by James Mace
That these words had come from Reverend Otto Witt resonated with the gathered throng. Had they been Bishop Colenso’s there would not have been as much surprise. For while he detested the policies of the Colonial Government, he had many dear friends amongst the imperial soldiers, and his admiration for the Zulus was already well-known. In contrast, Witt hated the Zulu king. And as a Swede, his feelings towards the average British soldier were indifferent at best. Yet now, after so much suffering, with his very home destroyed in the fighting, he had come to admire both the warrior and the redcoat.
Reverend Otto Witt
“Not the sort of sermon I was expecting,” Eleanor said, her brow furrowed in thought.
As they left the stuffy confines of the cathedral, it seemed every man and woman, both white European and black African, was moved by both Bishop Colenso’s speech, as well as Reverend Witt’s sermon.
Frances explained, “People assume that because my father speaks up for the native peoples of this land, and consistently criticises men like Bartle-Frere, he must hate the British soldier. The truth is, he loves all men. I remember a garden party Mrs Bartle-Frere threw not long before Lord Chelmsford left to make war on our old friends and neighbours. I have never seen my father so close to tears. At one point, he sat quietly, removed his spectacles, and said to any who would listen, ‘This is a great and wonderful land; there should be room for all of us’.”
“He is a very wise man,” Elisa said appreciatively. She then looked to the soldier walking with Eleanor. “And what say you, Sergeant Rogers? Do the bishop’s words conflict with your sense of duty?”
“Not at all, Mrs Wilkinson,” the young sergeant responded earnestly. “Many times during our Empire’s glorious history we have found ourselves at war with an enemy who we venerated rather than loathed. Even Napoleon, our greatest nemesis of all, was held in the highest esteem by members of the public as well as the Armed Forces. Wellington himself would often visit the replica of the French Emperor’s death bed at Madame Tussaud’s. It is said he was very melancholy on these occasions, and that he simply wished to show his admiration and respect for the man who’d once been his most formidable foe.”
“I heard something rather disturbing the other day,” Eleanor said. “This may sound absurd, but there is a rumour that neither Her Majesty nor her government sanctioned this hateful war.”
“It’s not a rumour,” Frances replied, her words hard. “My father has spoken with the Lieutenant Governor of Natal, Sir Henry Bulwer. Even he had no idea that the invasion was Bartle-Frere’s doing alone. It was only when he received a sternly-worded telegram from Whitehall, asking why British forces had instigated a war against a long-time ally, and could they explain the loss of a thousand British soldiers. Sir Henry was well-aware of Her Majesty’s policy of moderation towards the Zulus. The Crown did not want war, yet now they have it.”
“That’s terrible!” Elisa snapped, her words coming much louder than she’d expected. “This is nothing short of treasonous. Surely Bartle-Frere will be held to account!”
“He should be taken to the Tower through Traitor’s Gate and hung by his filthy neck until he is dead,” Frances added venomously.
“If only it were up to us, and all the bereaved families, my dears,” Eleanor said sadly. “But we all know that is not how this will end. At worst, Bartle-Frere and his lackey, Chelmsford, will be called before Parliament and chastised. I doubt much will happen to Chelmsford, as he’s a personal friend of the Queen. Bartle-Frere’s political career may be over, but he’ll not face any charges of treason.” She then glowered for a moment, causing Benjamin Rogers to shift uncomfortably. “It wouldn’t surprise me if someone erects a statue to that bastard in Whitehall Gardens!”
There was an uncomfortable moment as all three women looked to the lone soldier accompanying them. Whatever his personal feelings, Sir Henry Bartle-Frere was still the civilian authority in Natal, not to mention Lord Chelmsford remained his commanding general.
Eleanor placed a hand on his arm, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Forgive me, Benjamin. My words were ill-chosen.”
The sergeant shook his head quickly, even though he was still clearly bothered. “I cannot fault you for what you must be feeling. After all, you and Mrs Wilkinson both lost your husbands. What I think does not matter. I am still in the service of Her Majesty. Whether or not the Crown sanctioned this war, soldiers of the Empire are now committed to seeing it through to whatever end awaits us.”
“You’re a good man, Sergeant Rogers,” Elisa said, suddenly finding herself struggling to speak. “I wish you a long life and every happiness.” She shook her head, as suddenly she found herself unable to fight against the coming tears. “Forgive me, but I wish to be alone for a while.”
Eleanor, Benjamin, and Frances all stared for a moment, watching Elisa hurry away. All had suffered loss in this hateful conflict with the Zulus, and each continued to mourn in their own way.
Reaching the shade of a grove of fruit trees, Elisa collapsed with her back against an orange tree and slumped onto her bottom. She folded her arms across her chest, awkwardly finding that her tears now eluded her. In many ways, this was worse than when she was simply able to let her emotions flow freely.
During the entire service, her thoughts were consumed by those of her beloved Arthur. Many times, she thought she had shed her last tear for her late husband, only to be struck with renewed sorrow. But now her mind was filled with a myriad of questions. Just what did Arthur think of his Zulu adversaries? Did he hate or admire them? Did he agree with Bartle-Frere’s decision to invade or was he simply following the orders of his officers, never questioning why they were marching off to war? And what of the Zulus? Did they lament for their dead the same way? Did their wives and mothers shed as many tears as she?
