I know, said Sean. Can you handle it? I think so.

Jane Petersen came towards them. Hello, Jane. Is your brother ready

yet? Nearly. He's just saddling up.

She stopped in front of Sean and shyly held out a scrap of

green-and-yellow silk. I've made you a cockade for your hat, Sean.

Thanks, Jane. Won't you put it on for me? She pinned up the brim of

Sean's hat; he took it back from her and set it at a jaunty angle on his

head. I look like a general now, he said and she laughed at him. How

about a goodbye kiss, Jane? You're terrible, said little Jane and went

away quickly, blushing. Not so little, Sean noticed. There were so

many of them you hardly knew where to start.

Here's Pa, announced Garry, as Waite Courtney rode.

Into the square. Come on, said Sean and untied his horse. From all

around the square, men were leading out their horses. See you later,

said Garry and limped off towards one of the waiting mule wagons.

Waite rode at the head of the column. Four troops of fifteen men in

double file, four wagons behind them, and then the loose horses driven

by black servants.

They moved out across the square, through the litter of the night's

festivities, and into the main street. The women watched them in

silence, standing motionless with the children gathered around them.

These women had seen men ride out before against the tribes; they did

not cheer for they too were wise in the ways of death, they had learned

that there is no room for glory in the grave.

Anna waved to Sean. He did not see her for his horse was skittish and

he was past her before he had it under control. She let her hand drop

back to her side and watched him go. He wore the skeepskin coat.

Sean did see the coppery flash and the swiftly-blown kiss from the

upstairs window of Pye's store. He saw it because he was looking for

it. He forgot his injured pride sufficiently to grin and wave his hat.

Then they were out of the town, and at last even the small boys and dogs

that ran beside them fell back and the column trotted out along the road

to Zululand.

The sun came up and dried the dew. The dust rose from under the hooves

and drifted out at an angle from the road. The column lost its rigidity

as men spurred ahead or dropped back to ride with their friends. They

rode in groups and straggles, relaxed and cheerfully chatting, as

informal as a party out for a day's shooting. Each man had taken to the

field in clothing he considered most suitable. Steff Erasmus wore his

church suit, but he was the most formally attired of the group. They

had only one standard item of uniform among them: this was the

green-and-yellow cockade. However, even here there was scope for

individual taste: some wore them on their hats, some on their sleeves

and others on their chests. They were farmers, not fighting men, but

their rifle scabbards were battered with use, their bandoliers worn with

easy familiarity and the wood of their gun butts was polished from the

caress of their hands.

It was middle afternoon before they reached the Tugela. My God, look at

that! whistled Sean. I've never seen so many people in one place in my

life before. They say there are four thousand, said Karl. I know there

are four thousand. Sean ran his eyes over the camp. I didn't know four

thousand was that many!

The column was riding down the last slope to Rorke's Drift. The river

was muddy brown and wide, rippling over the shallows of the crossing

place. The banks were open and grassy with a cluster of stone-walled

buildings on the near side. In a quarter-mile radius around the

buildings Lord Chelmsford's army was encamped. The tents were laid out

in meticulous lines, row upon row with the horses picketed between them.

The wagons were marshalled by the drift, five hundred at least, and the

whole area swarmed with men.

The Lady-burg Mounted Rifles, in a solid bunch that overflowed the road

behind their Colonel, came down to the perimeter of the camp and found

their passage blocked by a sergeant in a dress coat and with a fixed

bayonet. And who be you, may I ask? Colonel Courtney, and a detachment

of the Lady-burg Mounted Rifles. What's that? Didn't catch it. Waite

Courtney stood in his stirrups and turned to face his men. Hold on

there, gentlemen. We can't all talk at once. The hubbub of

conversation and comment behind him faded and this time the sergeant

heard him. Ho! Beg your pardon, sir. I'll call the orderly officer.

The orderly officer was an aristocrat and a gentleman.

He came and looked at them. Colonel Courtney? There was a note of

disbelief in his voice. Hello, said Waite with a friendly smile. I

hope we are not too late for the fun. No, I don't believe you are. The

officer's eyes fastened on Steff Erasmus. Steff lifted his top hat

politely. More, Meneer. The bandoliers of ammunition looked a little

out of place slung across his black frockcoat.

The officer tore his eyes away from him. You have your own tents,

Colonel? Yes, we've got everything we need. I'll get the sergeant here

to show you where to make camp.

Thank you, said Waite.

The officer turned to the sergeant. So carried away was he that he took

the man by the arm. Put them far away.

Put them on the other side of the Engineers - he whispered frantically.

If the General sees this lot. . . . . He shuddered, but in a

genteel fashion.

Garrick first became conscious of the smell. Thinking about it served

as a rallying point for his attention and he could start to creap out of

the hiding-place in his mind.

For Garrick, these returns to reality were always eightaccompanied by a

feeling of light-headednessand a hid ening of the senses. Colours were

vivid, skin sensitive to the touch, tastes and smells sharp and clear.

He lay on a straw mattress. The sun was bright, but he was in shade. He

lay on the veranda of the stone-walled hospital above Rorke's Drift. He

thought about the smell that had brought him back. It was a blending of

corruption and sweat and dung, the smell of ripped bowels and congeahng

blood.

He recognized it as the smell of death. Then his vision came into focus

and he saw the dead. They were piled along the wall of the yard where

the cross-fire from the store and the hospital had caught them; they

were scattered between the, buildings, and the burial squads were busy

loading them onto the wagons. They were lying down the slope to the

drift, they were in the water and on the far bank. Dead Zulus, with

their weapons and shields strewn about them. Hundreds of them, Garrick

thought with astonishment: no, thousands of them.

Then he was aware that there were two smells; but both of them were the

smells of death. There was the stink of the black, balloon-bellied

corpses swelling in the sun and there was the smell from his own body

and the bodies of the men about him, the same smell of pain and

putrefaction but mixed with the heaviness of disinfectant.

Death wearing antiseptic, the way an unclean girl tries to cover her

menstrual odour.

Garrick looked at the men around him, They lay in a long row down the