by James Mace
Around a mile to the northwest of the Hlobane plateau, Barton started to guide his horse in a more southerly direction.
“Your pardon, sir,” a trooper spoke up. “But we cannot reach Luneburg from that direction.”
“How do you know?” the captain asked impatiently.
“I spent time in Luneburg as a child. We need to go this way, sir!”
Barton ignored the man and spurred his horse on with a dozen troopers following.
Captain Dennison halted his mount and asked the man, “You sure you know the way?”
“Yes, sir,” the trooper said, before riding away, not wishing to argue with the officers any more.
A few minutes later, they heard sounds of musketry and cries of agony. Both Dennison and the trooper looked to their left and saw Robert Barton and his men being surrounded and butchered by the Zulus. Their horses were completely spent and they had no means of outpacing their foes. They just managed to catch a glimpse of the captain being stabbed in the small of the back before the Zulus pulled him from his horse, and a score of spears were savagely thrust into his body.
His combined command down to less than thirty men, and with the Zulus still in pursuit, Captain George Dennison led his men on. At one small hillock, he and a pair of troopers dismounted and laid down covering fire for those whose horses were close to giving out. Four of his men were overwhelmed and subsequently slain. It wasn’t until they were five or six miles from the hateful mountain that the enemy gave up the pursuit.
Contrary to Lieutenant Colonel Buller and Captain D’Arcy’s assumptions, Cecil Russell’s column had not retreated back to camp but rather had established itself on the heights of Zungwini Mountain. During the main push by the abaQulusi regiments, Russell’s men formed into skirmish lines and laid down suppressive fire while the warriors from Wood’s Irregulars guided their share of the captured cattle down the Ntendeka Nek. The rocket section under Lieutenant Arthur Bigge fired several Hales rockets towards Hlobane plateau, though it was doubtful that these were having much effect.
Leaning against a boulder that provided for an excellent firing position, Private Samuel Wassall tore open a ten-round packet in his reserve ammunition pouch. He felt inside and realised he only had one more remaining.
“Twenty more rounds and I’m out,” he said to his section leader, Sergeant Naughton.
He wasn’t sure if the NCO heard him, as both men’s ears were ringing from the pounding they’d taken from the constant firing of their weapons. Naughton had just torn open another packet of cartridges, and Sam assumed he, too, was running low. He also caught himself continuously glancing off to his right, where it appeared most of the Zulu army was watching them. He could not tell if they were still moving west. But if they were, he knew there was a great risk of the enemy getting between them and the route back to Khambula.
Not far behind the IMI positions, Cecil Russell was surprised to see Colonel Wood and his escorts riding towards them from the southeast.
Wood seemed more than a little irritated, as he rode up to Russell. “Damn it, man, what are you doing here? You should be on the Zungwini Nek!”
“This is the Zungwini Nek, sir,” Russell retorted. He was at the end of his rope and, at that moment, did not care if Wood sacked him on the spot.
“What of the herds you captured?” the column commander then asked.
“We had to cut them loose. I don’t think the Zulus have any intention of allowing us to take several thousand head of cattle all the way back to Khambula.”
Despite his feelings of anger, Wood nodded curtly before directing Russell to begin moving his forces back to Khambula.
The entire mission had been nothing short of disastrous, and though he would never bring himself to publicly admit it, Evelyn Wood knew he was to blame. After all, not only was he the Commanding Officer of No. 4 Column, he had been present and in overall command at Hlobane. He’d also disregarded the warnings he’d received regarding the approach of the main Zulu impi. He could only hope for something miraculous to happen within the next few days; otherwise, he would find himself and his column wiped out, with his reputation forever stained.
For Mandlenkosi, everything had come unravelled once the abaQulusi launched their attack on the white soldiers atop the mountain. His own warriors had mostly fled, though a few stayed and fought to the end. Compelled to hide amongst the boulders along the rocky krantz, he’d had the presence of mind to remove the red and yellow scarf from around his head and stuff it into his shoulder pouch. Upon reaching the open plain to the south, it was the most profound of coincidences that he found himself among none other than his former regiment, the uThulwana.
