Vengeance, page 49
From Adam’s point of view, it felt like a massacre. Amongst the dead and wounded were almost all his detachment of riflemen. Their weapons littered the ground, most smashed beyond repair.
Adam’s part in the battle was over. He would have to watch the infantry assault from a distance.
The Zulu army had started to move forward. Puffs of smoke came from the laager, and Adam saw the first men fall. He looked back. He could not see Harry, but the least experienced regiment, the uKokoti, was being held in reserve, and the boy would surely be with them, out of harm’s way.
That is a mercy. Adam could not imagine how he would feel if he had to watch Harry advancing against the Boer guns. Looking down, he saw ripples go through the Zulu line, as men fell and others rushed to take their place. They left the carcasses of their comrades strewn behind them: a few at first, but then more and more, until the whole field seemed to be carpeted with bodies.
Adam had fought in more battles than he cared to remember, but he had never watched the slaughter from the sidelines. To hear the blast of the guns like distant thunder, to see men fighting and dying a few hundred yards away, yet to be spared the battle – it made him feel like a ghost.
Somehow, the Zulus continued their advance. They were close enough now that the gun smoke shrouded them. Adam heard a swell of noise as the fighting grew more desperate, saw figures rise out of the smoke, seeming to dance in midair, before plunging to their deaths. He heard a crash, a shocked moment of silence and then an even greater noise as the battle reached a new intensity. He clenched his fists, wishing he could see what was happening.
A great shout sounded behind him. He turned back, looking down to the foot of the hill. The uKokoti – Harry’s regiment – had come up, and Ndlela was standing in front of them, pointing ahead.
He means to throw them into the fray. The Zulu general had grasped that this was the decisive moment of the battle. He knew his front line had been shredded by the Boer guns: by sending in his reserves, he might tip the balance.
The uKokoti charged. They were young men, most of them still shy of their sixteenth birthdays, who had been forced to watch the battle from a safe distance. They had, no doubt, believed that it was the names of their elders that would echo in praise songs for generations. But now they had been unleashed. They sprinted forward, hurdling the piles of corpses.
At such pace, without enemy fire holding them back, it would take them less than two minutes to cover the ground to the laager. But though the Zulus had reached the wagons, the Boers continued a ferocious resistance. Somehow, they were still holding the Zulus back.
‘Harry!’ Adam saw his son amongst the charging warriors, his long hair streaming out behind him: a boy in the grip of war, unable to imagine death.
Without thinking, Adam ran after him.
Harry raced across the battlefield, the sun on his face and the wind buffeting his shield. Every voice that had ever held him back in his life seemed to rise in his head – Andrew, Ralph, Ann, even Adam – but he outran them all. He smelled the fat smeared on his skin; felt the tickle of cowhide as the shield brushed his legs. In the delirium of battle he felt immortal, skipping over the corpses at his feet without a backward glance.
The smoke that had veiled the battlefield for so long had started to clear. He saw the gap in the laager, where one of the wagons had been thrown over. He changed course and made towards the breach.
The bodies on the ground were thicker here, harder to ignore. Some of them had had their faces completely torn away by buckshot; others writhed on the ground, still alive but in agony. One man clutched at his stomach to keep his entrails from spilling out; another tried to drag himself one-handed towards an arm that had been ripped from his body. Harry ran past them.
He heard the crack of a rifle in front of him. The Boers were still fighting, and though the Zulus had toppled one of the wagons, they had not yet managed to force their way into the laager. Harry pushed his way through the crowd, shoving warriors aside in his determination to join the fray. Exhausted from the assault, they did not stop him.
The wagon’s undercarriage faced the Zulus, the bed-boards making a wall. One of the wheels had been smashed, but the other was still intact, spinning lazily in the air.
Harry dropped his shield. He put one foot on a goose-hook, where kettles and pots had once hung, placed a hand on the perch-bar and lifted himself up. A rifle butt swung at him, but he nimbly ducked out of its path. Before the Boer could try again, Harry grabbed the rifle and yanked it towards him, pulling the man off balance. He fell from the wagon, screaming, and vanished beneath a blur of stabbing spears.
