Vulture planed across their front, the feathers in its wing-tips flated

like the fingers of a spread hand. Its legs dropped, touched and it

hopped heavily to rest among the dead, a swift transformation from

beautiful flight to obscene crouching repose. It bobbed its head,

ruffled its feathers and waddled to dip its beak over a corpse that wore

the green Hunting Tartan of the Gordons. Where is Chelmsford? Was he

caught here also?

Mbejane shook his head. He came too late. Mbejane pointed with his

spear at the wide spoor that skirted the battlefield and crossed the

shoulder of Isandhlwana towards the Tugela. He has gone back to the

river. He has not stopped even to bury his dead. Sean and Mbejane

walked down towards the field. On the outskirts they picked their way

through the debris of Zulu weapons and shields; there was rust forming

on the blades of the assegais. The grass was flattened and stained

where the dead had lain, but the Zulu dead were gone sure sign of

Victory.

They came to the English lines. Sean gagged when he saw what had been

done to them. They lay piled upon each other, faces already black, and

each one of them had been disemboweled. The flies crawled in their

empty stomach cavities. Why do they do that? he asked. Why do they

have to hack them up like thatF He walked on heavily past the wagons.

Cases of food and drink had been smashed open and scattered in the

grass, clothing and paper and cartridge cases lay strewn around the

dead, but the rifles were gone. The smell of putrefaction was so thick

that it coated his throat and tongue like castor oil.

I must find Pa, Sean spoke quietly in almost a conversational tone.

Mbejane walked a dozen paces behind him.

They came to the lines where the Volunteers had camped.

The tents had been slashed to tatters and trampled into the dust. The

horses had been stabbed while still tethered to their picket lines, they

were massively bloated. Sean recognized Gypsy, his father's mare. He

crossed to her. Hello, girl, he said. The birds had taken her eyes

out; she lay on her side, her stomach so swollen that it was as high as

Sean's waist. He walked around her. The first of the Lady-burg men lay

just beyond. He recognized all fifteen of them although the birds had

been at them also.

They lay in a rough circle, facing outwards. Then he found a sparse

trail of corpses leading up towards the shoulder of the mountain. He

followed the attempt that the Volunteers had made to fight their way

back towards the Tugela and it was like following a paper chase. Along

the trail, thick on each side of it, were the marks where the Zulus had

fallen. At least twenty of them for every one of us, whispered Sean,

with a tiny Ricker of pride. He climbed on up and at the top of the

shoulder, close under the sheer rock cliff of Isandhlwana, he found his

father.

There were four of them, the last four: Waite Courtney, Tim Hope-Brown,

Hans and Nile Erasmus. They lay close together. Waite was on his back

with his arms spread open, the birds had taken his face away down to the

bone, but they had left his beard and it stirred gently on his chest as

the wind touched it. The flies, big metallic green flies, crawled thick

as swarming bees in the open pit of his belly.

Sean sat down beside his father. He picked up a discarded felt hat that

lay beside him and covered his terribly mutilated face. There was a

green-and-yellow silk cockade on the hat, strangely gay in the presence

of so much death. The flies buzzed sullenly and some came to settle on

Sean's face and lips. He brushed them away.

You know this man? asked Mbejane.

My father, said Sean, without looking up. You too. Compassion and

understanding in his voice, Mbejane turned away and left them alone. I

have nothing, Mbejane had said. Now Sean also had nothing. There was

hollowness: no anger, no sorrow, no ache, no reality even. Staring down

at this broken thing, Sean could not make himself believe that this was

a man.

Meat only; the man had gone.

Later Mbejane came back. He had cut a sheet of canvas from one of the

unburned wagons and they wrapped Waite in it. They dug his grave. It

was hard work for the soil was thick with rock and shale. They laid

Waite in the grave, with his arms still widespread in rigor mortis

beneath the canvas for Sean could not bring himself to break them. They

covered him gently and piled rocks upon the place. They stood together

at the head of the grave. Well, Pa - Sean's voice sounded unnatural.

He could not make himself believe he was talking to his father. Well,

Pa - he started again, mumbling selfconsciously. I'd like to say thanks

for everything you've done for me. He stopped and cleared his throat. I

reckon you know I'll look after Ma and the farm as best I can, and Garry

also. His voice trailed away once more and he turned to Mbejane.

there is nothing to say. Sean's voice was surprised, hurt almost. No,

agreed Mbejane. There is nothing to say. For a few minutes long-a Sean

stood snuggling to grapple with the enormity of death, trying to grasp

the utter finality of it, then he turned away and started walking

towards the Tugela. Mbejane walked a little to one side and a pace

behind him. It will be dark bare we reach the river, thought Sean. He

was very tired and he limped from his blistered heel.

