Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  “Cease fire!” the lieutenant shouted.

  The gun crews swabbed out the barrels one last time and stood waiting for further orders.

  Buller turned to William Knox-Leet. “What say we go catch ourselves a few kaffirs?” he stated.

  “We’re ready, sir,” the major replied.

  Both men dismounted, feeling the rocky ground was not conducive to riding. The sixty-three troopers of the Frontier Light Horse, under Captain Prior of the 80th Regiment, did the same. Screened by a force of 200 indigenous warriors, the troopers and militiamen from Luneburg began a quick advance towards the heights. A few cracks of musketry echoed from the caves, though with the bouncing echoes off the mountain it was impossible to discern which ones. While the warriors from the Natal Native Contingents were notorious for their lack of resolve, the allied Swazis and Zulus of No. 4 Column tended to be too aggressive. As soon as the first shots were fired, they collectively broke into a sprint, outpacing their white officers and NCOs, who shouted orders and profanities at them in vain. As they drew within a few dozen yards of the first caves, one warrior fell forward, screaming as he clutched at his face. This only incensed his companions further, and they rushed into the caves, chanting war cries and shouts for their enemy’s blood.

  Nearly 200 yards behind this frenzy, Redvers Buller was concerned that they had lost all control of their indigenous warriors. “The boot and the fist seem to be the only way of controlling these savages,” he grumbled.

  “Give me a month, and I’ll have them sorted,” Major Knox-Leet replied. He had only been in command of the battalion of irregulars for a couple weeks and had numerous order and discipline issues to sort with both his indigenous warriors and their white NCOs.

  “Not sure if we have a month,” Buller mused.

  A few shots were fired by his troopers, though the less-trained militia were shooting erratically at anything looking like a cave entrance. Along the ridgeline, Buller noticed a band of warriors cresting the rise. Taking them for the enemy, a handful of militiamen fired in their direction.

  “Cease fire, damn you!” Buller shouted. “Those are our natives!” He could not see Piet Uys’ burghers, though he presumed they were staying mobile behind the ridge, ready to net any abaQulusi and Khubeka fleeing from the attack.

  The warriors of Wood’s Irregulars continued to swarm through the caves. It soon became apparent that Manyanyoba and his followers were nowhere to be found. By the time the sun set, only four Khubeka warriors had been killed within the caves, while the men of Wood’s Irregulars had lost three dead and two more wounded.

  “Given the disorganised confusion, I wonder if our natives ended up killing each other,” Major Knox-Leet remarked with a sigh.

  He and Buller were joined by Piet Uys atop the ridge. It was quickly growing dark, and they knew it was time to return to Luneburg.

  “The Khubeka knew we would come,” the Boer stated. “I cannot say I’m surprised that we found this place practically deserted.” He then added, “We managed to round up around 400 head of cattle and a couple hundred goats.”

  “Not a complete loss, then,” William Knox-Leet said, trying to sound optimistic.

  Buller scowled. His elaborate attempt at drawing at least one of the major chieftains into a decisive battle had been a complete failure. Manyanyoba was clearly no fool. He knew that his few hundred warriors stood little chance against even the scratch mobile forces Buller had at his command. And yet, how long would he allow the British to keep burning his homesteads and stealing his livestock? Surely their people had to be feeling the effects of losing so much of their livelihood and food stores! The war in the north was becoming a test of wills. Only time would tell who would break first.

  Chapter XVII: The Prince’s Treason

  The Royal Kraal of Ulundi

  12 February 1879

  Prince Hamu’s followers on the march, from The Graphic

  It was three days since his return home, and Mandlenkosi roused himself around an hour before dawn. There was a soft glow with the early morning mist clinging to the ground. His son, Kwanele, had always loved this time of day. As a young boy, he would try to hide in the fog from his parents, making them chase after the sounds of his laughter.

  It was these memories which always filled the old warrior with a deep sense of sadness. While every night his wife and daughter would sing to their fallen beloved, it was during the earliest hours, alone, that Mandlenkosi was able to mourn for his son. Many tears had he shed, and he wondered if the pain of loss would ever leave him.

