He had good reason. The supposed Zulu victory at Isandlwana was on 22 January, the day after they left Ludukaneni. On that day two natural phenomena occurred that would have made the Zulus’ willingness to fight unlikely. Firstly, it was the day of the dead moon, the day before a new moon appears. Traditionally, no important undertaking was ever commenced at such a time. As if that wasn’t omen enough, during the afternoon there had been a partial eclipse of the sun. Zulus believed that this meant the sun was sick and they would normally have gone to great lengths, lamenting and making sacrifices, to shake it from lethargy.
But when Dallas presented himself at the garrison the day after arriving in Durban, he learned that there had indeed been two great battles fought on 22 January. Isandlwana, where fifteen hundred Zulus had died – most killed by rifle and artillery fire as they marched unflinchingly towards the British. Once within stabbing distance, the tables turned. Eight hundred regular troops, more than five hundred Natal Native Contingent soldiers, hundreds of wagon drivers and other noncombatants lay dead on the field as well.
Talk of the battle dominated conversation to such an extent that the bravery and ultimate victory of a handful of British soldiers who had defended the field hospital at Rorke’s Drift and driven off some four thousand Zulus was, for a time, ignored. Eleven Victoria Crosses were ultimately awarded but, since valour in the field was expected, and anything other than total victory not anticipated, those in Durban spoke of little else but the Isandlwana trouncing.
At the garrison Dallas found that he, and many other colonial volunteers, were causing headaches. No-one knew quite where to send them. The main problem seemed to be a lack of communication from the field.
John Dunn, who had raised one hundred and fifty guides to ride with him, was currently attached to the Eshowe Relief Column. When Dallas requested secondment it was refused. ‘We understand you are familiar with the Thukela Valley,’ one officer commented. ‘The Natal Guides need experienced men. We could send you to Colenso.’
It was the last place in the world Dallas wanted to go.
‘Or you can scout along the coast up near Gingindlovu. We’ll let you know.’
Everything was so vague, considering the urgency conveyed in the letter he’d received. Feeling disgruntled, Dallas returned to the Berea.
‘When do you leave?’ was Lorna’s first question.
He shook his head. ‘It’s pandemonium at the garrison. No-one, least of all the commander, seems to know what’s going on. For now, I wait.’
‘Will you have to fight?’ Cam asked.
‘If I must.’
‘What if you see one of our Zulus? What if it’s Mister David?’
Dallas looked into the earnest young face of his eldest child. ‘It’s war, son. Mister David won’t hesitate to kill me if he can.’
‘But he’s a friend.’
‘He’s a Kaffir,’ Torben spoke harshly. ‘If his blood is up, he’d kill you too.’
‘As a warrior,’ Dallas corrected Torben. ‘It’s his duty to defend the Zulu king and nation. Just as it’s mine to defend Britain, much as I disagree with the whole damned issue. If Mister David and I survive this war we’ll find each other and be friends again.’
‘That’s stupid,’ Torben said. ‘I wouldn’t want to know anyone who tried to kill me.’
‘That’s because you don’t understand the Zulus,’ Cam burst out. ‘You think you’re better than them. You can’t even speak their language.’
‘Why would I? Half the time they just grunt.’
‘They do not.’
Dallas could see a clash coming. ‘That’s enough, boys. We’re at war and each man must do his duty. That’s the end of it.’
Later that night, Lorna and Dallas were curled up together on the settee discussing the war. ‘I can see Torben’s point of view,’ she said. ‘When this is over could you really be friends with Mister David?’
‘Of course,’ he told her, remembering the Zulu’s words as they had last stood side-by-side at Ludukaneni. “It is what is in our hearts.” In Mister David’s lay obligation to defend the only way of life he knew. In Dallas’s, sympathy and understanding. War had been thrust between them but respect would remain long after the last gun fell silent and the last man died pointlessly in the name of glory.
‘How do I fight these people? They’re not my enemy, they’re victims.’ His words echoed the despair he felt.
‘You said it earlier. Duty.’
