by James Mace
Noon in Zululand, from The Graphic
Private George Hill was manning one of the southern picquets with three of his mates. Late in the morning, as the sun broke through the wisps of clouds leftover from the previous night’s storms, he saw a contingent of horsemen approaching. “Riders from the south!” he called over his shoulder.
“That will be his lordship,” Harry Davies said. He took the field glasses he’d borrowed from Lieutenant Pardoe and scanned the detachment.
He’d never actually seen Lord Chelmsford in person, but there was no mistaking him. Tall and lanky, with a full greying beard and a confident aura about him, he wore a simple blue officer’s patrol jacket. His white foreign service helmet sat perched atop his head. Chelmsford had never bothered to stain his helmet like most of his soldiers. Being a general officer, he also had no regimental affiliation, therefore there was no brass plate fixed to the front. Most of the men riding with him wore either officer’s patrol jackets or tunics. A group of ten redcoats from the Imperial Mounted Infantry rode in a column behind the officers.
“Look alive, lads!” Harry called out to all soldiers nearest the laager.
Those in their shirtsleeves quickly donned their tunics and helmets. The men on picquet duty came to attention as Chelmsford and his escort of staff officers and Imperial Mounted Infantrymen rode up to them. As the senior ranking soldier present, Corporal Davies rendered the salute to the GOC. Chelmsford returned the courtesy without even looking his way. In the centre of the camp, Colonel Wood and his staff were waiting. Wood’s batman had a fresh pot of coffee brewing, and he offered a cup to his lordship.
“My lord,” Wood said, saluting before shaking hands with his commanding general.
“Ah, colonel,” Chelmsford replied, taking a seat on a campstool across from Wood. “Tis a fine morning. Whether by your diversion or simply providence, the crossing of No. 3 Column has gone completely unopposed by the enemy.”
“I am glad to hear that, sir,” Evelyn replied. “I brought enough men to give the Zulus good hiding, though we have yet to see any sign of them since we departed Bemba’s Kop.”
“Regrettably, it has been the same since our first wave of troops crossed into Zululand,” the GOC remarked. “I am glad our lads did not have 8,000 kaffirs ready to stab them in the mist as they crossed on the ponts, but I had hoped to see some sign of them.”
“I am certain they will come to greet us soon enough,” Wood asserted.
“Yes, well, I know you’ve had no shortage of ‘adventures’ since crossing into enemy territory.”
“Mostly abaQulusi, sir,” the colonel explained. “It seems they don’t much care for us snatching away their cattle. They are Cetshwayo’s allies and as much our enemy as the Zulu. However, they are not part of the king’s amabutho and have not been summoned to any muster of their main army.” He then explained about his diversions, to include utilising Lieutenant Colonel Buller’s mounted troops for conducting raids, as well as tasking the band of the 90th Regiment to march around the main camp, playing their pipes and drums.
This last piece of information drew an appreciative grin from his lordship. “A splendid display, I am certain. No doubt Colonel Buller’s efforts will be disruptive to all natives who refuse to renounce their allegiance to Cetshwayo.”
Wood then produced the despatch he’d received from the British agent in Swaziland. “This came shortly after I received your last message, my lord.”
Chelmsford read through the despatch from Captain McLeod, his expression unchanging. “Disappointing, colonel, but not surprising. The Swazis are waiting to see which side is most likely to win this little war—which will, of course, be us—before they commit.”
“If they commit at all,” Wood remarked.
“Quite,” the GOC said. “I would be glad for their assistance, but it is not necessary for us to defeat Cetshwayo. Though I was relieved to have our crossing at Rorke’s Drift pass unopposed, I am troubled that you have seen no sign of the Zulu army either. My greatest concern is that Cetshwayo will act like Sekhukhune and decline to fight us altogether.”
“If Cetshwayo has summoned his regiments to the royal kraal at Ulundi, it may take some time for them to muster and be ready for battle,” Evelyn conjectured.
The GOC nodded. “We must give them no choice but to fight. As you know, colonel, today marks the expiration of the ultimatum. The Crown is now at war with the Zulu Kingdom. The time for simply raiding cattle is over. While you should feel free to keep taking our enemy’s livelihood from him, it must be made clear to the Zulus that failure to surrender will result in much greater losses than a few head of cattle.”
