Rorke's Drift

by Adrian Greaves

  He personally chose to lead the column to relieve Colonel Pearson’s besieged force at Eshowe. Moving cautiously and laagering at night, Chelmsford put into practice the painful lesson he learned from Isandlwana. Within sight of Eshowe, his well-entrenched men fought off a large Zulu impi at Gingindlovu and, in the following pursuit, inflicted many fatalities on the fleeing Zulus. Within the entrenchment, Chelmsford and his staff displayed the Victorian officers’ disdain of enemy fire by remaining standing to encourage the troops, many of whom were newly arrived raw recruits. The result of such foolhardy exposure was that, although Chelmsford was not hit, Crealock was slightly wounded in the arm and lost his horse while Captain Molyneux had two horses killed. As they constituted the high command, it seems an unnecessary risk to have taken.

  With Eshowe relieved, the ever-present spectre of the unburied remains at Isandlwana was the next priority. Besides soothing his conscience, Chelmsford had a much more practical reason for sending a large burial party; their role was to recover the precious wagons of the slaughtered Centre Column which he urgently needed for the re-invasion of Zululand. Chelmsford had a long-running feud with civilian authorities in Natal and both parties bombarded an increasingly despairing British government with dispatches that revealed the lack of firm leadership or determination to end the conflict. Chelmsford displayed all the signs of being demoralized and bereft of inspiration. However, as his forces and supplies built up so his confidence appeared to return. Once the invasion was under way he moved cautiously, laagering his camp every night, building forts to protect his lines of communication and scouting well ahead. Nevertheless, it was on one of these map-making reconnaissances that another misfortune befell the luckless commander.

  The young Prince Louis Napoleon of France, exiled to England with his mother, had badgered both the Horse Guards and Queen Victoria to allow him to serve in Zululand in the furtherance of his military career. He succeeded and arrived in Zululand to work in a junior staff capacity under Chelmsford. It was during a routine reconnaissance by a small patrol which included the prince that a party of Zulus silently approached through long grass. At point-blank range the Zulus opened fire on the party and, in the scramble to safety, the prince and two troopers were caught and slain. When the news broke in the British newspapers, the shock was even greater than that of the Isandlwana massacre. Chelmsford could not reasonably be blamed for the prince’s death but, following all the previous disasters, his culpability was implied. As with Isandlwana, a scapegoat was required and Captain Carey, the patrol leader who escaped uninjured, was the obvious candidate to face a court martial.

  Chelmsford also received the news that he was to be replaced by General Sir Garnet Wolseley, both a blow to his ego and a spur to his intention of personally defeating the Zulus in a final showdown. In the event, it was a close run thing. Wolseley arrived just too late to prevent Chelmsford disobeying Wolseley’s previous direct order not to attack Cetshwayo. Chelmsford proceeded to inflict a crushing defeat on the Zulus at Ulundi, which allowed him to hand over his command on a high note. It is interesting that no real attempt was made by the British force to capture Cetshwayo. Did Chelmsford leave the Zulu king at large in order to confound and occupy Wolseley while he reaped the glory on his progression back home?

  In any event, and wishing to return home as soon as possible, Chelmsford journeyed to Cape Town, where he received an enthusiastic reception by a population for whom Ulundi had eradicated the memories of earlier disasters. He sailed home on the RMS German in the company of Wood and Buller, his most effective and reliable commanders. Both were friends of Wolseley, who would have liked them to remain with him in South Africa, but both were suffering from the effects of the campaign. Buller, in particular, had physically deteriorated so much that he required a lengthy convalescence before returning to duty. Before sailing, they confided in Wolseley that ‘Chelmsford is not fit to be a Corporal’, but they still found him an extremely likeable person.

  Opinion at home had polarized. Disraeli refused to receive the commander who had cost the country so much and brought discredit to the government. Some newspapers continued to pillory Chelmsford and popular songs mocked him; even some of his fellow peers were critical. But it was those who really mattered, the Horse Guards and Queen Victoria, who rallied to his support. Chelmsford was showered with honours. His rank of lieutenant general was confirmed, the queen bestowed the Knight Grand Cross on him and used her influence to have him appointed Lieutenant of the Tower. He later became a full general and colonel of the Sherwood Foresters and then of the 2nd Life Guards.