Harry vaulted onto the sideboard, landing on the balls of his feet. A Boer stood in front of him with a pistol half cocked. Harry drove his spear at him, and the man leaped back to avoid being impaled. A second Boer swung a punch, but Harry reversed his spear and thrust the pommel into the man’s chest. His ribs cracked, and the Boer doubled over, then Harry kicked him to the ground.
He had cleared the top of the wagon. Exultant, he looked down into the centre of the laager, at the women and children cowering there. Was Clara amongst them? He had to find her before the Zulus overran the position.
Harry heard a shot; a jet of hot air whistled past his cheek and hit one of the Zulus who had clambered up behind him. The Boers still had some fight in them, and a warrior standing on top of the wagon made a fine target.
Harry crouched to leap down into the laager. On the ground below, a man lay flat on his back, thrown there when the wagon had been tipped over.
Even before Harry saw the scarred face, he knew that it was Ralph. Their eyes met. Ralph recognised him. A rifle lay on the ground beside him, and he was reaching for it.
A welter of contradictory emotions swamped Harry’s mind. He had spared Ralph’s life at the mission, even after all the lies and betrayal – and now the man he had known as his father meant to kill him.
Had he hesitated at Mgungundlovu because he still thought, in some corner of his heart, that Ralph loved him? At once he was embarrassed, ashamed of his weakness. He lifted his spear, ready to leap down and kill Ralph.
The wagon tipped over, slumping onto its side like a wounded elephant. Ralph hit the ground a moment ahead of what had become a wall of wood and iron, but before he could move away an ammunition box struck him with agonising force.
Ralph roared, calling for help, but no one came – the Boers were scrambling to hold back the onrushing Zulus, while their womenfolk took up the rifles. Looking up, he saw that the fighting on top of the wagon had reached fever pitch. A Boer fell, almost landing on him. A shot was fired, then another. Ralph heard a scream.
A figure appeared above him, silhouetted against the blue sky. He carried a Zulu spear, and wore a Zulu kilt, but his hair was long and his eyes were pale blue.
His eyes locked on Ralph’s. My son, thought Ralph. Awe at the warrior the boy had become mingled with fear for his life. Standing on the edge of the wagon, Harry was a target for every Boer in the laager.
From the corner of his eye, Ralph saw one of the Boers drop to his knee and bring his rifle up. At that distance he could not miss – and Harry, still staring down at Ralph, had not seen him.
Ralph’s gun lay on the ground where he had dropped it when he fell from the wagon. He flung out his arm, fingertips scrabbling at the barrel. He had to save Harry.
Looking up, Ralph saw that Harry had seen him reach for the gun. An expression of fury creased his features. With horror, Ralph realised that Harry thought he meant to shoot him. Despair crushed Ralph. He would die. Harry would die. Ann, Jack and Clara would perish in the destruction of the Boer camp. It had all been for nothing.
The blast of a horn rang across the laager. Hoofbeats drummed the earth.
What are you doing? screamed a voice in Ralph’s head as men ran forward and started to haul the wagon to one side. You will kill us all.
A column of Boer cavalry charged past him and out of the laager through the breach in the perimeter. Almost every Boer who could ride a horse had saddled his mount to ride out. They crashed through the Zulu lines, firing pistols and rifles as they went – a tumult of death and thunder.
The Zulus had never faced cavalry. The men in the front rank had sustained their resolve in the face of unimaginable losses, but now, confronted by this new and terrifying threat, they broke. The young men in the reserves behind saw the veteran warriors flee, and became infected with the same terror. They turned to run, while the Boers rode amongst them, shooting and slashing as they went.
When Ralph looked back up at the top of the wagon, Harry had vanished.
Harry stood over Ralph, spear raised, preparing to spring down. Then a sudden movement in the centre of the laager drew his attention. He looked through the musket smoke, to where a pale face framed by bright red hair was staring at him from the shelter of a pile of tea chests.
