CHAPTER XIII.
THE EVENING OF GINGHILOVO.
Much about the time that the conversation we have just recorded was taking place between the two fair equestriennes, the subject thereof, then with the troops in the laager of Ginghilovo, was very full of the same matter they had in hand—himself and his supposed wrongs.
'She never could have really cared for me, or she never could have acted as she did, unless she wished with the contingencies of war to have two strings to her bow,' thought Hammersley, as he lay on the grass a little apart from all, and sucked his briar-root viciously. 'Perhaps she thought it was her money I wanted—not herself. Ah, how could she look into her glass and think so!'
Ever before him he had that horrid episode in the shrubbery, and saw in memory the girl he loved so passionately in the arms of another, who was giving her apparently the kisses men only give to one woman in the world—a sight that seemed to scorch his eyes and heart.
'Yes,' he would mutter, 'one may be mistaken in some things, but there are some things there is no mistaking, and that affair was one of them.'
Perhaps at that very instant of time Finella was posed, as he had seen her last, with 'Cousin' Shafto, and the thought made him hate her! He felt himself growing colder and harder, though his heart ached sorely, for the 'soul-hunger of love' was in it.
'Well, well,' he would mutter, as he tugged his dark moustache; 'what are called hearts have surely gone to the wall in this Victorian age.'
His bitter memories would have soon passed away, could he have seen, as if in a magic mirror, at that moment Finella, in her riding-habit, on her knees in the solitude of her own room, before a large photo of a handsome young fellow in the uniform of the 24th (his helmet under his right arm, his left hand on the hilt of his sword), gazing at it, yet scarcely seeing it, so full were her soft eyes of hot salt tears, while her sweet little face looked white, woe-begone, and most miserable. But now the bugles sounding on the various flanks of the laager, when about six in the evening a general hum of voices pervaded it, and the order 'Stand to your arms!' announced that the enemy was in sight of the trenches.
In front of the old kraal of Ginghilovo, behind an earthen breastwork and abattis of felled trees, were the 60th Rifles, in their tunics of dark green, and sailors of the Shah with their Gatling guns, which they playfully called 'bull-dogs and barrel-organs.'
They were flanked by some of the 57th and two seven-pounders; the Argyleshire Highlanders, then in green tartan trews, held the rear face; and the defences were prolonged by the Lanarkshire, the 3rd Buffs, and some more of the Naval Brigade with a rocket battery.
Every heart in the laager beat high, and every face flushed with intense satisfaction, as two sombre columns of Zulus appeared, spreading like a human flood over the ground, after crossing the reedy Inyezane stream, deploying in a loose formation, which enabled them to find cover behind scattered boulders and patches of bush.
Now, when on the eve of an action, Hammersley, like every other officer, felt that new and hitherto unknown dread and doubt of the result which has more than once come upon our troops of all ranks, born of the new and abominable system which in so many ways has achieved the destruction of the grand old British army—'the army which would go anywhere, and do anything'—by the abolition of the regimental system, and with it the power of cohesion; but the worst, the so-called 'territorial system,' had not yet come.
Encouraged by the countenance and praises of Hammersley, Florian left nothing undone to win himself a name, and had already become distinguished for his daring, discretion, and acuteness of observation among all the Mounted Infantry when scouting or reconnoitring, and his further promotion seemed now to be only a matter of time.
Both courted danger, apparently with impunity, as the brave and dashing often do: Florian with a view to the future; Hammersley to forget. Soldiers will make fun, even when under fire, so some of his comrades quizzed Florian in his old laced tunic, and dubbed him 'the Captain;' but Vivian Hammersley thought, how like a gentleman and officer he looked in the half-worn garment he had given him.
Through the long, wavy, and reed-like grass two columns of Zulus crept swiftly on in close rather than extended order, and furiously assailed the north face of the square held by the Highlanders, flanked as usual by extended horns, and all yelling like fiends broken loose, while brandishing their great shields and glittering assegais, till smitten with death and destruction under the close-rolling Highland musketry.
They were commanded by a noble savage, named Somapo, with Dabulamanzi and the eldest son of Sirayo as seconds.
