by James Mace
“We joined them for a time,” Rorke explained. “But then they kept getting stuck, and his highness grew tired of waiting for your redcoats to dig them out every few dozen yards. He is ready to meet you at Myer’s Drift.”
“Of course.” Tucker nodded, and then addressed his adjutant. “Mister Johnson, please inform Captain D’Arcy that his charge is ready to be escorted to Khambula.”
“Right away, sir.”
Having been expecting Prince Hamu to arrive via Derby and Myer’s Drift, Colonel Wood had dispatched Captain Cecil D’Arcy and his troop from the Frontier Light Horse to escort him from Luneburg to Khambula. A covered wagon was also dispatched, so the prince might ride more comfortably, rather than being exposed to the elements from atop a horse.
As Lieutenant Johnson left the tent, Major Tucker ordered his batman to seek out one of his senior company commanders, Captain David Moriarty. It was still raining on this morning of 7 March, yet the genial Irish captain was grinning and holding his pipe as he entered his commanding officer’s tent.
“You sent for me, major?”
“Captain, I need you to form a company-sized element and make ready to head to Myer’s Drift. We have a supply convoy that requires escorting, not to mention an allied prince of the Zulus waiting for us.”
The Irishman removed his pipe from between his teeth and almost casually came to attention. “At once, sir,” he replied.
As most sections within each of the companies at Luneburg were scattered about on various details, Moriarty was compelled to draw soldiers from various elements. The largest number of these came from A Company, whose colour sergeant, Henry Frederick, volunteered to accompany the captain. Moriarty’s own E Company was only able to provide a handful of troops and a lone sergeant, Anthony Booth. Two lance sergeants and a corporal, all from different companies, acted as section leaders for the detachment. And as A Company was providing the bulk of the soldiers, Colour Sergeant Frederick ordered their tents to be struck and placed in a wagon.
While the detachment was being assembled, Major Tucker mounted his horse and was readying to meet up with Captain D’Arcy and the Frontier Light Horse, who were saddling their mounts.
“Given the state of the roads, and depending on how swollen the Ntombe River is, you’ll likely be gone a week or more,” Tucker explained to Moriarty, who was climbing into his own saddle. “It would seem the rumours of a Zulu regiment in the region were erroneous, as I’m told our wagons remain untouched. There is an enemy stronghold just four miles from the crossing, however, that we have yet to sort out, so do be careful.”
“Not to worry, sir, we’ll get those wagons back here safe and sound,” the captain replied reassuringly.
“Oh, and captain,” Tucker said over his shoulder, making ready to ride off, “I apologise for not mentioning this yesterday but ‘Happy Birthday’.”
Moriarty smiled and nodded in thanks before returning to see to his own detachment.
Captain David Moriarty had just celebrated his forty-second birthday the day prior. His hair and moustache had gone white at a young age, making him appear older than he was. He’d spent much of his career on Foreign Service, including a year in Southern Africa in 1862, when he was a young subaltern with the 6th Regiment of Foot. Three years in India was followed by a further six on half-pay at home. Well educated and able to speak four languages, he had gone into business for himself before returning to active service and accepting a position as a captain with the 80th Regiment in 1876.
Major Tucker had ordered the adjutant, Lieutenant Henry Johnson, to accompany Moriarty. An experienced officer, his orders promoting him to captain were expected to arrive with the post from London at any time. Another officer directed to join the detachment was Alfred Lindop who, at thirty-two years of age, was quite possibly the oldest 2nd lieutenant in the entire British Army. That extremely rare species of officer who came from the ranks, Alfred was previously the Sergeant Major of the 28th North Gloucestershire Regiment; a rank he’d achieved well before reaching his thirtieth birthday. Also accompanying the officers was the civilian doctor, William Cobbin, who Tucker tasked with joining the detail, ‘in case someone twists an ankle’.
