by James Mace
“The English camp is exposed and ripe for the taking,” the prince said with confidence.
“My own scouts have seen the British convoy,” Manyanyoba said. “And like you, we feel that it is vulnerable. But do you know what it is they are transporting?”
“Weapons and ammunition, my friends,” the Swazi replied. “As well as grain and other foods. The rifles taken from the white soldiers at Isandlwana are useless without more of their special bullets in metal cases. This convoy is carrying many large boxes of these.”
“How do you know this?”
Mbilini grinned. “I simply walked up to one of their wagons, pretending to be a poor farmer, looking to make a deal with the whites. I recognised the large wooden boxes with rope handles when I caught a glance in the back of one of the wagons.”
“And they just let you walk up to them?” an induna asked in disbelief.
Mbilini shrugged. “To the white soldiers, we all look alike. They don’t know the difference between a Zulu, Qulusi, Xhosa or Swazi. A couple of their wagon drivers may have known who I was, or at least that I did not belong there. They tried to warn the white soldiers, but they were ignored. One of the white men came and waved me off, like one would a stray dog.”
“Or a hyena,” Tshwane said.
“The hyena has stalked his prey,” Mbilini said. “It is time we feasted.”
There was an almost casual attitude among the soldiers at Myer’s Drift, even those on the north side of the river. Their officer commanding was unconcerned, and so too were they. And though he’d hoped to sleep in the captain’s tent situated on higher, dry ground than the one left by Lieutenant Lindop across the river, Henry Harward was ordered back across the river. It wasn’t that Captain Moriarty distrusted Sergeant Booth. Rather, he knew it was only proper that an officer remain with his command.
“I’ll see you for breakfast, Mister Harward,” Moriarty said.
“I look forward to it, sir,” Harward replied, making his way down to the drift.
What was incomprehensible was that only a lone sentry was posted within the north camp, just outside of Captain Moriarty’s tent. At around 2.00 in the morning, the young man on duty yawned, shivering in the clinging mist. He hated this time of night. It seemed utterly pointless posting sentries at all, since one could only see a few feet in front of them.
The soldier paced back and forth much like the Guardsmen outside the royal palaces in Britain. He figured it would keep his blood moving and prevent him from falling asleep on his feet. As he stopped for a moment and let out another yawn, his blood suddenly froze. At first, he thought his tired mind was playing tricks on him, but then he saw it again; the distinctive shape of a man lurking in the brush. Quickly he took a cartridge from his ready pouch and loaded his rifle. The shadow had moved by the time he brought his weapon up to his shoulder, yet he thought he saw where the figure might have gone.
His rifle fired with an echoing crack, and he quickly dropped down to one knee, opened the breach, and extracted the spent cartridge. There was some stirring from within the various tents, but as the sentry had not sounded the alarm, there was little sense of urgency.
“Damn it all, what is going on?” Captain Moriarty shouted as he stumbled from his tent.
“The enemy is out there, sir, I saw them!” the soldier said excitedly.
Moriarty gazed into the clinging mist and shook his head. “It’s only your mind playing tricks!” He then took pity on the soldier, who he knew was only trying to do his duty. “Stay alert, son. Keep a sharp watch. There might be Zulu spies lurking about.” The captain then rubbed his eyes and retired into his tent once more.
The sentry did not know which scared him more, the thought of Zulus lurking about or that his sergeant was certain to give him a severe berating come morning for firing at shadows.
It was, indeed, their adversaries that the sentry had spotted. Thankfully for Mbilini and his nearest warriors, the shot had gone wide. All had immediately dropped onto their stomachs and remained hidden, waiting to see how the English soldiers would react. It was nothing short of baffling for the Swazi prince when the redcoats failed to spill forth from their tents and take up defensive positions. Had they done so, he may have been compelled to abort his attack. Though they had the British outnumbered nearly ten-to-one, he knew that even loosely arrayed wagons in a laager would pose a problem. And even if they were still able to overwhelm the camp, many of his warriors would die. No, he would wait until they were at their most vulnerable, then strike.
