by James Mace
It was an hour before ‘lights out’, and Colonel Wood had left to go for a walk around the fort. He said it would do his men good to see their commanding officer checking on them. Plus, he was constantly complaining of a persistent cough and thought the night air might help. Captain Ronald Campbell remained in the staff tent. Sitting at a small desk, he penned a letter under the soft glow of an oil lamp.
“Your pardon, sir,” Henry Lysons said, walking into the tent carrying some despatches for Colonel Wood to review. “I didn’t realise anyone was still here.”
“No trouble at all, Mister Lysons,” Ronald replied. “Just finishing a letter to my wife.”
“Ah. Been married long?” Lysons shifted awkwardly.
“Six years,” Campbell replied, not looking up from his writings.
“Any children?”
“No.” After finishing, Campbell set down his quill and sat upright and stretched his arms overhead. He then nodded toward the sheaf of papers the young lieutenant held. “I can take those from you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Lysons handed the papers to the captain and made ready to leave.
“Are you married, Mister Lysons?”
He was rather surprised by Campbell’s question and turned to face him. “No, sir. I’ve always been led to believe that a lieutenant should never marry.”
Campbell laughed.
Lysons shrugged. “I mean, I suppose it was acceptable for you, sir, being the son of an earl and all.”
“Yes, well, my brother, Frederick, will become Earl of Cawdor once our father passes on. For now, he is content to serve as MP for Carmarthenshire.” Campbell folded his arms and gave the lieutenant an apprising glance. “Forgive this intrusion, but just how old are you, Mister Lysons?”
“Twenty, sir. For all I know, I might very well be the youngest army officer in Southern Africa.”
“A distinct possibility. Well, I would say you have your whole life to find a suitable wife.”
“Provided the Zulus don’t do me in,” Henry added with a macabre grin.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve realised by now that there are many more ways to die in the African bush than just enemy spears and muskets. There is an assortment of snakes, wild beasts, crocodiles and, of course, any number of infectious diseases.”
“Yes, it does detract from the pleasant scenery,” the lieutenant replied, bringing a good-natured chuckle from Campbell. “I have to confess, sir, being the colonel’s orderly is not the first duty I thought I would undertake upon receiving the Queen’s Commission.”
“It is unusual, I’ll grant you,” the captain conceded. “But the colonel sees potential in you, and you would do well to make the most of this posting. Being the column commander’s orderly gives you opportunities to see how the army runs that most of your peers serving as company subalterns will not learn for several years. Acquire everything you can from the column staff and the senior non-commissioned officers. The men in the ranks may have been denied the opportunities our births afforded us; however, that does not mean they are fools. A man wearing a set of sergeant’s chevrons is likely to be well-versed in the art of soldiering. And if the sergeant major can spare you a few moments, you will find a fountain of knowledge that rivals even the colonel.”
As he returned to his tent and made ready to bed down for the night, Henry took the words to heart. He was very self-conscious about his youth, particularly since he was the same age or younger than most of the private soldiers. And while the men in the ranks addressed him as ‘sir’, he knew that true respect was earned, not given simply because of the insignia one wore on his collar or who his noble father might be. Captain Ronald Campbell may have been given the title ‘The Honourable’ since birth, but it did not make him an effective or inspiring leader. It was sound decision making and setting the right example that earned the men’s true admiration.
On the morning of the 21st, the Frontier Light Horse and Burgher troop departed Fort Thinta just after dawn. The ominous and looming mountain of Hlobane lurked in the far distance. Heeding the advice of Piet Uys, Lieutenant Colonel Buller led his troopers towards the western Zungwini range. It surprised the colonel when they came across a small herd five miles north of the fort. There were about twenty head of cattle with five or six young Zulu boys keeping them together as they grazed. One gave a loud cry and pointed to the approaching horsemen before shooing their cattle away.
“Keep your weapons in their slung,” Buller ordered. “Those are just children, and they’re unarmed.”
Throughout the morning the mounted contingent came across several small herds as they approached Zungwini Mountain. Those tending to the cattle were mostly young boys who ran as soon as they saw the horsemen approach. The four troops slowly began converging as the ground sloped down into a shallow valley surrounded on two sides by steep rocky faces.
“Take caution, colonel,” Piet Uys warned. “The Zulus may be trying to channel us.”
“What bloody Zulus?” a trooper asked. “We’ve not seen a damned one yet!”
Redvers Buller elected to act with a touch of caution and ordered his troopers to halt and spread out. He then took his field glasses and scanned the ridges. His heart leapt into his throat when he heard the cadence of spears and clubs beating against shields.
“Here they come!” he shouted, even before he saw the first wave of warriors crest the hill line to his right-front.
Troopers unslung their carbines and fired a smattering of shots at the oncoming swarm of enemy warriors. Horses panicked and bucked at the loud bangs of musketry, nearly throwing off their riders.
Buller looked to his left and saw another band of around 200 rising out of a previously unseen donga less than half-a-mile away. “Come about!” he shouted. He then ordered his bugler to sound the retreat.
