by James Mace
“Pull your men back,” Wood said quietly to Major Hackett.
The mass of warriors continued in their drill, all the while chanting and heeding the shouted commands of their izinduna; none of the redcoats atop the ridge protested the order to withdraw.
As they reached the bottom of the hill, Colonel Wood ordered his infantry into a column. “If they discover and come after us, we’ll deploy into a square,” he directed. “Mounted troops will conduct harassment, while the natives hold in the centre of the square in reserve. A rider will then be sent back to Fort Thinta to bring up the rest of the column.”
The ten-mile trek back to Fort Thinta felt like an eternity. Soldiers were constantly glancing over their shoulders, looking for any signs of pursuit; yet all was still. Only the occasional giraffe, impala, or wild boar made its presence known. After the first mile, the sounds of war chants faded. The experience was rather disheartening to Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood. It was fortunate that the abaQulusi had not massed to attack his position at Bemba’s Kop, while he and most of the column were on their journey to and from Rorke’s Drift. He knew he would need to re-think his strategy for dealing with Manyanyoba and Seketwayo, not to mention their Swazi ally, Mbilini.
It was late afternoon by the time the detachment reached Fort Thinta. Infantrymen were talking excitedly amongst themselves, telling their mates who’d remained behind of what they had seen. Captain Thurlow, Lieutenant Pardoe, and the other officers from 1/13th met with Major Hackett and their peers from the 90th Regiment.
“That’s sure to get the lads worked up,” Pardoe said, as soon as they finished hearing Hackett’s dissertation on the large and highly disciplined enemy corps they had spotted.
“I believe we will have to pack up the entire camp and take everyone with us when the time comes to fight,” the captain speculated. He then found Colour Sergeant Fricker and ordered him to parade the company.
While company commanders briefed their soldiers on the day’s events, Colonel Wood found his orderly, Lieutenant Henry Lysons, sitting on the outer ramparts, his field glasses up to his eyes as he scanned towards the south.
“The abaQulusi are in the other direction,” the colonel said.
The startled the young officer nearly tripped himself up, as he slipped off the wall and came to attention. “Your pardon, colonel,” he said quickly. “It was just…well, I thought I heard something far off to the south. Sounded like thunder, but there are no storm clouds in the sky.”
Wood instinctively looked up in the sky. Though there were just a few wisps of clouds, it was gradually growing grey as the solar eclipse reached its apex. He pulled out his watch and saw it was around 2.30 in the afternoon.
“I wonder,” Lysons said, before turning to face the colonel. “Do you think it might be cannon fire, sir? I looked at the map and saw that Isandlwana is forty or fifty miles from here. Surely the sound could not travel this far!”
Wood was hard of hearing, and it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t heard anything like what the young officer was describing. It seemed unlikely to him that the sounds of cannon fire coming from any action Richard Glyn’s column was involved in would carry over such a great distance.
“There!” Lysons said, excitedly.
A faint boom echoed from the south.
The colonel shrugged. “Not a blasted thing,” he remarked.
“I heard it, sir,” Ronald Campbell spoke up, as he joined the men. He gazed up at the sky towards the south. “And there are no storm clouds on the horizon, either.”
Wood said nothing but simply nodded before returning to his command tent to ponder the day’s events. He now knew he had a much larger and far more organised adversary to face than he’d first realised. And if what his staff officers heard was, indeed, cannon fire coming from the centre column, had his lordship found the main Zulu impi?
Darkness had fallen, and Harry Davies was coming off shift as corporal-of-the-guard. His relief was his old friend, James Shepard, who grumbled about being given the shift in the middle of the night.
“Did you hear that?” Harry asked.
“Hear what?” A soft boom sounded in the far distance, followed immediately by another. “Bugger me, what the devil is that?”
“I would hazard it’s cannon fire. But why? What possible reason could the centre column have for torching off their guns this late? I didn’t think the Zulus were night fighters.”
“As far as we know, they’re not,” James concurred. He shook his head. “Something’s wrong. I cannot say for certain what, but I have a really bad feeling.”