His heart racing, beads of nervous sweat running down his forehead and chest, he stood tall and joined his old companions, as they continued to move at a modest jog towards the west.
“Mandlenkosi!” a voice said from behind him. He looked to see Mnyamana, the king’s chief minister and commanding general of the regiment.
“Yes, inkosi?” he asked, nodding towards the old warrior who rode up beside him on his horse.
“You were not at the royal muster, yet your fellow warriors state that you survived the attack on kwaJimu. Where have you been all this time?”
“I am certain my companions told you I was wounded at kwaJimu,” Mandlenkosi explained, fighting against the fear in his voice. Did Mnyamana know he was a traitor? Or was he simply curious to hear where one of his regimental izinduna had been for the past three months. He continued, while showing the inkosi his scarred shoulder, “I am not as young as I once was, and my injuries took longer to heal.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” Mnyamana, a few years older than him, said knowingly.
“I did not think I could make it to the muster in time, and so I remained at home until I knew where the impi was heading. I came as soon as I could and only managed to arrive this day.”
“Just in time for us to route the white men’s mounted soldiers,” the inkosi added. He then nodded. “It is good to have you with us again. I’m afraid another warrior was given command of your company, but I’m certain you can resume your place with them once more.”
“Honoured, inkosi.”
The old induna then let out a sigh of relief. He knew Mnyamana as a passing acquaintance and was glad the chief minister did not know where Mandlenkosi’s home was. Were it known that he was one of Hamu’s followers, whose lands had been sacked on Cetshwayo’s orders, Mandlenkosi had little doubt that Mnyamana would have suspected him of treason.
As the impi continued its trek west towards Khambula, they were joined by the iNgobamakhosi and uKhandempemvu Regiments, as well as the abaQulusi forces under Manyanyoba, who formed their own column and would be part of the army’s ‘Chest’ when the time came for battle. The Swazi prince, Mbilini, was compelled to remain at Hlobane, as his injured ribs would likely keep him out of action for at least a few days. This was a disappointment for Mehlokazulu, for he wished to be able to see, or at least inquire after his brother, Tshwane.
As the army made camp to the west of Zungwini Mountain, Mandlenkosi would not seek out his former company. This was, in part, because he was uncertain he could bear the shame of facing his regimental mates, most of whom he had known since childhood. Indeed, he had no intention of remaining with the Zulu impi. His loyalties now lay strictly with his wife and daughter. Should the redcoats be defeated, their lives would most certainly be forfeit. No, he needed to wait until well after dark, when he could make his escape and return to Khambula. He sat near one of the campfires, listening to whatever he could gather from the old warriors of the uThulwana regarding the army’s next move. What he heard would prove very useful to the soldiers of the White Queen.
The Battle of Hlobane, from the collection of Ian Knight
Chapter XXXVIII: It is My Unpleasant Duty
British Camp at Khambula
10.00 p.m.
Wounded from Hlobane being unloaded at Utrecht, from Th
e Graphic
It was well into the night before the last of the survivors of the Hlobane disaster reached the safety of the camp at Khambula. By this time, the entire garrison was well-aware of the horrific reality that not only had the column suffered an ignominious defeat with terrible loss-of-life, but the entire Zulu impi was now just a few miles away.
Lieutenant Colonel Redvers Buller had personally led several patrols back along the lines of retreat, which retrieved a handful of stragglers who had somehow managed to evade the Zulus. After finally returning to the fort, there was the matter of writing his official report on the battle. Though Colonel Wood had been in the vicinity and directly coordinated the attack, Buller could not help but be plagued by feelings of guilt.
Sitting behind his small camp desk, he lit an oil lamp and sifted through his baggage for a quill and some writing parchment. As he sorted out his materials and began to write, he was joined by his staff officer.
