The Witch's Head

by H. Rider Haggard

Alston’s Horse soon reached the ridge, past which the Undi were commencing to run, at a distance of about three hundred and fifty yards, and the order was given to dismount and line it. This they did, one man in every four keeping a few paces back to hold the horses of his section. Then they opened fire; and next second came back the sound of the thudding of the bullets on the shields and bodies of the Zulu warriors.

Ernest, seated up high on his great black horse “The Devil,” for the officers did not dismount, could see how terrible was the effect of that raking fire, delivered as it was, not by raw English boys, who scarcely knew one end of a rifle from the other, but by men, all of whom could shoot, and many of whom were crack shots. All along the line of the Undi companies men threw up their arms and dropped dead, or staggered out of the ranks wounded. But the main body never paused. By-and-by they would come back and move the wounded, or kill them if they were not likely to recover.

Soon, as the range got longer, the fire began to be less deadly, and Ernest could see that fewer men were dropping.

“Ernest,” said Alston, galloping up to him, “I am going to charge them. Look, they will soon cross the donga, and reach the slopes of the mountain, and we sha’n’t be able to follow them on the broken ground.”

“Isn’t it rather risky?” asked Ernest, somewhat dismayed at the idea of launching their little clump of mounted men at the moving mass before them.

“Risky? yes, of course it is, but my orders were to delay the enemy as much as possible, and the horses are fresh. But, my lad”—and he bent towards him and spoke low—“it doesn’t much matter whether we are killed charging or running away. I am sure that the camp must be taken; there is no hope. Good-bye, Ernest; if I fall, fight the corps as long as possible, and kill as many of those devils as you can; and if you survive, remember to make off well to the left. The regiments will have passed by then. God bless you, my boy! Now order the bugler to sound the ‘cease fire,’ and let the men mount.”

“Yes, sir.”

They were the last words Alston ever spoke to him, and Ernest often remembered, with affectionate admiration, that even at that moment he thought more of his friend’s safety than he did of his own. As to their tenor, Ernest had already suspected the truth, though, luckily, the suspicion had not as yet impregnated the corps. Mazooku, too, who as usual was with him, mounted on a Basutu pony, had just informed him that, in his (Mazooku’s) opinion, they were all as good as ripped up (alluding to the Zulu habit of cutting a dead enemy open), and adding a consolatory remark to the effect that man can die but once, and “good job too.”

But, strangely enough, he did not feel afraid; indeed, he never felt quieter in his life than he did in that hour of near death. A wild expectancy thrilled his nerves and looked out of his eyes. “What would it be like?” he wondered. And in another minute all such thoughts were gone, for he was at the head of his troop, ready for the order.

Alston, followed by the boy Roger, galloped swiftly round, seeing that the formation was right, and then gave the word to unsheath the short swords with which he had insisted upon the corps being armed. Meanwhile, the Undi were drawing on to a flat plain, four hundred yards or more broad, at the foot of the mountain, a very suitable spot for a cavalry manoeuvre.