Chapter VIII: Our Greatest Victory
Isandlwana
23 January 1879
Mehlokazulu kaSihayo, by Tracy Mace
The sun rose slowly in the east, warming the back of the induna, Mehlokazulu, as he stood atop the Nyoni Ridge, gazing at the scene of destruction below. Even before the first rays of dawn cast their light upon the open plain below, the young warrior could smell the pungent stench of disembowelled corpses and the lingering, acrid reek of black powder smoke. Large clouds blew gently from the west, casting the battlefield in shadow, as if the sun itself was ashamed by what it saw.
Despite his state of exhaustion, he’d slept very little the previous night. What sleep he did manage was plagued by nightmares. Like most of the warriors who had borne the brunt of the fighting, Mehlokazulu was in a state of shock after the horrific events of the previous day. Ntshingwayo, the inkosi in command of the massive impi of 25,000 warriors, had never intended to attack on the 22nd of January. It was the day of the New Moon; a time of ill-omens, when malevolent spirits roamed. What’s more, the Zulus had yet to set eyes on their foes in red jackets. Ntshingwayo had intended to use that day to scout the enemy’s camp, determine their fighting strength and disposition, while encircling his regiments around the mountain of Isandlwana, that they might attack the British on the more auspicious morning of the 23rd. Instead, a force of mounted Basutos under British command had found the entire impi encamped in the large valley near Mabaso Hill, nine miles northeast of Isandlwana. A skirmish ensued, alerting the enemy camp and raising the ardour of the young warriors. Knowing they were compromised, and unable to contain his warriors’ lust for blood, Ntshingwayo had no choice but to commit the entire impi to battle.
It said much for the good order of the army that every regiment knew its place, be it in the ‘Chest’ or the ‘Horns’, in a frontage that extended for at least ten miles over rugged ground. And yet, there were plenty of lapses in discipline, both from individual warriors as well as entire companies who rushed into the fray without waiting for support. Sadly, this was unavoidable within such an immense force. Mehlokazulu, whose three companies were in the lead ranks of the iNgobamakhosi Regiment within the ‘Left Horn’, had maintained strict formation and discipline. He recalled coming upon a handful of redcoats frantically placing cylinders in metal troughs. These had shot up in the air, creating a shower of sparks. Whatever magic the white soldiers had hoped to place upon the Zulus, it only caused them to laugh and sing praises to their king, as their skirmishers unleashed salvoes of musketry on them. His warriors had not become overzealous, but followed the commands of their induna, allowing their marksmen to cut down the hapless redcoats.
Once down from the hills, the ‘Left Horn’ was compelled to charge across flat, open ground to where the British mounted troops, including the hated Basutos and Zikhali, skulked within a long donga. From distances far beyond the effectiveness of Zulu muskets, they unleashed torrents of fire from their carbines, ripping swaths through Mehlokazulu’s fellow warriors. Many times, they were compelled to crawl towards their foe on their bellies, like snakes. The induna later learned that the main attack from the ‘Chest’ had stalled around this time. While these regiments cowered within a donga just 200 paces from the British infantry, Mehlokazulu and his warriors continued to slog forward under the relentless onslaught of enemy carbines.
It was only through shee
r determination and courage that the iNgobamakhosi continued its assault, until the weaklings opposing them fled upon their horses towards the main camp. With a surge of fury, Mehlokazulu and his warriors charged, unleashing their vengeance on the treacherous Africans and their white masters. The red-jacketed soldiers had made a stalwart stand, continuing to unleash furious volleys of rifle fire, keeping a wall of bayonets towards the attacking Zulus. Even as their mates were slain by thrown assegais and the stabs of iklwa spears, the imperial soldiers fought on relentlessly. Mehlokazulu recalled not a single white soldier who attempted to surrender or plead for his life. Even as all were consumed within the boiling cauldron of hate, he could not help but admire their courage.
