Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  “I spoke with Major Bengough after our last little foray,” Black recalled. “He said some of his warriors told him that the men who chased us were followers of Gamdana, yet they were the ones who’d refused to surrender with him.”

  “I see your point,” Spalding concurred with a touch of reluctance.

  “Prince Hamu may have betrayed his brother, but it is not as if he brought an entire regiment with him,” Degacher added.

  Their conversation came to an abrupt pause near the drift. About 300 yards from the steep incline that led to the river was a pile of stones, marking a pair of graves. Degacher removed his patrol cap, with his fellow officers following suit. Wilsone Black dismounted and walked his horse down to the grave. During one of his early patrols, they discovered the bodies of Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill; the two officers who had attempted to save the Queen’s Colour of 1/24th. More specifically, it was Melvill who carried the Colour, up until it was swept away in the current. Coghill had sacrificed his own life while attempting to save his friend and fellow officer. Black and acting-Captain Charlie Harford later led a subsequent patrol which found the Queen’s Colour a few miles downstream.

  “Should I live to be a hundred, the memories of this place will be forever etched in my memory,” the major said quietly.

  Memorials to Melvill and Coghill, from The Graphic

  Chapter XXX: Why We Fight

  Camp of the 80th Staffordshire Regiment, Luneburg

  13 March 1879

  Zulu Women, from The Graphic

  It was the morning after the disaster at Myer’s Drift. Sergeant Anthony Booth thought sleep would prove impossible after all they’d been through. Yet, from the moment he lay his head down until well after reveille, he did not stir. Major Tucker had exempted the survivors from morning parade. Anthony found himself woken by Tucker’s batman. He quickly sat upright, eyes wide.

  “Beg your pardon, sergeant,” the private said, stepping back in alarm.

  “What time is it?” Anthony asked, noting the sun coming through the flap of his section’s tent.

  The snores from several slumbering soldiers could still be heard within.

  “It’s just after 7.00,” the private responded. “Major Tucker has asked for you.”

  The sergeant quickly started to pull on his boots. “Inform the major I will be there presently.” His mind was addled, and slowly the plethora of memories from the previous day’s harrowing ordeal came flooding back into his consciousness.

  “Pity, I had hoped it was a bad dream,” he muttered quietly. Having donned his tunic, he made his way to the battalion commander’s tent.

  The front side was rolled up, allowing in the early morning breeze on what was otherwise a muggy and stifling day. The major’s batman stood just outside, waiting for him. Anthony saw Captain Howard of A Company, the adjutant, Lieutenant Johnson, and Sergeant Major Allen standing on either side of Major Tucker.

  “Sergeant Booth, sir,” the batman announced.

  Anthony entered the tent and came to attention.

  “Stand at ease, sergeant,” Tucker said. His eyes were red and his face haggard.

  Anthony reckoned sleep had completely eluded his battalion commander. “Apologies for the delay in my report, sir. I seem to have overslept but will have it finished before supper.”

  “Much obliged, sergeant,” Tucker replied. “And just so you know, you did not oversleep. I ordered that you and your men were not to be disturbed. But now that you’re here, we have a few matters we need to address.”

  He nodded to Lieutenant Johnson, who read from a hastily scribbled list he’d compiled.

  “These are all the confirmed dead,” Johnson explained before picking up another sheet. “And these are those who are missing, though we must presume they are dead.”

  “Colour Sergeant Fredericks,” Anthony said, reading the first name on the ‘missing’ list.

  “Was missing, now confirmed dead,” the sergeant major said. “His body, along with those of Privates Farrell and Hart, were found this morning about fifty yards downriver. We also found Private Dodd’s body not far from the Myer farmhouse.”

  Anthony grimaced at hearing the names of Dodd and Farrell, who were both from his section. The last he’d seen of Farrell was early during the fighting when he and Private Mace were engaging the Zulus on the far bank. Dodd had panicked during the retreat and tried to flee. Though there was nothing he could have done to stop him, it did not prevent Anthony Booth from feeling responsible for their deaths. He said as much to his commanding officer.

