Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  Inside a bell tent, from The Graphic

  Soldiers laughed, cursed, and smoked their clay pipes. Close by, Harry lay with his head near the entrance flap, hands clasped behind his head. The drone of his section and pounding rains became an inaudible buzz. His trousers, jacket, and shirtsleeves hung from a support pole; he stretched out on his bedroll in just his underpants. Like most evenings, he was very tired. The threat of enemy attacks usually meant a false alarm or two every night, further depriving them of sleep. He figured the only things keeping him from collapsing each day were his youth and a constant supply of coffee.

  “Right lads, ten minutes ‘til lights out,” Sergeant Walker spoke up, checking his pocket watch.

  With a few grumbles and traded insults, the soldiers stowed their playing cards and camp stools. Bandsman Richard Walker said goodbye to his father before throwing on his greatcoat and venturing out into the storm. Lewis stepped over the legs of lounging soldiers and made his way to his bedroll, next to his assistant section leader.

  “Still teaching Richard to read, I see,” Harry said, his eyes half-closed.

  “Aye,” Lewis concurred. “I haven’t been able to give him much of a formal education, but I do the best I can. So long as he can read and write, he might make something of himself.”

  “Does he still intend to enlist into one of the line companies?”

  Walker nodded, though his face betrayed a sense of disappointment. “That he does. I thought perhaps the Xhosa War would have broken him of that, or the unfortunate affair at Tolyana Stadt. He was placed on a stretcher-bearing detail with the rest of the bandsmen. Ferried back four of our wounded, he did, to include poor Colour Sergeant Pegg. That experience only hardened his resolve to join the ranks.”

  “I thought you’d be proud of him,” Harry conjectured.

  “I am, don’t mistake otherwise. But I want him to have the chance to seize opportunities that don’t involve trudging through the hellscapes of the Empire’s frontiers; something I never did.”

  The faint sound of a bugle playing ‘The Last Post’ was barely audible over the pummelling of rain on their tent. Though their conversation had been about Lewis Walker’s son, Harry could not help but feel self-conscious as he lay in the consuming darkness. He was only five years older than Richard, whereas fifteen years separated him from his section leader.

  He also had a substantive education, one that consisted of far more than learning to read from old newspapers. Since joining the Colours, he never told anyone that he’d been educated at Sir Thomas Rich’s School in Gloucester, having worn their famous blue coat and cap from age eleven to eighteen. He could only imagine what Lewis Walker’s reaction would be, if he learned that his corporal had more schooling than any enlisted soldier in the entire Regiment!

  The fort at Bemba’s Kop consisted of little more than earthen ramparts reinforced with whatever stones could be found, encircled by a six-foot trench, yet Evelyn Wood was confident they would keep any roaming bands of Zulus at bay. The two infantry battalions spent most of their time guarding the stores, making improvements to the defences, or conducting patrols within about a mile of the fort. The long-range patrols fell to the Frontier Light Horse and Piet Uys’ Boer Burghers.

  It was the burgher force, on the afternoon of 7 January, who came upon a band of twenty-five Zulus about ten miles southeast of the camp. Five of the warriors carried muskets; the rest were armed with assegais and iklwa spears. They also carried small, personal shields. The large battle shields of their respective regiments were the personal property of the king, and therefore kept at the ikhanda barracks. The burghers reined in their horses while Piet spoke to the men in isiZulu.

  “Sawubona,” Piet said by way of greeting.

  “Sawubona,” one of the Zulus replied. “Are you out for a hunt as well?”

  “Yes, we are hunting warthogs.”

  Both men knew the other was lying, yet they continued to banter. Piet suspected these were scouts from a much larger army. Despite the hostility between the Boers and the Zulus, they remained civil, each telling random tales of wild game they’d seen, well away from their respective armies. After a few minutes, the Zulus departed and began heading southeast.

  “We could have slaughtered the lot of them right here,” one of Piet’s sons said.