There was one man in particular, who he assumed was an enemy inkosi. Though he wore a red jacket, he carried a pistol and sabre instead of a rifle. When all hope was lost, and the last of the squares of redcoats were being slaughtered, this brave man led about sixty of his remaining troops in a bayonet charge down the slopes of Isandlwana. As his men were killed, he continued to fire his pistol into the faces of his assailants, even managing to climb into a wagon from where he retrieved a rifle and continued his one-man fight against the entire amabutho. Mehlokazulu had watched in awe until the white officer was finally struck through the forehead by a musket shot. As he tumbled from the wagon, the induna felt he had died with more dignity and valour than even the bravest of his warriors. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but Mehlokazulu had publicly proclaimed the fallen redcoat a brave man, ordering his warriors to carry him aloft on a shield and lay him to rest with his soldiers.
The remainder of the day was a blur to him. He recalled the eclipse of the sun, which caused the world to turn a darkish grey at the height of the killing. It had passed soon after the last imperial soldier was slain. Later that evening as they retired back to Mabaso Hill, laden with plunder and hundreds of wounded, another enemy force emerged from the direction of Mangeni Falls to the east. Both armies had watched each other from a distance, as this new band of redcoats marched towards their ransacked camp. And while the Zulus had them badly outnumbered, they were simply too exhausted to press the issue. During the night, Mehlokazulu recalled hearing the sound of the cannon the white soldiers used to shell their own camp before advancing to retake it. Early on the morning after, Mehlokazulu made the long trek back to Isandlwana. By the time the field of death came into view, the white soldiers had long since departed, most likely towards the old mission at Rorke’s Drift. The induna was unaware that the reserve regiments of the Undi Corps had disobeyed King Cetshwayo’s order not to cross into British Natal. They had instead launched a twelve-hour attack on the depot, which ended in failure, with hundreds of warriors slain or badly injured.
Only now, after the exhilaration of battle, overwhelming relief at still being alive, and the numbing shock at seeing so many of his friends killed or badly maimed was he was able to fully appreciate the level of suffering wrought on the previous day. Of the near 300 warriors under his command, eighty were dead or so badly wounded that they would soon be joining the ancestors. An equal number bore various injuries, mostly flesh wounds from enemy rifles or bayonets. No one from Mehlokazulu’s companies had been hit by cannon fire. The British had only committed a single gun to support their right flank which had sent, perhaps, ten shots towards the entire iNgobamakhosi Regiment. An additional fifteen warriors from his companies were missing and presumed dead. This left the induna with only 125 warriors still fit for battle.
“The price we paid for glory,” Mehlokazulu said quietly, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. Glory, he then thought to himself. What does that even mean?
“I know not whether the ancestors are proud or displeased,” a voice said behind him.
Mehlokazulu turned to see a warrior from his regiment named Bongani kaThando. Bongani’s late father had been a tenant of Mehlokazulu’s father, Sihayo. Upon Thando’s death, Sihayo had taken Bongani and his three elder sisters into his care. Though raised within the same household and sharing a number of the same friends, Bongani and Mehlokazulu had never been particularly close. Mehlokazulu was a proud warrior, who was also given the esteemed honour of being one of King Cetshwayo’s body servants. As a member of the Zulu nobility and Sihayo’s eldest son, he would become inkosi of his tribe upon his father’s passing.
Mehlokazulu glanced down at the iklwa spear clutched in his hand. It was streaked with blood and would remain so until such time as those who had killed were properly cleansed, both physically and spiritually. The induna wore the red jacket of the man he’d slain. It was too big for him and hung loosely over his shoulders. Feelings of foreboding came over the young warrior. He slowly shook his head.
“Our descendants will recall this as our people’s greatest victory,” he said quietly. “But will it also foretell our destruction?”