Almost unseen by the darkness of their uniforms, the Rifles lay down flat behind their shelter-trenches; the barrels of their weapons rested firmly on the earthen bank, enabling them to take steady and deadly aim, while dropping in quick succession the cartridges into the breech-blocks without even moving the left arm or the right shoulder, against which the butt-plate of the rifle rested, and their terrible fire knocked over in writhing heaps the Zulus, who, in all their savage fury and bravery, came rushing on ten thousand strong and more.
'Their white and coloured shields,' wrote one who was present, 'their crests of leopard-skin and feathers, and wild ox-tails dangling from their necks, gave them a terrible unearthly appearance. Every ten or fifteen yards, and a shot would be fired, and then, with an unearthly yell, they would again rush on with a sort of measured dance, while a humming and buzzing sound in time to their movement was kept up.'
Meanwhile the laager was literally zoned with fire and enveloped with smoke; yet within it no sound was heard save the rattling roar of the musketry, the clatter of the breech-blocks, and triumphant bagpipes of the Highlanders, with an occasional groan or exclamation of agony as a bullet found its billet.
In the fury of their advance and struggles to get onward over their own dead and dying, the Zulus from the rear would break through the fighting line, jostling and dashing each other aside, and rush yelling on, until they too bit the dust.
The booming of the Gatling guns and the dread hiss of the blazing rockets were heard ever and anon amid the medley of other sounds, and for half an hour the showers of lead and iron tore through and through the naked masses, where the places of the fallen were instantly taken by others.
By half-past six the shrill yells of the Zulus died away; but in mute despair and fury they still struggled in hope to storm the laager, when, if once within its defences, the fate of all would be sealed.
Four times like a living sea they flung themselves against it, and four times by sheets of lead and iron they were hurled back from the reddened bayonet's point, while some remained in the open, firing from behind the bloody piles of their own dead, which lay in awful lines or swathes of black bodies with white shields, a hundred yards apart, in rear of each other.
At last the survivors gave way, and all fled in confusion.
'Forward, the Mounted Infantry!' cried Lord Chelmsford.
And these, under Captain Barrow and Hammersley, sprang with alacrity to their saddles, slinging their rifles as they filed out of the laager.
'Front form squadron!' was now the order, and the sections of fours swept round into line.
'Come on, my lads!' cried Hammersley, as he unsheathed his sword and dug the spurs into his horse; 'forward—trot, gallop! By Jove! an hour of this work
'"Is worth an age without a name!"'
And away went the Mounted Infantry over the terrible swathes at a swinging pace.
Like most of the few officers of that peculiar and extemporised force, Vivian Hammersley had been accustomed to cross country and ride to hounds, and to deem that the greatest outdoor pleasure in life.
Tattoo, Florian's horse, fortunately for him in the work he had to do that evening, proved to be a tried Cape shooting-horse, accustomed to halt the moment his rein is dropped, and to stand like a rock when his rider fires. An experienced shooting-horse requires no sign from his master when required to stand, and on hearing a sound or stir in the bush is alert as a dog scenting danger or game.
Florian loved the animal like a friend, and often shared his beer with him, as Homer tells us the Greek warriors of old shared their wine with their battle-chargers; we suppose it is only human nature that we must love something that is in propinquity with us.
The Mounted Infantry overtook the fugitive Zulus, and fell furiously, sword in hand, upon their left flank, but not without receiving a scattered fire that emptied a few saddles.
The routed fled with a speed peculiarly their own; but Captain Barrow and his improvised troopers were in close pursuit, and from the laager their sword-blades could be seen flashing in the evening sunshine, as the cuts were dealt downward on right and left, and the foe was overtaken, pierced, and ridden over and through.
In this work the force necessarily became somewhat broken, and Hammersley, who, in the ardour of the pursuit, and being splendidly mounted, had outstripped all the Mounted Infantry and gone perilously far in advance, had his horse shot under him.
'Captain Hammersley—Hammersley! He will be cut to pieces!' cried several of the soldiers, who saw him and his horse go down in a cloud of dust, and in another moment he was seen astride the fallen animal contending against serious odds with his sword and revolver. And now ensued one of those episodes which were of frequent occurrence in the service of our Mounted Infantry.
