Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  Also on the morning of the 30th, twenty prisoners surrendered to various patrols. The interrogation went on for some time, and Colonel Wood was unsurprised to learn that the Zulu impi had numbered around 25,000 warriors. They also confirmed that hundreds of injured warriors had perished during the first couple days of the journey, thus confirming the British column’s estimate regarding the Zulu dead.

  Some confessed that they had disobeyed King Cetshwayo by attacking the fort instead of pressing on into the disputed territories. The routing of the mounted troops the previous day had gotten their blood up, though it was expected that they would attack the Khambula stronghold regardless of previous provocations. There was also mention of a much smaller impi heading south to support those investing the Siege of Eshowe, and to delay the fresh column of soldiers massing near the Thukela River.

  Having gathered all the intelligence he felt he was going to get from these prisoners, Wood folded his arms across his chest and addressed them sternly. “Before Isandlwana, we treated all your wounded men in our hospital. But when you attacked our camp, your brethren—who were our patients—rose up and helped to kill those who were attending them. Can any of your advance give a reason why I should not kill you?”

  “May I speak?” a younger warrior asked, in heavily accented English. His eyes were intelligent, and the colonel was impressed that one so young could speak their language.

  “Yes,” he replied with a nod.

  “There is a very good reason why we kill you,” the warrior replied. “It is the custom of the Zulu to slay our most dangerous foes, and then commit hlomula, thereby freeing their spirits.” The act he spoke of was the Zulus’ tradition of disembowelling their slain adversaries. The young man concluded with a resigned shrug, “But this is not the white man’s custom.”

  It was a simple, yet intelligent response, and Evelyn even found himself admiring the clever young warrior. He then turned to his orderly. “Mister Lysons, have these men placed under guard with the Frontier Light Horse.”

  “Sir.” The lieutenant snapped off a salute and had the prisoners escorted out of the colonel’s tent.

  As the sun set that evening, Mandlenkosi searched through the ruins of their brush huts, hoping to find some sort of shelter for the night. The ground was streaked with blood and entrails in places, where the mutilated corpses of Zulu warriors torn to shreds by the artillery had been dragged away for burial. He winced and fought back a tear, as he saw among the discarded shields and weaponry a handful of white shields belonging to warriors of the uThulwana Regiment. He took these and used them to help make a roof out of the crushed remnants of one of the huts. His fellow warriors did the same. Many talked excitedly about the ‘traitors’ they had killed and the spoils taken from their bodies. One warrior held aloft an Iqawe necklace.

  “The ‘hero of Isandlwana’ who wore this has no more need of it,” he said with malicious pride.

  Mandlenkosi said nothing, but simply went about securing his shelter. He then sat and stared at his iklwa stabbing spear, which was splattered with blood from the old warrior he’d slain. Traditionally, such weapons were left ‘washed’ in enemy blood, until such time as the izinyanga diviners could conduct the purification rituals necessary to cleanse the bodies and spirits of those who’d killed in battle.

  “I fear my spirit will be forever stained,” he said quietly. He took a clump of grass and proceeded to scrub the blood from his spear.

  Chapter XLVI: Trail of the Dead

  Khambula

  4 April 1879

  Company from the 1/13th Somerset Light Infantry, taken after the Battle of Khambula

  Over the course of the week following the Battle of Khambula, life for the soldiers of No. 4 Column resumed with a sense of routine and ‘normalcy’. The war was still far from won, and all anxiously awaited news from his lordship and the flying column that was bound for Eshowe.

  With the death of Sergeant Lewis Walker, some of the men in Harry Davies’ section assumed he would be elevated to section leader, with a promotion to sergeant. It was not meant to be, however, as the more senior Corporal James Shepard was promoted into the billet.

  “Well, that’s that,” James said as he joined Harry near the section’s tent. “The captain asked if I wanted a formal ceremony in front of the company. I told him it wasn’t necessary.”

  The new section leader’s expression was one of awkwardness. He kept staring at the set of gold sergeant’s chevrons in his hand. They were slightly faded and worn, with the numerous threads around the edge telling that they were cut from another soldier’s tunic.

