Showing posts with label Zulu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Zulu. Show all posts

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Sapper jacket and .44 revolver



Instead of a smoking, blood-stained ruin, there was the plush and guilt of the circle bar at the St James’s Theatre, instead of the Sapper jacket and .44 revolver there was an opera cloak and silver-mounted cane, and instead of dead Zulus for company there was Oscar Wilde. (I make no comparisons.)


Flashman and the Tiger, p.289, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Tuesday, 3 July 2012

I can’t abide leeks



As an unworthy holder of that Cross myself, I’ll say they earned them, and as much glory as you like, for there never was a stand like it in all the history of war. For they didn’t only stand against impossible odds, you see — they stood and won, the garrulous little buggers, and not just ’cos they had Martinis against spears and clubs and a few muskets; they beat ’em hand to hand too, steel against steel at the barricades, and John Zulu gave them best. Well, you know what I think of heroism, and I can’t abide leeks, but I wear a daffodil as my buttonhole on Davey’s Day, for Rorke’s Drift.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.288, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Monday, 2 July 2012

Mealie-bag ramparts



      That, briefly, is how I came to join the garrison at Rorke’s Drift — and all the world knows what happened there. A hundred Warwickshire Welshmen and a handful of invalids stopped four thousand Udloko and Tulwana Zulus in bloody shambles at the mealie-bag ramparts, hammer and tongs and no quarter through that ghastly night with the burning hospital turning the wreckage of the little outpost into a fair semblance of Hell, and Flashy seeking in vain for a quiet corner — which I thought I’d found, once, on the thatch of the commissariat store, and damned if they didn’t set fire to that, too. Eleven Victoria Crosses they won, Chard with his beard scorched, Bromhead stone-deaf, and those ragged Taffies half-dead on their feet, but not too done to fight — oh, and talk.


Flashman and the Tiger, pp.287-8, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.

 
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Friday, 29 June 2012

Bayete, Udloko



Moran reversed his revolver in his hand and pushed it into the back of his sash. Then he tilted his hat back and flicked his forefinger at its brim.
       “Bayete, Udloko,” says he softly. “I do like a snap shot, though. Give the gentleman a coconut.”


Flashman and the Tiger, p.286, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.



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Thursday, 28 June 2012

Between terror and sheer admiration



He hit three more Zulus — this at a range of two hundred yards, from a wagon that was bucking like a ship at sea, and at moving targets. I tell you, I was stricken between terror and sheer admiration.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.284, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Monday, 25 June 2012

An older, much wiser soldier



  
That was how I made my strategic retreat, then, from the massacre of Isan’lwana — the greatest debacle of British arms since the Kabul retreat nearly 40 years earlier. Oh, aye, I’d been in that, too, freezing and bleeding on that nightmare march which never reached the Khyber. But I’d been a thoughtless boy then; at Isan’lwana I was an older, much wiser soldier, and I knew I was a long way from safety yet.

Flashman and the Tiger, p.280, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Thursday, 21 June 2012

The spears struck home



. . . the Zulu regiments rallied and came bounding in in a great mad charge, the rain of throwing spears whistling ahead of them like hail, and the stabbing assegais coming out from behind the white shields as they tore into our disordered front line, the roar of “’Suthu! ’Suthu!” giving way to their hideous hissing “S-jee! ’S-jee!” as the spears struck home.


Flashman and the Tiger, p.276, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Wednesday, 20 June 2012

Their terrible bass chorus



. . . Death sweeping towards us at that fearful thunderous jog-trot that made the earth tremble beneath our very feet, while the spears crashed on the ox-hide shields, and the dust rolled up in a bank before them as they chanted out their terrible bass chorus: “Uzitulele, kagali ’muntu!” — which, you’ll be enchanted to know, means roughly: “He is silent, he doesn’t start the attack.”


Flashman and the Tiger, p.275, Harper Collins, paperback edition 2000.


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Monday, 6 December 2010

A few words on exclamations



      The BrulĂ© riders were thundering by before me, shrieking their “Kye-kye-kye-yik!” and “Hoo’hay!”, and if ever you hear that from a Sioux, get the hell out of his way, because he isn’t asking you the time. The only worse noise he makes is “Hoon!” which is the equivalent of the Zulu “s’jee!” and signifies that he’s sticking steel into someone.


Flashman and the Redskins, pp.313-14, Pan Books edition, 1983.

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