  “Dodd and Farrell were mine, sir. I should have done more to save them.”

  “From what we’ve already gathered, no one would have survived if not for your calm demeanour and cool-headed leadership,” Major Tucker emphasised.

  Sergeant Major Allen concurred. “Between our soldiers and the kaffir drivers, I’d say there are fifty men who owe their lives to you, sergeant. Lance Corporal Burgess said as much last night. He expresses his apologies for coming directly to me; however, he felt your modesty might prevent you from being upfront regarding your actions.”

  Anthony could not help but give a sad smile and shake his head slightly. “Lance Corporal Burgess can be a pain in the backside, but he is loyal. He is also reliable in a crisis and proved as much yesterday.” He then noticed a patch on the major’s desk, bearing the crossed flags and crown insignia normally worn over a colour sergeant’s chevrons.

  “Until a month ago, you wore these,” Tucker said, holding the patch up. “Your appointment was superseded by Colour Sergeant Fredericks. As he is no longer with us, it is only proper that they revert back to you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Anthony replied, accepting the insignia. He considered thanking the major, but then thought that a word of thanks would be inappropriate given the circumstances of his reinstated rank. He also understood why Captain Howard was present, as he was the officer commanding of Fredericks’ A Company.

  “I’m glad to have you back, Colour Sergeant Booth,” Howard remarked. “Though I do wish it was under different circumstances.”

  “As do I, sir.”

  “Thirty of the dead and missing are from A Company,” Lieutenant Johnson observed. “Mind you, every company sent volunteers with Captain Moriarty’s detail, and all have suffered loss. Yet none come close to the sacrifices of A Company.”

  “The lads need a strong hand to lead them, colour sergeant,” Captain Howard added. “There are only forty men left in the company, plus however many the adjutant is able to transfer into our ranks from the rest of the Regiment. I will need all of your assistance to guide them through the remainder of this war.”

  “I am at your service, sir,” Anthony said with a nod.

  “We’ve had to make some adjustments to the companies, as well,” the adjutant stated. “Lance Corporal Burgess is replacing you a section leader in E Company. He is to be promoted to full corporal with a temporary appointment as lance sergeant. Captain Howard can fill you in on the rest.”

  Tucker then stood and extended his hand, which Anthony accepted. “I await your official report, colour sergeant. Take your time, as I know you’ll need to speak with some of the other survivors. Have it to me by supper tomorrow. I also wish to express my personal thanks for saving the lives of those you were able.”

  It took Mbilini and Tshwane the better part of a day to reach the series of caves deep within the mountains. It was here that many of the women and children, both abaQulusi and Zulu, had fled during the early weeks of the war. The area looked completely deserted. The refugees scarcely dared show their faces during the daytime. With news from the war practically non-existent, they greatly feared the white soldiers would come for them. Visits from their warrior husbands, fathers, and sons were extremely rare. The only thing scarcer than news of their loved ones was food. The land had been stripped bare, and the war’s most innocent victims were subjected to a pair of formidable adversaries far worse that the redcoats; starvati
on and disease.

  Mbilini approached a large thicket. Only when viewed up close could one see a passage just large enough to slink through that was cut away. Tshwane wordlessly followed the prince, the stickers and sharp branches scraping his back. A short cave was revealed on the far side. The overhanging branches from the thicket only allowed intermittent rays of sunlight, giving it an ominous appearance.

  “Sawubona, siza njengabangane,” Mbilini said. “Hello, we come as friends.”

  “If you have come looking for food, you’ll have to go elsewhere,” a woman’s voice said from within the cave.

  Squinting his eyes, Tshwane was able to see the form of a woman in her early thirties, clutching an iklwa spear close to her chest. Wordlessly, Mbilini handed his weapons to Tshwane, then took the mealie from him and presented in his outstretched hands. The woman cautiously stepped from the cave, still holding her weapon close. Quickly she snatched the stalks of grain and stepped back towards the cave. It was only then that Tshwane noticed how gaunt her face was, her body emaciated.

