‘Bit of luck, old chap,’ Boyd enthused. ‘I’d have been awfully miffed to come all this way only to miss out.’
Dallas had long since given up trying to talk sense to his brother. He shook Boyd’s hand, wished him well and was damned glad to see the back of him.
It was suddenly obvious that the planned attack on Ulundi was imminent. After what had seemed like delaying tactics, events moved swiftly. John Dunn and his scouts crossed into Zululand at the Lower Thukela Drift. Under the command of Major-General H. H. Crealock, a coastal column would advance to St Paul’s mission station, twenty-five miles from the royal kraal at Ulundi.
Colonel Evelyn Wood and his men, having advanced from Kambula Hill, were already in position and waiting to join forces with Chelmsford.
The overall commander and his Ulundi column crossed Rorke’s Drift and detoured some forty-five miles in order to avoid Isandlwana where, four months after the battle, British corpses still lay scattered on the ground.
The British closed on the capital like a giant predator with arms outstretched. Cetshwayo, desperate to avoid a final confrontation, sent gifts and messages to Lord Chelmsford. In return, he received demands that were impossible to meet. It seemed that nothing could prevent the final crushing blow. Two days after Chelmsford entered Zululand, an event took place that sealed the fate of the Zulu nation more effectively than anything which had taken place already.
From Durban, Dallas and Lorna followed this build-up with horror but also an increasing impatience for the war to end. Little news reached them about Cetshwayo. The king had gone quiet, presumably attending to affairs put on hold over the past months. Then, in May, they heard that runners had been dispatched, summoning warriors to Ulundi. They also learned that Cetshwayo had found it necessary to repeat the command before his army agreed to muster.
Even as the king called his impi, he never let up trying to negotiate a peaceful solution. As messenger after messenger returned to Ulundi with refusals or impossible demands, Cetshwayo was in despair. He sent a plea to Chelmsford. ‘What have I done? I want peace – I ask for peace.’
The response was more demanding than ever.
‘They knew he’d never agree. They want him crushed,’ Dallas said angrily. ‘The British will settle for nothing less.’
As they witnessed the inevitable death of a nation, other matters also came to the fore. Dallas had one last, thoroughly agreeable, confrontation with his father-in-law. Invited for a drink, Sarah’s father arrived looking suspicious. It was the first time ever that his son-in-law had requested a meeting.
In the study, Dallas turned to face the man he disliked above all others. ‘All charges against me in Britain have been dropped,’ he began.
Wilcox’s expression changed to one of apprehension.
‘Therefore,’ Dallas went on, ‘you no longer represent any kind of threat to my freedom.’
‘Come, come,’ Wilcox tried to bluster. ‘A gentleman’s word and all that.’
‘A divorce will go through which you will instigate immediately. If you try to disrupt the proceedings I shall make a public statement in my defence. It won’t make pretty reading. Sarah’s reputation, which you claim to be so concerned with, will be in tatters. I can even produce the child. And you, sir, can expect to be charged with blackmail. The choice is yours.’
‘Dallas . . . son . . . you don’t mean it.’
‘Every word.’
Wilcox knew he was beaten. He left the Berea house and Dallas never saw him again.
Defeat, however, did not prevent the man, through lawyers, from trying to milk all he could from his son-in-law. There were times when Dallas felt that things were actually going backwards.
‘Don’t get so angry,’ Lorna told Dallas.
‘I want to marry you, damn it,’ Dallas fumed. ‘Is that so hard to understand?’
Lorna giggled, and after some moments of trying to remain serious, Dallas also saw the funny side.
‘Sorry.’ He grinned slightly, ashamed of taking his frustration out on her.
‘So you should be,’ she said. ‘A woman in my condition deserves more respect.’
‘Another one? Good God, woman, you’re like a rabbit.’ he held her close. ‘My rabbit. I love you.’
‘After this, no more,’ she mumbled around his lips. ‘I’m losing my figure.’
‘You are not.’ His hands slid down over her buttocks. ‘You still have the body of a young girl.’
It was true. Dallas never tired of watching Lorna. He delighted in her enthusiasm for life, disregard for society’s rules and obvious love for him. She was as beautiful now as the debutante who had first captured his heart. Dallas continued to love her with his entire soul.
