by James Mace
“That would explain why the Zulus were mostly concentrated here,” Gilbert added.
Buller thought for a moment to correct his fellow colonel regarding their adversaries, for while the abaQulusi were loyal subjects of King Cetshwayo, they were not Zulus. However, he decided not to bother. To the average imperial soldier and European volunteer, one black-skinned African armed with a spear and shield looked the same as any other. He wondered if the Zulus thought the same about them?
“That sorted them out,” Harry Davies said with satisfaction. He expended another spent cartridge from his rifle. The breach was smoking and already starting to foul up. It appeared the enemy attack had disappeared for the moment, so he took a wire brush and started vigorously scrubbing the charred residue from the breach and chamber of his rifle.
The attack from the Frontier Light Horse proved well-timed, as the swarm of Zulus who materialised from the eastern spur of Zungwini had numbered close to a thousand men. They’d emerged unnervingly close, with both Sergeant Walker and Corporal Davies giving a quick shout for their men to adjust their sights before opening fire.
Harry noticed that Private Allen was struggling with the breach handle on his rifle. “Sodding thing is jammed!” the soldier complained. “Can’t even get the fucking breach open.” He handed the rifle to his corporal.
Part of the spent casing had somehow bent and was preventing the breach from dropping. “You got this all nice and buggered up,” he said, with a short laugh.
“It’s these damned foil cartridges,” Allen said, pulling a couple from his ammunition pouch. They were heavily dented, and one was bent slightly. “Can’t bloody well kill the Zulus with these.”
“You would if you quit dropping your damn ammunition pouch,” Sergeant Walker chastised as he joined his men. He nodded to Davies. “I need you to get a count of ammunition. Looks like the colonel wants us to withdraw back to our wagons and regroup there.”
Harry nodded. Half the broken casing flew from the breach of Allen’s rifle, which he then handed back to the private. “I think you can clear the rest.” He then checked on the other soldiers in his detachment, while also counting through his own ammunition pouches. It was now noon; the fighting near Zungwini and Hlobane Mountains having lasted around three hours. It had consisted mostly of short bouts of skirmishing, and aside from the scare on their right flank at the last-minute, had hardly resembled a real battle.
On average, the soldiers of C Company, 1/13th had expended between twelve and fifteen rounds each. Harry figured at least half of those came during the harrowing minutes after the abaQulusi regiment made its presence known! Captain Thurlow ordered the section leaders to send runners back to Colour Sergeant Fricker. Each soldier was to be issued an additional packet of cartridges before they began the journey back to Noksha Stream, where the column’s wagons were laagered.
Near the western trail that wound its way up Hlobane, a cluster of warriors gathered around the dying induna, Makukuneseni. Both Manyanyoba and Mbilini were with him. Manyanyoba clutched the induna’s hand, fighting back his tears. The two had been childhood friends, and Makukuneseni was one of the bravest men he’d ever known.
Yet, it was Mbilini who the dying man spoke to. “You are not of our people, yet you fight for us,” he said, his voice rasping as he fought for breath. His lower torso and legs had gone completely numb. A shard of spent bullet had lodged itself in his spinal column. This was a blessing, as it dulled his pain. The induna continued, “You are the bravest and most resourceful warrior in all of Zululand. I ask that you personally avenge me, and I hope you will reclaim your throne one day.”
Mbilini placed a hand on his shoulder. “I promise, upon the spirit of my father and ancestors, I will avenge you, Makukuneseni of the Phongolo.”
What would surprise both Manyanyoba and Mbilini was that, while they had been handily routed this day by the red-jacketed soldiers, their armies were anything but defeated. They mourned the deaths of friends, yet this only hardened their resolve. Their spirits would be further heartened as they heard news from messengers regarding the great victory of the king’s amabutho at Isandlwana.
“The white soldiers can be defeated,” Manyanyoba stressed. “We must break the will of the men we faced today.”