  The woman turned and handed the pile to a young boy who looked to be no older than five. His body was also wasted away and he absently gnawed on the grains clinging to one of the stalks.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, lowering her spear. “But who are you?”

  “I am Prince Mbilini of the Swazi. I come as a friend of King Cetshwayo and the Zulus.”

  The woman called into the cave. The little boy and three other children emerged. One girl was holding what looked like the chewed remains of a skinned rodent. All their faces were filthy, their eyes practically lifeless.

  “And why have you come here?” the woman then asked. She’d lowered her spear and now sat slumped against a small boulder near the entrance.

  “To show my friend, the son of a renowned inkosi, the plight of his people, so that he may understand what we are fighting for.”

  “Who is your father?” the woman asked Tshwane.

  “Sihayo kaXongo of the Ngobese clan,” the young Zulu replied.

  The woman gave a mirthless chuckle and shook her head. “Then we are kinsmen. I, too, am of the Ngobese. My husband was a herdsman, killed protecting your father’s kraal and cattle at kwaSogekle. What has become of Sihayo and your eldest brother, Mehlokazulu?”

  “My father has returned to the uPoko Valley, where he hopes to unite our people,” Tshwane explained. “You should make your way there. I have heard no word from Mehlokazulu since before the Battle of Isandlwana.”

  “And what of the white soldiers?” the woman asked. “We know nothing but rumours and lamentations we’ve heard echoed from the hilltops. Are they defeated? Can we return home?”

  Mbilini replied, “We have crushed a force of their soldiers near the Ntombe River. That is where these mealies came from. But there is still much fighting to be done, before they are expelled from the lands of the Zulu.”

  The woman hung her head. “Let us hope, then, that the king will not allow my children to die of starvation before then.” She then gazed up at the two men. “We have been forced to keep moving, as the white soldiers burn our crops and steal our livestock. We have lived on bitter roots and the corpses of the rats who come to feast on us. I am glad to have you as a friend of amaZulu, Prince Mbilini of the Swazi. And I pray to the ancestors that you can drive these invaders from the land, lest the Zulus die out as a people.”

  Just before dark, Mbilini and Tshwane left the woman and her children. They scarcely spoke as they made the long trek back to the Swazi prince’s stronghold at Tafelberg Mountain. Around midnight, they were compelled to halt near a shallow stream to catch a few hours of sleep.

  Tshwane was feeling particularly famished and attempted to eat some crushed mealies mixed with water from the stream. His appetite soon left him. His mind was focused on the poor woman and her starving children. He didn’t even know their names, yet knew he would never forget their faces. How many more families were suffering so abjectly? The closer one lived to the royal kraal at Ulundi, the better they probably faired. The harvest had just come to pass, and the crops and cattle in the Zulu interior had been untouched by the red soldiers. Granted, a substantial portion of the crop was likely being used to feed the amabutho as it prepared to face the white invaders again…at least he assumed the regiments were assembling to fight again. But for those living within the disputed territories and near the various borders with British Natal, starvation and disease ran rampant.

  Since travelling north from his now-destroyed home at kwaSogekle, the young Zulu’s entire world had been centred around the fight Prince Mbilini and the abaQulusi were undertaking against the British soldiers in the north. However, these were not the same redcoats the main impi had defeated at Isandlwana. How many regiments did the white soldiers have? And how many indigenous warriors were fighting for them? The iziGqoza clan were the bitter enemies of King Cetshwayo’s own Usutu faction, and many had enlisted into the ranks of the White Queen’s army. He had personally seen defectors amongst the Zulus living nearest the Transvaal, now serving with the British impi in the north. Did these men not realise the suffering they were causing their own mothers, wives, sisters, and children?

  While Mbilini slumbered a few yards away, Tshwane curled up and lay on his side, his eyes transfixed on the glint of moonlight shimmering off the stream. His mind continued to conjure up images of suffering people, as he finally drifted off to sleep.