It was a fantastic showing of discipline that none of his warriors panicked when the sentry fired his shot. They were essentially following the traditional Zulu ‘Horns of the Beast’ tactic to envelop the camp. And at that moment, the ‘Horns’ were not yet in position.
He heard a few shouted words coming from a man he assumed was one of the white soldiers’ officers, quite possibly the induna in command. His tent wasn’t even within the laager, but well outside of it. Grinning sinisterly, he carefully reached over and placed a hand on Tshwane’s shoulder. He then pointed towards the tent with his spear, prompting a nod from the young Zulu. Still, they would wait. It was at least another hour until the sun would begin its ascent from the east. Just prior to the ‘Horns of the Morning’ the hyena would feast.
Anthony jolted upright when he heard the single shot from across the river. He’d left his boots on and kept his rifle next to his side. It was not the most comfortable way to sleep; however, like Private John Mace, he was unnerved by the layout of the laager across the Ntombe, not to mention the possibility that an enemy chieftain had been allowed to roam through their camp. Though there were no other sounds, other than the echoing beratement from Captain Moriarty towards the hapless sentry, Anthony knew further sleep would be impossible to come by. Private Mace had just entered through the tent flap, coming off his own sentry shift on the southern side. This told Sergeant Booth it was now 2.00 in the morning.
He wasn’t sure how long he continued to lay there, eyes wide and unable to even comprehend sleep. Anthony decided to climb out of his bed roll, don his tunic, and take a walk down to the river. Private John Dodd had just replaced Mace at the western end of the camp. Private William Crawford maintained watch from the eastern edge.
“Everything alright, Private Dodd?” Anthony asked, walking up to the soldier.
“I’m managing, sergeant,” the young soldier said, his expression lost in the darkness and clinging mist. “Can’t see a bloody thing, though.”
Dodd was cradling his rifle in his arms, shivering under his tunic; yet it was not the cold which caused him to shudder. Sergeant Booth sensed the private’s nervousness, and so he stayed with him for a few moments before walking along the river edge to where Private Crawford stood his post. Having served nearly twenty years with the Regiment and fast approaching his thirty-eighth birthday, William Crawford was the oldest soldier in E Company. Shorter than most of the section and quieter than his younger mates, he was one who Anthony never heard complain. Since the war with the Zulus commenced, his beard had grown thick and wild, and Crawford was constantly scratching at it.
“Sergeant,” he said with a respectful nod, before turning to watch his sector once more. His rifle butt rested on his right foot, and aside from occasionally shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he scarcely moved.
“How are you holding up, Private Crawford?” Anthony asked.
The soldier casually shrugged, though his section leader could see his fingers fidgeting with his wedding ring; the only sign he ever gave that he was nervous.
“Any word from Sarah?” the sergeant asked, referencing Crawford’s wife of the past seven years.
“Not since we left for Luneburg,” William replied, his gaze still fixed on the clinging mist along both banks of the Ntombe. “I don’t know how you manage it, sergeant, having both a wife and numerous little ones in country.”
“Lucy knew what she was in for when she married me,” Antho
ny reasoned. “Growing up abroad has given our children opportunities and experiences they would never have, had I taken up a regular trade back in England.”
“Sarah wants children, but I fear she’s fast approaching the age where that won’t be possible,” Crawford remarked. “And I don’t want her giving birth while we’re stuck out in this forgotten corner of the Empire. If I manage to keep from taking an assegai through the bollocks, maybe we’ll try once this matter with the Zulus is decided.”
Anthony smiled and nodded. William Crawford was a very simple man. He’d been a basic labourer before he joined the Army two decades before. He was also completely honest and dependable.
“I’ll be over in the equipment wagon, if any trouble should arise,” Anthony said, pointing with his pipe.
“Can’t sleep, sergeant?”
“Just a little alert tonight is all.”
