by James Mace
A member of B Company, 2/24th, Hook was part of the defence of the hospital during the harrowing Battle of Rorke’s Drift and was credited with saving numerous lives when the structure caught fire. Despite the incessant bleeding from the head wound he’d received during the fighting, Hook had continued to fight and, at one point, led a detail out into the ‘no man’s land’ of the fallen inner compound to fetch water for the wounded. The day after the battle, he was ordered to report directly to Lord Chelmsford and give his detailed account of the hospital defence. The GOC directed Hook’s officer commanding, Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead, to write up recommendations for Hook and the other surviving defenders of the hospital for the Victoria Cross.
Just outside the stone ramparts of Fort Bromhead, Major Black and a handful of mounted volunteers were climbing into their saddles. This was the first real attempt to return to Isandlwana in almost two months, and the mood was sombre.
“Safe returns, Wilsone,” Henry Degacher said, reaching up and clasping the major’s hand.
“We won’t do anything foolish,” Black promised.
“Colonel Glyn was good enough to order Major Bengough to dispatch a band of natives up to the drift, should you run into trouble,” Degacher explained.
Wilsone nodded. The two then exchanged salutes before the detachment rode the short ways down the river crossing. Awaiting them just across the river were around 200 warriors along with their regimental commander, Major Harcourt Bengough. A Regular Army officer from the 77th Regiment, Bengough’s 2nd Battalion of the 1st NNC Regiment had been dispatched to reinforce the border town of Msinga, where they’d constructed a fort, following the news from Isandlwana. With the entire 3rd Regiment of the Natal Native Contingent disbanded, Bengough’s battalion was the only force of indigenous warriors in the district.
Awaiting Black’s detachment at the pont was Sergeant Frederick Milne of the 3rd ‘Buffs’ Regiment. Having been sent to run the ponts at Rorke’s Drift, he was glad to have survived the Zulu onslaught on the depot. Yet he was fearful for his regimental mates, who were all still trapped under siege at Eshowe.
“A sombre morning, sir,” the NCO said, coming to attention and saluting.
Major Black and his men dismounted near the flat-bottomed pont.
“It is indeed, sergeant,” Wilsone replied, returning the salute.
They then led their horses onto the barge. Milne and a handful of volunteers heaved on the rope and pulley to drag them across. It took a few minutes to cross the expanse of the uMzinyathi. On the eastern bank, Major Bengough stood waiting with his hands folded in front of him. A black groomsman held the reins of his horse.
“Major Black,” he said, extending his hand. “We’ve been ordered to hold here in reserve. Should you run into trouble, we’ll be ready to support you. Just don’t bring the entire Zulu army with you!”
“We’ll do our best,” Black replied, before remounting his horse.
Bengough shouted a series of orders to his two company officers and their European NCOs. The warriors were looking more than a little nervous, being on the Zulu side of the river. Many kept eyeing the pont which, if Major Black did bring back a host of enemy warriors in pursuit, would be their only means of escape.
Major Harcourt Mortimer Bengough, 77th Regiment
Commanding Officer, 2nd Battalion, 1st Natal Native Contingent
It was ten miles from the crossing at Rorke’s Drift to Isandlwana. With the mountain clearly visible in the distance, it felt deceptively closer. This was also the first real foray back into Zululand, and Wilsone Black felt as if he was going into the enemy’s heartland completely blind. He was the only man in possession of field glasses, which he used to constantly scan the terrain around them.
“I imagine you’ve become rather famous back home,” Black said conversationally to his batman. “No doubt the papers have labelled you a hero.”
“Not to sound overly philosophical, sir, but what exactly is a hero?” Hook replied. “I’ll not try to sound falsely modest, as that would only disrespect what my mates did during the hospital evacuation. I do hope you understand, sir, that none of us asked to become ‘regimental ornaments’.”
Harry found that he liked Major Black and felt more comfortable speaking candidly with him than he did with most of the officers. The major never talked down to him, and seemed genuinely interested in the welfare of both his batman, as well as all the soldiers of the Regiment. And while Hook had little desire to be re-assigned as an officer’s servant, he understood the position was considered a great privilege. It also kept him from having to perform more unsavoury details or guard duty.