“Captain Gardner,” Redvers said with a nod. “It would seem disaster has followed you from Isandlwana to here.” He immediately regretted the poorly chosen words. “My apologies.”
“Not at all, sir. I just wanted to let you know that I have the tally of our losses, as well as the organisation of what troops remain. With Captain Barton dead and most of C Troop missing and presumed killed, I’ve directed the survivors to fall in with Captain D’Arcy’s A Troop.”
“Thank you, captain,” Buller acknowledged with a nod of appreciation. “Have all surviving troop commanders also get a count on their ammunition and stores.”
“Already been done, sir,” Alan replied, handing him the stack of scribbled papers. “With your permission, I’ll take these directly to the quartermaster.”
“Very good,” Buller replied without looking at the reports. “Dismissed, captain.”
Despite the ill feelings officers like Colonel Wood and Major Clery may have harboured toward Captain Gardner, Buller was beginning to appreciate his talents. He was a more than capable staff officer, and that was enough. He then sifted through the casualty reports and let out a resigned sigh. All told, at least 100 white troopers were dead, to include 17 officers, along with 125 African allies from Wood’s Irregulars. Most had come from Buller’s column, which suffered around 30% casualties. What’s more, with the death of Piet Uys, the remaining Boer Burghers had deserted, as had almost all of the warriors from both battalions of Wood’s Irregulars. The element to suffer the worst, however, was Frederick Weatherly’s Border Horse. Of the 53 officers and men, only twelve returned. The rest were presumed dead, including the commanding officer and his young son.
Knowing there was nothing left to do but see to his unpleasant task, Buller began to write:
Sir,
It is my unpleasant duty to inform you of the magnitude of disaster which fell upon the mounted troops under my command during the aborted attack on the enemy strongholds atop Hlobane Mountain.
He went on to detail what he felt were the mistakes he had made in interpreting Colonel Wood’s directives which, in turn, compounded the disaster. He blamed himself for the confusion that unfolded once the abaQulusi massed to attack. Worst of all, was his asinine order to Weatherly and Barton to depart ‘to the right of the mountain’. Had he simply used the cardinal direction and told them to head north, both men would likely still be alive, as would many of their troopers. He especially pitied poor Rupert Weatherly. Redvers summed up his feelings of responsibility most notably in the following line:
To my careless expression must I fear be attributed the greater part of our heavy loss on this day.
Having finished and signed the despatch, he strode through the clinging darkness of the camp. Sentries were doubled, with soldiers continuing to make improvements to the defences under torchlight. As he passed the tents belonging to the 90th Regiment, he could see a light coming from his commanding officer’s tent. Though it was late, and the day had been utterly exhausting, he suspected that neither he nor Evelyn Wood would manage a wink of sleep that night.
“Your pardon, colonel,” Buller said, as he looked into Wood’s tent.
Evelyn was in his shirtsleeves, penning his own official despatch of the battle, with many of his notes being taken from the compiled reports of his subordinate officers. His eyes were bloodshot and his face pale. This was, in part, due to disbelief that he was still alive. The deaths of so many of his troops, including several dear friends and colleagues like Captain Ronald Campbell, had left him broken and sullen. In spite of this, or perhaps because of the magnitude of their losses, Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood found himself more resolute than ever. He now understood the magnitude of the enemy they faced; the constant worries of the unknown now gone.
“Ah, Redvers,” Wood said wearily. “I’ve been waiting for your report.”
“Yes, sir.” Buller averted his eyes and handed the several page despatch to his commanding officer.
Evelyn said nothing, his face remaining impassive as he read through the documents. As soon as he finished, he took a quill and started to line through several of the most self-damning lines Buller had written at the end of his despatch. Buller chanced a glance over the colonel’s shoulder and saw that these were the passages where he accepted responsibility for the disaster.
“What transpired today was not your fault,” Wood stressed. “There was a commanding officer of greater seniority, and it is he who bears full responsibility for what happened.”