Elisa had never seen a Zulu; however, while the black Africans she had met and gotten to know were very different culturally, they still loved, laughed, and cried. They knew both joy and sorrow, and suddenly Elisa found her heart going out to those who her beloved might have slain. If the rumour that Eleanor and Frances had heard proved true, then both Arthur and the Zulus he fought against were the victims of one man’s ambition in an unjust war.
It was nearly dark by the time Elisa decided to return to the Colenso house at Bishopstowe. Frances and her parents had offered her a room, which was far more comfortable than the austere accommodations at Fort Napier. No one at the fort had asked her to leave or what her plans were. She figured the Army had more important matters than the status of the handful of widows who remained.
It was not just widows, such as Elisa Wilkinson, who continued to mourn the dead. To the east of the British laager at Khambula, the warriors of Wood’s Irregulars, to include the newly-conscripted men from Prince Hamu’s followers, had erected a series of brush huts. These were sturdier than the temporary shelters hastily constructed each night during their long journey. It was late when Mandlenkosi finished binding the last pieces of long grass to the short roof. As an induna, he was allowed to have his own private abode, albeit it was very small, with just a large enough opening for him to stoop under. Still, it was a change from the weeks of being subjected to the hellish elements of the inclement Southern African summer.
As he lay down on his sleeping mat, hands behind his head, his eyes stared blankly into the encompassing darkness. Every night, his mind was filled with visions of his son. Mandlenkosi recalled his heart swelling with pride when Kwanele came of age and was assimilated into the amabutho. The first time he saw his son carrying the distinctive black shield of his regiment, his head adorned with a leopard skin band, Mandlenkosi had said, ‘Now you are a man’.
This was, of course, only partly true. In Zulu culture, a man did not come into his own until he was permitted to marry and released from the household of his father. This usually occurred around the age of thirty, with the entire regiment being released from service to the king, except in cases of war and extreme emergency.
Kwanele’s regiment, the uNokhenke, was fast approaching the age when they could marry, yet for him there would be no wives or children.
“Have I betrayed the memory of my son?” Mandlenkosi asked the unsympathetic darkness as a tear ran down his face. Rolling onto his side, he stammered piteously, “Kwanele…my son. Please forgive me.”
Chapter XXIX: Salvage from the Dead
Rorke’s Drift
13 March 1879
Private Alfred Henry Hook, VC
Given the string of disasters and fearful state of British forces, it came as a surprise that after seven weeks no Zulu counter-invasion had manifested itself. There was the occasional incursion, though these were mostly small bands of warriors, intent on stealing cattle or burning the occasional local homestead. What was maddening was the complete lack of intelligence coming from across the rivers. No one on the British side had any notion as to where the enemy was or what they were doing. For the survivors from the 24th Regiment, there was a great pain which gnawed at them. Major Wilsone Black made mention of it as he and his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Degacher, stood on the banks of the uMzinyathi. A lone giraffe walked contentedly across the dirt track leading away from the ponts, as the two officers stood staring at the distant mountain of Isandlwana.
“A thousand British soldiers still lie exposed out there,” the Scottish major said, shaking his head sadly.
“Two months since they fell, and yet we cannot give them a proper burial,” Degacher added. “It’s as if the mountain is mocking us.”
For Henry Degacher, the feelings of loss were doubly heart-breaking with his brother, William, among the dead. He had taken it upon himself to write to his brother’s widow, Julia, and could only hope his letter reached her before she read about her husband’s death in the newspapers.
“William and I always promised to name our sons after each other,” Henry reminisced. “I’ve never married, and he had a daughter.”
“Who he did essentially name after you,” Wilsone added.
Degacher gave a melancholy smile. “Yes, little Henriette Julia. I suspect she’s learning to crawl now, maybe even walk. It breaks my heart that, not only will she never know her father, but he remains unburied still. I cannot help but visualise in my mind what he and the rest of the lads must look like now; I doubt we would even recognise what’s left.” He paused for a moment before asking the major, “Did you know he wasn’t even supposed to be here?”
Black nodded sadly. “When he was heading home on leave, I heard rumour that he intended to retire from the Army.”
“No rumour; that was his intent. It was also why he timed his extended leave the way he did. Despite being a senior captain within the Regiment, he reckoned his chances of making major in the foreseeable future were nought. And he was in love. Julia had waited years for him, and he feared losing her. But, when the latest Cape Frontier War erupted, he returned to the Regiment.”
“It’s pointless for us to sit here lamenting, sir,” Black said, after a few moments. “I know we haven’t the strength to mount any sort of sustained offensive campaign. And yes, I am aware that our orders are to hold the drifts and defend Natal.”
“What are you suggesting, Wilsone?”
