And so now he would just have to wait until it was tomorrow. But first it was going to be night. He had never been by himself anywhere before at night. What would he have to do? He couldn't go to sleep. What would he sleep on? Not the ground; not by himself. And there were no sentries. There had to be sentries. He would have to be the sentry, all night.
When the night came it was darker than he'd ever known. He stood holding Molly's reins, short, pressed up against her. He had to put his cloak on, because it got cold as soon as the sun went down. And then the noises came – shrieking and snarling, hissing, hooting, whistling, rustling – and they went on all night, as if they were trying to frighten him out of the trees. And they nearly did. And all the time there could be Zulus creeping up on him, and he'd never know till there was a spear in his back. And it got so bad that he had to get into the saddle, although poor Molly had had to carry him all day.
And when it started to get light at last, he knew he had to stand to, so he got the rifle out of the sleeve again, and watched for all he was worth, shivering with the cold and not knowing if he'd see another living soul again that he knew. It wasn't as bad, though, now that he knew it would be light soon, except that now there were queer shadows moving about, and he knew that it wasn't anything but the way the sun came up, but he wasn't sure, because it could be Zulus not shadows, and they might even be using the shadows to creep up on him, because they were like wild animals really and they knew how to hunt.
When it was really light, and he could see there was nothing at all – just the long grass, and the kraal half a mile away – he started to feel better, because he'd stuck to his post all night and hadn't been too frit and run away, and he hadn't fallen asleep or done anything like that. Except that he'd been a burden on poor Molly. So now he got down and undid her girth again, and this time he unfastened the bit on one side of the bridle, and let her have a good length of rein so she could pull at the grass.
And now he was feeling hungry too, and he rummaged in one of the saddlebags, because he knew Colonel 'Ervey always had a few bits of things to eat (as he did too, but his pony had gone) – and there were some things to eat, some biltong and some corn cakes, and two hard-boiled eggs. He'd give Molly the corn cakes. She grabbed the first from him, and then the other two, and she nudged him for more when she'd done. He chewed a bit of biltong, but it made him want to drink, and he knew he'd have to be careful with the water just in case he couldn't get near any more till a lot later. The eggs were best. That's what he liked most of a morning, and Colonel 'Ervey always bought lots of eggs whenever he could and boiled them hard and kept them in his pocket or in the saddlebag, because old Mr Corporal Coates, his friend before he died, told him a long time ago, when he was a boy, before he joined the army, that he ought to take boiled eggs with him whenever he went on campaign, and he was always very good about sharing them with him.
He took out the telescope to have a good look round, but the glass was misted and it was a bit of time before he could dry it properly. But when he had, there was nothing – not even many Zulus about like yesterday. So he reckoned he ought to get moving soon, go round the way he had yesterday, show himself every so often – shout 'Colonel 'Ervey, sir!', even. Because the Zulus'd never be able to catch him on Molly, just so long as she didn't go lame – and there was no reason for her to go lame because she'd been hotshod, proper, before they'd left Cape Town, and this ground wasn't nearly as hard as it was in England sometimes.
So he fastened the bridle again, and tightened up the girth, and rubbed her nose and said nice things to her – as he had all night, but now he could say them so's she'd be sure to hear – and got back into the saddle and set off to find Colonel 'Ervey.
But he saw no sign of him. He didn't call him, because it didn't seem right to – because the Zulus would hear, and they'd know then that Colonel 'Ervey was hiding somewhere, and would start looking for him. He showed himself once or twice – well, three times, really, if you counted the same place twice, there and back – but it just felt like he was waiting for a Zulu to come and throw a spear at him, and then he'd be no good for anything, and certainly not to find Colonel 'Ervey. So after midday – which he could tell because he'd noticed yesterday how the shadows changed direction – he came back to the pear-tree clump to work out what he'd do next.
The easiest thing would be to go back where they'd landed. He'd be able to find his way all right. And he might even find that Mr Isaacs, where they'd left him, if he hadn't got better and gone back. But that wouldn't really be what Colonel 'Ervey would do, was it, because he wouldn't leave Mr Somervile by himself? He'd try to catch up with him; that's what he'd try to do. That's what he'd be trying to do, because he couldn't still be in yon kraal or they'd be doing something that'd tell you they'd got him – bastard Zulus!
But where had Mr Somervile gone? Nobody had told him. All he knew was as they were going one way and Colonel 'Ervey was going another. But he wouldn't want to be going another way now, would he? He'd be wanting to catch up with Mr Somervile, and Captain Fairbrother.
Yes, that was it – Captain Fairbrother. He'd know how to find Colonel 'Ervey, even if he were in the kraal still. He bet he could catch them up on Molly. And it wouldn't be that hard, would it, to see where they'd gone, because fifty horses couldn't not leave an easy trail to follow? So if he set off now he'd be able to catch up with them in a day or two. Except that he'd have to do sentry again by himself at night, and he wasn't sure he could.
But what if Colonel 'Ervey wasn't doing that at all? What if the Zulus had killed him?
He sank to the ground, as if his legs turned slowly to jelly. And warm tears began trickling down his grimy cheeks.
XXI
THE WATERS THAT COVER THE EARTHAfternoon
Hervey and Pampata stood staring at the Thukela in dismay and disbelief. In the morning they had crossed the Inonoti with barely twenty strides, the water not rising above Pampata's knees; but here the river was wider than Hervey could have thrown a spear, and looked deeper than his 'sister' could ford (he had learned already that she could not swim). Besides, the Thukela was in spate, its current stronger than he would have cared to tackle even on his own.
Pampata knew the cause. The Inonoti, she explained, was but a small river, rising from the ground not so very far from where they had crossed, whereas the great Thukela rose in the mountains – uKhalamba, the barrier of spears – many miles to the west. The clouds that had crossed their sky must have shed their water there in a great rain, mvulankulu, which the Thukela had collected and now returned to the sea.
This was some comfort at least, for Hervey knew well enough that a spate river could fall as quickly as it rose. But he could not see how so much water could pass at such a speed without a great deal more behind it. He had watched the cloud for three days, and thought it unlikely there would be any let in the current before morning. With difficulty he asked her how deep was the Thukela when the waters subsided.
She pointed to her breastbone.
It was not encouraging: if she had to wade at that depth, it could take days before they might ford. And then a darker thought occurred. 'Ingwenya?' he asked, pointing at the river.