The children were another source of pleasure. Torben continued to be disruptive but had found some satisfaction in his passion for learning. He thrived in Durban, stimulated by the energy of a growing city. Lorna and Dallas sometimes worried about his solitary nature – the boy seemed to have no friends – yet, in the main, he was content.
Cam was also of concern to his parents, with his obvious reluctance to take on anything remotely resembling education. The lad loved animals and the bush. He had many friends but preferred the company of Zulu children. Cam couldn’t wait for the war to be over so they could move back to Zululand.
Ellie’s fascination with matters medical continued. Cecily Jerome had totally fallen in love with her and, if anything else were needed to cement the friendship between Lorna and Cecily, it was Lorna’s determination that, should Ellie wish it, her interests would be actively encouraged.
Kate had become a tiny replica of Lorna. Physically, that is. Otherwise, she was gentle and compliant. ‘Where did that come from?’ Lorna asked Dallas more than once. ‘She’s not the least bit like us.’
‘No, she’s her own person,’ Dallas always replied. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
Duncan recovered from malaria and went back to stripping wallpaper. Paper, as far as he was concerned, was for tearing. All their books had to be kept under lock and key. Likewise, important personal documents. Give Duncan a Natal Mercury and he was in baby heaven.
‘Do you think he’ll grow out of it?’ Lorna worried.
‘I sincerely hope so,’ Dallas said. ‘He’s getting taller. The paintings will be next.’
In his increasing impatience for a return to Zululand Dallas sought an interview with the newly appointed High Commissioner, General Sir Garnet Wolseley, who had been sent out to hasten the end of the war.
It was generally acknowledged that, at long last, Britain wanted the Zulu conflict to be over and done with. Isandlwana and Hlobane were embarrassing defeats. The prolonged siege of Eshowe had been humiliating. If Chelmsford couldn’t deliver victory, Wolseley, according to him, would. As he was such a busy man, Dallas was surprised that the High Commissioner agreed to see him.
‘I’ve read your submission,’ Wolseley said, shaking Dallas’s hand. ‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘A simple yes or no would do it,’ Dallas replied. He had asked about the possibility of returning to his farm when the war was over.
Wolseley nodded. ‘No.’
Taken aback by the blunt response, all Dallas could manage was, ‘Thank you.’
Wolseley fiddled with a waxed end of his moustache. With the other hand, he tapped a finger on Dallas’s written request. ‘When this is over, Zululand will need men like you. That’s why I agreed to this meeting.’ He rose and went to a map on the wall, smiling slightly at the expression on Dallas’s face. ‘No doubt you’ve heard the rumours. As you can see by these red ink lines, Zululand is to be divided into thirteen chieftainships.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ Dallas was appalled to have this confirmed. ‘There will be anarchy. Within months, the clans will be fighting each other.’
Wolseley shrugged. ‘Zululand will eventually be annexed to Britain. Some breakdown of law and order would serve our purpose admirably.’ His finger tr
aced the southern extremities of the territory from east to west. ‘This is where you should look for a farm.’
Dallas stared at the map. John Dunn’s land, all of it. Was this why John had continued to offer his services as a scout? ‘You would make Dunn a chief?’
‘A king, if he so wishes.’
‘Just to create a convenient buffer between the Zulus and Natal?’
Wolseley inclined his head.
‘What would happen to Cetshwayo’s heir?’
‘Dinuzulu? That’s up to Her Majesty.’ Wolseley tapped a coastal stretch. ‘I hear you’re a cattle man. Take some good advice. Sugar. The climate here is perfect for it. Any request for land to grow sugarcane will be favourably viewed by Dunn.’
‘He’s a cattle man too.’
‘So I believe.’ Wolseley permitted himself a small smile. ‘It was nice to meet you, Granger.’ His outstretched hand signalled an end to the meeting.
Lorna was shocked when she heard. ‘So John has sold out.’
‘What else could he do? They threw him a very tempting carrot. A chieftainship ensures his continued lifestyle, the only one he wants.’