  Even with such protection, he was frequently drawn into defending his conduct during the Zulu War in general and Isandlwana in particular. Although some 1,400 men were lost at Isandlwana, it was not the worst military disaster of the period. In America, the loss of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry at the Little Big Horn in 1876 troubled that nation’s conscience for decades.2

  After his retirement, honours still came Chelmsford’s way. Queen Victoria appointed him Gold Stick at Court, an honour that was carried over when her son Edward succeeded her. He also made the ageing general a GCVO. Many soldiers who had achieved success in the field were rewarded with less.

  Chelmsford lived out his last years in London enjoying his family and the companionship of long-time colleagues. His eldest son was rising in the Colonial Office and eventually became Viceroy of India and First Lord of the Admiralty. On 9 April 1905 and at the age of 78, Lord Chelmsford had a seizure and died while playing billiards at the United Service Club. So died a man with many admirable attributes but who was thrust into a position for which he was not intellectually equipped. Instead of being a long-forgotten Victorian general, his name is still remembered as the man ultimately responsible for the Victorian Army’s greatest military defeat.

  Colonel Richard Thomas Glyn: Column Commander and 24th Regiment

  The Anglo-Zulu War was a brief conflict that enhanced few reputations but damaged many. Colonels Evelyn Wood and Redvers Buller emerged with credit while others like Lord Chelmsford and Colonel Hugh Rowland lost their former standing through their questionable competence and actions.

  Other participants were badly affected by what they experienced, both physically and mentally. In an age when mental trauma was misunderstood, there was little sympathy or understanding for those who broke under the strain of witnessing the savagery of fighting Zulus. In an institution like the army it was expected that emotions should be kept on a tight rein, especially amongst the senior officers; the ‘stiff upper lip’ syndrome prevailed. It is well documented that Chelmsford underwent a period of severe depression in the aftermath of Isandlwana. Colonel Hassard, Officer Commanding Royal Engineers, had such a severe nervous breakdown that he was replaced. Colonel Pearson, the defender of Eshowe, was invalided home suffering from mental and physical exhaustion. Of all the senior officers who suffered in such a way, none felt greater anguish than the commanding officer of the 1st 24th Regiment, Colonel Richard Thomas Glyn.

  Born 23 December 1831 in Meerut, India, he was the only son of R.C. Glyn Esquire, an officer in the Honourable East India Company. On his return to England, a conventional country upbringing produced an expert horseman and a fanatical huntsman. Despite his short stature (he was just 5ft 2in) Glyn was physically strong and keen to pursue a military career. When he was 19, his father purchased him a commission into the 82nd (Prince of Wales Volunteers) Regiment, later the 2nd South Lancashires.

  After several years of duty in Ireland, Glyn and his regiment were sent to the Crimea and arrived on 2 September 1855, just six days before the fall of Sebastopol, thus missing any fighting and becoming part of the army of occupation until 1856. It was in this year that he married Anne Clements, the daughter of the former Colonel of the Royal Canadian Rifles. Their honeymoon period was cut short when Glyn’s regiment was rushed to India to become part of Sir Colin Campbell’s force that relieved the besieged force at Lucknow in mid November 1857. Just a fe
w days later the 82nd received a drubbing at Cawnpore from rebel forces and sustained many casualties. Glyn was then promoted to captain and soon gained much experience in the hard and brutal suppression of the Indian Mutiny.

  Like many officers, Glyn found post-Mutiny India an agreeable place to serve, particularly enjoying the opportunities to indulge his passion for hunting. Anne joined him and they set about producing a family, the result of which was four daughters. He advanced up the promotion ladder by purchasing his majority in 1861. In 1867 he purchased the lieutenant colonelcy of the l/24th Regiment, then stationed at Malta. In 1872 the regiment was transferred to Gibraltar, where Glyn was promoted to full colonel. Even here he was able to hunt into Spain, which was about the only excitement to be had in this peaceful outpost.

  After three pleasant but uneventful years, the regiment was relieved to have a change of posting. At the end of November the Glyns and most of the l/24th embarked on Her Majesty’s Troopship Simoon, and thirty-five sailing days later the ship dropped anchor in Table Bay, Cape Town. Glyn’s appearance at this time could be described as ‘bristling’ with his full wax-tipped moustache and short aggressive stature; he looked as if he was on the point of exploding with rage. This appearance, however, belied his true personality. He had a steady and unflappable temperament, though somewhat unimaginative and lethargic. He was fortunate to command some very able officers, including Henry Pulleine who could be relied upon to administer expertly the day-to-day running of the regiment.

