absurd in their blue stockinette caps. Still, they had fallen in with the greatest order and regularity, here on the raised quarter deck. There had been little need for Reveille at five and, by the time the bugle was heard, most of them had already rolled hammock and blanket and paraded at the stores. They had been excused mess cleaning this morning due to Assembly being called, and had left no room for complaint on Carey’s part.
Colour-Sergeant Stephens seemed broadly satisfied too with his own inspection. A button to be fastened here. Belt and pouches straightened there. A rolled greatcoat more securely attached by the rear braces. Foreign service helmets correctly slung from the valise. Mark II Martini-Henry rifles all present and correct.
‘Greatcoats, sir?’ whispered Stephens.
‘I don’t think so,’ Carey replied. ‘You’ll spoil them with kindness, Colour-Sergeant.’
‘Quite right, sir. It would do my reputation no good at all.’
‘But let’s get them moving anyway,’ said Carey. ‘The Colonel’s instructions are that all boats should be readied for abandon ship and then, the Good Lord willing, for the men to be fed.’
So they divided the Company into four sections, one to each of the stern lifeboats. The coxswains had already adjusted falls slightly to compensate for the ship’s unnatural angle, allowing the cutters to hang horizontally on their davits, and they were now performing their final checks – plugs in place, towlines secured, falls cleared for running, gripes ready to be shipped, oars in place, tiller pointed but clear of the after-block. And, one by one, but almost simultaneously, they reported to the deck officer.
‘Lifeboats clear and ready to lower.’
‘Then let’s get their gear stowed,’ replied the deck officer – Mumford by name. ‘What d’you say, Lieutenant?’
Carey agreed, and two of the men from each section were detailed to clamber aboard, receiving the valise equipment and rifles from the rest of their fellows and, under the watchful eye of the coxswain, stowing them where they would be safest, along with a breaker of water and a bucket. There was a deal of chatter among the sections about the purpose of this latter item, but they became more quiet when they found out that it was not, in fact, a sanitation facility but, rather, a bailer in the event that the boats should be swamped. Unlikely though, thought Carey, for the water had an oily stillness, with almost no swell. He checked his pocket watch. Nearly five-thirty.
‘Very well, Colour-Sergeant,’ he called. ‘The Company to go below. Breakfast. But keep them sharp, won’t you? The Colonel’s likely to want them under way before long.’
Breakfast was never a lengthy process in any case. It doesn’t take long to eat biscuit and drink tea, thought Carey. But I should try to get something as well. In his own mess, life seemed almost unaffected by the crisis unfolding outside. Food was plentiful and hot, the cooks on board the Clyde not being renowned for their culinary imagination but at least they followed the Aldershot Instruction Manual to the letter. “Cookery is the art of preparing and softening food by the action of fire, so as to render it fit for digestion.” And there was chocolate as well, steaming and delicious.
‘How are you getting along, Carey?’ It was William Brander, Captain of ‘A’ Company.
Already a captain, thought Carey. And must be five years my junior. It comes from courting a Colonel’s daughter, I suppose.
‘Fine, sir,’ he replied, as jauntily as he was able. ‘Long way from Cornwall and Hampshire though.’ He found that he resented Brander whilst, at the same time, seeking some affinity through their respective family links to the south coast.
‘It certainly seems a long time since Woolwich,’ said Brander. They had embarked there on the first day of March, more than a month earlier. ‘By the way, Carey, the Colonel says that we should make sure there’s bully beef in each boat. Fresh water in the barricoes too.’
‘Already done, sir,’ Carey smiled.
‘Excellent, Lieutenant.’ Carey felt that Brander’s approval was condescending, but he had no time to dwell on it since one of the Colonel’s orderlies had arrived.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but the Colonel says prepare to disembark.’
Within five minutes, Carey had collected the Company ledgers, slung them into a canvas haversack, and was back on the quarter deck, his men falling in once more between the vent cowls, while Brander had gone forward to the boat deck where his own company and the sick were assembled.
Just turned six, and the sun coming up fast.
‘So where are we, exactly, Mumford?’ Carey said to the deck officer as they gazed over the starboard rail. ‘Have we hit the Birkenhead Rock after all?’
‘No, sir. Not on your life. We’re sitting on a reef. That’s Dyer’s Island over there.’ There was land to the south, rocky and indistinct, perhaps a mile away on the starboard beam. ‘On the far side, there’s Geyser Rock. And the channel between is called Shark Alley.’
