Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  Mehlokazulu’s heart pounded in his chest, not from the exertion of running but a strange combination of exhilaration and fear. It struck the heart of every warrior before going into battle. His previous experiences at Isandlwana, and now Hlobane, reinforced what his father had always told him; only a fool goes into battle unafraid. Zulu warriors prided themselves on being the bravest fighters in the known world, yet they were not suicidal. No man on either side wished to die this day, and their courage was measured in executing their duty in spite of the abject fear of pain and death.

  It wasn’t just the enemy’s numbers that unnerved Colonel Wood, it was their discipline and stratagems. He was well-versed in the different types of warfare amongst the indigenous tribes of Southern Africa and quite familiar with the ‘Horns of the Beast’ tactic.

  “Their generals are clever,” he remarked, as he watched the ‘Left Horn’ file into the valley to the south. “Simple, yet effective.”

  “They mean to surround us and then hit the entire perimeter at once,” Lieutenant Lysons conjectured.

  “Very astute, Mister Lysons,” Wood replied. He then cocked a half-grin and asked, “And how would you deal with such an adversary?”

  The young subaltern paused for a moment and then replied, “Draw one of their elements into attacking too soon.”

  “Precisely. We’ll goad one of their ‘Horns’ into the fray, sort them out, and then deal with the rest.” He turned to his bugler once more. “Order our mounted troops to make ready.”

  The bugle notes sounding ‘Stand to Your Horses’ echoed from atop the redoubt. The mounted troops of No. 4 Column were still in a state of numbing shock, following their horrific defeat of the previous day. Many closed their eyes, trying their best to quell the fear and horror they had yet to deal with.

  “You heard the order!” Lieutenant Colonel Buller’s voice bellowed. “To your horses!”

  The commanding officer of No. 4 Column’s mounted troops was already in the saddle. Being ordered into battle gave the men a sense of purpose. Nearby, the troopers from the Natal Native Horse and the redcoats from the Imperial Mounted Infantry took to their saddles. Though Redvers Buller and Cecil Russell maintained their independent commands, they would be acting as a single concentrated force this day.

  Once satisfied that his men were moving with haste to saddle their mounts and make ready for battle, Buller galloped his horse out of the main laager and up the short distance to the high redoubt, where he snapped off a sharp salute to Colonel Wood.

  “Your orders, sir?”

  “Take you men out and engage the enemy forces to the north,” Wood replied, pointing with his field glasses. “Make them chase you and lead them into our guns. Our cannon and the lads from the 90th will sort them out.”

  “Sir!” Buller saluted again and quickly turned his horse, galloping back to where roughly 300 of his men were leading their horses out from the protective laager and forming into a column.

  “Lads,” he said, “today we avenge our friends whose shattered souls cry out for justice! Deploy by troops into line formations. At 300 yards we will send the Zulus our regards, then make them chase us back to the laager and into the waiting arms of the 90th Regiment. Are you with me?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The colonel raised his carbine in the air, signalling for his troopers to follow him. European volunteers from the Frontier Light Horse, African horsemen from the Natal Native Horse, and British redcoats of the Imperial Mounted Infantry formed into a series of staggered lines on either side of their commanding officers. They rode at a canter, surveying the large force of Zulus converging from the north.

  For Private Samuel Wassall, the entire experience was surreal. The last time he’d witnessed so many enemy warriors, he was riding for his life trying to escape. Now, he was heading straight towards them. He gritted his teeth, biting the inside of his cheek. His eyes narrowed. Despite his fears, which turned his stomach in knots, he was glad to be taking the fight back to the Zulus.

  “Halt!” Lieutenant Browne bellowed.

  At the centre of their scattered formation, Lieutenant Colonel Buller had dismounted his horse and could be seen loading a cartridge into his carbine. Sam unslung his weapon, practically falling from his horse. He then took a moment to breathe in deeply to calm his nerves before pulling a round from his bandolier. He quickly chambered the cartridge, snapped the breach shut, then double-checked his sites to make certain they were set to the 300-yard mark.