“I understand.”
Chelmsford then added, “But for now, colonel, I need No. 4 Column to hold their position, once you’ve returned to Bemba’s Kop.”
“May I ask why, my lord?” Wood asked.
“Coordination, colonel, not to mention the beastly condition of the track leading away from Rorke’s Drift. And, as you know, Colonel Pearson’s No. 1 Column is crossing at Lower Drift, near the mouth of the Thukela River. While he has the closest to what one might refer to as ‘roads’, they will still be muddy and difficult to traverse. He is also 150 miles from here, and it is far more difficult to maintain communications. I’ve ordered him to advance as far as the old mission station of Eshowe, about thirty-five miles from Lower Drift, and establish a fort there. My engineer officer tells me it will be several days, perhaps a week, before the rutted track leading east from Rorke’s Drift is fit to support our wagons. So, No. 3 Column has crossed the uMzinyathi, but they remain encamped within full view of the depot at Rorke’s Drift.”
“I understand, my lord,” Wood stated. “It will take us two days, perhaps three, to retrace our steps back to Bemba’s Kop. How long shall we wait before continuing our advance on Ulundi?”
“At least a week,” Chelmsford replied. “I wish to give Colonel Pearson time to reach Eshowe; however, communications with No. 1 Column are spotty. A bit of guesswork will be required. The closest major landmark along No. 3 Column’s axis-of-advance is a mountain called Isandlwana. It’s about ten miles from the river and will make for an excellent first halt along the way. At some point between Rorke’s Drift and Ulundi, I hope Cetshwayo will come out of hiding and meet us in battle!”
The two officers exchanged a few more logistical details, as well as the necessary pleasantries, before wishing each other ‘good day’ and ‘good hunting’. His lordship explained that it would take most of the day for No. 3 Column to transport their wagons and stores across the uMzinyathi River. Colonel Wood assured him that, in the meantime, he would keep No. 4 Column well employed, taking the fight to any Zulus or their allies in the northern regions of the kingdom.
In truth, Colonel Evelyn Wood did not envy Lord Chelmsford’s position. He had three large and rather unwieldy columns to coordinate a simultaneous advance on King Cetshwayo’s royal kraal. Lack of communications and a complete absence of viable intelligence about the enemy’s disposition and movements were their greatest detriments. If one element fell into trouble, particularly Charles Pearson’s No. 1 Column near the coast, they would be hard pressed to receive aid from any of the others. His lordship hoped to utilise Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Durnford’s mounted No. 2 Column to alleviate this; however, they numbered just a few hundred troopers.
Communications would prove slow and fraught with risk. While signalling devices which reflected sunlight via a movable mirror, known as heliographs, were in the British Army’s inventory, none had yet made it to Southern Africa. They also required a direct line-of-sight. Telegraph service did exist, but only between the major towns and cities. This meant the primary means of sending and receiving despatches was by messengers. Lord Chelmsford had directed the columns to utilise local Africans. They were more familiar with the region, and less conspicuous should they be spotted by Zulu scouts. And, quite honestly, his lordship felt they were more expendable than his own soldie
rs. The further each of the columns advanced, the more haphazard communications would become. Messengers, whether white Europeans or black Africans, still undertook substantial risk of being captured or killed. The constant manoeuvring of the columns made them difficult to find, plus runners utilising the cover of night could simply wander past them. Colonel Evelyn Wood had, therefore, decided to execute his own campaign against the Zulus, all the while keeping within the general guidelines of his lordship’s intent. And because Chelmsford trusted Wood more than Glyn or Pearson, he was given an immense measure of latitude, which he intended to make the best use of.
The column was fortunate to be spared from the summer rains for two days, while they made their trek back to Bemba’s Kop. The route was straightforward, and they simply kept to their own previous wagon ruts. On the first day they were slowed by the lingering muds, but by the second the ground had dried. Though they now moved at a much quicker pace, the entire column was engulfed in choking dust and flung chunks of clay from the wagon wheels and oxen. The columns of soldiers marched twenty yards away from the wagons in an attempt to keep out of the dust.