Florian saw the sore strait in which Hammersley was placed, and had, quick as thought, but one desire—to save him or die by his side. At that part of the field a watercourse—a tributary of the Inyezene River—separated him from Hammersley, but putting the pace upon Tattoo, he rode gallantly to face it. Rider and horse seemed to possess apparently but one mind—one impulse. Tattoo cocked his slender ears, gave a glance at the water, sparkling in the setting sun, and, springing from his powerful and muscular hind-legs, cleared the stream from bank to bank—a distance not less than fifteen feet.
'Well done, old man!' exclaimed Florian; 'you are game!'
'Hurra!' burst from several of the troop, some of whom failed to achieve the leap. So Florian rode forward alone, and in less time than we have taken to record it, was by the side of Hammersley, who was bleeding from a wound in the left arm from an assegai launched at him by one of three powerful savages with whom he was contending, and in whom Florian recognised Methagazulu, the son of the famous Sirayo.
The last shot in Hammersley's revolver disposed of one; Florian shot a second, 'and drove his bayonet through the side of Sirayo's son, whom others were now returning to succour, and, lifting Hammersley on his own horse, conducted him rearward to a place of safety, covering the rear with his rifle, pouring in a quick fire with an excellent aim till a dozen of his comrades came up and received them both with a cheer.
Though wounded, Methagazulu did not die then, for, as we have elsewhere said, the close of the war found him a prisoner in the gaol of Pietermaritzburg.
But for the succour so promptly accorded by Florian, another moment would have seen that savage, after wounding Hammersley by one assegai, give him the coup de grace with another; as it is a superstition with the Zulus that if they do not rip their enemies open, disembowelling them, as their bodies swell and burst when dead, so will those of the slayers in life; and so firm is their belief in that, that after the victory had been won at Rorke's Drift many of the Zulus were seen to pause, even under a heavy fire, to rip up a few of our dead who lay outside the entrenchment; and cases have been known in which warriors who have been unable to perform this barbarous ceremony have committed suicide to escape what they deemed their inevitable doom.
Florian tied his handkerchief round Hammersley's arm, above the wound, to stay the blood, till he left him safely with the ambulance waggons and in care of Staff-Surgeon Gallipot; and though faint with the bleeding, for the wound was long and deep—a regular gash—Hammersley wrung the hand of his saver, and said:
'My gallant young fellow, you will have good reason if I live—as I doubt not I will—to recall this evening's work with satisfaction.'
'I shall ever remember, sir, with pride that I saved your life—the life of the only friend I have now in our decimated regiment since I lost poor Bob Edgehill.'
'It is not that I mean,' said Hammersley faintly, 'but, if spared, I shall see to your future, and all that sort of thing, you understand.'
'I thank you, sir, and hope——'
'Hope nothing,' said Hammersley, closing his eyes, as memory brought a gush of bitterness to his heart.
'Why, sir?'
'Because when one is prepared for the worst, disappointment can never come.'
Florian knew not what to make of this sudden change of mood in his officer, and so remained discreetly silent.
'Have you any water in your bottle?' asked Hammersley.
'A little, sir.'
'Then give me a drop, for God's sake—mine is empty.'
Florian took the water-bottle from his waist-belt and drew out the plug; the sufferer drank thirstily, and on being placed in a sitting position, with a blanket about him, strove to obtain a little sleep, being weary and faint with the events of the past day.
'Whoever he is, that lad has good blood in his veins, and he has no fear of lavishing it,' was his last thought as he watched the receding figure of Florian leading away his favourite Tattoo by the bridle.
Our total casualties at Ginghilovo were only sixty-one; those of the Zulus above twelve hundred. The story of the encounter might have been different had another column of ten thousand men, which had been despatched from Ulundi by Cetewayo the day after the march of Somapo, effected a junction with the latter.
Etschowe, the point to be relieved, was now fifteen miles distant; but Colonel Pearson in his isolated fort must have heard of the victory, for Florian, when out with a few files on scouting duty, could see the signals of congratulation flashed therefrom.