  “Present!” their officer commanding shouted.

  Sam looped his arm through the reins of his horse, ever fearful that the frightened beast would bolt, leaving him to be gutted by the Zulus.

  “Fire!”

  A ragged volley erupted from 300 carbines as they loosed a swarm of lead bullets into the seemingly impenetrable mass of warriors. Wassall’s horse jolted yet settled down within a few seconds. Some of the mounted troopers struggled to control their horses; they never seemed to get used to the horrific bang of musketry from their riders. Black powder smoke obscured their vision, even as they were ordered to reload.

  The Zulus were shouting the war chants of ‘Usutu!’

  It unnerved the young soldier, causing sweat to run into his eyes, as he shouldered his carbine to fire once more.

  Mehlokazulu winced, hearing the sadly familiar cries of warriors being struck down by enemy bullets. The ‘Right Horn’s’ frontage was vast, extending about a mile in width, with companies formed six ranks deep. Approximately thirty warriors were struck down in the first volley by the enemy’s horsemen; barely enough to scratch the surface of their ranks, yet enough to incense the entire iNgobamakhosi into action. Cries of ‘Usutu!’ drowned out the cracks of return fire from their own skirmishers, as well as those from a subsequent enemy volley which smashed into the bodies of another score of warriors. A handful of skirmishers carried the breach-loading rifles they had claimed as prizes from Isandlwana. A few of these banged loudly, the savage kick nearly knocking their wielders over.

  “Usutu!” came the universal battle cry from the entire ‘Right Horn’ again. Weapons were raised high, and as one they rushed after their foes.

  Struggling to form the words, Mehlokazulu managed to shout, “The red soldiers came!” eliciting a return cry from his warriors of, “We destroyed them! We are the boys of Isandlwana!”

  “Time to go, lads!” Sergeant Naughton shouted. His soldiers needed no other prompting.

  Thousands of Zulus were now rushing to disembowel them. Running at a dead sprint, they reckoned the Zulus would be on them in about thirty to forty seconds; barely enough time to re-mount their horses and kick them into a full gallop.

  Sam Wassall clutched his carbine in his right hand, not even contemplating trying to sling it with swarms of Zulus closing behind them. In a very strange turn of events, they heard their pursuers shouting occasional taunts in English, most notably, ‘Don’t run away, Johnnie! We want to speak with you!’

  “Speak to me with an assegai, most likely,” Sam muttered. He kicked his mount into an even faster sprint.

  Near the troop lines of the Natal Native Horse, Lieutenant Colonel Russell was struggling to control his panicked mount. The poor beast was kicking and thrashing wildly, utterly terrified by the crashing volleys of carbine fire and the screaming war cries of the rampaging Zulus. Lieutenant Edward Browne noticed his plight and sprinted his horse towards the colonel whose death was but moments away.

  “I see him, sir.” A heavily accented voice called out from a few yards behind Browne. It was the troop sergeant major of the Natal Native Horse, a powerfully built African Basuto named Learda. Calling on a dozen troopers to follow him, the Basuto sergeant major rode over and formed his men into a protective line between Russell and the Zulus.

  As the African horsemen fired salvoes of carbine fire into the nearest ranks of Zulus, Browne galloped his horse over and grabbed hold of the reins of the colonel’s mount. It gave Russell just enough time to cla
mber up into the saddle.

  Browne reached over and clapped the Basuto senior NCO on the shoulder. “Pull your men back, sergeant major!” he shouted before riding after the rest of the fleeing horsemen.

  Learda and his band of brave troopers may well have been overrun and killed, had a ‘common shot’ from one of the 7-pounder cannon back at the camp not burst amongst the throngs of Zulus now nearly upon them. The Basutos turned about and joined the retreat back towards the camp.

  Colonel Wood gave a sigh of relief, watching the fleeing columns of horsemen reach the protective safety of the main laager. The Zulu ‘Right Horn’ was in full pursuit and now being harried by Captain Slade’s guns, as well as the sharp-shooters and designated marksmen from the 90th Light Infantry. Due to the flat, open nature of the ground below them, which was ideal for musketry, sharp-shooters were authorised to open fire at 1,000 yards. Range markers had been established days earlier, making it a simple task for officers and NCOs to order their riflemen to adjust their sights.