  They watched the band of warriors, who were now singing a chant which the older burgher recognised as a war song.

  “Those bastards taunt us,” another of his sons snarled.

  “We are not at war yet,” Piet cautioned. “Five more days, then we can hunt the Zulus.”

  On following night, the evening of 8 January, a messenger arrived from the GOC. The man was a black African wearing a red rag tied around his head and carrying a Martini-Henry rifle. Colonel Wood noticed that the bandolier the warrior wore only had five cartridges fixed to it.

  “Seems like such a waste,” Lieutenant Lysons muttered. He took the despatch from the Natal warrior and handed it to his colonel. As Wood read the message, the young officer looked to Captain Campbell. “I know it’s not my place to question his lordship’s tactics or motives, but if we’re only going to issue our native riflemen five rounds of ammunition, what’s the point of even giving them a rifle?”

  “You are correct about one thing, Mister Lysons,” Campbell said sternly. “It is not our place to question his lordship’s motives or tactics.”

  “Sir.” The young officer bowed his head slightly, his face turning red. Even if every man on the column staff felt as he did, it was not becoming of an officer to question the commanding general so publicly. Henry Lysons knew he had much to learn.

  “Mister Lysons,” the colonel at last spoke up. “Pen a reply to Lord Chelmsford. Inform him that No. 4 Column is ready to assist, and I look forward to our meeting on the 11th.”

  “Yes, sir,” Henry said quickly, glad for the distraction.

  Evelyn Wood then read the despatch aloud for the staff.

  Colonel,

  Firstly, I must applaud your initiative in crossing the Ncome River and establishing a firm British presence within the disputed territory, while making your column available to support the central advance on Ulundi.

  I intend to cross into Zululand on the 11th, while personally overseeing the actions of No. 3 Column who, as you know, will be crossing the Buffalo River at Rorke’s Drift. A local chieftain named Sihayo controls these lands, and it is believed that he has about 8,000 men, ready to oppose us. I hope it may be true. But we must also distract Sihayo and give him much to think about, thereby ensuring No. 3 Column conducts a successful crossing. A diversion by No. 4 Column will fit the bill nicely. I, therefore, require you to detach a portion of your forces and head towards Rorke’s Drift. I will personally meet with you on the 11th at a place known as Nkonjane Hill, nine miles north of Rorke’s Drift. It should be well-known to your natives, as many of them are Zulus.

  Regards,

  Chelmsford

  It took Henry Lysons only a few moments to write the reply, which he then handed to Colonel Wood, who scanned it quickly, signed his name, and gave it to the patiently waiting Natal warrior. After dismissing the messenger, he summoned the conductor for the 90th Light Infantry, whom he ordered to have his bandsmen ready to march in the morning. They were to strike up with ‘Blue Bonnets Over the Border’ while marching around the fort.

  “Not that the meaning of the song will have any impression upon the Zulus,” the conductor remarked. “However, it will rouse the fighting spirits of our men and make our presence known to every kaffir within fifty miles.”

  “Nothing like the Scottish pipes to incite the curiosity of the Zulus,” Lieutenant Colonel Buller added. “I think between the bagpipes and sending an expedition south towards Rorke’s Drift, it will give this Sihayo pause.”

  An hour later, Wood and the staff were sitting down to their supper when another runner arrived. This one came from the north, bearing a despatch from Captain Norman McLeod, the Brit
ish agent in Swaziland. For months he had made bold promises regarding the massing of a large Swazi army of 4,000 warriors, who would sweep down from the north and join No. 4 Column in its advance on Ulundi. This had bolstered Lord Chelmsford’s hopes for a quick victory over King Cetshwayo. The Swazis had made many bold gestures, but had yet to commit to either side in this pending conflict. Wood, ever the sceptic, was not surprised by the contents of the message.

