The Defence of Rorke’s Drift. — January 22-23, 1879
Come listen for a moment,
All ye, whose peaceful life
In even flow is ne’er disturbed
By scenes of blood and strife;
Who sit around your hearth fires,
Secure from war’s alarms;
This humble lay sets forth to-day
A British deed of arms.
Left on the wild, lone border,
A small but fearless band,
Guarding the watery entrance
To savage Zululand;
On the warm mid-day breezes,
Like thunder’s distant sound,
Came the long roll of cannon
Far o’er the hostile ground,
And we wondered that our column
So soon the foe had found.
Then came two flying horsemen
Riding with loosened rein,
And the powdery dust like a whirlwind rose
As they scoured across the plain;
A few more rapid hoof-strokes,
And we heard the news they bore—
“In yonder glen nigh half our men
Lie weltering in their gore!
“’Twas shortly after noontide,
The column was away;
Swept the dark hordes in myriads down
Like wolves upon their prey;
Vainly the deadly hailstorm
Boomed from the cannon loud—
Vainly we tried to stem the tide
Of the black surging crowd.
“Our men, too soon surrounded,
Were slaughtered as they stood,
Facing their slayers to the last,
Dying as soldiers should.
How we escaped we know not,
From that fierce whirlwind’s frown,
But on this post a conquering host
E’en now is marching down!”
As men who dream, we heard them,
And awestruck, stood aghast;
And through each heart there went a chill
Like the breath of an icy blast;
We thought of those who left us
In the glow of their martial pride,
Now with the dead in the slaughter red,
Stark on the wild hill-side.
We looked to our defences
Ere darkness should come on,
And others passed from the fatal field,
They warned us, and were gone;
We called on them to aid us
In the approaching fight—
They would not hear—the voice of fear
Lent wings to their headlong flight.
“The foe comes down in thousands,
Away—for all is lost!”
“Not so—our orders are to hold
The Drift at any cost;
Long has the firing sounded
And succour may be nigh,
If not—why then we’re Englishmen,
At duty’s call we’ll die!”
We set to work undaunted
To raise a barricade,
With mealie bags and scattered stores
A breastwork soon had made;
And scarcely was it finished,
When burst upon our sight,
Dark as the lowering storm-cloud
Sweeps the blue vaulted height,
Moving along the fair hill-side,
In vast black lines extending wide,
Rank upon rank of warriors tried,
In panoply of savage pride
Advancing to the fight.
Above the dusky phalanx
We marked each ring-girt head,
We felt the hard earth tremble
Under their heavy tread,—
The martial tread of thousands
In full array of war—
Each sinewy frame well trained to wield
Broad assegai and tufted shield,
Washed upon many a hard-fought field
In vanquished foeman’s gore.
Yes, on they come in thousands—
One hundred strong we stand,
Against the very pick and flower
Of warrior Zululand:
And how may we resist them,
Or hope to hold our own,
Flushed as they be with victory—
The greatest e’er they’ve known?
They pressed in silence forward
At a swift but steady run,
Red glowed their blades in the golden beams
Of the declining sun;
With gliding undulation,
On, on their masses came—
A mighty crash—a lightning flash—
Streamed the death-dealing flame.
Still the black wave rolled onward—
Again the word rang out,
With the sharp volley’s crackling voice
Arose a deafening shout:
Blent with the rush of thousands
Over the rumbling ground,
The battle-cry pealed to the sky,
Starting the echoes round.
’Tis long since that wild slogan
Rallied these bands to war,
The dreaded hosts of Zululand
Now in the field once more;
Oft have the neighbouring tribesmen,
At the blood-curdling tone,
Awoke in the calm still hours of night,
To flee by their blazing kraals’ red light,
To forest thickets lone.
’Neath far Quathlamba’s ridges
Cut clear against the sky,
Where now, upon those grassy slopes,
Snug homesteads nestling lie;
As sweeping down resistless,
A black o’erwhelming flood,
The ruthless hordes fell on their prey,
And broad their dark destroying way
Was long mapped out, for many a day,
By ruins soaked in blood.
Their forward van all shaken,
They wavered—then fell back—
Bestrewn with dark grim corpses
Was all the gory track:
They turned to seek for cover,
They’d seen what we could do,
And overhead, with angry whiz,
Like hail their bullets flew.
And by their hosts surrounded,
Nigh forty men to one,
We vainly scanned the darkling waste
Ere twilight should be done;
As waif on the wide ocean,
Looks for the rescuing sail,
When dim shades sweep the surging deep,
And louder roars the gale.
Behind the western ridges
The sun’s red lamp sank down,
The twilight shadows seemed to cast
O’er all a threatening frown;
We gazed with mingled feelings
On the last-fading beam,
Should we, too, lie ’neath the cold grey sky,
Stark in the dawning gleam?