  “It is he who should have buried me,” he said quietly. He sat upon a large boulder where he used to sit and watch his children play during happier times. He fought against the stabbing pain in his heart, which completely obscured that of his physical injuries. The wound to his shoulder had long since scabbed over and surprisingly withstood against infection. During his greatest sorrows, there were times when Mandlenkosi wished the bullet had instead struck him through the heart.

  His mind then turned to his sovereign, King Cetshwayo, who bore the weight of loss felt by every family whose loved ones had been slain. He pitied the king, who he had known since their youth. Both were enrolled into the uThulwana Regiment upon reaching their seventeenth harvest so many years before. Mandlenkosi had fought beside Cetshwayo during the civil war against Prince Mbuyazi, which ended in much bloodshed along the banks of the Thukela River. Despite all the sufferings of that hateful time, the induna had believed in the man who would become his king. They forged the Zulu Kingdom into something greater, with a promise of glory and prosperity not seen since the time of Shaka. Had it all been an illusion?

  As the sun beat down and the morning fog began to clear, a runner was seen coming towards his homestead. The messenger was a young man in his late teens; not yet of age to join the amabutho. Mandlenkosi remained seated upon his rock, arms wrapped around his knees as the lad stopped before him. He was winded and, by his bloodshot eyes, looked as if he had run through the night.

  “Great induna,” he said, with a respectful bow. “His highness, Prince Hamu, requests your presence at kwaMfefe. I am to serve as your mat carrier for the journey.”

  “I am at His Highness’ service,” Mandlenkosi replied. He then waved his hand towards the cooking fire where some leftover mealies warmed in a pot. “You must be hungry.”

  The boy nodded and with a subsequent bow briskly walked over and helped himself to some grain porridge. The induna remained seated, his gaze towards the open valley to the west. His thoughts turned from sorrow to speculation. Why would Prince Hamu be summoning him personally? As he sat in contemplation, he felt Ayanda’s firm but gentle hands upon his shoulders.

  “The prince has summoned you,” she said, having overheard the messenger who now sat contentedly eating.

  Mandlenkosi nodded slowly. “And I cannot fathom why,” he replied.

  “It must be important, if he needs to take you from your home during the harvest,” his wife surmised. “Perhaps he needs your guidance and council.”

  Mandlenkosi chortled at this assumption. “Prince Hamu may have called me ‘friend’ on occasion, but I have never been a member of his council or inner circle.”

  “True, but perhaps he needs advice from those who have fought against the red soldiers.”

  A shudder ran up Mandlenkosi’s spine. For reasons he could not yet explain, his wife’s reassuring words filled him with apprehension. It would not have surprised him if Prince Hamu’s reasons for summoning him involved their current enemies, the British. And yet, he did not think it was in regards to fighting the invaders.

  “The prince’s kraal is at least two days’ journey,” Mandlenkosi observed. “I should leave at once.”

  The kraal at kwaMfefe was easily the greatest in northern Zululand, nearly rivalling that of King Cetshwayo. Hundreds of huts circled around a massive cattle kraal where the prince’s herd numbered well into the thousands. Mandlenkosi noted that many of these be
asts were white; the colour of the king’s royal herd. It was customary that all white cattle be sent to Ulundi and given to the king who, in turn, would exchange the beasts for ones of a different colour. That Prince Hamu had chosen to keep white cattle at his kraal was a passive-aggressive insult towards his brother.

  Something that stood out to the induna was the number of horses tethered to posts within the kraal. Horses, first introduced to King Shaka by the Francis Farewell expedition nearly sixty years earlier, were a prized commodity among the Zulus. Yet in their rage, the warriors of the impi had slaughtered most of the ones they came across at Isandlwana, referring to them as ‘the feet of the white men’. Many of those that had been taken alive were given to izikhulu like Prince Hamu, who treasured such noble creatures. Though Mandlenkosi could not read the letters inscribed on the saddlebags, he learned that most of these had belonged to mounted Africans, namely the Basutos and Zikhali Horse. A few had also been the property of white officers.

  “Mandlenkosi!” a voice said from behind him.