“Still, I suspect your wife must be proud,” Black remarked. He had noticed that Hook never spoke of his wife, who remained in England, though he still wore his wedding band.
“Oh, I’m certain she had something to say, once she saw my name in the papers, sir,” Harry replied, his voice deadpan.
“I see. My apologies if I have caused offence.”
“Not at all, sir,” Hook said, surprised by the officer’s apology. “My marriage was in tatters long before the Regiment arrived in South Africa. I was accused of running off to join the Army just to get away from her. Maybe she was right.”
“Any children?” the major asked.
Harry nodded. “Yes, though I have not seen them in years. Sadly, my wife refused to bring them to Southern Africa. Of course, after what’s happened, perhaps she was correct in her reasoning.”
“Well, at least you’ve found a home with the Colours,” Wilsone surmised, gently shifting the subject.
Hook chuckled at this assertion. “To be honest, sir, my marriage may be a failure, but I’m not entirely certain whether or not the Army is a better mistress for me. Make no mistake, there are aspects of soldiering that I find appealing. John Williams and I served together in the Monmouthshire Militia before attesting to the Colours of the 24th.”
The banter between soldiers lessoned, as the ominous mountain of Isandlwana drew closer. Eyes searched in every direction for signs of lurking Zulus. All was deathly still. Henry Hook instinctively placed his hand on the butt stock of his rifle, which was slung across his back. Privates Grant and Trainer had their weapons resting awkwardly across their laps, while half of the mounted volunteers had unslung their carbines. It seemed only Major Black and Private Hook remained outwardly undisturbed.
“No bodies,” Hook noted.
“The road to Rorke’s Drift was cut off by the Zulus during the earlier stages of the battle,” Major Black explained. “Most were driven towards the crossing at Sothondose’s Drift about ten miles to the south. That’s where we found the bodies of Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill.”
The first real signs of the destruction came about a mile from the mountain. A terrible stench struck the patrol. This caused many of them to gag and hold rags over their faces. Harry Grant and James Trainer both fought back their emotions. The two had made their escape early in the fight, when the rocket battery was overrun. They’d fought beside Durnford’s column of mounted troops for a time, becoming separated during the chaotic withdrawal to the main camp.
“Over there, sir,” a trooper said, pointing to a cluster of bodies near the southwestern slope of Isandlwana.
What was surprising to the men was that these were only partially decomposed. A few were missing limbs and had chunks of flesh torn away by wild animals, yet they were mostly intact. Only one appeared to be a white European. The rest were black Africans. The skin on their faces was drawn tight and withered, making any sort of identification impossible. Only later would some of the battle’s survivors be able to deduce from the location that the white officer was Captain George Shepstone who, with a stalwart band of iziGqoza warriors, made a valiant last stand against the Zulu ‘Right Horn’. The son of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, the old magistrate would forever blame the late Colonel Anthony Durnford for George’s death.
“I wonder if we’ll ever be able to find any of our
mates,” Grant said quietly before coughing into his handkerchief.
The wagon track continued past the southern spur of Isandlwana. Rising to the south was a small hill called Mahlabamkhosi. The British had since renamed it ‘Black’s Koppie’. Along its slopes, Major Wilsone Black and four companies from 2/24th spent the night of 22 to 23 January, keeping a nervous eye out for roaming bands of Zulus and watching the red glow to the west, where the hospital at Rorke’s Drift burned.
The major’s face tightened. His mind was pulled back to that fearful night and he closed his eyes briefly. As Lord Chelmsford had led the remnants of No. 3 Column away from the camp before daylight, few had seen the magnitude of death and devastation left in the Zulu impi’s wake.
Northeast of Black’s Koppie, just off the wagon track, they came upon the derelict remnants of 1/24th’s camp. Shredded tents lay strewn about along with broken boxes, barrels, and assorted ruined camp equipment. There was also another group of bodies near a wagon. The right-front wheel was broken in half. Somewhere amongst this band was the body of Brevet Colonel Anthony Durnford. These corpses were also only partially decomposed, shirtsleeves and ratted trousers holding many of the bodies intact. All were disembowelled. Flies continued to make a feast out of their entrails.