‘Duty.’ Dallas repeated the word derisively. ‘What authority has the God-given right to dictate where an individual’s obligations must lie? Suddenly we’re all supposed to remember our origins. Is that enough, I wonder? My heart and soul lie in Zululand, yet here I am supposedly volunteering to fight against the very people whose land is at stake. Land that is rightfully theirs. Frere can dress it up any way he wishes, it’s still nothing short of robbery.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, darling. If Britain doesn’t take it, the Boers will.’
‘Yes,’ Dallas agreed gloomily. ‘And therein lies a story still to be written.’
Lorna kissed him. ‘My, you’re a sober-sides this evening.’
‘Sorry. It’s just that I’ve got the same feeling inside as when I fled from Scotland. I’ve left a part of myself behind. How many more times can that happen before my loyalties become so fragmented there’s nothing left?’
Lorna smiled. ‘Nothing?’ she queried. ‘How about the children and me?’
He pulled her closer. ‘You’re right. Thank God for that.’
A loud banging at the front door made Lorna jump nervously. Picking up his newly issued Martini Henry carbine, Dallas went into the hall and spoke through the front door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me. Will.’
Dallas relaxed and let him in. He had seen Will Green only twice since their last trading trip. On both occasions, the wiry Yorkshireman had been returning from the Thukela Valley on his way to Durban and Dallas had purchased any superfluous livestock. ‘Will! Come in, come in.’
He’d been caught in a downpour and dripped water. ‘Better not.’
Lorna, recognising the accent, came to the door. ‘Inside, Will Green, now if you please. You’ll catch your death standing there.’
Grinning self-consciously, Will obeyed.
‘Take off that coat. Give me your hat. Boots.’ Lorna handled the bush-worn, non-too-clean garments with no show of distaste. ‘I see you still have no stockings,’ she commented on his bare feet.
‘Something else to look after,’ Will muttered.
Lorna bullied and bossed him into the parlour, but couldn’t make him sit. ‘I’m too wet.’
‘Here.’ She pulled up a wooden stool with interwoven cowhide strips serving as a seat. ‘Sit on that.’
Shrugging helplessly, Will lowered himself and sighed with satisfaction.
Dallas handed him a goblet of red wine. ‘Still in good repair?’ he asked.
All three knew to what he referred. Will was the only one of them to revisit Logan’s grave. ‘Some elephant damage. Last trip the cairn had been spread around. Might have been baboon, though that’s unlikely. Never seen them in that valley. Anyway, I fixed it.’
‘Good.’ Dallas fell silent for a moment, remembering the secret valley and that never to be forgotten day Logan Burton died. There were times, even now, when he still expected to look up and see the burly old hunter, cigar in mouth, ready with some sarcastic comment. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked finally.
‘I called at the farm. I could see you’d left and assumed you’d be in Durban. Wondered what your plans are.’
Dallas shook his head. ‘I’ve been to the garrison. Seems to me they’ve got more of us than they know what to do with.’
‘You’ve got that half right. They need local knowledge badly, the more the better. Forming regiments from irregulars is their biggest problem. There aren’t enough officers to go round and most of our lot expect a military rank.’ Will shrugged. �
�What use is that? Let’s get out there, do the job and be done with it.’
‘I quite agree,’ Dallas said.
Will squinted up from his stool. ‘Heard of Colonel Wood?’
‘The 90th Light Infantry?’
Will nodded. ‘Aye. That’s him. Good man. He’s calling for irregulars.’
‘I heard they were all natives.’
Again, Will nodded. ‘They were but he needs scouts. You know how unreliable the Zulus are. Wood is looking for white volunteers.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Covering the area between Hlobane Mountain and Kambula Hill. I’m joining him.’
‘You!’ Dallas was openly surprised. Will had never been the type to volunteer for anything.
There was a new confidence in Will’s stare. ‘Anything wrong with that?’
‘No. It’s just that I didn’t expect . . . What made you choose Wood?’
‘The rumours are that Chelmsford is preparing to attack Ulundi. Wood’s responsibility is to keep the northern Zulus occupied.’