  The induna turned and was surprised to see it was Hamu who came to greet him. “My prince,” he said with a deep bow.

  Prince Hamu was a hulking figure, much like his brother, King Cetshwayo. Their facial features were nearly identical, though Hamu’s hair and close-cropped beard had greyed considerably while his brother’s remained dark black. He was also slightly shorter and even more rotund. While Cetshwayo possessed a large belly, his arms and legs were wrought with powerful muscle, and he could still comfortably run with his regiments. Hamu had lived a comfortable and more sedentary life for, perhaps, too long. He most certainly was immensely strong, but many described his appearance as ‘fleshy’. And yet there was a nobility about him, most notably in his eyes and brow. He carried himself like a king and possessed numerous followers who viewed him as their sovereign, more so than the king.

  Hamu placed his hands on both of Mandlenkosi’s shoulders, though he was hesitant when he saw the induna’s injuries. “I am pleased you have come, my friend. I have sent a summons throughout my lands for all amakhosi and izinduna to join me for the harvest feast. But where is your family? Surely, your son should accompany you.”

  “My wife and daughter remain at our homestead, taking in our own crops,” Mandlenkosi explained. His expression turned to one of sadness. “And Kwanele is now with the ancestors.”

  “I am sorry, my friend. Many families have suffered tragedy since this unfortunate war against our friends, the British, began.”

  This last remark puzzled Mandlenkosi. As best as he had been able to garner, it was the British who instigated the conflict, not the Zulus. Sir Henry Bartle-Frere’s impossible ultimatum had included the disbanding of the entire amabutho, a cornerstone of Zulu life. It was not just during war, but also for the harvest as well as any national emergency that the king summoned his regiments. To do away with the amabutho was to essentially disband the entire kingdom. Surely, Prince Hamu was not implying that they should have allowed the Zulu Kingdom to fall without a fight!

  While Mandlenkosi wished to question the prince about this, he knew this was not the appropriate time. He would need to approach Hamu when he was alone. And at the moment, there were simply too many people present. Mandlenkosi also saw that he was not the only member of the uThulwana at kwaMfefe. There were at least ten others whom he recognised as members of the king’s personal regiment. A few carried their shields, while others like Mandlenkosi had lost theirs during the attack on kwaJimu. Something that struck the old induna was how reverently the people treated Prince Hamu. While any brother of King Cetshwayo was due an immense measure of respect, he was not the king. And yet, the way both nobles and common Zulus alike fawned after Hamu, one would think he ruled over these lands, completely independent of the king. This was something new; an attitude that Mandlenkosi had not seen before from the people.

  “Come, my friend,” Hamu said, drawing Mandlenkosi out of his stupor. “Let me show you to one of the guest huts.”

  What surprised Mandlenkosi was that he was given a private hut with two young women from Hamu’s household servants to see to his needs, in addition to the young man who had acted as his mat carrier during the journey to kwaMfefe. He, at first, thought there was some mistake. Such accommodations should be given to the noble amakhosi and izikhulu barons, not a mere regimental induna. However, the prince had been insistent.

  After days of feasting and waiting for the remainder of his guests to arrive, Prince Hamu’s demeanour became serious. He sat upon his wicker chair while the izinduna gathered around, seated upon the ground. As the most powerful of the izikhulu barons in the northern lands, and perhaps within the entire kingdom, the prince ruled in many ways like a king. The only difference Mandlenkosi noticed was that no one was required to avert their eyes in Hamu’s presence, nor was he ever addressed by the royal title of Ndabazitha like Cetshwayo. And yet, there was little doubt that his rule over the northern territories was absolute.

  “My friends,” the prince said, opening his arms towards the assembled warriors. “Our nation has already suffered greatly during this most regrettable war with the soldiers of the Great White Queen. Though the amabutho won an admirable victory at Isandlwana, it came at a terrible price. Thousands of our sons lie either dead or crippled.”

  “Forgive me, my prince,” an induna spoke up. “But it was the English who invaded our lands. Our king did not order us to invade theirs. The deaths at Isandlwana, while tragic, were necessary in defence of the kingdom.”