  Sir,

  I must regretfully report that while my host, King Mbandzeni, expresses his friendship and good wishes, he is reluctant to commit his warriors to war against his closest neighbours for the time being. King Cetshwayo has made overtures to him as well, with Mbandzeni allowing the Zulu monarch to send as many as 5,000 cattle from the royal herd into Swaziland for protection. I have been reassured that should the Crown succeed in overthrowing Cetshwayo, a portion of these cattle will in turn be handed over to British authorities.

  King Mbandzeni has decided to remain neutral until such time as the Crown’s forces achieve an initial victory over the Zulus. As the Zulu army significantly outnumbers his own, he hopes you understand his reluctance to commit to war at this time. Please forward this message with all haste to Lord Chelmsford, that he may be made abreast of the situation.

  N. McLeod, Captain

  As the messenger had already departed, Wood decided to keep the message and personally give it to the GOC when they met in a few days. While the Swazi warriors were renowned for their fighting prowess and personal bravery, they were much fewer in number than the armies of King Cetshwayo. The Zulus were also legendary conquerors, having absorbed scores of various tribes during the great expansion under King Shaka. Should the British Empire fail to usurp Cetshwayo, the last thing Mbandzeni wished to contend with was an angry Zulu king and his army of 40,000 warriors.

  The following morning, the band of the 90th Perthshire Light Infantry assembled outside the eastern entrance to the fort. Scores of soldiers gathered along the fort’s ramparts to watch. Contrasting the persistent myths regarding the ‘little drummer boys’, most of the bandsmen were in their early to mid-twenties with the youngest in the Perthshire Regiment being fifteen. One of the most practical reasons behind this was that during battle bandsmen became stretcher-bearers. The task of retrieving badly injured soldiers, often under intense enemy fire, was both physically and psychologically taxing. But on this day, the 90th’s band was performing the task which they had all joined the Colours for.

  At the conductor’s signal, a drummer struck up the rapid preparatory beat. A low groan emitted from the bagpipes. Then, as one, the twenty bandsmen stepped off, striking up with the ballad Blue Bonnets Over the Border. Ironically, this tune first originated in 1745 during the Jacobite Uprising and was used to rally the forces of the pretender, ‘Bonney Prince Charlie’, before their decisive defeat at the Battle of Culloden in early 1746.

  “Just think,” James Shepard said, as he joined Harry Davies near the fort’s ramparts. “A hundred years ago, playing such a tune on the bagpipes would have gotten one a bayonet through the neck!”

  “Yes, well, it is much easier for the English and the Scots to get on when we have a common enemy to fight,” Harry remarked. “I am a bit surprised Colonel Wood ordered this particular ballad. Isn’t he English?”

  “He is, but he also has quite the affinity for his Scottish Regiment, even if many of their lads are actually English, Irish, or Welsh! Besides, nothing like the unholy sound of bagpipes to rattle the Zulus!”

  A Scottish Regimental Piper, from The Illustrated London News

  Chapter V: Coordinating the Columns

  Bemba’s Kop

  8 January 1879

  Lieutenant General Sir Frederick Augustus Thesiger, Lord Chelmsford

  Given the nature of the report from his lordship regarding the possibility of 8,000 enemy warriors mustering in the region near No. 3 Column’s proposed crossing site, Colonel Evelyn Wood thought it prudent to take most of his column on the trek towards Rorke’s Drift. Two companies from 1/13th and three from the 90th were left to guard the stores at Bemba’s Kop. The Frontier Light Horse and Boer Burghers continued with the conducting of cattle raids in the near vicinity. Such raids had not only proven fruitful, with thousands of head of cattle seized and sent back to be sold at markets in Natal and the Transvaal, it was very disrupting for the Zulus.

  The remaining 1,400 imperial redcoats and allied Zulus would make the journey. Given the soggy terrain and only three days until the rendezvous, Colonel Wood ordered the detachment to travel as light as possible. Tents were to be left behind; only half their ammunition reserves and two weeks’ rations were loaded onto the wagons. They brought a pair of cannon, with the remaining four left to help secure the fort at Bemba’s Kop.