  “Were those Sergeant Walker’s?” Harry asked.

  James nodded. “Colour Sergeant Fricker said they didn’t have any new chevrons, so I’d have to make due. I guess poor old Lewis won’t mind.” His thoughts then turned to the slain sergeant’s son. “How’s Richard managing?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “I feel for his poor mother,” James said. “To have her husband killed and son injured, both in the same bloody battle.”

  “Richard is scared for his mother and his younger siblings,” Harry stated. “To be honest, James, I worry about them, and all the widows and orphans who are left forgotten once the fighting’s over.”

  They continued on in silence for a few moments. Harry wished there was something he could do for Margaret Walker and their family, but he knew there was nothing. There was little the Army could do either. There simply was no pension fund for widows and orphans of soldiers killed while on campaign. Most likely, they would offer Margaret and her younger children passage back to England with whatever stoppages remained from Lewis’ pay, but that was all. Richard Walker, meanwhile, would remain with the Regiment, continuing in his duties as a bandsman. The lad was just two months from his eighteenth birthday, Harry wondered if he still intended to transfer into one of the line companies as a rifleman. No doubt he would be extremely worried about his mother and siblings, but so long as he remained with the Colours, he had a guaranteed wage and could have a stoppage sent home to aid his family. It wasn’t much, and would not be enough to see to his siblings’ education, or to buy that cottage his father had promised his mother. Hopefully, it would be enough to keep them from starving in the gutter.

  “Including you, there’s only eleven of us left in the section,” he observed, as the two NCOs strolled along the edge of the southern slope of Khambula ridge. He then paused and added, “Well, twelve, once Private Hill returns to duty.”

  “It’s difficult enough keeping a battalion up to strength even on Home Service,” Shepard recalled. “We’re called the Somerset Light Infantry. However, during my eleven years with the Colours, I have yet to experience Army life in Britain. Gibraltar, Malta, and Southern Africa have been my homes with the Regiment.”

  “I thought I overheard some of the officers saying we might be returning to England, once this war with the Zulus is over.”

  “We were already overdue,” James remarked. “1st Battalion hasn’t been home in nearly twelve years. A number of the lads have spent their entire tenures with the Colours on Foreign Service. Our 2nd Battalion arrived in the Cape a couple months ago. Time for them to spend a few years keeping the colonies sorted.”

  “I suppose with those new stripes you’ll be remaining with the Regiment,” Harry speculated.

  James let out a sigh of resignation. “Probably. Of course, we have this little conflict to finish with the Zulus. I could still wind up with an assegai through the neck. In which case, these will likely be yours.”

  “I’m not so anxious for promotion that I want to watch any more of my friends die,” Harry said, a macabre chill running up his back. He added with a nervous smile, “Besides, I’m not entirely certain whether I wish to remain at Her Majesty’s disposal. That padded chair in the cloakroom at my father’s bank is looking better all the time.”

  The 4th of April saw the arrival of the long-anticipated despatch from Lord Chelms
ford regarding the relief of Eshowe. Telegraph communications between Pietermaritzburg and Utrecht allowed the much-needed message to expediently reach the No. 4 Column just two days after his lordship’s battle against the Zulu southern impi at a place called Gingindlovu.

  Colonel,

  I must firstly offer my profound congratulations to you on your astounding victory against the Zulu impi. You should know that after a short, savage fight against another enemy force at Gingindlovu, we have left a thousand slain Zulus on the field, put them to flight, and relieved Colonel Pearson’s garrison at Eshowe.

  I have ordered the Eshowe fort evacuated, with three battalions recently arrived from Britain now occupying new fortifications closer to the Thukela River. We have won a pair of victories, yet I believe Cetshwayo is far from beaten. Reinforcements continue to arrive in the Cape, and within a short span I hope to reorganise our forces for a renewed push towards Ulundi.

  Though four major generals are expected with the battalions of reinforcements, I intend to leave you in command of a reorganised flying column. You have proven your mettle, colonel, and your experiences in fighting the Zulus must not be wasted. Please extend my personal congratulations to Colonel Buller and to the soldiers of No. 4 Column. Continue to harass the enemy and await further orders.

