by John Wilcox
‘It is vital, therefore, that the column does not become broken up during the hours of darkness. The two Zulus are waiting outside. You know the country, but talk to them about the route - they speak good English - and scan it carefully as discreetly as you can from the camp. No p-p-pointing to the mountain, now. I want the full column to be on top of Majuba by dawn, looking down on Johnny Boer when he wakes up. Come back to me when you have d-d-d-decided exactly which way we go. Understood, Fonthill?’
‘Understood, sir.’
‘Any questions?’
‘Do you intend to try to put guns up on the summit, General?’
‘Not tonight. Nor Gatling guns either. It will be difficult enough trying to get six hundred fully equipped men up there in the darkness as it is. But it will do the Boers no harm t-t-to think that we might have cannon up there commanding their camp. And, in the light of events, we might try to hoist a few mountain guns up later. All right?’
‘Quite clear, sir.’
Colley extended a placatory hand and smiled. ‘Jolly good, Fonthill. My two staff officers here and I will be in the van of the column and we shall therefore be right behind you. Good luck. We shall d-d-depend on you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Outside the tent, Simon found the two Zulu trackers squatting on their haunches, clenching assegais in their right hands, their faces completely expressionless. For a brief moment his stomach dropped as he looked again at the razor-sharp tips of their spears - the iklwas, so-called by the Zulus after the sound they made as they were twisted and removed from the flesh of their victims. His mind went back to Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, where he had warded off thrust after thrust from assegais like these until his tired arms threatened to drop his rifle and bayonet. Then he took a deep breath and beckoned to the Zulus to accompany him to his tent. They loped behind him as he retrieved his binoculars and then squatted with him under the cypress tree looking out towards Majuba.
The Zulus explained with a touch of proprietorial pride that although the Boers called the mountain Spitskop, it had been named Amajuba, ‘the Hill of the Doves’, by the great King Shaka when he had passed this way some fifty years before after returning from one of his punitive expeditions against a neighbouring tribe. Shaka had felt that the slabs of rock that encircled the summit made it look from a distance like a native dovecote. It was, they said, not as difficult to climb as it looked and the easiest route was certainly via Imquala. But the problem would arise when a plateau halfway up the first hill had been reached, for the troops would then have to head north and follow a track along the side of Imquala only wide enough for men to walk in single file, with a steep drop to one side. The path would lead to another open plateau at the northern end of Imquala and from there the route lay along the wide ridge which was the saddle and which led to Majuba itself and the final climb. From the foothills of Imquala to the summit of Majuba was just under three miles.
Simon frowned and bit his lip. Not difficult for the Zulus. But could six hundred troops, in full battle order, find their way in darkness up one and a half mountains? And would the Boers be waiting for them if they did reach the summit? He pressed the question again on the Zulus, but they assured him that the Boer piquet always left the mountain at dusk. He nodded. Farmers again. Magnificent horsemen, fine marksmen, but not real soldiers - not disciplined enough to stay the night on an open mountaintop. At least, that was the hope!
The Zulus confirmed that the easiest way to approach the mountain was to advance along the main road towards the Nek and then, once in the horseshoe embrace of the hills on either side, turn off to the left and begin the climb of Imquala. But Simon felt that this was to take the column far too close to the Boer lines and that it would be best to take a more circuitous route and turn off earlier. Colley agreed when he made his recommendation.
As lights-out sounded at 8.30 and the men prepared to retire for the night, a sudden flurry of activity broke out around the staff tents. Subalterns ran to senior officers and orders were issued for the chosen troops to prepare for the night march.