The two men then exchanged nods before Sergeant Booth walked over to the company’s equipment wagon. He lit his pipe and sat on the driver’s bench seat, brooding as to why sleep eluded him this night. He would soon have his answer.
It was not just the large camp that Mbilini wished to loot and destroy. He’d compelled Manyanyoba to detach 200 of his warriors to attack the smaller encampment on the south bank. The rest would form the ‘Horns’ of the main attack, while Mbilini’s warriors made up the ‘Chest’.
Despite the water level lowering considerably over the past day, it was an unnerving prospect for the warriors, as collectively they were unable to swim. And as they were certain to get soaked in the process, none of the abaQulusi riflemen joined the excursion across the Ntombe. Near the place where the redcoats had ferried their barrel raft, they decided to attempt the crossing. Shields and weapons held close to their bodies, they linked arms, forming into ranks of twenty men each and stepping as quietly as possible into the flowing current.
Coordinating every aspect of the assault would prove impossible. Mbilini had hoped to have the secondary element across the river, as well as both ‘Horns’ in position before attacking, but the sharp eyes of a lone redcoat on the south bank would have a role to play within the coming moments.
It was Private Dodd who first saw the swarm of warriors enclosing upon the northern camp. Through the mist, they looked like the jaws of death itself. His heart began pounding in his chest. Dodd took a few quick breaths while furiously rubbing his eyes, making certain he was not seeing phantoms in the fog. The shadows now had distinctive shapes, particularly those closest to the river, who were slowly making their way to cut off the one avenue of escape.
Dodd struggled to steady his trembling hand. He fished a round out of his ready pouch and loaded his rifle. Not wishing to risk hitting one of their own slumbering soldiers, he raised it to his shoulder and fired towards the shadows just to the left of the camp. The loud crack shattered the calm stillness of the night.
“Zulus! Zulus!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Instincts and training took over. He opened the chamber of his rifle and found another cartridge. His warning was echoed by the lone sentry near the apex of the laager triangle, followed by a single shot. Before he could bring his weapon up to his shoulder again, John Dodd knew it was too late.
Immediately after the pair of shots from the sentries shattered the early morning calm, 200 Zulu muskets erupted in a viscous salvo less than fifty feet from the encampment. These were quickly dropped, and the skirmishers retrieved their iklwa spears and knobkerrie clubs. With battle cries sounding the attack, the Battle of Ntombe commenced.
For Tshwane kaSihayo, fear and exhilaration gripped him in equal measure. More than just a raid, this was his first time facing the red-jacketed soldiers that had brought so much suffering to the Zulu Kingdom, not to mention the destruction of his home and the death of one of his brothers. Following Mbilini towards the tent of the white induna, he gritted his teeth. Fury overwhelmed his other senses.
Much to his surprise, the white-haired officer emerged from his tent, pistol in hand. He quickly fired three shots. With the Zulus so close, each found its mark. One man was grazed across the cheek, another shot through the outer thigh. A warrior near Tshwane took the third bullet right through the chest. His momentum carried him forward, even as his spear and shield fell from his grasp. The young Zulu chanced a quick glance at the stricken warrior. Even in the encompassing darkness and fog, he could see the look of terrible pain on his face as blood spewed from his mouth and his hands clutched at the hideous wound where dark crimson flowed freely.
The white officer’s shout to his soldiers was cut off as half-a-dozen spears were plunged into his body. Tshwane forced his way past a pair of warriors, swinging his knobkerrie in a wide arc, smashing into the temple of the stricken man with a loud crack.
From the time the first shot was fired to the slaying of the British officer had been less than a minute. Yet to the Zulu lad, time seemed meaningless. He was carried forward by a wave of pure rage, following the Swazi prince and his warriors past the wagons at the point of the ‘V’ and into the camp. So quick was their attack, that the ‘Horns’ were already converging on each other, with warriors killing many of the hapless soldiers still in their tents. Of those who did manage to escape, they found themselves surrounded by death on all sides. There was little chance of them actually fighting back, for most were either in their underclothes or completely naked. Few had been able to grab their rifles, and these were practically useless, as there’d been no time to find their ammunition pouches and bayonets in the darkness.