  Chelmsford

  Noticeably absent was any mention of Wood’s terrible defeat at Hlobane. Visions of the dead continued to haunt the colonel, particularly brave Captain Ronald Campbell, who Evelyn would have recommended for the Victoria Cross had he survived.

  The relief of Colonel Pearson’s No. 1 Column came as a profound reprieve to Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood. And while he suspected the survivors from the Siege of Eshowe were disheartened to abandon the fort they had held for the past three months, he understood the GOC’s reasoning.

  Despite the combined decisive victories at Khambula and Gingindlovu, the initial invasion was left in complete disarray. Colonel Glyn’s No. 3 Column was decimated and Lieutenant Colonel Durnford’s mounted No. 2 Column effectively destroyed, while Colonel Pearson’s No. 1 Column was left badly weakened by food deprivation and disease. The Siege of Eshowe and Battle of Gingindlovu had claimed the lives of scores of imperial soldiers, with the emaciated survivors in no condition to campaign for the time being. The addition of three battalions of reinforcements did not change the reality that they were overextended and extremely vulnerable. It was also unknown how long it would be until the next wave of troops arrived from Britain.

  “Nothing remains but to continue operations and await his lordship’s orders,” Wood said, to his assembled battalion commanders and staff officers.

  “The abaQulusi are still a very dangerous enemy,” Redvers Buller pointed out. “They likely left hundreds of dead on the field, yet those who survived have retired to the tops of their mountain strongholds.”

  “We drove the main Zulu impi from the field,” Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert added, “but we did not destroy them.”

  While casualties within No. 4 Column certainly could have been far worse, it was three companies who bore the brunt of their losses. D and G Companies from the 90th Regiment, who made up Major Hackett’s counterattack and bayonet charge, suffered a total of forty-four dead and wounded. D Company was further rendered leaderless for much of the battle; Captain Maud having been detached to Wood’s staff, with both Lieutenant Bright and Colour Sergeant Allen dying from their injuries. The brave soldiers from C Company, 1/13th, who were overrun from their position within the stone kraal, lost four killed and sixteen wounded over the course of the battle.

  In addition to mourning the loss of friends and penning letters of condolence to the families of the fallen, there were countless reports for officers commanding to write. These included recommendations of awards for valour. While it could be argued that every man at Khambula exuded stalwart personal bravery, a handful of names stood out from the ranks. In C Company, 1/13th, there was Private Albert Page, who saved the life of an injured Swazi auxiliary, not to mention the late Private William Grosvenor, who saved Colour Sergeant Fricker from certain death and subsequently died while attempting to protect Sergeant Lewis Walker.

  “I’d like your recommendation, colour sergeant,” Captain Thurlow said, as he visited his injured senior NCO, who was resting on a hospital cot. He was bare-chested, with his upper right arm and stomach both heavily bandaged. Though his injuries were clearly causing him much discomfort, he made no complaints.

  “Or course, sir,” he replied, trying his best to sit upright.

  The captain read through his notes as he explained, “Soon after the company withdrew back to the laager, Private Page called out that an auxiliary warrior had fallen wounded. Under intense enemy fire, not to mention a few flung assegais, he left the protection of the laager and helped the man to safety.”

  “Personally, sir, I would recommend him for the Distinguished Conduct Medal,” Fricker said after a few moments of contemplation. “The criteria states that it is awarded for ‘distinguished, gallant, and good conduct in the field’. I think his actions fit the conditions.”

  “So, you would not recommend him for the Victoria Cross?” the captain then asked. “The criteria for the VC states, ‘conspicuous bravery, daring act of valour, or self-sacrifice’. Do these not describe Private Page’s actions?”

  “To be brutally honest, sir, I think it comes down to who he rescued. Had it been an officer, then I think a VC would be a certainty. Saving an enlisted soldier, it would likely be considered. But a black kaffir…well, whatever we may think of our allies, I doubt anyone at Horse Guards will view saving one of their lives as meriting a VC.”