“They don’t even look real,” James Trainer said quietly.
“More like the work of some macabre wax sculptor’s nightmare,” Harry Grant added through the rag held up to his face.
There would be no opportunity for the patrol to make its way around to the eastern face of Isandlwana to survey the rest of the carnage. A trooper from the Natal Mounted Police called out ‘Zulus!’, while pointing towards the top of Black’s Koppie. A band of about six warriors lurked on its crest. Five raised up their muskets and fired a salvo towards the patrol, while the sixth struck up a signal fire. This was soon met with another signal fire along a ridge about two miles to the southwest. None of the Zulu musketry had any effect, and a couple of mounted troopers returned shots just as the last warriors disappeared behind the reverse slope.
“Time for us to leave,” Major Black said calmly yet forcefully. Signal fires to the southwest meant there were enemy warriors who could easily get between them and Rorke’s Drift.
To the south, a band of approximately a hundred Zulus were spotted running parallel to the patrol. Nearly half carried muskets, which they would occasionally stop to fire. Black ordered his men to abstain from returning fire. For every moment they halted to do so, they put themselves at an even greater risk of being cut off and surrounded.
Henry Hook kept his gaze fixed on the rutted wagon path to their front, hoping his horse would not expire before they were out of range of the enemy marksmen. It took the small contingent roughly half an hour to traverse the ten miles from Isandlwana back to the safety of the uMzinyathi River. About a mile from the drift, the shots of the Zulus ceased. They still heard the war chants and what they guessed were insults shouted from scores of warriors.
Upon reaching the ponts at Rorke’s Drift, they found Major Bengough’s NNC companies deployed into lines, ready for battle. Skirmishers with rifles knelt in front of the main line about ten yards to their front. The garrison at Forts Melvill and Bromhead had turned out as well, with a hundred redcoats formed into a loose firing line along the western bank of the river.
“We heard the sounds of musketry and thought you might be in trouble,” Bengough said.
“Just the Zulus saying ‘hello’,” Black explained. While the NNC companies remained alert, Wilsone Black and the rest of his detachment led their tired horses onto the pont which was quickly hauled across the river. As soon as they were away, Major Bengough ordered his men onto the second pont.
The commanding officer for 2/24th, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Degacher, was waiting with the red-jacketed skirmishers along the western bank. “Glad to see you made it back,” he said earnestly, as Black and his men disembarked. “We heard the sounds of gunfire. Was anyone hit?”
“No,” Wilsone replied, shaking his head. “Thankfully, the Zulus have yet to receive any sort of proper training for those rifles they stole from our lads.”
“What did you find?” Degacher asked.
“We were only able to reach the southern end of the camp,” the major replied. He told his commanding officer about the group of lookouts atop the koppie, as well as the signal fires that alerted their companions.
“They’re expecting us,” Henry observed.
“I suspect their numbers are too few to pose any sort of threat to the drift or either of its forts,” Black conjectured. “From what little time we had, I also believe they are mostly avoiding the field of Isandlwana. Doubtless, they care for the stench of death about as much as we do.”
“They likely view the area as cursed with so many bodies strewn about,” Degacher added.
Black nodded in reply. “But they know we will return at some point to bury our dead, and so they are keeping eyes on the track leading to Isandlwana.”
“Do you feel we could launch a suitable burial expedition?” Henry asked.
Black shook his head. “No, sir, not with the forces we have between here and Helpmekaar. There are a thousand places for the enemy to hide, and they know we must come up the wagon trail from Rorke’s Drift. We also have no clear indication as to where their main army is. As fast as they can traverse cross-country, it would take very little effort for them to swarm any proposed burial detail with several thousand warriors. If I may speak plainly, sir, I’d rather not have to bury any more of our lads on that field than those who have already fallen. And as for the wagons, most appear to still be there and intact.”