It was a short ride from Luneburg to Myer’s Drift, though the inclement weather put everyone in a rather foul temper. Thankfully, the wagon sent from Khambula managed to keep from getting stuck. Charles Tucker reckoned this was in part because it was empty, but also because the ground south of the Ntombe was firmer than the northern road towards Derby. As they reached Myer’s Drift, the sight of the wagon stuck in the middle of the river was disturbing to the 80th’s commanding officer. When he’d first heard about it, he thought to order it unloaded and have the goods it carried across. However, given the depth and current of the swollen river, he saw this was fraught with much risk for both men and supplies alike. As it was, the sunken wagon’s cargo was the safest from the Zulus at the moment.
Spotting the prince and several hundred people waiting on the other side, Major Tucker focused his attention on the task at hand. If they could get Prince Hamu safely to Khambula, it would serve as a significant political blow to King Cetshwayo.
Tucker then spoke to James Rorke. “Inform his highness that we are here to escort him to Luneburg, where the mayor has offered him the use of his house for the night.”
Rorke translated and exchanged a few words with Prince Hamu. “He is grateful for the hospitality, but he would first feel obliged for some assistance crossing the drift.”
Major Tucker then looked to Captain D’Arcy, who ordered several of his men to swim their horses across. The troopers formed into a column on either side of Hamu, with two men holding him steady as they waded back through the current. The prince’s age and size affected his balance, and he nearly sent one of the men into the drink.
The prince’s followers, terrified by the river, were only compelled to attempt the crossing by the threat of enemy warriors pursuing them. It was the induna, Mandlenkosi, who explained how the Undi Corps had crossed the uMzinyathi River back in January. He and a score of warriors linked arms and sloshed their way across, the women and children soon following. The induna had carried his daughter on his shoulders, his wife clasping her hands around his waist, eyes shut in fear as they fought against the current.
Once across, Prince Hamu and several of his more senior wives climbed into the back of the wagon, grateful to be out of the pouring rain from the time being. Escorted by Major Tucker, along with Captain D’Arcy’s troopers, the long procession began the last leg of their journey to Luneburg.
“At last, we are safe,” Mandlenkosi reassured his wife and daughter.
By the time they reached the town, Captain Moriarty’s detachment was nearly ready for its own departure. Captain D’Arcy escorted Prince Hamu and James Rorke to the house where they would be able to sleep that night. Only the prince’s senior wife came with him into the town; the rest, along with all their other followers, were compelled to make whatever brush shelters they could manage about a hundred yards from the 80th Regiment’s encampment. Despite the rain, nearly a hundred townspeople came to watch the prince ride into Luneburg. Many of the men clutched their hunting rifles close, nervous about so many Zulus just outside the laager.
Sergeant Anthony Booth found a touch of amusement in this, and he said as much to 2nd Lieutenant Lindop as their men finished loading the tent wagon. “What kind of people are scared by a few hundred half-starved women and children?”
The officer shook his head. “Sadly, it is the nature of many people to fear those who are different from them in both appearance and culture. I just hope Major Tucker is able to find some food for them, lest there be an ‘incident’.”
Myer’s Drift, along the Ntombe River
In March 1879, the river was swollen well beyond its banks
Chapter XXIV: Crush Them in the Open
Ulundi, Royal Kraal of King Cetshwayo
7 March 1879
King Cetshway
o kaMpande
Despite the cool night air and the pleasant breeze blowing into his royal hut, the king was covered in sweat as he jolted out of yet another fitful dream. Cetshwayo’s eyes were wide and filled with fear as he stared hard into the darkness.
Three months had passed since his former friends, the British, betrayed the Zulu Kingdom with their impossible ultimatum and contemptable invasion. Cetshwayo had found sleep nearly impossible to come by since then. His impi’s astounding victory at Isandlwana had done little to assuage this. If anything, his restless nights and terrible dreams had only grown worse.
Needing a change of air, and feeling utterly stifled within the large royal hut, he draped a blanket over his shoulders and stepped out into the night. There was a faint glow in the east, telling him that dawn was not far away.