The major nodded towards the distant hill. “In strategic, not to mention logistical terms, we need wagons…desperately. We hadn’t enough at the start of this campaign. And if his lordship wishes to see this war through to the end, we need to retrieve whatever we can from Isandlwana. The Zulus have no use for wagons, so unless they burned them all, they should still be there.”
“But you’re not just thinking in strategic and logistical terms,” Degacher remarked knowingly.
“We need to do right by our boys,” Black said, almost stammering. The usually composed officer was clearly struggling with his emotions. He quickly collected himself and stood tall. “Colonel, sir, I am formally requesting permission to lead a reconnaissance expedition to Isandlwana.”
“You have my full support, Wilsone,” Degacher replied. “I’ll, of course, have to run it by Colonel Glyn, though I doubt he’ll offer any resistance. And naturally, he’ll have to inform the GOC. I suspect his lordship will be grateful for whatever wagons, not to mention any intelligence, you might gather.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
It was only on the rarest of occasions that Major Black would dare to call his commanding officer by his first name. However, the two had become close friends over the years, with an even closer bond following the tragedy of Isandlwana. There was also word among the column staff that Black was to be brevetted to lieutenant colonel. This was only fitting in Henry Degacher’s mind.
It was no secret, with Colonel Glyn in a perpetual state of broken despair, Lieutenant Colonel Degacher was the one really running the day-to-day operations at Rorke’s Drift. He, in turn, had come to rely even more heavily on Major Wilsone Black. His other battalion major, William Dunbar, had volunteered to take over quartermaster duties for the column and had relocated to Helpmekaar. The quartermasters of both battalions, James Pullen and Edward Bloomfield, had perished at Isandlwana, along with their quartermaster sergeants. As Charlie Harford had learned during his abortive foray to find cattle for the garrisons, the procuring of supplies for an army was one of its most important, yet utterly thankless jobs.
Isandlwana
The raid on the British camp along the Ntombe River had been a complete success for Mbilini and his men. They had washed their spears in the blood of the hated invaders and come away with much in both ammunition and stores. They had also recovered around fifty of the prized Martini-Henry rifles, one of which Mbilini claimed for himself.
“A magnificent weapon,” Tshwane said appreciatively, as he handled the heavy rifle.
“And one which I hear may break your shoulder when fired,” the Swazi prince added with a chortle. He then held up one of the paper packets holding ten Martini-Henry cartridges. “So nice of the red soldiers to make our bullets easy to carry.”
He handed the packet to the young Zulu who marvelled at its weight. “How many of these will you carry?” he then asked.
“Two, maybe three of these packets with another five loose rounds in my shoulder bag. This rifle is a fine prize, but it does not replace the iklwa and knobkerrie.”
“A shame I was not quick enough to retrieve one,” the Zulu lad said regretfully.
“There will be plenty of chances, yet,” Mbilini observed. “We slaughtered and humiliated the red soldiers, but they will return. An even greater force of them infests the Khambula ridge. It is they who have been destroying our homes, burning crops, and stealing cattle.” He stood and took the rifle from Tshwane. “Come with me, and take your sleeping mat and shoulder bag. I want to show you why we fight.”
Major Black’s expedition would be a small one consisting of all mounted troops. He was joined by Commandant Cooper and twelve officers from the Natal Native Contingent, ten members of the Natal Mounted Police under Major Dartnell, and a few mounted troopers from the colonial volunteers. Should they run into a large force of Zulus, Wilsone knew they would need to get away as quickly as possible. Colonel Glyn stressed that any egress routes needed to take them back via Rorke’s Drift. Only under extreme duress were they to attempt the southern crossing now known as Fugitive’s Drift.
Unlike the expedition to retrieve the Queen’s Colour, where most of the party were mounted officers, Black’s reconnaissance troop were mostly volunteer troopers and a handful of mounted redcoats. Among these were Privates Harry Grant and James Trainer; survivors of Colonel Durnford’s ill-fated rocket battery at Isandlwana. Though not actually part of the Imperial Mounted Infantry, their acting battalion commander, Major Upcher, had given them permission to take part in some of the mounted patrols using the horses they hastily acquired during Durnford’s retreat.
“We’re becoming old hands at this,” Grant said as they saddled their horses. “Makes me wonder why I never joined the caval
ry.”
“Why walk when you can ride?” James added with a grin. He then frowned in contemplation. “Not sure if I relish the thought of going back there. Have you thought about it much?”
“Every day,” Grant said, taking a breath and draping his arms over the saddle of his horse. “A part of me needs to see what remains. The rest is terrified at the idea.”
“You two ready?” a voice asked behind them.
They turned to see Major Black’s new batman, Private Henry Hook. As part of his duties, he had learned how to ride and often accompanied Black on patrol.
“We’re ready whenever the good major needs us,” Trainer replied. He noted the hideous scar along Hook’s hair part. “How’s the wound?”
“Still hurts from time-to-time,” Hook confessed. “I suppose it will always be like that.”
Twenty-eight years of age, Henry Hook had joined the Army later than most of his peers. He was also well-educated and possessed a natural leadership presence that made younger soldiers like Trainer and Grant forget that he was the same rank as they.