Isandlwana, the Morning After, from The Graphic
About twelve miles to the southwest, not far from where the few white survivors had attempted to ford the uMzinyathi, another army of Zulus was crossing back into their land. These warriors were much older and came from the Undi Corps. Rather than being laden with plunder, they bore only shame and sorrow. An induna named Mandlenkosi grimaced in pain, sweat running down his face and body, as one of his fellow warriors assisted him across the fast-flowing current. His upper right arm was bound with grass, the thick streams of dried blood beginning to flake off. For all their physical prowess, the Zulus’ one collective weakness was their inability to swim. Only by linking arms and plunging into the river en masse had they been able to ford even the narrowest of crossing points. Yet now, their struggle was far greater, for the old warriors had been deprived of food and sleep for the past two days, ran more than thirty miles during the same time span, while fighting a twelve-hour battle that left many of their friends dead and even greater numbers badly injured. For these thousands of warriors crossing the uMzinyathi River back into Zululand, there were no war chants of triumph, no spoils to be presented before the king. The famed Undi Corps—the eldest and most revered regiments of the entire Zulu amabutho—were beaten and utterly disgraced. Not only had they disobeyed the expressed orders of King Cetshwayo not to cross into British Natal, but they had been resoundingly defeated by a paltry force of British soldiers at the old trading settlement of kwaJimu, otherwise known as Rorke’s Drift.
There was some satisfaction in the old warrior. He was among the few who could rightly claim he’d slain one of the white soldiers in red jackets. It was a well-placed musket shot from a distance of only about twenty paces; close enough for the induna to watch the lad’s head snap back as the bullet smashed through his forehead and into his brain. The dead redcoat was very young, likely no older than Mandlenkosi’s son, Kwanele.
The induna winced at the thought of his son. Kwanele was a member of the uNokhenke Regiment. As part of the ‘Chest’ during the attack on Isandlwana, they had been subjected to punishing volleys of rifle fire from the imperial redcoats. From his position following in reserve behind the ‘Right Horn’, the sharp-eyed Mandlenkosi had watched in horror as the initial attack of the uNokhenke was bloodily repulsed.
So consumed by fear for his son, he nearly lost his footing and was practically dragged onto the far bank of the uMzinyathi. The warriors on either side squeezed their interlinked arms with his. After a few tense moments, they pulled themselves onto the Zulu bank of the river. Had the waters not fallen during the night, it was entirely possible that the Undi Corps would have been trapped on the Natal side.
“Your rifle,” a warrior said, handing the battered musket to the induna, who sat upon a boulder, catching his breath.
Mandlenkosi gave a nod of thanks and accepted the weapon with his good hand. It wasn’t even the same musket he’d wielded during the battle, plus the hammer was broken with the flint missing. Still, for a Zulu warrior, possessing a firearm was more about prestige than practicality. A musket, even if it did not function, was a cherished posses
sion and status symbol. Like many warriors, Mandlenkosi’s shield was missing, as were his other weapons. Should they come across another force of white soldiers, he would have no means of defending himself.
Lack of weapons aside, he was also completely exhausted and ravenously hungry. The warriors of the Undi Corps were fit, but they were no longer young men. Mandlenkosi had lived through fifty-two harvests, the same as King Cetshwayo, who was also from the uThulwana Regiment. His hairs were mostly grey, and a noticeable belly had started to protrude in recent years. And yet, they had achieved feats of physical prowess that would amaze and terrify their adversaries. They had trekked roughly twenty-five miles the previous day, mostly at a run, and had not eaten since that morning’s breakfast. With no food, and having suffered such an ignominious defeat, Mandlenkosi’s mind went numb. The remnants of the once-proud uThulwana Regiment began the long journey back to Ulundi.
The Aftermath of Rorke’s Drift, from The Graphic
Chapter IX: Take the Fight to Them
Near Hlobane Mountain
24 January 1879
An abaQulusi Warrior sheltering from a hailstorm, from The Graphic
The site of roughly 4,000 abaQulusi warriors drilling in spectacular fashion had, at first, unnerved the commanding officer of No. 4 Column. Yet it also filled him with determination, for at last he had a quantifiable measure of his adversaries’ strength. So long as he could compel them to fight in the open, and not allow his men to walk into an ambush, he was confident that his infantry and cannon could readily sort out the abaQulusi problem. Not wishing to divide his forces, Colonel Wood ordered the camp at Fort Thinta struck, with the entire column advancing towards Hlobane. Upon reaching Zungwini Mountain, they would laager the wagons, while infantry deployed forward with the intent of engaging the abaQulusi. Should they succeed in drawing their quarry out, the Frontier Light Horse and Boer Burghers would conduct the pursuit once the infantry broke them.