  Newly-appointed Colour Sergeant Anthony Booth spent most of the following day writing notes of his various recollections to compile into his official report. Though he did not wish to trample on Captain Moriarty’s grave, he had Private Mace relay to him all that he’d heard at the northern camp regarding the African wagon driver who’d recognised Mbilini. Unfortunately, the wagon driver himself was among those slain during the massacre and could not verify his story. Sometime in the mid-afternoon he had William Burgess sent to him.

  His former assistant section leader came to him with his tunic in hand. He’d only half-finished sewing on the three white chevrons denoting him as a lance sergeant. He carried a camp stool in his other hand.

  “I see I’m not the only one to be given a promotion after this little disaster,” he said, nodding to the freshly-sewn flags and crown insignia on Anthony’s shoulder before taking a seat across from him.

  The colour sergeant took a moment to visually assess Burgess. He was much changed in such a short time. Gone was his carefree demeanour and constant squabbling about regretting signing on for another six years with the Colours.

  “Mine’s just a temporary appointment, once again,” Anthony stated.

  “So’s this,” Burgess replied, holding up the sleeve with the half-sewn chevrons.

  “I suppose the added pay might give you enough to purchase an early discharge; that is, unless you’ve decided to remain with the Regiment.”

  The lance sergeant shook his head. “Not a chance. I’ve given all I am willing to Queen and Empire. And too many lads lost everything two days ago. Yet they didn’t die with much dignity, did they?”

  Anthony paused for a moment before answering. There was an added bitterness in Burgess’ voice. He could not blame him under the circumstances. Like him, Lance Sergeant William Burgess felt partly responsible for the deaths of Farrell and Dodd. “No,” he said, at last. “There was no dignity in how most of them died.”

  “Then I hope your report will reflect as much,” the lance sergeant stressed. “Not to defame their memories, but we need to let history know that they died needlessly. They died due to ineptitude, because their leaders failed them.”

  “Their leader who shared their fate,” Anthony reminded him. “And you need not worry about my report being thorough.”

  “I think we know each other better than that,” Burgess remarked with a nod. “Is that why you wanted to see me?”

  “Partly. I need you to read over this and see if it matches your own recollections. I like to be thorough, but even my memor
y is cloudy in places. You and I endured the same ordeal, but we may have differing memories. We need this to be as accurate as possible before it goes to Major Tucker.”

  “Of course,” the lance sergeant replied as Colour Sergeant Booth handed him the sheaf of papers.

  “I also trust you will continue to perform your duties to the best of your ability,” Anthony stressed. “You have the entire section under your charge now.”

  “Yes, what remains of it,” Burgess said, immediately regretting his words. He sighed. The next words balled up in his throat. “I have twelve men remaining, myself included.”

  “Have they given you an assistant yet?”

  “Corporal Brew from C Company. He should have been given the section, since he had seniority over me. He only managed to survive by swimming naked across the river and didn’t exactly play much of a role in the fighting retreat. Because of this, Major Tucker felt I should assume charge of the section. Brew hasn’t offered any complaints; I think he’s just glad to be alive. To be honest, I wanted them to promote Crawford, but he can’t read.”

  “One of the best soldiers in that section, yet he lacks one crucial skill to achieve promotion,” Anthony noted.

  “He’s not the first man to complete two decades with the Colours and retire as a private,” Burgess noted. He gave an uncomfortable pause. “No one has confirmed who’ll assume command of E Company, maybe Lieutenant Harward. Though if I’m being honest, colour sergeant, that might not sit well with the lads.”

  “It is not for us to judge Mister Harward’s conduct,” Anthony said curtly. He knew there was much bitterness directed towards the officer for deserting the field. That was unavoidable, and if he were also being honest, he shared the same sense of resentment. However, what he could not allow was a lapse in discipline within the ranks. Even though his time with E Company had proven short, he felt a sense of responsibility towards the men in his former section.