‘It won’t be easy. He’ll have to jump whenever the administration says. Become their puppet. I would never have expected that of him.’
‘Don’t judge John too harshly, darling. I think even Cetshwayo would understand. Besides, knowing John, he’ll find ways to get around red tape.’
News broke the next day of the event that hastened a final confrontation and an official end to the Zulu war. Lord Chelmsford, much to his dismay, had been given responsibility for the safe keeping of the French Prince Imperial, Louis Napoleon, son of the late Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie. Louis came from a fiercely proud military background. At twenty-three years of age, he had spent the last nine of those exiled in Britain with his mother. Four years earlier, he had passed out seventh in a class of thirty-four from the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich. Desperate for active duty, the Prince Imperial had to be content with theoretical manoeuvres at Aldershot. Disraeli was not prepared to accept responsibility for any mishap that might befall a young man regarded as Napoleon IV by many of his countrymen.
When reinforcements left Britain for South Africa, Louis wanted to go too. Disraeli refused to allow it. Faced with pressure from the queen, and much against his better judgment, the British Prime Minister was forced to change his mind. He insisted, however, that the prince go under his own volition and as a spectator only.
Louis presented himself to Chelmsford bearing a letter from the Duke of Cambridge asking that he be allowed to observe as much field activity as was possible. He also bore a testimonial from the Governor of Woolwich, which praised his military qualities. Both letters of recommendation contained warnings that the prince was inclined to be impetuous. Faced with his obvious backing by Queen Victoria and the Prime Minister, Lord Chelmsford had no option but to graciously, though reluctantly, accept him as an aide-de-camp.
Realising how serious the ramifications would be should anything happen to this claimant of the French throne, a country that was not exactly fond of Britain, Chelmsford placed Louis in the care of his most trusted officer. Lieutenant-Colonel Redvers Buller took the prince on one patrol. He refused to take him out again. When pressed for a reason, Buller bluntly stated that the prince’s hot-headed disobedience under fire could cause a serious incident for which he saw no reason to take responsibility.
The job then fell to a Lieutenant Carey. While out on a routine patrol, they came under sporadic rifle fire from Zulus hiding in a rocky outcrop. The prince again ignored a command to stay back. Instead, he drew his great-uncle’s sword and charged into the fray. His dice with death worried Chelmsford but the experience only whetted Louis’s enthusiasm for action.
On 1 June, the Prince Imperial of France got more than he bargained for.
The charismatic force of Louis’s personality, and his total disregard for orders, proved a disastrous combination. The prince, with an escort of six including Lieutenant Carey, were heading for an area between the Ityotosi and Lombokola rivers so that Louis could sketch. On reaching the place, Louis pointed out a deserted kraal and said, ‘We can collect water from the river. There should be wood here. Coffee would be most welcome.’
Carey refused. ‘See how the corn grows thick on three sides? A hundred Kaffirs could hide in there. It’s too dangerous.’
‘Rubbish, my friend. The place is deserted. Come, we would all appreciate some refreshment.’
Carey was not Buller. He agreed.
Thirty armed Zulus were hidden in the mealies. They waited. Soldiers dismounted, knee-haltered their horses and the animals began to graze. They watched as the men lit a fire to boil water. When the Zulus judged the time to be right, firing and yelling, they burst from cover. The prince and two of his escort were killed.
Lieutenant Carey made it to safety. Out of rifle range, he reined in and looked back, wondering what to do next. After some minutes, and with more than twenty Zulus circling trying to cut off retreat, he decided that the Prince Imperial must be dead, and left.
Dallas and Lorna heard the full story from their butler, Percy. The ever-reliable Zulu grapevine ensured any attempt at a cover-up by the British would fail. The fact was that Lieutenant Carey might have saved Louis’s life.
As the Zulus attacked, one man’s horse bolted leaving him stranded. He was killed by an assegai. A second soldier was shot as he rode away. Louis tried to escape, running alongside his horse, attempting to vault onto the saddle. The advancing natives saw the prince’s foot slip as his mount reared in fright. He grabbed at a holster attached to the front of his saddle and tried to swing up. The holster ripped away and Louis fell to the ground, badly injuring his right hand. His horse galloped off. The prince rose to his feet as seven Zulus approached, assegais raised.