“If we are to break them, then we should avoid facing them in the open,” the Swazi prince observed. “Let them come to us and dare try to take our strongholds. As I promised Makukuneseni, I will make them bleed, and their widows will shed many tears.”
Chapter X: Disastrous Despatches
Near the banks of the Noksha Stream
24 January 1879
Captain Alan Gardner, 14th Hussars
Staff Officer, No. 3 Column
Having successfully routed the abaQulusi, Colonel Wood ordered the column to regroup back towards the Noksha Stream. Remarkably, his forces had suffered none killed and only a few minor injuries. Near the eastern spur of Zungwini Mountain, where a regiment of abaQulusi was subjected to fire from both 1/13th and the Frontier Light Horse, around fifty bodies were found along with numerous blood trails.
“Major Rogers estimates the same number fell from his riflemen and the shelling from Captain Slade’s guns,” Ronald Campbell said. He looked through the hastily scrawled reports from the battalion commanders. “Of course, that’s merely speculation, sir, as most of the Zulus kept behind the reverse slopes and rocks.”
“Even if it’s less than half his estimation, we still gave the enemy a sound bleeding,” Colonel Wood surmised.
“My men felled at least one of their chiefs,” Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert added. “Old boy looked to be twice the age of his warriors, was wearing a full headdress and regalia. He was shouting orders to his men when he took a bullet in the back. The kaffirs carried him up the hill, but even from where I was, I could see he was bleeding profusely.”
“Think the abaQulusi will reconsider fighting us?” Lieutenant Lysons quietly asked Captain Campbell.
“We bloodied them a bit, but we didn’t capture any ground,” the principle staff officer replied. “The one thing we may have accomplished is they will feel a touch less bold when it comes to engaging us.”
“You make it sound like that’s not a good thing,” the young lieutenant noted.
“An elusive enemy is harder to subdue,” Ronald explained. “It also means we may have to assault their strongholds atop Hlobane. Unless there are paths we are as yet unaware of, the approach will be on narrow and rocky trails, unsuitable for our cannon and only marginally so for men and horses. I won’t pretend to know the colonel’s mind, but it would seem wise at this time to simply contain the abaQulusi, rather than launch a full-scale assault on their stronghold. If Lord Chelmsford manages to draw the main Zulu army into a decisive battle and defeat them, it would make taking the abaQulusi strongholds redundant.”
While the day’s action was by no means a decisive victory, Colonel Wood hoped it would give his adversaries pause, should they think about threatening the Swazi and European settlements in the region. He estimated that Luneburg and Utrecht were each roughly fifty miles from Hlobane. These were both laagered and entrenched, with the local garrisons reinforced by volunteers. Five companies from the 80th Regiment were also recently directed to garrison Luneburg. The numerous individual homesteads and cattle farms were, however, still vulnerable.
The colonel’s thoughts were interrupted as they reached the wagon laager near the Noksha Stream. African voorloopers were watering the oxen in the stream, while others led their teams out to graze. Yet, there appeared to be a sense of panic among the warriors of Wood’s Irregulars. They were speaking frantically with a man from the Natal Native Contingent. What’s more, he saw Quartermaster Reynolds of the 90th Regiment quickly coming towards him, a folded letter in his hand.
“Colonel,” he said, as he came to attention and saluted. “We’ve just received an urgent despatch that requires your immediate attention.”
“Indeed?” Evely
n replied with a raised eyebrow before dismounting his horse. “Who is it from? His lordship?”
“No sir, it actually came from Captain Gardner.”
Captain Alan Gardner was a highly respected officer originally from the 14th Hussars, who served on the staff of Richard Glyn’s No. 3 Column. That a despatch would come from him, particularly if it was sent with great urgency, was puzzling.
Wood took the note from Reynolds. Though he said nothing, his face noticeably twitched.
Camp at Isandlwana taken by the enemy. Colonels Durnford and Pulleine dead, Lord Chelmsford cut off at Mangeni Falls. Suspect Zulu impi will next attack Rorke’s Drift. Have directed forces at Rorke’s Drift to hold position, if practical.