Only those closest to the river had any chance of survival. While the Zulus butchered their companions, a handful managed to leap into the current. On the far side, the small band of redcoats at the southern camp were gathering and starting to fire into the frenzy.
Contemporary sketch of the layout of the camp at Myer’s Drift
As soon as Private Dodd fired his first shot, Sergeant Anthony Booth leapt down from the driver’s bench on the wagon, his rifle at the ready. Privates William Farrell, John Mace, and James Taylor were the first to scramble from their tent, followed quickly by Lance Corporal Burgess and the rest of the section. Lieutenant Harward was fully dressed and rushed from his tent, his pistol at the ready. Farrell and Mace joined Dodd and started shooting at anything they could discern in the mist.
“Careful, or you’ll end up shooting our own men!” Burgess called out.
“They’re already fucking dead, corporal!” Taylor shouted back.
The first of the bedraggled survivors were now pulling themselves onto the south bank. Among these was a completely naked and utterly terrified Josiah Sussens. Several of Booth’s soldiers offered their hands to aid these men, while Dodd and his companions continued to fire as quickly as they were able.
“Control your fire, God damn you!” Anthony barked. He rushed over to the embankment and surveyed the chaos across the river. He then chambered a round, checked his sights, and fired in the direction of a swarm of Zulus near one of the wagons. He saw one warrior stiffen up and fall backwards, arms outstretched in agony.
“We’re trying to provide cover fire for any survivors, but it’s completely hopeless!” Farrell said despondently.
“Zulus on the right, sir!” Private Crawford shouted back to Lieutenant Harward.
“Sergeant!” the officer, in turn, bellowed back to Anthony.
It was a hateful situation. Within minutes, everyone remaining within the far encampment was most certainly dead. Some had been struck down by flung assegais as they dove into the river. Those unable to swim were swept away to a watery grave. Twenty or so had made it across. As they’d been unable to retrieve their rifles before fleeing from the enraged mob of enemy warriors, none of these men were armed and scarcely any dressed. Since the African drivers and voorloopers could not swim, the few who escaped the initial slaughter were compelled to try fleeing past the enclosed ‘Horns’ of the enemy’s attack.
“Get behind me!” Anthony yelled to the bedraggled men, a
ttempting to gain some semblance of control over the situation as he raised up his rifle and fired again.
With hundreds of warriors rampaging through the camp, there was no one left for Tshwane to fight. Tents were torn down and shredded. Terrified oxen ran rampant. The dark and foggy conditions made it very difficult to see. The chants and battle cries of the Khubeka and abaQulusi warriors were deafening. He could also hear the sounds of gunfire coming from across the Ntombe.
Near one of the wagons, he saw a shadow move. Spinning quickly towards the perceived threat, he held his knobkerrie forward defensively and his iklwa ready to stab. Squinting his eyes for a moment, he saw that it was not one of the white soldiers, but a terrified African boy no older than eleven. One of the wagon voorloopers, his father was probably one of the indigenous drivers. As was apparent by the number of dark-skinned bodies amongst the carnage, they were shown no more mercy than the imperial soldiers. Tshwane paused as the boy stared up at him, eyes imploring. Killing a child went against everything he knew to be right, and he started to lower his weapons. The boy’s reprieve was short-lived, however, as a warrior rushed forward and plunged his spear into the boy’s neck before climbing into the back of the wagon. The boy’s eyes were clenched shut. His hands clawed at the hideous wound in his neck as torrents of blood gushed forth. Tshwane fought back the urge to vomit and sprinted away, unable to watch the poor lad die.
He found Mbilini in the centre of the destroyed camp. He was waving his knobkerrie about, using it to signal where he wanted his warriors. Many were tasked with taking all they could carry from the wagons. Others were sent across to join the abaQulusi contingent now attacking the south camp.