When they heard the fire from inside sputter and fade, the natives rushed forward. Shouting Zulus swarmed through the brush, their spears clattering from the walls of the mission and sticking in the mealie bags reinforcing the perimeter.

Inside the wall, the British lieutenant mopped perspiration from his chops and brow. “Damn you, man, get this infernal machine working at once!” His soldiers stood around, looking puzzled. The steam cannon had never failed before.

“An assegai has put a hole in the tank, and the steam pressure is draining!” said the bearded scientist, the only man in Rorke’s Drift not wearing a red coat. He tugged at his brass goggles, looking with anguish at the huge cannon taking up most of the yard. “If I had twenty four hours….”

“Not bloody likely!” roared the lieutenant. He cracked open one of the crates and snatched out a carefully packed rifle. “So much for your science. It’s rifle butts and bayonets today, boys! Let’s give ’em a taste of good old British steel and lead!”