A. Gardner, Capt.
“Your pardon, sir,” the quartermaster said. His face was ashen and he struggled to speak. “This message was meant for you, but I think the runner saw my officer’s patrol jacket and thought he should leave it with me.”
Wood stared straight ahead, holding the message out to his side, where it was taken by his principle staff officer.
“This would explain those cannon blasts we heard coming from the south two days ago,” Captain Campbell mused. Henry Lysons’ face turned white as he read the message over Campbell’s shoulder.
Evelyn closed his eyes and turned his face up towards the sun for a brief moment, as he sought to comprehend what had transpired. The message from Gardner was undated, though he conjectured that it was two days old. And if the entire Zulu impi had routed both No. 2 and No. 3 Columns, while sacking the camp at Isandlwana, Wood’s own No. 4 Column was now completely exposed. While he had won a victory this day, it amounted to no more than a minor scuffle with, perhaps, a hundred enemy warriors dead. He now faced threats from the abaQulusi to the north and the entire Zulu army to the south.
There were simply too many unanswered questions. Where were the Zulus? Why had they not turned north to attack his column? Had they, perhaps, taken the depot at Rorke’s Drift and were now rampaging through Natal? Was Lord Chelmsford still cut off at Mangeni Falls? Was he even alive or had he suffered the same fate as poor Anthony Durnford and Henry Pulleine? Gardner’s message made no mention of Colonel Glyn or the commanding officer from 2/24th, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Degacher. Wood could only assume they had been with his lordship at Mangeni.
“Mister Lysons,” he at last said, his gaze still fixed straight ahead, “summon all battalion commanders and staff.”
Having walked five miles each way from their camp to Zungwini Mountain, while fighting a three-hour skirmish against the abaQulusi, had left the men of the 13th and 90th Regiments tired and more than a little hungry. Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert and Major Rogers ordered their battalions to deploy picquets before allowing their men to rest and have a quick meal of biscuits and tinned beef.
As he sat along the edge of the stream, his trousers pulled up past his calves and his bare feet soaking in the cold waters, Corporal Harry Davies was rifling through his haversack and pack.
“Lose something?” James Shepard asked, walking up behind him. He carried his boots in his left hand and had his trouser legs pulled up as well.
Harry pulled a small tin from his pack. “I’m trying to decide if I want my daily allotment of blended vegetables now or with my supper later.”
“I’ve never been able to stomach those,” his fellow corporal replied. Letting out a slight yelp, he stepped into the cool stream. “Oh, that’s better!”
“I admit, this looks rather disgusting, but I figure we need the nutrition,” Harry said, opening the tin and taking his mess spoon from his haversack. Looking it over, he rinsed it off in the stream before proceeding to eat the tinned blend of beans, carrots, peas, and an assortment that he wasn’t entirely certain of. “Actually, once you get past the smell and what it looks like, this isn’t bad.”
Behind him, Private George Hill called out, “Corporal Davies!”
Harry turned to see Lieutenant Pardoe walking briskly over to him.
The NCO quickly stood and managed the position of attention as best as he was able while standing in the stream. “Lieutenant, sir.”
“Withdraw your men, corporal,” the subaltern said. “We’re pulling back to Fort Thinta.”
Though a dozen questions were racing through his mind, Harry simply gave a, ‘Yes, sir’, before ordering his men to follow him back to the company.
“Well, I guess I’ll check with Sergeant Ring and see what the excitement is all about,” Shepard said, pulling on his socks and boots.
Harry nodded and rushed back to where he saw not just the company, but the entire battalion beginning to assemble.
“Good, you’re here,” Sergeant Walker said, giving him a reassuring slap on the shoulder.
Harry took a moment to lace up his boots. “What’s happened?” His expression betrayed his bemusement. “Why are we leaving in such a hurry?”
“No idea,” his section leader said with a disarming shrug. “The officers all seemed to be in a rush. Until we know why, I’m not going to fret over it.”
Their officer commanding then walked over and gave the order to his sergeants, “Parade the men. The colonel wishes to address the column.”