Clara. Their eyes met, his heart lurched, and for a moment he forgot his anger, forgot about Ralph. He had to reach her, save her from the slaughter.
The sound of a horn wrenched him back to the present. Men were running forwards, dragging the wagon to one side. Harry crouched to steady himself as a column of Boer riders charged from the centre of the laager, galloping into the Zulu army. From the top of the wagon, Harry saw the slaughter unfold. For a split-second, he hesitated, torn between vengeance, survival and reaching Clara.
Hands grabbed him and pulled him backwards as his fellow warriors fled. Before Harry could resist, he was back on the hard ground outside the laager.
A moment earlier he had looked down on the world in triumph. Now, he was mired in defeat. The blood-soaked battlefield had become a madhouse, filled with the screams of men, the thunder of hooves and the blast of guns. Horses trampled the living and the dead alike.
In desperation, the Zulus began to veer off towards the river, preferring to risk the deep water rather than confront the cavalry.
‘Stand your ground!’ Harry shouted, but no one heard him. The din of the rout was overwhelming. The men who still had courage for the fight were carried away by those who did not. A horse galloped towards Harry, its rider leaning out of the saddle to slash with his sword. Harry threw himself to the ground to avoid the blow. The horse’s hooves thundered past his face, one hoof landing on a dead man’s skull, crushing it like a watermelon.
The Boer circled his mount for another attack. Harry got up and ran, caught in the tide of men flowing towards the riverbank. The whip-crack of gunshots rang out behind him.
They are herding us like animals. He knew the Zulus had to stand their ground, that they should not go where the Boers wanted them to, but it was too late. He saw men splashing into the water, desperately striking out for the safety of the far shore. But they could not swim.
Someone knocked into him from behind, pitching him forward. If he did not jump he would fall and be crushed.
He jumped.
Hennie Meyer stood up in his stirrups, tipped back his head and let loose a victorious roar, a bellow loud enough to be heard across the battlefield.
He had never doubted they would win. Even when the Zulus had appeared out of the mist that morning, thousands upon thousands of them, he had kept faith in the Lord. It had been hot work, for sure, but white men’s courage and white men’s weapons had won the day. He thanked God for their deliverance.
But they had not won yet. They had seen off the blacks: now it was time to break their spirit forever.
‘Remember Andries!’ he shouted, for though the man had been a gullible fool, he made a fine martyr. ‘Think of our friends murdered by Dingane, and show no mercy. This is the day we make this land our own.’
The other riders needed no encouragement. They were fighting for their wives, their children, their future and their freedom. They tore into the retreating Zulus like jackals.
Hennie spurred his horse into the fray again. He shot one man through the back with his carbine, another in the face with his pistol, then drew his sword. It was an old weapon that had belonged to his grandfather, but Hennie kept it well-oiled and he had put a wicked edge on it the night before. He scythed it left and right, cutting down men as easy as mowing hay.
In the throng, one man caught his eye: white skin amongst all the black bodies. At first Hennie thought it was one of his own men who had been unhorsed, and he kicked his mount forward to rescue him. But as he came closer, he saw the man went bare-chested: he wore a Zulu headdress, a kilt of civet tails around his waist, and he carried a short stabbing spear.
The sight kindled an uncontrollable rage in Hennie’s heart. Who was this boy to fight with the blacks against his own race? He was a traitor, a Judas, an outrage to God – he must be exterminated.
Hennie kicked his horse forward, gripping tight with his knees as the animal trampled Zulu bodies under its hooves. He raised his sword and leaned out from his saddle. He would take off the boy’s head with one stroke.
If the boy heard him coming and ducked, or if he simply tripped, Hennie could not tell, but his blade whistled through empty air, and when he looked back, he saw that he was getting to his feet again, unhurt.
The sight provoked Hennie’s fury. He reined in Hennie’s horse and circled around. This time he would not miss. But the boy had pushed into the midst of a group of Zulus, all heading in the same direction.