Not much farther, said Dennis Petersen. No, Sean granted. He was

irritated at the statement of the obvious; when you come out of Mahobals

Kloof and have the Baboon Stroom next to the road on your left hand,

then it is five miles to Lady-burg. As Dennis had said: not much

farther.

Dennis coughed in the dust. That first beer is going to turn to steam

in my throat. I think we can ride ahead now. Sean wiped at his face,

smearing the dust. Mbejane and the other servants can bring them in the

rest of the way. I was going to suggest it. Dennis was obviously

relieved. They had almost a thousand head of cattle crowding the road

ahead of them and raising dust for them to breathe. it had been two

days drive from Rorkes Drift where the Commando had disbanded. We'll

hold them in the sale pens tonight and send them out tomorrow morning,

I'll tell Mbejane Sean clapped his heels into his horse and swung across

to where the big Zulu trotted at the heels of the herd. A few minutes,

talk and then Sean signalled to Dennis.

They circled out on each side of the herd and met on the road ahead of

it.

They've lost a bit of condition, grumbled Dennis looking back. Bound

to, sad Sean. We've pushed them hard for two days. A thousand head of

cattle, five men's share of Cetewayo Is herds, Dennis and his father,

Waite, Sean and Garrick, for even dead men drew a full share. How far

ahead of the others do you reckon we are?

asked Dennis. Dunno, said Sean. It wasn't important and any answer

would be only a guess: pointless question is just as irritating as

obvious statement. It suddenly occurred to Sean that but a few months

previously a question like that would have started a discussion and

argument that might have lasted half an hour. What did that mean? It

meant that he had changed. Having answered his own question, Sean

grinned sardonically.

What're you laughing at! asked Dennis. I was just thinking that a lot

has changed in the last few months. Ja, said Dennis and then silence

except for the broken beat of their hooves. It's going to seem funny

without Pa, Dennis said wistfully. Mr Petersen had been at IsandhIwana.

It's going to seem funny being just Ma, the girls and me on the farm.

They didn't speak again for a while. They were thinking back across the

brief months and the events that had changed their lives.

Neither of them yet twenty years of age, but already head of his family,

a holder of land and cattle, initiated into grief and a killer of men.

Sean was older now with new lines in his face, and the beard he wore was

square and spade-shaped. They had ridden with the Commandos who had

burnd and plundered to avenge Isandhlwana.

At Ulundi they had sat their horses behind the ranks of Chelmsford's

infantry in the hot sun, quietly waiting as Cetewayo massed his impis

and sent them across open ground to overwhelm the frail square of men.

They had waited through the din of the regular, unhurried volleys and

watched the great black bull of Zulu tearing itself to shreds against

the square. Then at the end the ranks of infantry had opened and they

had ridden out, two thousand horsemen strong, to smash for ever the

power of the Zulu empire. They had chased and hunted until the darkness

had stopped them and they had not kept score of the kill.

There's the church steeple, said Dennis.

Sean came back slowly out of the past. They were at Lady-burg. Is your

stepmother out at Theunis Kraal? asked Dennis. No, she's moved into

town, the cottage on Protea Street. I suppose she doesn't want to be in

the way now that Anna and Garry are married, said Dennis.

Sean frowned quickly, How do you like old Garry getting Anna? Dennis

chuckled and shook his head. I reckon you could have got twenty-to-one

odds he didn't have a chance Sean's frown became a scowl. Garry had

made him look such a dAmn fool, Sean hadn't finished with Anna. Have

you heard from them yet? When are they coming home? The last time we

heard was from Pietermaritzburg;

they sent a wire to Ma just to say they were married.

She got it a couple of days before I arrived home from Isandhlwana. That

was two months ago; as far as I know we haven't heard since. I suppose

Garry's so firmly settled on the nest they'll have to prise him off with

a crowbar. Dennis chuckled again, lewdly. Sean had a sudden and

shockingly vivid mental picture of Garry on top of Anna; her knees were

up high, her head was thrown back and her eyes were closed; she was

making that little mewing sound.

Shut up, you dirty bastard, snarled Sean.

Dennis blinked. Sorry, I was only joking. Don't joke about my family,

he's my brother And she was your girl, hey? murmured Dennis. Do you

want a Punch? Cool down, man, I was joking. I don't like that kind of

joke, see!

all right. All right. Cool down. It's dirty, that's dirty talk.

Sean was trying desperately to shut out the picture of Anna, she was in

wild orgasm, her hands pleading at the small of Garrick's back.

Jesus, since when have you become a saint? asked Dennis and, urging his

horse into a gallop, drew ahead of Sean; he kept going along the main

street towards the hotel. Sean considered calling him back, but finally

let him go.

Sean turned right into a shady side street. The cottage was the third

house down, Waite had purchased it three years before as an investment.