“The ‘horns of the morning’, Ndabazitha,” a voice said nearby. The king looked to see the elderly chieftain, Sigananda, seated on a large rock. He was stooped slightly, his hands clasping a large staff that he now required for walking. The old man attempted to stand.
Cetshwayo placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “No need to stand, my friend,” he insisted.
Sigananda was an old advisor of King Mpande, and before him, Dingane. It was he who first delivered Cetshwayo’s message to his father, regarding the defeat and death of his rival, Mbuyazi, all those years ago. Despite the affinity Mpande felt towards Sigananda, he’d exiled the chieftain, forcing him to live in squalor amongst the Swazi for fifteen years, until he was recalled by Cetshwayo following his father’s death.
“The mealie crops are ripe, and our people ravenously take in the harvest…” the old adviser started to say.
“And it is now time to recall the amabutho,” Cetshwayo finished.
“The defeat of the White Queen’s soldiers at Isandlwana bought us time,” Sigananda surmised. “And my scouts have kept a constant watch on the English town near the ocean.”
The town he referred to was St Lucia, located approximately eighty-five miles due east of Ulundi, along the coast of the Indian Ocean. The king had left it untouched, as it was small and its people no threat. It was also completely isolated by the ocean to the east, and the Uthungulu River to the south and west. Cetshwayo’s councillors had feared that white soldiers would launch an amphibious assault from that direction; however, these rumours proved completely unfounded. Besides, given the lack of roads and the sodden state the country was in after months of rainfall, the imperial soldiers would have gained nothing by attempting to invade from the ocean. As it was, the column of redcoats that had come up the coast remained trapped at Eshowe.
A very real and growing concern for the king was the incessant presence of British soldiers in the disputed territories. Of the three armies belonging to his ‘white sister’, Queen Victoria, that had invaded his kingdom, one was shattered, another isolated. The forces in the north remained unscathed. And while the king had sent messages to both the abaQulusi and Prince Mbilini, imploring them to harry the British as much as possible, he would not be able to dispatch the full might of the amabutho until after the harvest. Mbilini was both resourceful and brave, yet even the combined forces of his followers and the abaQulusi were too few in number to face this British impi in battle. The half-hearted attempt by Manyanyoba two months prior, which had seen a hundred of his warriors killed, was proof of this.
Because many of the white soldiers were mounted, they could raid the region with impunity, destroying homesteads, stealing cattle, and burning the mealie crops. For the abaQulusi, there had been no harvest to speak of. And while Mbilini and Manyanyoba continued to resist against the invaders, their people were now starving. Cetshwayo knew he needed to act soon, lest famine consume the northern lands of the Zulu Kingdom.
The dirt track leading away from Luneburg to Myer’s Drift was muddy but passable, though it still took Captain Moriarty’s detachment a couple of hours to reach the crossing. About a mile from the drift they passed the abandoned Myer farmhouse. For men who’d been sleeping on bedrolls beneath leaky tents, it looked rather inviting.
“Hey, sergeant, think anyone will mind if we bunk down there for the night?” Private John Chadwick asked Sergeant Booth as the section passed the old farm.
“We promise to wipe our feet first,” his mate, Private John Mace, added.
Anthony allowed himself a grin and soft chuckle, though he refrained from replying. The rains had ceased for the moment, but the skies remained black and the wind cold. His soldiers kept their greatcoats on, knowing it was only a matter of time before the heavens unleashed on them once more.
As they reached the crossing, Captain Moriarty and his accompanying officers surveyed the drift. The Ntombe River was nearly fifty meters wide at this point and greatly flooded by the recent rains.
“I see at least some of the convoy has made it to the drift,” Moriarty noted.
They saw a cluster of six wagons gathered near the north bank, with the seventh still trapped in the centre of the river.
“Yes, but where are the rest?” Lieutenant Lindop asked. He then shook his head. Though now a junior subaltern, the inner ‘sergeant major’ in him was horrified that the convoy had failed to maintain integrity, particularly when so close to a hostile stronghold.