  By 1876 Southern Africa was a cauldron of small states and territories, of which the Cape Colony was the richest and largest. To the north lay the diamond-rich territory of Griqualand West, which was in a state of ferment and on the verge of rebellion. The Cape Government ordered Colonel Glyn to take his regiment and restore the appointed civil authorities. The march to Kimberley was long and arduous, crossing mountains and the dreary dry Great Karoo plain. Keeping up a steady pace through the heat of the African days, the l/24th took two months to cover the 700 miles. When they arrived they found that their presence alone was enough to stifle the rebellion and there was little more to do than march all the way back to the Cape. One positive aspect of the long march was that the regiment was now physically hardened and ready for the tough campaign that was looming to the north-east.

  In the meantime there was more than enough time for recreation in the form of hunting. As the fox does not exist in southern Africa, the nearest equivalent quarry was the black-backed Cape Jackal. Colonel Glyn, as Master of the Hunt, kept a full pack of hounds and three hunters. He appointed his three Irish subalterns, Daly, Hodson and Coghill as whips. His officers viewed Glyn with affection and Coghill wrote, ‘The Colonel is good a little man as ever breathed has what amounts to monomania, ’untin’ being ’is ’obby’. They exercised the pack three times a week and sometimes went hunting for up to ten days at a time. Besides hunting, Glyn and his officers organized small game and partridge shoots. While it was undeniably true that Glyn enjoyed his hunting, it was common knowledge that he craved male companionship as an escape from his all-female household. His wife Anne had become that most formidable of women, ‘The Colonel’s Wife’, and she gave her easy-going husband little peace.

  The Glyns regarded the regimental officers as part of their own family. Neville Coghill was a particular favourite and it is not inconceivable that he was looked upon as the son Glyn never had. When he had arrived in Cape Town, he had been taken into their home until his own quarters were ready. Full of charm, he not only rode well but he was also a good dancer and particularly popular with the Glyn women. He was even asked by Mrs Glyn to organize a quadrille for a ball given by the Governor General’s wife, Lady Barkly.

  The pleasant round of socializing came to an end with problems in the Transkei, east of Cape Colony. Sir Bartle Frere ordered the 1/24th to this trouble spot and appointed Colonel Glyn as commander in the Transkei, with the rank of colonel of the staff and brevet brigadier general. In a frustrating campaign that involved three columns sweeping the country, the Xhosa foe was seldom persuaded to stand and be shot at. They finally made a determined stand at a stream called Nyumaga where, on 14 January, Glyn’s men routed them. Another fight took place at Centana in February where the Xhosa were again beaten by the superior firepower of the British. By keeping the Xhosas on the move, the British wore down their will to resist. Despite this successful campaign, General Cunynghame was removed from overall command and Lieutenant General Frederick Augustus Thesiger was appointed in his place. There was little for the new commander to do except to keep the Xhosa on the move until they submitted in the summer of 1878.

  The 24th Regiment had performed well and duly received the thanks of the Governor. Colonel Glyn received high praise from both the Duke of Cambridge and Sir Bartle Frere and, in a more tangible form of gratitude, he was made a Companion of the Bath. Under Glyn’s command the 1/24th had gained a reputation for good behaviour in the towns where they were stationed. They were also highly experienced at campaigning in South Africa and were already designated to be the army’s backbone in the next step in Frere’s expansionist plan. The feeling amongst the Governor and the military was that the subjugation of the Xhosa was little more than a prelude to a confrontation with the far more formidable Zulus.

  Glyn and his regiment were ordered to Pietermaritzburg in Natal where the regimental headquarters were established. Sir Bartle Frere also left Cape Town and took up residence at the nearby Government House where he could more effectively connive with General Thesiger and keep at bay his opponents in the Natal government. As war with the Zulus became inevitable, Coghill asked Glyn to find him a place on his staff as soon as Sir Bartle Frere would release him.

  It was on 30 November that Colonel Glyn bade farewell to his wife and daughters and, to the accompaniment of the band, led his regiment out of Pietermaritzburg towards the distant and desolate post at Helpmekaar. Glyn had been given command of Number 3 column, which became known as the Centre Column. Enduring constant heavy rain and deep mud, the column took a week to cover the 100 miles to the Biggarsberg plateau overlooking the Buffalo river valley and the frontier with Zululand.