  Satisfied at how his plan was unfolding, Wood turned his attention south. He was pleased to see that while the enemy ‘Chest’ was starting to quicken its stride, having been alerted to the sound of the guns, the ‘Left Horn’ was still negotiating its way through the valley.

  “Splendid,” he said, with a confident nod.

  Down in the main laager, the first company volleys from the 90th Regiment commenced at 600 yards. While individual marksmen attempting to strike their targets at such a range would be largely ineffective, the volleys from several hundred soldiers created a wall of lead which cut swaths through the Zulu ranks. The four 7-pounder guns occupying the open ground just outside the laager, under the command of a pair of artillery lieutenants, including Arthur Bigge, were utilising the range markers to terrifying effect. They soon switched their ammunition to canister shot, which was in essence a massive shotgun blast, sending scores of large lead balls into the advancing swarm of Zulu warriors.

  Down by the guns, a section of infantrymen from 1/13th were arrayed in skirmishing order to protect the cannon.

  Yet, as one private immediately noted, “They have no need of protection.”

  The gently sloping ground allowed the guns to pour enfilade fire into the Zulu ranks. The blasts of cannister shot ripped into men, tearing off limbs, shredding guts and, in some cases, blowing warriors completely in half. Several were decapitated, their heads exploding like pumpkins, the large lead balls continuing through and smashing into the bodies of their mates behind them.

  “Yet still they come,” one soldier whispered, shaking his head. He then chambered a cartridge into the smoking breach of his rifle.

  “No European army could withstand this,” one of his mates remarked. “Even Napoleon’s Old Guard would have broken, yet onward the Zulus come!”

  The ‘Right Horn’ was now within 400 yards. The accuracy of the 90th Regiment’s volleys was improving, creating more carnage and suffering with each ear-shattering salvo.

  “Set for 400 yards!” Lieutenant Bigge of the artillery shouted to his crewmen. “Continue to fire canister shot!”

  The sergeant commanding the section of redcoats protecting the guns rushed over to the main laager and called out to his officer commanding. “Any sign of those damned kaffirs to the south, sir?”

  “Nothing yet,” the captain called back.

  With the ‘Left Horn’ and ‘Chest’ still ten to fifteen minutes from being in position, Colonel Wood had all of his artillery concentrate on the ‘Right Horn’ to the north. The guns occupying the redoubt thundered loudly, sending shrapnel shot sailing into the black masses in the valley below.

  “They’re retiring, sir!” Captain Woodgate called out excitedly.

  Evelyn turned to see the splendid formations of Zulu company lines had completely shattered. They were now one large mass, fleeing to an outcropping of rocky ground to the north. The slew of bodies left in their wake spoke volumes about the effectiveness of the British cannon and musketry. The colonel checked his watch. It was 2.15. The Battle of Khambula had been raging for just over thirty minutes, and the initial enemy attack had been bloodily repulsed. Some of their more stubborn skirmishers were engaging in a fruitless exchange of musketry with the redcoats manning the north and north-western faces of the main laager. Yet for all intents and purposes, the ‘Right Horn’ was out of the fight for the time being.

  “Now to see about the ‘Chest’ regiments,” Wood mused aloud.

  Chapter XLI: Retreat from the Kraal

  Khambula

  2.25 p.m.

  Soldiers manning the defences, from The Graphic

  “Those damnable fools!” one of Ntshingwayo’s aids said, watching the iNgobamakhosi Regiment and the rest of the ‘Right Horn’ flee from the British defences. “They let the red soldiers goad them into attacking too soon!”

  “And now the ‘Beast’ no longer has a ‘Right Horn’,” the old inkosi grumbled.

