Meanwhile, with the flag rolled and cased and firmly gripped in his hand, Melvill spurred his horse through the press and dashed for the river. After him panted a score or more of Zulus, pausing only in their pursuit to stab any of the other fugitives whom they passed.
For six miles the adjutant galloped on his ride for life, gradually leaving the Zulus behind, though their shots continued to follow him. He had now been joined by Lieutenant Nevill Aylmer Coghill, of his own regiment, who had cut his way through the circle of Zulus. Then the tossing waters of the Buffalo came in view, and how the fugitives’ hearts must have risen at the sight. For on the other side of the river lay Natal and safety.
A last desperate spurt and the bank was gained. Down the steep slope scrambled horses and riders, and plunged into the swirling stream. The Buffalo runs swiftly between its high banks, the water being broken up by large rocks, dotted here and there. Exhausted after its flight, Melvill’s horse failed to make headway against the swift current, and in its struggles the adjutant was swept out of his saddle.
Not far away from him, on another rock, was an officer of the Native Contingent, named Higginson.
“Catch hold of the pole!” cried the adjutant; and the other, leaning over, made a grab at it as the colours came within reach. But he, too, was carried away.
By this time the foremost of the Zulus had come up, and they at once opened fire upon the helpless men in the river. Lieutenant Coghill, meanwhile, had swum his horse across the stream and gained the opposite bank in safety. Reining up on the top of the slope, he looked back and saw Melvill struggling in the water below.
There was a chance of life for him. His horse was still fresh, and the road to Helpmakaar stretched away behind him. But Coghill gave no thought to himself, or if he did he banished it instantly from his mind. Riding down the bank again, he plunged into the river with a cheery call to Melvill to “hold on.”
GRAVE OF MELVILL AND COGHILL.