I counted them.

When all were over they formed themselves into a triple line, then trotted down the slope towards us.
At a distance of a hundred and fifty yards or just out of the shot of such guns as we had in those days, they halted and began singing again-- "Yonder is the kraal of the white man--a little kraal, my brothers; We shall eat it up, we shall trample it flat, my brothers.
But where are the white man's cattle--where are his oxen, my brothers ?" This question seemed to puzzle them a good deal, for they sang the song again and again.

At last a herald came forward, a great man with ivory rings about his arm, and, putting his hands to his mouth, called out to us asking where our cattle were.
Hans Botha climbed on to the top of a waggon and roared out that they might answer that question themselves.
Then the herald called again, saying that he saw the cattle had been sent away.
"We shall go and find the cattle," he said, "then we shall come and kill you, because without cattle you must stop where you are, but if we wait to kill you before we get the cattle, they may have trekked too far for us to follow.

And if you try to run away we shall easily catch you white men!" This struck me as a very odd speech, for the Zulus generally attack an enemy first and take his cattle afterwards; still, there was a certain amount of plausibility about it.

While I was still wondering what it all might mean, the Zulus began to run past us in companies towards the river.