Percy, who coincidentally bore the same name as Louis’s horse, related the story with drama and respect for the man’s bravery. ‘He stood and tried to find his own assegai,’ the Zulu told Dallas, referring to the prince’s sword. It had fallen to the ground. With only a revolver he ran to higher ground but with his injured hand he could not use the gun. ‘A warrior threw an assegai which went in here.’ Percy indicated his thigh. ‘The prince pulled it out and ran straight at them. He was a very brave man to attack seven Zulus. Another spear struck him here.’ Percy tapped his chest. ‘That’s when he was surrounded and killed. The prince’s assegai has been given to King Cetshwayo.’
Dallas knew that the Prince Imperial would have had his stomach ritually slit open. He wondered what French royalists would make of the fact that the great Napoleon’s sword was now in the hands of a besieged Zulu king somewhere in the wilds of Africa.
On hearing the news Buller was furious with Lieutenant Carey. ‘You deserve to be shot, and I hope you will be. I could shoot you myself.’ The unfortunate Carey was court-martialled eleven days later for his failure to defend the prince.
Any chance Cetshwayo had of achieving a peaceful end to the war was effectively ruined. Lord Chelmsford had to accept ultimate responsibility for the prince’s death. Coming so soon after earlier disasters, he needed a swift success. Nothing else would do.
As for the dead Louis, he was sent home amid solemn ceremonies. The news reached Europe by telegraph long before the prince’s body. Shock and horror erupted in both England and France, the former due to embarrassment; the latter, patriotic resurgence of latent royal support. Far more publicity was accorded this one death than the reputed thirteen hundred at Isandlwana.
There were some pragmatic observations, however. One man publicly commented that, ‘The Zulus had inadvertently solved one of the most difficult problems of French history.’
John Dunn arrived unexpectedly in Durban around the middle of July, ten days after Ulundi had fallen. He told Lorna and Dallas of the Zulus’ defeat. To combat the effectiveness of Cetshwayo’s bull’s horn strategy, Chelmsford had formed his men into a recta
ngle. Five companies comprised the front and side faces while two closed up the rear. Within this square, as it was called, were staff headquarters, mule carts carrying reserve ammunition, several hospital wagons, volunteers and a troop of the King’s Dragoon Guards. The force numbered five thousand three hundred and seventeen. They marched in this formation to within a mile and a half of the royal kraal. There they halted.
Nothing happened. The clash that Chelmsford had wanted for so long, might, it seemed, once again elude him. Nervous new recruits, who had listened to seasoned regulars tell tales of Zulu might and ferocity, found the empty landscape unnerving. More than one asked, ‘Where are they?’ Silence buzzed in their ears, the only sound their own heartbeats.
Mounted scouts rode out, seeking an enemy that seemed to have melted away.
‘They were there, all right,’ John said. ‘We couldn’t see them but the place throbbed with life. It was eerie, an almost tangible expectancy hung in the air. Twenty thousand men had hidden in the grass and we couldn’t find one.’ He shook his head. ‘When they chose to reveal themselves it was done one regiment at a time. I’ve never seen anything like it. We were completely surrounded. They just stood there in complete silence, holding their shields in front of them. God!’ He shook his head again, eyes moist at the memory.
Dallas was deeply moved by the image. The courage of those men, many of whom had already seen how easily shells and bullets brushed aside cowhide shields and smashed defenceless bodies.
John was openly weeping. ‘The greatest warrior race in the world. They knew what to expect, yet they ranked against us and did not falter. As one, the foot stamping and rattle of assegais against shields started. The sound was so loud it got inside our heads. Then the war cry went up and they came at us.
‘Jesus Christ, Dallas, the dumb bastards were falling as if they’d been tipped from a cart. The nine-pounders ripped through them, Gatlings cut them to shreds and still they bloody near reached us.’ he brushed impatiently at his wet cheeks. ‘Half an hour. Thirty minutes. That’s all it took to turn them, break them. The 17th Lancers and King’s Dragoon Guards went after them as if they were pig-sticking.’
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