“The question now is where are the blasted Zulus?” Harry Davies thought aloud. He stopped briefly to scan the hills off to their right. Aside from the occasional herdsmen, who were usually either elderly men and women or young boys, there was no sign that anyone lived within ten miles of the uMzinyathi River.
“They’ve likely all gone to the royal muster,” Lewis Walker speculated.
This was the only explanation that made any sense. For a large nation thought to have around 300,000 inhabitants, none of the British columns had seen more than a handful of Zulus during the opening days of the Anglo-Zulu War. Despite the complete lack of enemy sightings, as No. 4 Column made its way back to Bemba’s Kop, they could feel the eyes of Cetshwayo watching them.
Chapter VI: The abaQulusi Problem
Bemba’s Kop
14 January 1879
Inside a kraal, typical of both the Zulu and abaQulusi
Three days had passed since the ultimatum’s expiration and the commencement of hostilities between the Zulus and the Crown. And yet, the only action taken thus far had come from No. 3 Column the day after they crossed the uMzinyathi River. With their wagons immobilised by the inhospitable terrain, they had sent their infantry and NNC warriors to attack the stronghold belonging to the inkosi, Sihayo. If Sihayo had 8,000 warriors under his command, they were nowhere to be found. Only a handful had remained to protect the chieftain’s kraal. These were easily routed; around sixty were killed before the remnants scattered. ‘First blood to us!’ Lord Chelmsford had gleefully declared.
Meanwhile, the southern No. 1 Column slogged its way up the muddy trader paths used by settlers such as John Dunn, constantly having to dig their wagons out of the sinking mud. They had seen even less of the Zulus, with only occasional scouts making their presence known.
Though they had seen little of the Zulus, the soldiers of No. 4 Column were constantly finding bands of warriors coming from the abaQulusi strongholds near Hlobane Mountain. Most of the running skirmishes involved the local warriors harrying elements of Buller’s Frontier Light Horse, in attempts to draw them into an ambush. These had proven ineffective, and the mounted troops absconded with scores of cattle.
While stray groups of settler volunteers had arrived at the fort since the commencement of hostilities, the force of 400 Boer Burghers that Piet Uys promised had failed to materialise. At best, his troop consisted of fifty burghers including his four sons. And, like Uys, they steadfastly refused to accept any sort of payment from the Crown. Evelyn Wood still expressed his gratitude at their joining his column in the fight against the Zulus.
“Like me, they fight for their homes and families,” Piet explained as he joined the colonel at his campfire on the evening of the 14 January. The sun had set an hour before, and Wood was enjoying his evening cup of tea, having dismissed his staff for the night.
“I know you mentioned not caring about the land grant,” Evelyn remarked, “however, its ruling in favour of the Zulus, pointless as it now may be, seems to have undone our chances of enlisting more of your people to assist us. I recall a meeting I had with Andries Pretorius back in October. He told me in no uncertain terms that his people hated the English just as much as they did the Zulus.”
His recollections were interrupted when Uys started chuckling to himself. The burgher was quick to explain. “Andries Pretorius has been dead for twenty-five years,” he said. “I suspect it was his son, Marthinus, with whom you met.”
“Whichever member of the Pretorius clan it was, he rather reluctantly convinced his fellows to pledge their support to the Crown, provided the land grant ruled in their favour. He swore he could bring a force of 2,000 burghers who would ride straight for Ulundi and burn it to the ground. Once the commission ruled against them, any shred of assistance they may have been willing to offer vanished.”
One detail Wood declined to divulge to Uys was that Pretorius had also predicted a Zulu victory, in light of Colonel Rowlands’ debacle against Sekhukhune. Though he mostly concurred with Lord Chelmsford regarding Rowlands’ tentativeness and failure to press the fight when he had the rebellious chieftain essentially cornered, he was not about to disparage a fellow officer in front of a foreigner.
“A pity, that,” Piet remarked. “A mounted force of 2,000 burghers could bring the Zulus to heel in short order.” He glanced down, feeling a bit awkward about his boastful assertions.
