Armstrong levelled his pistol at the middle Xhosa – twice the distance he wanted, but he needed time to transfer the sabre to his right hand. He pulled the trigger, the hammer fell. There was no spark. Nothing.
The Xhosa checked, but seeing there was no more to fear from the pistol, came on, crouching lower, animal-intent.
Armstrong switched pistol for sabre, coolly weighing the blade as he took stock of the new challenge: three Xhosa, three spears – odds he would not have faced willingly.
They edged towards him.
He could see their eyes – murderous as the tiger’s. He stayed on one knee.
They checked again.
He sprang – left, well left, to the flank of the right-hand Xhosa, cutting savagely, backhand, tearing open his shoulder. He leapt thence at the furthest before he could turn, slicing deep through the back of his neck. The remaining Xhosa spun round and feinted with his shield. But Armstrong knew the ruse. He dropped to one knee and drove his sabre under the shield into the gut with savage force. Two more points finished off the other two, leaving Armstrong on his feet, heart pounding, surveying the bloody outcome of twenty years’ drill and gymnasium.
Somervile could not speak, such was his admiration:
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MATTHEW PAULINUS HERVEY
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