After alerting Jenkins and Hardy about the task ahead and briefing them as best he could, Simon cornered a young lieutenant and questioned him about the strength of the column. He learned that the force was to consist of two companies of the 58th Regiment of Foot, two companies of the 3/60th Rifles, three companies of the 92nd Highlanders, a company-strength Naval Brigade and specialist odds and ends from other units. Each man was to carry his rifle, seventy rounds of ammunition, a greatcoat, a waterproof sheet, and rations for three days - a total weight of fifty-eight pounds. In addition, each company was to take four picks and six shovels. Heavy loads all right. But why such an eclectic selection of men from different units? There would be no homogeneity, no familiar hierarchy of officers down which command could be passed in the event of casualties and, indeed, no one familiar regimental commander around whom troops could rally - Colley himself was not instantly recognisable to the rank and file. Why throw together such an odd mixture of riflemen, sailors and Highlanders to carry out a night operation of great complexity?
Simon put the question to the subaltern. The young man pulled at his moustache. ‘I think the old man wants to share around the glory a bit,’ he confided. ‘Give the chaps of the 58th a chance to have another go, so to speak, and the new boys a bite of the cherry too. Not a bad idea, don’t you know.’
But Simon shook his head as he walked away. It sounded amateurish to him. His apprehension grew as the bustle of the preparations consumed about one third of the camp. Those left behind were openly envious of the men now so quickly preparing to march through the night. The destination remained a secret but it was generally presumed along the lines that the general was going to make some sort of direct attack on the Boers again, probably against the enemy entrenched along the Nek. Spirits were high. It was a relief that part of Colley’s command at least was going into action.
Simon found himself thinking again about Hardy. It was, after all, not his war and he felt guilty that the American was to be drawn once more into a highly dangerous situation. After the Little Bighorn, Laing’s Nek and the Ingogo, the Texan must surely think that all generals were incompetent! He put it to Hardy that this was one engagement that he might care to miss.
Jenkins added his own voice to the argument. ‘Yes, Ally,’ he said. ‘Go an’ find your own war, killin’ Red Indians an’ that. This is really our little battle, see. Stay’ere an’ try an’ improve your poker. You’re fallin’ away a bit. I only owe you somethin’ like twenty thousand pounds now.’
The American’s response was the same as before. He gave them his laconic smile. ‘Met a Yorkshireman once. He used to say, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” Ah guess that’s me now. Ah’ll just jog along as usual behind you two fellers.’
Promptly at ten o’clock, Simon, Jenkins and Hardy followed closely behind the two Zulu trackers at the head of the column. Simon had decided that they should leave their horses behind so as to match the pace of the marching men, even though the officers behind them, of course, were mounted. Colley had ordered that the ‘Lights Out’ bugle should be sounded from the north of the camp so that it could clearly be heard in the Boer entrenchments and all fires and lights had been promptly put out at the same time. Enemy observers would be in no doubt that the English had retired for the night. It was to the accompaniment of only a very muffled cheer from the troops remaining, then, that the vanguard wound its way between the waggons and began the march on Majuba.
Apart from the occasional creak of webbing and the soft thud from the hooves of the officers’ chargers, it was a silent column. The redcoats of the 58th - the survivors of the first attack on Laing’s Nek - were given the honour of leading. Behind them marched the Rifles, themselves the veterans of the Ingogo battle; followed by the kilted and khaki-coated Gordon Highlanders, new to South Africa but covered with honours from Roberts’s recent campaign in Afghanistan; while bringing up the rear tr
udged the blue jackets of the Naval Brigade. The night was not as dark as had been predicted, and although the sky was moonless, the bulk of Majuba could clearly be seen ahead, looming large and menacing against the lighter blue of the heavens. Looking back, Simon sensed an air of excitement pervading the thin column of figures winding behind him. Whatever was going to happen - and the troops and their junior officers had still not been told their destination - the marching men sensed that revenge against the Boers was within their reach.
‘I ’ope these black lads know where the ’ell we’re goin’, because I don’t,’ confided Jenkins. But the Zulus padded along confidently enough and gestured to Simon when the time came to turn off the track and begin the ascent of Imquala. He turned to Colley and pointed to the left, and the general nodded.