“We’ll sort that out, once we find a way across this damnable river,” the captain replied. “First thing’s first, we need to get that wagon unstuck!”
He ordered Lance Sergeant Ernest Johnson and a dozen men to see about getting the trapped wagon out of the river. He further directed the drivers of his company’s wagons to take their draught oxen and hitch them up to the river-bound wagon. Lance Sergeant Johnson then tasked his best swimmer with stripping down, tying the end of a rope around his waist, and plunging into the river. Once he reached the wagon, the young soldier plunged beneath the water and tied an end to the front axle, while his mates tied the other to their own wagon. With teams of oxen hitched to both the stuck wagon, as well as that carrying E Company’s tents and camping equipment, two sections of soldiers heaved on the rope. Several onlookers thought the shouts of soldier profanities and braying oxen could be heard all the way back at Luneburg.
While this unpleasant task was being undertaken, Moriarty dispatched patrols to scour the southern bank to see if they could find a more passable fording point. Approximately a hundred yards upstream, Lance Corporal Burgess and several of his soldiers found a place where the southern bank was less steep. Though it was still not passable, it did mean they could more easily emplace a pont or raft with which to ferry troops and wagons across. Thirty minutes after the last patrols returned, having failed to locate any other likely crossing points, the stuck wagon was heaved onto the southern bank, accompanied by a chorus of cheers.
“Right lads, let’s start unloading our wagons,” Moriarty ordered. “I want a raft that can cross the river constructed and our detachment on the north bank before nightfall.”
Sergeant Booth’s section undertook the task of off-loading the wagon laden with barrels, planks, and coils of rope. The barrels were lashed together with planks fixed atop. Though crude and rickety, while taking twenty men to heft it down the gentler sloping bank and into the river, the raft was large enough to hold a single wagon. Captain Moriarty ordered Lance Sergeant Johnson and twenty men to test the its weight capacity and balance.
“Let’s see if we can do this without getting too wet!” the NCO said. He then stepped onto the makeshift watercraft.
His soldiers soon followed, and so long as they remained evenly distributed without crowding along one end, the raft remained reasonably stable.
Long poles had been cut from fallen trees to propel them across the river. The current appeared rather calm on the surface yet was quite deceptive. Several of the soldiers attempting to steer the craft nearly had the poles ripped from their hands as they pushed off the muddy river bottom. As they had neither sufficient rope, pullies, or any place to tie off to on the north side, establishin
g a pont would not be possible. And so a detail was formed, with half-a-dozen soldiers tasked with bringing the raft back after each trip.
Captain Moriarty felt it would be too time-consuming, not to mention hazardous, to try to ferry their wagons across. He ordered the tents unloaded and stacked onto the raft. “Tomorrow, I’ll leave one section with you to continue work on the southern approach and to guard the wagons on the north bank,” he explained to 2nd Lieutenant Lindop. “I’ll take the rest and find out where the rest of the damnable convoy is.”
“Very good, sir,” the subaltern replied. He then called over his shoulder, “Sergeant Booth!”
“Sir?” the NCO asked, walking briskly over.
“We’re camping on this side of the river. Beginning tomorrow morning, we will establish work and guard shifts.”
“Understood.” Booth nodded and walked back to his section.
Of all the officers within the companies at Luneburg, he had the greatest affinity for 2nd Lieutenant Lindop. It helped that they were almost the same age, and that Lindop had previously been a sergeant major. Anthony found the two worked well together, sharing a certain pragmatic approach to whatever task lay before them.
The seemingly never-ending rains returned that evening, just as the tents and rations for the detachment were ferried across the Ntombe. Despite encamping on the hostile side of the river, little effort was made to laager the wagons or provide for defences.
“Not that I should question our good captain’s judgement,” Anthony began as he and Lindop stood on the riverbank, huddled beneath their greatcoats. “But if he’s not going to laager or entrench, it would have been safer to make camp on this side of the river.”
“Which is why I am grateful to be left here,” Lindop replied with surprising candour.