  A surprise to the companies of infantry, who had just finished their supper on the evening of 8 January, was that they were being ordered to make ready for departure that very night. There were the usual grumblings from the ranks, some of the men in C Company, 1/13th voicing their desire to have been one of the two companies in the battalion left at the fort.

  “Bah, I’d rather hunt Zulus than sit on my backside all day,” Private William Grosvenor said, when he heard one of his mates complaining.

  “Still, why are we leaving now, instead of waiting until morning?” Private Page asked.

  “Because you lazy twats could do with the exercise,” Harry Davies countered.

  Sergeant Walker then explained, “We have forty-five miles to travel, and not a lot of time to get there.”

  Harry noticed his sergeant was far more patient with the younger soldiers in the section than he was. Lewis Walker was stern, yet he rarely lost his composure. Questions or remarks that the corporal found irritating, Sergeant Walker handled firmly and calmly. Harry reckoned it came with maturity or, perhaps, it was something one learned from being a father. Only two private soldiers in the section were married, though both were childless, while another thought he might have an illegitimate sprog back in England. Regardless, Walker’s patience was a trait Harry admired, and one he wished he shared with his sergeant.

  Still grumbling and trying not to trip over the plethora of tent ropes and rocks jutting up from the ground, soldiers hefted their packs and made ready to depart the fort. It was early evening, with the sun lying low in the west. Colonel Wood planned for his column to conduct a forced march through the night, and the sky was already dark as storm clouds rolled in from the southeast.

  Despite the lingering heat, Corporal Harry Davies had already thrown on his greatcoat. “No sense in waiting for the sky to take a giant piss on us.”

  A few soldiers turned their gazes up to the clouds. Privates Allen, Hill, and Grosvenor immediately dropped their packs and pulled out their greatcoats as the first droplets fell from the heavens.

  Within moments, before the column had even finished forming for the march, the sky opened up with a torrential downpour. Every man in No. 4 Column, including the officers, was immediately scrambling to put on his greatcoat. The only ones that seemed unaffected were the African wagon drivers and the young voorloopers, who casually led the teams of oxen to their wagons.

  “Sling your rifles with the barrels facing down!” Colour Sergeant Fricker called out. While this made carrying the Martini-Henry slung over the right shoulder a bit awkward, it was preferable to allowing water to run down the barrel.

  With the Frontier Light Horse remaining at Bemba’s Kop, and only his small personal guard from the IMI for mounted troops, Colonel Wood ordered skirmishers from the 90th Regiment to screen their advance, with each company deploying sharp-shooters to their flanks.

  Though the trek was terrible, with rain soaking the column and turning the track into sinking mud within the first hour, Colonel Wood reckoned the inclement weather may work to their advantage by shielding their departure from Bemba’s Kop. He surmised that the Zulus did not like being out in the pouring rain any more than they did.

  The
column consisted of only twenty wagons. Even with their weight diminished from travelling light, they still sunk more than a foot into the soupy mud. It took sixteen oxen and half a company of redcoats pushing just to keep the convoy progressing. They halted around midnight, forming the wagons into a tiny laager with the draught oxen in the centre. Soldiers clustered beneath the wagons or wherever they could find a trace of shelter, while the unfortunate souls tasked with first guard shift took up their posts. Given the miserable conditions, most of the No. 4 Column were lucky if they managed any sleep that night. The next few days would be much of the same; soldiers and oxen subjected to muddy conditions and relentless rains.

  On the morning of 11 January, the soaked and muddied column arrived at Nkonjane Hill where Lord Chelmsford had instructed Colonel Wood to wait for him. The rains ceased and the sun shone brightly through the wisps of clouds. Evelyn ordered his men to form into a square laager with cannon placed in the centre in reserve. The uMzinyathi River was close, approximately a hundred yards to the west, so groups of soldiers headed down to the refill their water bottles, as well as take the time to bathe. Four-man picquets were established to the north, south, and east.