As the Zulus had predicted, the initial stages were not difficult and the whole column was able to reach the first plateau halfway up Imquala without incident. Here, Colley directed that the two companies of the Rifles should be left to protect his line of communications and to send a vedette to the top of Imquala in the morning. Then Simon followed the receding figures of the Zulus along the thin single track that skirted the side of the mountain. Here he knew he would have trouble with Jenkins. This most courageous of warriors secretly nurtured two great fears: the sea and heights. Luckily, the night was dark enough for no one to see the sheer drop to their right, but even so, the Welshman clung to the rock face to his left.
‘Sorry, bach sir,’ he whispered. ‘Just tell everyone to step around me. I’ll catch you all up later when I’ve ’ad a bit of a breather, like.’
‘No,’ hissed Simon, his face so close to that of his comrade that he could smell the perspiration and the fear. ‘You could be shot for cowardice and that would be inconvenient, to say the least. Who would do my washing? Now come on, 352. Hold on to my belt and tread in my footsteps. This bit’s not long. The general’s riding his bloody horse along this path and he’s not fazed. Come on now. Al, help him.’
The American slipped off his belt and offered the end to Jenkins. From behind came an urgent whisper from Colley. ‘Everything all right, Fonthill?’
‘Perfectly all right, sir.’
Clasping Simon’s belt with one hand and the end of Hardy’s with the other, Jenkins - stirred by the patrician tones behind him - began to inch his way along the track, his face to the wall. Simon had lost the Zulus ahead of him but that was not a problem. There was only one way they could go. He was conscious that Jenkins’s terror would hold up the whole column, but the pace of the advance would have been slowed considerably by the need to advance in single file anyway. It just couldn’t be helped.
At last the rock face fell away and the ground opened out, and here the Zulus were waiting for them. ‘Well done, 352,’ said Simon, and the broad little man collapsed to the ground in relief.
‘Glad we got here,’ murmured Hardy. ‘Mah pants were comin’ down.’
Colley called a brief halt to allow the column to reform before tackling the saddle that now led upwards to Majuba itself. Here the wind whistled from the veldt to the north and dogs could be heard barking down below, setting everyone’s nerves on edge. Simon looked at his watch: one a.m. They had reached, he estimated, the probable halfway point of the march. Now, slightly round the bluff shoulder of Majuba and directly down below, the Boers lay sleeping. A missed step here, sending a man and his equipment bouncing down the slope, would waken the whole camp.
The column plodded on until it reached the second plateau, which marked the end of the saddle and the beginning of the last, steepest climb to the summit of Majuba. At the end of the plateau, before the path petered out to an intermittent track and the semi-vertical haul began, Colley called another halt and it became immediately apparent that the column had lost its line and several sections had somehow strayed. What Simon had feared had now materialised.
‘Get back, Fonthill,’ ordered the general, ‘and be sheepdog. Round the blasted stragglers up in double-quick time. If we’re caught strung out on this mountainside when dawn breaks everything is lost. Use your men as markers.’
Simon thought it wiser to leave Jenkins sheltering behind a rock, but took Hardy and the two Zulus with him to spread out along the plateau and bring in the errant groups of men, allowing himself leave to curse their young officers for allowing them to blunder off. ‘There’s only one bloody way to go, and that’s up,’ he hissed to them.
It took a full hour for all the stragglers to be brought in, but eventually the column was formed up again to the general’s satisfaction. Here, before the last section was attempted, Colley left behind the officers’ chargers, and a company of Highlanders were detached to stay on the spur to dig in ‘as far as possible’ and form a post capable of providing cover for the horses and receiving ammunition and reinforcements the next day from Mount Prospect. From here, roughly an hour behind schedule and with the fear that dawn would find them exposed and clinging like flies to the mountainside, the final scramble up to the summit of Majuba began.
It was, of course, by far the most difficult and dangerous part of the whole venture. The path had virtually disappeared and the climbing men had to negotiate gullies, sharp rocky buttresses and deep re-entrants covered in thorny brushwood. Increasingly Simon, now in the lead with Major Fraser, had to pull himself upwards on his hands and knees with tufts of grass to make any progress at all. He gasped in great lungfuls of thin air as he climbed - a reminder that they were now dragging themselves upwards at an altitude of well over six thousand feet.