Wood gave a sombre nod and took a drink of his tea. “During my meeting with Mister Pretorius, he asked whether I would prefer Englishmen or Dutchmen serving in my column. I told him quite candidly that when it comes to fighting the Zulus, I would take a force of Dutchmen. You may have no love of us, Mister Uys, but like it or not, you are subjects of the Crown while you live within Her Majesty’s colonies. At least you were wise enough to recognise that there is no future for your people so long as Cetshwayo attempts to place you under his dominion.”
“We left the Cape Colony in order to escape from your Queen Victoria and her domains,” Piet reminded him. “The Transvaal and Orange Free State were our homes until that viper, Shepstone, walked in and proclaimed the region belonged to Britain.”
“And yet none of you were able to stop him,” Evelyn countered. “I have heard plenty of talk regarding the desire of the Boers to have their own independent republic, but until you are able to organise and work together, that will be nothing more than a fantastic dream.”
“And the day that happens will be an awkward one for you English,” Piet stated with a grin and short laugh. The old Boer fidgeted awkwardly for a moment before continuing. “I know our people will never be friends, but if you and I are going to fight as allies, I feel I should tell you my personal reasons for pledging my support and that of my sons. My family has a lifelong blood-feud with the Zulus. Forty years ago, my father and brother were butchered by those damned heathens. And when, like so many Dutch farmers, we fled from British rule in Natal, we were compelled to seek permission from the odious Zulu kings to settle within the Transvaal. I have unfinished business with Cetshwayo, and have accepted that it may cost me my life. That should be enough to satisfy any questions you may have regarding whether we will fight. I only hope that your Queen Victoria will make good on the service my people render and leave us alone.”
The sound of cattle being herded in from grazing caught their attention. A group of twenty horsemen were visible in the moonlight, guiding another fifty beasts towards the makeshift enclosure erected to keep their plunder penned in.
“More booty taken from the abaQulusi,” Piet observed.
“Which both our people will benefit from,” Wood remarked. “That is, unless the local chieftains are willing to accede to the demands of the Crown.”
In truth, Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood had hoped to avoid engaging the abaQulusi in battle. The strength of their impi was unknown. Rumours placed their fighti
ng strength at anywhere from a few hundred to several thousand. Regardless, their very presence threatened both his left flank, as well as the Transvaal and northern Natal colonies. However, Redvers Buller’s raids had proven quite successful, with over 2,500 cattle taken over the recent weeks and the abaQulusi thus far powerless to stop them. Those captured during previous raids had already been sent to the markets in Transvaal and northern Natal, but Wood hoped to use these as a bargaining tool. Many were white cattle that came from King Cetshwayo’s personal herd. Wood surmised that this would give him the upper hand when it came to negotiations. He summoned two runners from Wood’s Irregulars to act as messengers to the chieftain’s Manyanyoba and Seketwayo.
“Our terms are simple,” the colonel said. “If the abaQulusi and Khubeka agree to a pact of non-aggression with the Crown, we shall return Cetshwayo’s cattle, to be held in their safekeeping. No hostile acts may be taken against Her Majesty’s soldiers or any white settlements. In return, they will be allowed to keep Cetshwayo’s cattle once this war is over. Their lands will also be kept safe from further despoliation. I require an urgent reply. Tell the chieftains they have two days.”
For Mbilini, the prospect of the abaQulusi renouncing their alliance with King Cetshwayo and taking up a neutral position in the war was deeply troubling. He had personally sworn fealty to the Zulu king, and to allow his word to be broken was a dishonour he could not bear. What’s more, should the Zulus triumph, he would be completely undone and likely expelled from the Zulu Kingdom. And yet, many of the warriors who fought under his command were abaQulusi. His strongholds were also located within their lands. Should either Manyanyoba or Seketwayo negotiate a non-hostility pact with the English, it would be nothing short of a betrayal of his hosts if he fought against the white soldiers while continuing his raids on their farms and cattle. At the very least, the abaQulusi warriors under his charge would be compelled to obey their inkosi and not take up arms. And at worst, he could be banished from the abaQulusi lands or even put to death. Therefore, it came as a great surprise to the Swazi prince when Seketwayo sought out his counsel.