Dallas kept his gaze on Will.
The man’s hands spread expressively as he shrugged. ‘Wood was a navy man in the Crimea. Then he joined the 17th Lancers and won himself a VC in India. After that he was with Wolseley in West Africa. That was six years ago.’
‘So?’
‘He’s got Buller with him. China in the sixties and head of intelligence during the Ashanti War.’
‘So you’re covering your –’ Dallas broke off and glanced at Lorna.
‘Backside,’ she supplied blithely.
Dallas smothered a grin. ‘I hear he’s deaf as a post.’
‘Who? Buller or Wood?’
‘Wood.’
Rumours always flew about prominent men and women and Dallas knew both officers by reputation. Evelyn Wood was known as a thorough professional despite recurring bouts of illness. The Zulus called him Lukuni after the wood from which they made their knobkerries. They respected his ability as a soldier and a leader of men. Redvers Buller was also an inspired leader, though less conventional. The man’s temper had become legendary but a feel for the contribution that his somewhat free-spirited irregular scouts made to the war effort, and insightful use of such men, made him unique. Together, Woods and Buller were reputed to have a greater understanding of African warfare than any other combination of officers. Dallas could understand why Will wanted to join them. Far better to place your trust in such men than those lacking even a basic knowledge of the Zulus and their fighting capabilities.
‘How do we join?’
‘Tell the garrison commander and go. Either that or just leave anyway. We won’t be missed. It’s two less for them to worry about.’ Will grinned. ‘You did say we?’
‘I might come with you.’
The grin widened, nearly splitting Will’s face. ‘Good,’ he said simply, handing over his empty goblet for a refill. ‘We can leave tomorrow.’
Lorna became brisk. ‘I’ll pack your things in the morning.’
‘I won’t need much.’
She nodded and he caught the sparkle of tears in her eyes as she turned to Will. ‘You’ll stay the night, of course.’
‘Much obliged.’
‘Provided you take a bath. Otherwise I’m afraid it’s the stables.’
‘That was good enough for Our Lord.’
Dallas raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re aiming a mite high there, my friend.’
Will’s response was cut off by the appearance of a frustrated Percy. ‘Master, there is a horse eating the vegetables.’
Dallas knew that the old Zulu was afraid of horses. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll see to him ourselves. Could you please arrange some hot water for our guest.’
Looking vastly relieved, Percy bowed and left.
Will’s raised eyebrows were a question.
‘Don’t ask,’ Dallas advised. ‘He’s Lorna’s, not mine.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Percy,’ Lorna said defensively. ‘He’s loyal and reliable.’
‘Don’t you have a stable hand?’
‘We do,’ Dallas said. ‘He’s probably drunk by now.’
‘Damned Zulus,’ Will said, without venom. ‘I’ll be glad when this thing is over.’
‘Won’t we all,’ Dallas agreed. ‘I have no stomach for betrayal.’
‘Aye.’ Will nodded. ‘That’s what this is, all right. Poor devils.’
It was typical of Will to criticise on one hand and sympathise on the other. In fact, most Europeans who lived and worked with Zulus did the same. That aside, let strangers make a disparaging remark and those who knew these proud people were quick to their defence.
‘A toast.’ Will held up his wine glass. ‘To a speedy conclusion.’
‘A speedy conclusion,’ Dallas and Lorna repeated.
They all drank.
‘And long live the king,’ Will added.
‘Amen to that,’ Dallas agreed. Funny, he thought, sipping his scotch. Such a toast would only be understood by a handful of people. Yet it was one of the most sincere gestures he could remember making.
FIFTEEN
Rain. Would it ever stop?
‘Why are we fighting for this damnable place?’ someone asked peevishly.
A carpet of mud covered the ground, twelve inches thick in parts. Despite the wet conditions, temperatures remained high. Men and horses fell foul of the humidity. The soldiers had little immunity to diseases borne by the appalling weather. Nor did they relish food gone bad, rotting boots and mouldy uniforms. Tents dripped, bedding would not dry and the ever-present mud got into everything.