As officers and NCOs rallied their men to parade before their commanding officer, Colonel Wood once again looked down upon the fearful message he had just received, hoping with each reading that he’d gotten it wrong and there was some mistake. The words, however, were quite clear.
The two battalions of imperial redcoats stood in parade formation, as did the allied Zulus of Wood’s Irregulars, awaiting orders from their commanding officer.
Evelyn composed his thoughts for a moment before speaking. “Men, an unfortunate disaster has befallen his lordship and the No. 3 Column. The enemy came into possession of their camp at Isandlwana two days ago, and I should not like the same fate to befall us. We shall therefore withdraw in good order and fall back to Fort Thinta. I regret that I have no more information to give you, except that we now face the threat of not just our adversaries in the region, but the main Zulu army. We will maintain a robust flank and rear guard, with infantry keeping close to the wagons.”
He then ordered his battalion commanders to take charge of their companies before turning his horse about and riding off to find Lieutenant Colonel Buller. Much to the colonel’s surprise, there was almost no chatter to be heard from the ranks of his soldiers as they dispersed and took up their positions within the column of march. He reckoned this was due to their sense of disbelief at what they’d just heard. In truth, Wood could scarcely believe it himself.
Near the ammunition wagon for C Company, 1/13th, Colour Sergeant Fricker ordered several of the ammunition boxes made ready and left near the tailgate. He was taking no chances should the column find itself in a desperate scrap during the twenty-mile trek back to Fort Thinta. Captain Thurlow then ordered two sections to march on either side of the wagons. The redcoats were arrayed in a staggered column, ready to react to any threats that may emerge.
“I am glad the ground is reasonably firm,” Lieutenant Pardoe said quietly to his officer commanding as they climbed into their saddles. “It would not do for our wagons to wind up stuck in the mud before we can reach the fort.”
The previous day was rainy, yet the hot sun had since dried and hardened the ground. It had already been a long day, with the column rising at around 3.30. It was now just after noon, and the infantry would need to trek another twenty miles before they could rest again.
Corporal Harry Davies assisted Sergeant Walker in conducting a last-minute check of their soldiers’ kit before taking up his place behind the last rifleman in their section. African drivers and voorloopers were guiding the oxen back from grazing during the skirmish. Loud brays echoed, as the beasts were spanned into pairs. Though it appeared to be absolute chaos, Harry was always impressed by how quickly the locals were able to re-span their draught oxen and make the wagons ready for travel.
“A
nyone know the way back to Fort Thinta?” Private Hill asked with a nervous grin. His knuckles were white as he clutched his rifle close to his body.
“Just follow the trail of wagon ruts and cow shit,” one of his mates answered, drawing a few chuckles from their fellow privates.
There was very little banter during the long journey back to the fort. The redcoats were constantly gazing off into the distance, searching for any signs of the Zulu impi. They took some comfort from the occasional sight of mounted troops in the distance, protecting their flanks.
“At least they’ll give us a few seconds of warning, should the kaffirs turn up,” Sergeant Walker mused as he walked next to Harry.
“I think not knowing where they are is the worst of it,” the corporal replied. “We’ve been stumbling through this damned country virtually blind ever since we crossed the Ncome River. And if the Zulus routed the centre column two days ago, what’s stopped them from coming up this way and trying to disembowel the lot of us?”
“Who knows?” the sergeant remarked. “We don’t know if they crossed into Natal and have been ransacking the whole bloody place. They could be headed for Pietermaritzburg for all we know.”
“You’re taking it well,” the corporal observed. “We don’t even know if Lord Chelmsford is still alive or if the remnants of No. 3 Column were wiped out at Mangeni Falls.”
“As I’ve said before, it does no good for me to openly worry about matters I cannot control,” Lewis explained. “Though just between you and me, I’m surprised I didn’t shit my trousers when the colonel read Gardner’s despatch to the column. Even when absolutely terrified, never allow the men in the ranks to see you exhibit fear or loss of bearing.”