  Though there was a great deal of truth to these words, they stabbed Mandlenkosi through the heart. He was certain the same could be said for most of the warriors, who’d likely also lost brothers, fathers, or sons. Indeed, some of the younger men present had fought at Isandlwana, just as he and the older warriors of the Undi Corps had taken part in the attack on kwaJimu.

  “All have suffered loss,” Prince Hamu said calmly. “Whatever the circumstances which led to this tragic conflict, we must now look to the survival of our people. Will we continue to futilely sacrifice our sons against the inevitable? The English attack us because they see us as weak. The Kingdom of amaZulu has grown complacent since the death of Shaka, who darkly prophesised that ‘the swallows’ would rule over this land. Dingane ignored this warning, as did Mpande. They meekly allowed the royal house to fall into decay, ceding more of their authority to the izikhulu.”

  As he listened intently, Mandlenkosi found this last remark puzzling. Most certainly Prince Hamu had been among those to profit from Dingane and Mpande’s decentralising of royal power.

  The prince continued, “My brother, our king, is stronger than either his father or our uncle, Dingane. But it would take a divine force like Shaka to bring glory to amaZulu once more and, sadly, Cetshwayo is no Shaka.” He paused to let these words sink in, all the while gauging the demeanour of his people, hoping he had judged their previous dispositions correctly.

  After a few moments, an induna from the uNokhenke Regiment, the same as Mandlenkosi’s son, spoke up. “Would you have us sacrifice our nation just to save ourselves?”

  “The empire forged more than fifty years ago was the dream of King Shaka,” Hamu explained. “But his vision could only last if his heirs remained as strong as he. They have not. We are Zulu; our name means ‘of the heavens’. Look to your wives, your children. They are the future of amaZulu. But if we continue in this pointless struggle against the red-jacketed soldiers, there will be no future for them, only suffering and death.”

  Six days after sending his biting letters to both Lord Chelmsford and Lieutenant Colonel Crealock, Colonel Evelyn Wood received a response from the GOC. Chelmsford was apologetic regarding the inspection of the Utrecht defences by Lieutenant Colonel Russell, stating, ‘I personally knew nothing of the order, and my sole desire was to strengthen your hand. In that view, I have ordered Colonel Glyn to send you the mounted infantry and mounted natives.’ Included in the packet was a copy of the directive, sign
ed by his lordship.

  General Order 36, dated 16 February 1879

  By order of the General Officer Commanding, the 1st Squadron, Imperial Mounted Infantry, Natal Carbineers, and the Natal Native Horse, under the command of Brevet Lieutenant Colonel John Cecil Russell, are hereby assigned to No. 4 Column, to act in a similar capacity to the mounted troops already assigned to the column.

  What’s more, Chelmsford informed Wood regarding the order for Major Baker to raise his mounted contingent once more. Provided he was able to fill the necessary quota, these would be divided into Baker’s Horse, as well as supplementing the recently depleted ranks of Redvers Buller’s Frontier Light Horse.

  While the Imperial Mounted Infantry were in a downtrodden state, the indigenous horsemen were surprisingly resilient. Renowned for their discipline and personal bravery, their conduct during the retreat from Isandlwana won them many praises. Lieutenant Horace Smith-Dorrien credited a band of Basutos with saving his life and many others. While the desperate fugitives, including Smith-Dorrien, attempted to cross the uMzinyathi, the Basutos laid down suppressive fire from the Natal bank. The young lieutenant, who was swept from his horse and barely managed to pull himself onto the far bank, stated that the covering fire from the Basutos bought him enough time to find a fresh mount and make his escape to Helpmekaar.

  Troopers of the Natal Native Horse

  Lord Chelmsford tended to refer to all black African troopers as ‘Basutos’, but they were, in fact, from various ethnic groups and formed into troops accordingly. While most men from Zikhali Horse had returned to their homes following the flight from Isandlwana, troopers from the Edendale and Hlubi’s Troops had reformed at Helpmekaar. It was they, under the command of Lieutenant Alfred Henderson, who briefly formed a skirmish line and early warning for the defenders of Rorke’s Drift before depletion of ammunition compelled them to withdraw.