  Mnyamana had taken up position on a high ridge with his personal guard, well away from the fighting. Ntshingwayo had accompanied his men into battle, personally directing the regiments of the ‘Chest’. He’d established himself 700 paces from the high redoubt, where the redcoats established a small fort. It was an impossible task that the old inkosi took on. The Zulu army did not possess buglers or anything equivalent. Even their fastest messengers took a long time to find the amakhosi in command of the various regiments, relay any changes in orders, and report back to the commanding general. That is, if they could find the amakhosi while avoiding being killed or seriously injured!

  As was the case at Isandlwana, the impi attacking the British camp at Khambula was spread out over a number of miles. The height of the ridges and depths of the valleys prevented the regiments in the ‘Chest’ and ‘Horns’ from being able to see each other. Izinduna in command of the individual companies could only guess when the elements of unseen regiments were in position. Still, it was plain to Ntshingwayo that the ‘Right Horn’ had been deliberately forced into attacking too soon. The ‘Chest’ and ‘Left Horn’ needed to execute their portions of the assault with better coordination, lest the Zulu army cede the initiative back to the redcoats.

  “Here they come, lads!” Captain George Thurlow called out to his soldiers in C Company, 1/13th. His men were assembled into two ranks; the first knelt directly behind the stone ramparts, while the second stood behind them. “Set for 300 yards! Section leaders, take charge of your men and send the Zulu’s Her Majesty’s compliments.”

  Harry Davies and Lewis Walker both stood in the second rank of their section, so they might have a better view of the enemy now forming to attack their defences as well as the redoubt. Above their heads, the cannon in the high fort had shifted to face the enemy ‘Chest’. They boomed in succession, sending a pair of ‘common shot’ into the swarming ranks of Zulus now preparing to charge.

  “At 300 yards!” Sergeant Walker directed. “Volley…fire!”

  The rifles from their section unleashed with a deafening crack. The sections along the eastern face of the square fired into the ranks of Zulus sprinting towards the redoubt. There were no orders to reload, it was simply implied. Nor did Sergeant Walker give the command to fire during their subsequent volleys. Instead, on the order of ‘present’ his men shouldered their rifles and, at their discretion, pulled the trigger. While this made their volleys more ragged, it allowed the section leader to maintain fire discipline while giving his soldiers a moment to select a target and squeeze off a controlled shot. With his second round, Harry clipped a Zulu near the peak of his left shoulder, sending torn flesh and blood spraying, the impact knocking him onto his side. The corporal checked his sights, feeling he was aiming too high, before ejecting the spent cartridge and reloading.

  Zulu marksmen were now returning fire. Harry grimaced when he heard a scream coming from the eastern rampart, followed immediately by another. However, the kraal was offering at least some protection. And with the Zulus easily t
aking the worst of these exchanges of musketry, they began to withdraw towards the brush huts previously established by Wood’s Irregulars. Corporal Davies fired a shot, giving a grin of satisfaction when he saw it strike a Zulu in the small of the back. He then heard a soldier call out, ‘Sergeant Walker’s hit!’

  While the warriors of the Zulu ‘Chest’ were quickly repelled by the concentrated volleys from both the redoubt and the stone kraal, Colonel Wood knew they were far from beaten. “Mister Nicholson,” he said, to the officer in charge of the redoubt guns, “concentrate your fire on those huts.”

  “Very good, sir.” The lieutenant then gave a range adjustment to his crews, who went through their loading drills, this time with shrapnel shot. The guns thundered in quick succession.

  The artillery officer stood tall, watching where the rounds fell. “Short…add fifty yards!”

  Before he could even hear the confirmation from his battery sergeant, Lieutenant Nicholson felt a horrific blow strike him in the chest, immediately followed by another to his stomach which bowled him over.

  “Sir!” one of his gunners shouted, rushing over to the officer.

  He now lay twitching on his side, a stream of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. His breath was coming in gasps, and he found that his lungs were no longer able to suck in enough air.

  “Man…your gun…” he whispered to the crewman, forcing him away with the last of his strength. He knew he was finished. Only by continuing in their drills would his gunners keep the Zulus from overwhelming the redoubt. As his vision clouded, he regretted that he would not be able to see if this day were won or lost.