After the fierce excitement of the past day, he felt—he knew not why—depressed and almost sorrowful; but perhaps the solitudes among which he rode impressed him when night came on.
Lighted up by hundreds and thousands of stars, the clear sky spread like a vast shining canopy overhead, and then the great round moon shed down a flood of silver sheen on the grassy downs where the black bodies of the naked dead, with fallen jaws and glistening teeth and eyes, lay thick as leaves in autumn, and Tattoo picked his steps gingerly among them.
And in such a solemn and silent time, more keenly than ever, came to Florian's mind the ever-recurring thoughts of Dulcie Carlyon and of what she was doing; where was she and with whom—in safety or in peril?
Next morning Florian—as he was detailed for duty to the front with the Mounted Infantry, paid a farewell visit to Captain Hammersley, whom he found reposing among some straw in a kind of tilt cart, and rather feverish from the effects of his wound, and who had been desired to remain behind in the laager for a little time, though he could with difficulty be prevailed upon to do so.
Preceding the march of the column, the Mounted Infantry under Barrow filed forth at an easy pace in search of the enemy.
It was scarcely a new experience to Florian now, or to any man with the army in Zululand, that of putting a savage to death. Every rifle slew them by scores, when a hundred rounds of ammunition per man were poured into the naked hordes in less than an hour's time.
Lord Chelmsford left some of the Kentish Buffs, the Lanarkshire, and the Naval Brigade to garrison the laager at Ginghilovo, and marched for Etschowe with the 57th, the 60th Rifles, and Argyleshire Highlanders, escorting a long train of Scottish carts, laden with food and stores, preceded by the Mounted Infantry scouting far in advance.
The whole column wore the white helmet, but the dark green of the Rifles and the green tartan trews of the Highlanders varied the colour of the scarlet mass that marched up the right bank of the Inyezene river, with drums beating and bayonets flashing in the April sunshine.
Along the whole line of march were seen shields, rifles, assegais, furs, and feathers strewed about in thousands, cast away by the fugitives who had fled from Ginghilovo, and here and there the Kaffir vultures, hovering in mid air above a donga, or swooping down into it with a fierce croak, indicated where some dead men were lying.
Briskly the troops pushed on to rescue Colonel Pearson and his isolated garrison, which, during a blockade that had now extended to ten weeks, had been in daily expectation of experiencing the fate of those who perished at Isandhlwana; and surmounting all the natural difficulties of a rugged country, intersected by watercourses which recent rains had swollen, by sunset the mounted men under Barrow were close to the fort, and heard the hearty British cheers of a hungry garrison mingling with a merry chorus which they were singing.
Under Colonel Pemberton, the Rifles pushed on ahead with Lord Chelmsford, just as an officer on a grey charger came dashing round the base of the hill surmounted by the fort.
'Here is Pearson, gentlemen,' cried the Commander-in-Chief.
'How are you, my friend?'
'Old fellow—how are you?' and grasping each other's hand, they rode on towards the fort, where the General was received with an enthusiasm which grew higher when the Argyleshire Highlanders marched in with all their kilted pipers playing 'The Campbells are coming.'
The fort was destroyed and abandoned, and on the 4th of April the united columns began to fall back on Ginghilovo, the Mounted Infantry as usual in front, but clad in the uniform of that service—a Norfolk jacket and long untanned boots, all patched and worn now.
It was justly conceived that the laager would not be reached without fighting, as a body of Zulus, led in person by Dabulamanzi and the son of Sirayo, was expected to bar the way, and consequently serious loss of life was expected; but so far as Florian was concerned, he felt that he could face any danger now with comparative indifference, and his daily pleasure consisted in carefully grooming and feeding Tattoo; and Florian, as he rode on, was thinking with some perplexity of the farewell words of Captain Hammersley.
'Good-bye, sergeant—we have all our troubles, I suppose, whatever they are, and I should not care much if mine were ended here at Ginghilovo.'
'I should think that you cannot have much to trouble you, sir,' was Florian's laughing response as he left him.