  Glyn was experienced in campaigning and relished the coming invasion. It therefore came as a great blow to him when Chelmsford and his staff, instead of establishing an independent force headquarters, attached themselves to Glyn’s column. Chelmsford, ever the considerate gentleman he was, sought to assure Glyn that he would not interfere in the running of the column. In practice this did not work. With two staffs, each jealous of the other and, in Chelmsford’s case, high-handed and arrogant, there was considerable friction. Major Clery and Chelmsford’s military secretary, Lieutenant Colonel John Crealock, both lacked diplomacy and possessed vitriolic tongues which further strained relationships between the two camps. Crealock dismissed Glyn by saying, ‘do not expect anything. [of him]. He is a purely regimental officer with no ideas beyond it.’

  Glyn and his staff were effectively relegated to mere figureheads. Clery caustically remarked that ‘Colonel Glyn and his staff were allowed to work the details – posting the guards, etc., and all the interesting work of that kind’. This usurping of his command caused Glyn to become disinterested and withdrawn for it was not in his nature to object or challenge any orders. He may well have felt intimidated both by Chelmsford’s status and his height. (The tall lanky general towered over his diminutive column commander). Clery again: ‘he [Glyn] was scarcely ever seen or heard of, the more so as he got anything but encouragement to interest himself in what was going on’.

  The tone in Chelmsford’s dealings with Glyn is one of impatience and some antipathy. Glyn had wanted to fortify both Helpmekaar and Rorke’s Drift in accordance with Chelmsford’s instructions, but he was overruled. Upon arrival at Isandlwana, Glyn gave instructions for the layout of the camp and, in normal circumstances, would have followed the instructions as laid down in the manual for field operations. He would have had trenches dug or stone w
alls constructed and a wagon laager formed. As it was, Chelmsford felt that it would take a week to entrench the camp and some of the wagons were scheduled to return to Rorke’s Drift for further supplies. Chelmsford also considered that the position of the camp possessed such a commanding view into Zululand that the Zulus could not possibly take the British unawares.

  After Chelmsford’s defeat at the battle of Isandlwana, Glyn was in a complete state of shock at the loss of his regiment. He was left at Rorke’s Drift to clear up the mess and, in the following weeks, establish a fortified camp on an adjacent hillock.

  Fearing that the Zulus would attack at any time, Glyn had a strong perimeter built around the destroyed mission station and made everyone move inside at night. No tents were allowed except for the Rorke’s Drift survivors who were provided with the only large groundsheet for protection; the remaining garrison was crammed into the small defended area, which was soon churned into a foul quagmire. The grieving Glyn withdrew into his shell of despondency and took little interest in the misery around him. Without doubt, he was displaying all the symptoms of a breakdown. Not only did he feel bereaved by the loss of his regiment; he also expressed the feeling that he should have been with his men as they fought for their lives, a common enough emotion amongst survivors. Captain Walter Parke Jones of the Royal Engineers, however, was not at all sympathetic and wrote what many felt, ‘Col. Glyn (our chief) does nothing and is effete’.

  It was not until 4 February that a patrol led by Major Wilsone Black discovered the bodies of Coghill and Melvill on the Natal bank of the Buffalo river. A further search found the Queen’s Colour in the river some half a mile downstream. A cairn of stones was piled on the bodies and the colour was taken back to Rorke’s Drift. Glyn was moved to tears when he received the Colour and learned of the fate of his favourite young officers. While the isolated Glyn was suffering both mentally and physically at Rorke’s Drift, Lord Chelmsford and his followers were attempting to play down their role in the disaster. In a subtle piece of responsibility shifting, Chelmsford stated that, ‘Colonel Glyn was solely responsible’ and, ‘that Colonel Glyn fully and explicitly accepted this responsibility cannot, however, affect the ultimate responsibility of the General-in-Command’. This attempt to share the blame with Glyn rang hollow, as it was generally known that Glyn had little say in matters. Chelmsford’s staff contributed to the growing controversy by saying that it was Glyn’s failure to entrench the camp that caused it to be overrun. As he was commander of the Centre Column, the blame should be firmly laid at his door.