Buller said nothing. In many ways, he felt a sense of relief at this assertion, contrasted with traces of shame for feeling relieved. His senior officer’s absolution did nothing to erase his personal feelings of responsibility. However, in that moment, there was a more immediate need pressing.
“Right now, we need to look to the current crisis facing this column,” Wood stated, echoing Buller’s thoughts. “The entire Zulu army is less than ten miles from here, and you can bet they are smelling blood right now.”
“Like a pack of wild hyenas,” Buller added.
“And those same hyenas will devour this entire column if we do not compose ourselves and put aside, for the time being, what happened today.”
The two men were soon joined by another officer, Captain Maud of the 90th Regiment. “You sent for me, sir?”
As a practical matter, Colonel Wood needed a competent staff officer to replace the slain Ronald Campbell. Because he knew the officers of his own regiment far better than those from 1/13th, he selected Captain Maud, the officer commanding of G Company of the 90th, as Campbell’s replacement.
“I am honoured, colonel,” Maud said, after Wood told him of his decision. “Though I confess, I am a little concerned for the state of my company.”
“How so?” Wood asked. “You have a competent subaltern to assume command.”
“Competent, yes, but also extremely young. Mister Bright is just twenty-one years old and has held his commission for scarcely a year. My colour sergeant is also in his early twenties.”
“Surely, you’re not telling me that leadership within your company is such that you are irreplaceable,” the colonel chastised.
“Not at all, sir. I was just making my concerns known.”
“I will make certain that Major Rogers and Major Hackett keep a close watch on your lads,” Wood reassured him. He then directed both Buller and Maud to try to get some sleep. “We don’t know what the enemy’s intentions are, only that we will need all of our strength in the coming days.”
Evelyn sat alone in his tent, going over the various reports from the day’s calamity, trying to keep his mind occupied, lest he fall into a state of brooding sorrow. There would be time another day to mourn for Ronald Campbell, Llewelyn Lloyd, and the other souls whose shattered bodies remained scattered along the ‘Painted Mountain’. Around 10.30 he saw Lieutenant Lysons opening the flap of his tent.
“Your pardon, colonel. There’s a kaffir who asks to see you. He came upon our picquets, frantically shouting Prince Hamu’s name. He’s fortunate
the lads weren’t completely skittish after the events of today. Otherwise, they might have just shot him.”
“Did he say what he wants?” Wood asked tiredly and with irritation.
“He told our interpreter that he knows the enemy’s plan for tomorrow and insists they mean to attack us here,” Lysons explained.
The colonel nodded and waved for the man to be brought to him, directing his batman to send for Major Knox-Leet. He was surprised to see this warrior was much older, likely in his fifties. The red and yellow rag, denoting him as a member of Wood’s Irregulars, was clutched in his hand. He was escorted in by Lysons, along with Private Fowler and another soldier from the IMI, plus the interpreter for Wood’s Irregulars. The warrior’s face and chest were covered in sweat, his eyes bloodshot. He began to speak quickly, though he refrained from the dramatic gesturing that Wood had so often witnessed when dealing with indigenous warriors.
“His name is Mandlenkosi,” the interpreter began. “Says he was a member of the uThulwana Regiment that took part in the attack on Rorke’s Drift. He defected with Prince Hamu and recently joined Wood’s Irregulars.”
Exhaustion, his lingering headache, and his addled mind made it impossible for Colonel Wood to recall if he had met the warrior before.
“I recognise this man,” Major Knox-Leet said, as he joined them. “He did indeed come over with Prince Hamu. If I remember, he was not just a member of the uThulwana, but also an induna.”
“That is the king’s personal regiment,” Wood recalled. “And if this man is an induna, he likely knows Cetshwayo personally. Why, then, should he choose to betray his sovereign and fight for us? And what is he doing here at this hour, looking as if he’s just ran twenty miles?”