“Yes, well, thankfully the Zulus have never had much use for wagons,” Degacher stated.
“We might be able to launch a retrieval expedition for some of them,” Black speculated. “Provided we can drive sufficient draught animals across the river without the Zulus seeing what we’re up to. But burial of the dead will be an extremely laborious endeavour. The ground is hard and rocky, very difficult to dig in. It saddens me to confess this, sir, but I fear we will not be able to pay proper respects to our fallen brothers until long after his lordship receives sufficient reinforcements to launch a fresh invasion.”
Henry nodded in concurrence and walked with Wilsone back to Fort Bromhead. The major then made his report to Colonel Glyn. Richard Glyn was, perhaps, more anxious than any to see the slain of Isandlwana given a proper burial. The 1/24th had been his battalion prior to his ascension to command of No. 3 Column.
When Lieutenant Colonel Degacher and Major Black sought him out to make their report, they noticed that Glyn appeared perpetually exhausted. At forty-seven, he was just four years older than Henry Degacher. However, he had aged considerably since the events of 22 January.
“I concur with your assessment, Major Black,” he replied, once the two officers finished. “We will continue to conduct reconnaissance east of Rorke’s Drift, as well as the southern drift. Colonel Degacher, you will lead such a patrol tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir,” Henry replied.
Between Rorke’s Drift and Helpmekaar there was a constant stream of rumours abounding regarding the state of the Zulu Kingdom and the war itself. A few of the more zealous asserted that Colonel Glyn should concentrate all his forces and cross the uMzinyathi River, driving the Zulus from the graveyard at Isandlwana, that they might properly bury the fallen. However, even if Colonel Glyn was feeling so inclined, he concurred with Major Wilsone Black. They did not have the numbers necessary to undertake a prolonged expedition to the mountain of sorrow. And despite persistent hearsay, there was practically no substantive intelligence coming from across the Natal-Zulu border.
“We still have no idea what Cetshwayo’s been up to all this time,” Lieutenant Colonel Henry Degacher surmised. He had joined Black and a few mounted troops on a patrol south of Rorke’s Drift. Their intent was to follow the river until they reached the crossing at Sothondose’s Dri
ft, now known as Fugitives Drift.
He was also joined by Brevet Major Henry Spalding. Prior to the invasion, Spalding had acted as the transportation officer charged with overseeing the supply lines between Helpmekaar and Rorke’s Drift. Having departed Rorke’s Drift on the morning of 22 January to see about the delay in reinforcements, he was away during the Zulu attack; thus, leaving Lieutenant Chard of the Royal Engineers in command, and essentially writing himself out of the history books. Spalding had been further berated by Lord Chelmsford the day after the battle for retiring back to Helpmekaar with the two companies of reinforcements rather than pressing on to the mission station. Most of Spalding’s contemporaries agreed this was an unfair rebuke. It had been pitch black, with the only light coming from the burning hospital. For all he knew, the depot had been destroyed and the garrison slaughtered. Still, there was a lingering sense of bitter embarrassment that seemed to follow him.
“With respect, colonel,” Spalding said. “It would appear that the Zulu Kingdom is fracturing. After all, one of Cetshwayo’s own brothers has defected to Colonel Wood and is now under British protection at Utrecht.”
“And yet, Colonel Wood remains fixed at Khambula,” Wilsone Black countered. “There may be political rifts within the Zulu Kingdom, but their armies are fiercely loyal to Cetshwayo. I’d equate this defection to one of Disraeli’s cabinet ministers absconding to the opposition; embarrassing, yes, but hardly a fracturing of the establishment. And let us not forget, Colonel Pearson remains besieged at Eshowe.”
Henry Degacher quickly interjected into the conversation, wishing to halt any growing arguments between his officers. “Prince Hamu’s defection is, indeed, quite the benefit for us,” he said. “But there are scores of princes and barons within Zululand. Aside from Chief Gamdana, who surrendered to his lordship before we’d even established camp at Isandlwana, there have been no other turncoats of worth seeking Her Majesty’s protection.”