  “I suppose the same holds true when a black African saves one of our own,” Thurlow remarked, drawing a puzzled look from his colour sergeant. “I was just speaking with Lieutenant Browne of the IMI. He told me quite the tale about how he was cut off and nearly killed, when Sergeant Major Learda of the Basutos led a section of riders in between him and the Zulus, and kept the enemy at bay long enough for him to remount his horse and make his escape. He told Colonel Wood he wanted to recommend the sergeant major for the VC; however, the colonel informed him this would never be endorsed.”

  “It’s the way of things,” Arthur said with a shrug, which caused a jolt of pain to shoot up his arm and side. “I’m sure the sergeant major will be content with a DCM and £10 annuity.” He then laid back and stared up at the ceiling of the hospital tent for a moment. “A pity there is nothing we can do for poor Private Grosvenor. He saved my life and tried to save Sergeant Walker. Not that a VC would do him much good from the grave.”

  It was a long, sombre journey for those who consented to return with Mnyamana to Ulundi; even more so for those whose homes lay in the south, along the uMzinyathi and Thukela Rivers. British mounted patrols would later report that almost every pair of warriors carried a wounded comrade between them. Many of these succumbed to their injuries and were only afforded the hastiest of burials, often in aardvark mounds or anthills, with their shield lying on top. Hunger and thirst gripped the defeated warriors, whose exhausted bodies cried out for nourishment.

  Ten miles to the east, Mehlokazulu sat alone atop a small knoll, his gaze fixed towards the northwest. After the events of the past two days, the induna was relieved to find himself still amongst the living. Though his brethren had fought bravely, in his mind, the issue was never in doubt once the iNgobamakhosi fell into the red soldiers’ trap. And despite the amabutho’s reputation for discipline, they had once again disobeyed the king and paid a fearful price for their insolence. The wound to his scalp was painful to the touch, and he knew he had escaped with his life by the absolute narrowest of margins.

  The induna was alone, the survivors of his companies having scattered during the rout. His dear friend, Bongani, was among the slain. He had made it just a couple of steps forward during the final push before a slew of bullets ended his young life. It filled Mehlokazulu with bitterness and sorrow that he was unab
le to give Bongani, or any of his fallen warriors, a decent burial with the honours they so justly deserved.

  “Such is the price paid for disobeying our king,” he said quietly.

  A nagging thought had persisted in his mind ever since the Isandlwana campaign. How different would the war have progressed, had the king personally led his regiments into battle? Not since the time of Shaka had Zulu kings marched beside their warriors into battle. The risks were great and, should King Cetshwayo fall, his eldest son and heir, Prince Dinuzulu, was just a boy of eleven.

  Something that the induna was certain of was that, had Cetshwayo taken to the field, the Undi Corps would have never even contemplated disobeying his orders regarding crossing the uMzinyathi River into Natal. As such, the Battle of kwaJimu would not have happened. What’s more, the impi would have kept to the most recent plan of bypassing the British column at Khambula.

  “Where shall I go now?” he quietly asked himself. His loyalty to King Cetshwayo was absolute, and he would eventually return to Ulundi. However, his concerns at the moment were for his immediate family. His father and younger brother were both vulnerable, especially in light of the recent disaster, which would doubtless embolden the red soldiers. Indecision then gripped the young induna. Should he return to Ulundi, or first seek out his father or even his brother, Tshwane?

  Epilogue: Hunting the Hyena

  Deserted farm near Luneburg

  5 April 1879

  Zulu Against Zulu, from The Graphic

  The defeat of the king’s impi at Khambula had been total. Thousands lay slain and even more gravely wounded. ‘The Boys of Isandlwana’ were utterly broken. With their defeat, Prince Mbilini saw his chances at reclaiming the Swazi throne with the help of King Cetshwayo vanishing. Though the prince felt twinges of remorse for not taking part in the great battle, he had required a few days to recover from his injuries suffered at Hlobane. The gash across his chest appeared to be healing, though he still suffered from headaches brought on by the glancing strike of an enemy warrior’s knobkerrie.