From his saddle, Hennie could see exactly where they were making for. A smile spread across his face. Let the boy run.
He trotted forward at an easy pace, using the flat of his sword to swat the shoulders and backsides of the fleeing Zulus, driving them on. The movements came naturally to him. It was just like herding cattle.
Straight into the slaughter pen.
Adam fought against the tide of men streaming away from the laager. He feverishly scanned their faces as they ran past him, bloodied and defeated, shouting Harry’s name until his throat ached.
He knew the danger he was courting – a white man walking the wrong way through the Zulu rout. He carried a loaded pistol, ready to shoot anyone who came too close, but the fleeing warriors barely seemed to notice him. All they cared about now was to escape.
Adam saw Boers on horseback riding through the smoke, heard screams and gunshots. He made towards them, heedless of the danger. He had to find Harry.
The Zulus were making for the river. He could see them leaping from the banks and splashing down into the water below – but it was not the safe haven they imagined. A group of Boers had lined up their horses at the top of the bank and were pouring fire into the river. Some of the Zulus were shot dead amongst the reeds at the water’s edge; others managed to splash out as far as the middle of channel, where they were swept away by the current.
And there was Harry. Adam glimpsed his long hair and white shoulders pushing through the reeds. Any relief that his son was alive swiftly vanished: how could he survive this massacre?
Another figure in the water, a few paces behind Harry, made Adam’s eyes open wide in horror. Ralph was in the river, too, chasing after Harry with a knife in his hand.
Is this how you mean to complete your revenge? Adam thought. Because Harry chose me over you?
He raised his pistol.
Ralph forced himself to his feet and staggered forwards, choking on musket smoke and the dust the horses had kicked up. Every part of him was in agony, but he kept moving, a single thought driving him on: I must find Harry.
Ann found him by the breach. Her cheeks were black with soot; her face was stricken. ‘Where are you going?
‘To rescue Harry.’
‘What about Jack and Clara?’ But even as she said it, Ralph saw that she realised the danger had passed. The Zulus would not come back. Her expression softened. ‘Go . . . Do what you can.’
Outside the circle of wagons, Zulu bodies covered the ground. The air was heavy with the metallic smell of blood. But Ralph felt no joy at the victory, only a tragic sense of loss. Men he had fought beside in a previous life, men he had no quarrel with, all cut down.
He did not look for Harry amongst the dead. Instead, he followed the mass of soldiers who were fleeing towards the river. If Harry was alive, that was where he would be.
Dirt sprayed Ralph’s face as a group of riders cantered in front of him, shooting into the Zulus. Dust and smoke had turned the day to twilight. Ralph ran on blindly.
At last Ralph came to the edge of the river and looked down. Beneath the pall of smoke, he could see Zulu bodies, living and dead, clogging the water. With a father’s instinct, his eye picked out Harry at once, splashing through the shallow water.
A group of Boers had already lined up along the high bank above the river and were firing down, choosing targets at their leisure.
‘Hold your fire!’ Ralph shouted. ‘You have already won.’ But the Boers ignored him – they were too busy competing amongst themselves to see who could bag the most kills.
I must protect my son. That one thought drowned out all others in Ralph’s mind and took control of his body. He stepped back three paces, then he ran, hurling himself off the bank.
He splashed into the water and hit the shallow bottom. Agony shot through his legs; he opened his mouth to scream, stumbled and took a lungful of water. He rose, coughing it out, and began blundering through the reeds, searching for Harry, pushing through a nightmare of blood and floating corpses.
The water deepened. Harry had almost reached the main channel. ‘Harry!’ Ralph called. ‘Harry!’
Harry turned. Even in the few days since Ralph had last seen him, he seemed to have grown older: the face that confronted him was a man’s, a warrior’s. Yet when he saw Ralph, the years seemed to slip away, and all Ralph saw was a heartbroken child.
‘Leave me!’ Harry shouted. ‘You have done too much harm already.’
Ralph spread his arms wide in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I cannot let you go. You are my son.’