Impelled by the need to maintain his role as scout at the head of the column, Simon had long since had to relinquish his personal care of the vertigo-ridden Jenkins. Looking down now, however, he was relieved and amazed to see the Welshman, shoulder to shoulder with Hardy, gradually inching up the mountain not far below. Just able to catch his eye in the poor light, the perspiring Jenkins mouthed, ‘Bloody ’ell,’ before pressing his face back to the slope.
It was now virtually impossible to preserve silence, and slipping and sliding men were clanking their water bottles and bayonet scabbards against the rocks and cursing softly as they grappled with the face of the mountain. These noises, hastily suppressed by NCOs and officers, sent hearts racing as the men looked upwards. For added to the immense difficulties presented by the terrain and altitude was now the fear that up there, behind where the lip of the summit presented a black line against the stars, might be lying a line of the best marksmen in the world, just waiting for the order to emerge from hiding, present their rifles and fire down on them. If the summit was manned, the exhausted climbers would stand no chance of defending themselves. It would be a massacre, and Simon’s tongue, dry enough as it was already, cleaved to the roof of his mouth at the thought. The darkness and the strange silhouettes presented by the boulders and crags added to the fear.
From out of the semi-darkness, the two Zulus had now reappeared to join Fraser and Simon just below the lip of the rim of the summit. With immense care, the four men spread out and slowly lifted their heads above the rocky rim. No bearded, bandoliered, slouch-hatted figures met their gaze. The summit - or at least what they could see of it - seemed empty of life. They hauled themselves over the edge and Fraser silently indicated for the natives to go to right and left and reconnoitre the rim. Within seconds, it seemed, they reappeared. ‘Nobody, baas,’ said the elder of the two. The summit of Majuba was unoccupied. Grinning at each other, Fraser and Simon shook hands. Simon looked at his watch: it was just after four a.m.
Hardly had he done so when Colley himself, incongruous in a pair of white tennis shoes into which he had changed after dismounting from his horse, appeared over the edge.
‘It seems, sir,’ said Fraser, ‘that we have the mountain to ourselves.’
‘Splendid. But we must make sure. Deploy the men around the edge. No noise, now.’
As the breathless soldiers began arriving on the summit, Colley himself helped Fraser and Stewart to
spread the men around the edge of the mountaintop. Simon pulled Jenkins up, as Hardy pushed from below, and the three scouts fell on to the rough grass, each trying to regain his breath. ‘No problem at all, really, look you,’ eventually confided Jenkins. ‘It’s just a question of not lookin’ down, see. Anybody can do it.’
The sky had hardly lightened, but up there, where it seemed possible to reach upwards and grab a handful of stars in each hand, the geography of the summit could be more or less made out. Simon realised that the mountaintop was, indeed, a saucer-like depression, roughly triangular in shape and measuring about three quarters of a mile in circumference and perhaps ten acres in extent, with the grassy floor of the basin falling to between ten and forty feet from the enclosing rim and strewn with boulders and smaller rocks. The saucer was roughly bisected by a low ridge running more or less parallel to the north-eastern face of the triangle. It joined two kopjes which rose opposite each other on the rim and which the Zulus told Simon were known to them as Majuba’s Breasts, though the troops soon named these hillocks after the officers commanding the troops allocated to them. So the western breast, conical in shape and the highest point of the mountain, was called Macdonald’s Kopje and the other, which only just rose above the rim, was dubbed Hay’s Kopje.
The general and Stewart busied themselves distributing each contingent of breathless men around the rim as they arrived. No thought was given to incorporating the strengths and weaknesses of the position into the distribution: the men were set down equally around the edge, some twelve paces between each of them. There was no concentration at the most vulnerable points of the perimeter.
As the last man came on to the mountaintop, the promise of a rosy dawn began to show over the hills on the Buffalo river side. Colley had executed his night march and captured on time the key point of Majuba Hill, overlooking the Boer positions, without losing a single man. He had achieved the near impossible.