It was late March. British troops had been camped on Kambula Hill since news of the Isandlwana defeat reached them in late January. Inaction was exaggerating the men’s already dwindling morale.
Dallas and Will joined the column five weeks earlier. It had rained for three of them.
The colonial volunteers were a mixed bag of some sixty men. Boer and British in the main – farmers, traders, hunters, guides – individuals used to living rough. They were a tough, independent group who preferred to trust their own initiative than follow orders. Lieutenant-Colonel Redvers Buller was the only exception they made. Second-in-command of the column, he was respected for his fearless courage, equestrian skills and leadership ability. They’d have followed him to hell if he’d asked, but only on their terms.
For his part, Buller shrewdly capitalised on the free-spirited nature of his irregulars. Most spoke Zulu, all possessed an invaluable understanding of African customs, none complained about the conditions and a few even had useful and influential contacts among the Zulu population. These he put to good use, turning several clans against Cetshwayo. To the last man, all were willing and able to act instinctively, never waiting to be told what to do.
They had been described by one journalist, quite unfairly, as ‘ . . . broken gentlemen of runagate sailors, of fugitives from justice, of the scum of South African towns, of stolid Africanders . . . there were a few Americans . . . A greaser; a Chilean; several Australians; and a couple of Canadian voyagers from somewhere in the Arctic region.’ Certainly, the writer’s comments applied to some. But Redvers Buller was more than a match for those seeking thrills and a free meal. They soon found themselves on latrine duty, or something equally as mundane and distasteful, until they simply deserted and disappeared. As for the rest, Buller worked them well – scouting forays to assess the enemy’s strength, raiding kraals, confiscating cattle and recruiting clans.
Colonel Evelyn Wood, overall commander of the column, busied his regulars with fortifying the camp at Kambula Hill. The lessons learned at Isandlwana had gone deep and he took no chances. The camp was well placed, high up with commanding views to the north and west.
A hexagonal-shaped laager had been constructed, wagons locked tightly together. Nearby was a secure cattle kraal. Both were protected by trenches and earth parapets, further fortified by a stone-built barricade a hundred yards out from the la
ager. Between the two lay a palisade roughly built from saplings. Four seven-pounders covered the north and two more faced north-east.
Events over the past two months had knocked the stuffing out of Chelmsford’s planned offensive. A message reached Colonel Wood that he was on his own.
Buller had gathered his volunteers together to brief them. ‘We’ve reliable information that an impi of some twenty thousand is gathering in Ulundi and preparing to march against us. For the moment, men, we’re like a shag on a rock.’ The man’s strong voice matched his physique. ‘There are no reinforcements coming. We are required to meet the whole damned Zulu army if needs must.’
Eyebrows raised. The regulars and volunteers on Kambula Hill totalled just over two thousand.
Buller hawked and spat before continuing. ‘There’s no question that these black bastards can move quickly. We know there’s another four thousand, mainly abaQulusi, drilling on Hlobane.’ he jerked a thumb backwards to indicate the hazy shape of a mountain some eleven miles east. ‘I am reliably informed by some of you that they are disciplined, armed and familiar with the territory.’
Heads nodded agreement. From what had been observed and heard, the abaQulusi trained every day and remained doggedly loyal to Cetshwayo. The Zulu king had ordered that, should an opportunity present itself, they were to attack the British camp on Kambula Hill. No such chance had occurred and now, late in March, the abaQulusi were short of food, grazing for their cattle was decreasing despite incessant rain, and the warriors grew increasingly restless.
‘The intention is for us to move against them now, before reinforcements arrive,’ Buller went on. ‘They are blocking any advance on Ulundi, we need to clear the way.’
‘It’d be damned useful in retreat too,’ a young Boer muttered, causing quiet amusement to those near him.
His father, the Boer commander Piet Uys, clipped his son’s ear. ‘Passop,’ he warned. Be careful.
Will, standing nearby, overheard the exchange and grinned. ‘He’s right, though.’
‘Ja,’ Uys agreed. ‘But the roineks won’t admit it.’
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