We looked at one another,
Then at the purpling west,
Then came the thought of our noble trust,
Filling each soldier breast;
And there, that trust defending,
We’d perish as we stood—
Telling of death seemed the night-wind’s breath,
Heavy and dank with blood.
Again the thrilling war-cry
In wild shrill notes rang out,
Again th’ infuriate mass bore down
Upon our frail redoubt;
They poured their swarming numbers
Over the barricade—
But one short stand, our gallant band
That first mad onslaught stayed.
Yet fiercer still and bolder
They rushed into the fight—
When to the smoke-beclouded sky
Shone a dull reddening light:
With a chill of consternation
We marked the lurid glare,
Knowing that then our wounded men
Were helpless lying there.
Then from the glowing furnace
We brought them one by one,
But the foe closed up too quickly,
Ere half our work was done;
We faced the yelling masses,
We braved the crackling fire,
Till through the smoke the fierce flame broke,
Forcing us to retire.
The cruel demons entered,
All eager for their prey,
The helpless sick and wounded
Were butchered as they lay;
As the huge flames roared upward
With red and hungry light,
In the fierce glare that met us there—
Stood all revealed the fight.
Widened the glowing circle
Crowded with clamouring bands,
All weirdly shone the flashing blades
Brandished by grisly hands;
Again, again upon us,
Poured the dark howling flood,
Quivered the ground beneath their bound,
Red with our comrades’ blood.
We thought of these comrades butchered
As they unresisting lay;
We ceased to give a passing care
To the issue of the fray;
We only longed for vengeance
On all the fiendish crew,
To let them feel our British steel,
To strike both oft and true.
The flaming pile sank inwards
With a roar like thunder’s tone;
Arose a sickening stench of blood
And many a gurgling moan;
Still the terrific war-cry
Blent with our furious shout,
Harder they pressed upon us—
Quicker we drove them out—
Hurling them back in the gory track,
Upon the clamouring rout.
And eyes with lust of carnage,
Like coals through the darkness gleamed,
And bayonet crashed with stabbing spear,
Thick the red torrent streamed:
Drowning the roar of battle—
Drowning the deafening clang—
Each demon yell, like a blast of hell,
Fiercer and higher rang.
Still the bright volley’s flashing
Showed the wild frenzied crowd,
Their shields and spear-hafts clashing—
Their war shouts pealing loud—
And myriad eyeballs glowing,
Like starlit ocean tossed—
And blood, like water, flowing,
When splintering weapons crossed.
Our bayonets blunt and twisted,
All dripping black with gore;
And many an open bleeding gash
Its own grim witness bore;
Our brains all faint and dizzy,
Our throats all parched with thirst,
At every shot our guns grew hot
As though about to burst.
Again, again, we met them
Through the long fearful night;
We fought as ne’er we fought before
And ne’er again may fight,
To ’venge our slaughtered comrades,
To guard our solemn trust,
And to reclaim our country’s name
Trampled in savage dust.
We stood upon our rampart,
As paled the morning star,
We saw the baffled foe retreat
Over the hills afar;
The long night’s deadly struggle
Seemed like a troubled dream—
Our peril passed, new hope at last
Came with the dawning gleam.
Piled high against our breastwork,
And scattered o’er the plain,
Four hundred of their warrior strength
Lay stark amid the slain—
Lay where their fierce hot lifeblood
The greedy earth had wet—
Still terrible, in threatening scowl,
Each grim dead face was set.
Our strength and ammunition
Alike were well-nigh spent—
On an approaching dust-cloud
Our eager glance was bent,
There moving slow and rising,
Far in the hostile land,
Till, through the haze, our straining gaze
Descried an armèd band.
Is it the foe returning,
’Gainst us in greater strength?—
We watched the distant column
Deploying in its length:
Hurrah—the British scarlet
Gleams in the morning sun—
We’ll see once more old England’s shore,
Her thanks we’ve fairly won.
Yes, for old England’s honour
And for her perilled might,
We strove with vast and whelming odds,
From eve till morning light;
And thus with front unflinching,
One hundred strong we stood,
And held the post ’gainst a maddened host
Drunken with British blood.
And twelve from out our number
Their brave career had run,
Their final muster-roll had passed,
And their last duty done;
So carefully we laid them
Deep in the green earth’s breast,
An alien sod above them trod;—
Peace with their ashes rest!
Her sons, in gallant story,
Shall sound old England’s fame,
And by fresh deeds of glory
Shall keep alive her name;
And when, above her triumphs,
The golden curtains lift—
Be treasured long, in page and song,
The memory of Rorke’s Drift.
Bertram Mitford.