The mounted contingent all kicked their horses into a full gallop, sprinting away from the black wave of death spilling over the hills. His Frontier Light Horsemen were highly effective marksmen, but they possessed no melee weapons and were useless in close combat where they were unable to manoeuvre. Buller surmised there were a few hundred warriors charging them, yet there was no way of knowing how many more were lurking behind the hills in unknown hiding places. Both the colonel and his men continued to sprint their horses until they’d put two or three miles between themselves and the abaQulusi. It was only then that he halted and turned back to see if they were still being pursued. The enemy warriors were arrayed along the ridgeline as well as the valley floor. They beat their weapons against their shields, taunting the white soldiers.
“At least we now know where they are,” one of his troop commanders, Captain Robert Barton, remarked with a nervous laugh, wiping a rag across his sweaty brow.
Lieutenant Colonel Buller ordered his troops deployed in a wide skirmishing formation for the journey back to Fort Thinta. Those on the flanks kept halting to scan for any signs of the enemy, but the abaQulusi were gone.
“Should we go back, I daresay they’ll be waiting for us,” Piet Uys remarked, as the fort came into view.
“Then we’ll just have to take some friends along to sort them out,” Buller replied.
The commanding officer of the Frontier Light Horse scrawled a hasty report which he personally delivered to Colonel Wood. The column commander was pleased to have at last found their adversaries, though he chastised Buller for having acted rashly, nearly getting his entire command surrounded by enemy warriors.
“I confess, it was Mister Uys’ words of caution that likely saved us,” Buller stated. “He also feels they will be ready for us, should we return.”
“I would assume so,” Wood concurred, “unless we launch an attack on their stronghold during the early morning hours.”
“It will mean a long night march for the infantry,” Buller observed. “But their extra firepower will be most welcome. When do you wish to depart, sir?”
“Tonight. There is no sense in delaying and risking them running off to hide
elsewhere. And if, as you say, they number only a few hundred, a handful of Martini-Henry volleys will make short work of them.”
Resolved to take the fight to the abaQulusi with all haste, Evelyn Wood ordered Major Rogers to ready four companies from the 90th Regiment. He also directed Major Knox-Leet to parade the Irregulars and have them ready for battle. The mounted troops were given a few hours to rest and water their horses before preparing to ride out.
“Looks like some of the Perthshire lads are off to have a spot of fun,” James Shepard remarked.
He and Harry Davies watched the Scottish companies parade along the grassy plain near their camp.
“A little night-time march will do them some good,” Harry said. He then climbed up and sat on the short stone rampart.
“Better them than me,” James said. “Last two times we’ve done a march in the dark, I damned near broke my sodding ankle!”
“And I nearly stepped on a black mamba,” Harry recalled. “I was completely oblivious to the poor bastard, who was just trying to go about his business, when I damned near trod on him. I wasn’t even aware of it until George Hill told me about it later.”
“And why didn’t he tell you at the time?”
“He said if I got bit, it increased his chance of promotion, though he later said he was too shit-scared to say anything.”
The two corporals shared a laugh at this. Harry tried to find any means of taking the constant edge off when the battalion was on campaign, and this was best achieved through humour. It came as a struggle at times. As he once confessed to James, he was not exactly the funniest person in the company. ‘I wouldn’t know a joke if it came up and gave me a haircut,’ he’d said.
“I sometimes wonder how the other columns are managing,” Harry thought aloud.
“I remember when we used to have sporting contests against the lads from The Buffs,” James remembered. “They were a decent lot. I wonder where they ended up in all this?”
“Pearson’s column,” Harry answered. “I only know because Sergeant Walker’s wife is close friends with the wife of a sergeant from The Buffs. It’s bloody hot and muggy along the coast where they are. I mean, it’s hot everywhere in this damned country, and we picked the wettest time of year to start a war. But at least we can breathe the air here.”
“Yes, I remember the summer months we spent in East London, right on the Indian Ocean,” James recalled. “The air felt thick as soup, and some days the haze never dissipated.”
As they watched the companies of redcoats from the 90th depart, Harry felt a trace of envy towards them, that they were taking the fight to the Zulus. But then, the lingering ache in his leg, as well as the vision of Colour Sergeant Pegg slowly bleeding to death, brutally reminded him of the price often demanded of soldiers who were too anxious to seek out the enemy.
With the Frontier Light Horse and Piet Uys’ burghers taking the lead and protecting the flanks, Colonel Wood divided his infantry into three sections. These consisted of 300 warriors from Wood’s Irregulars, along with four companies from the 90th Regiment led by Evelyn’s long-time friend, Major Robert Hackett. Wood and his staff rode with Buller behind the vanguard of forty horsemen. They knew Zungwini Mountain lurked near the abaQulusi strongholds atop Hlobane and hoped to catch their adversaries unawares.
It was approaching the time of the New Moon. With intermittent clouds in the sky, there was very little light for the imperial soldiers to see by. Several times during the night there was an audible clatter when soldiers stepped into ruts or tripped over rocks. This was usually followed by a slew of profanity and words of chastisement from the man’s corporal or sergeant. Wood had thought to bring some of his cannon; however, he felt the limbers and ammunition carts were unwieldy and created too much noise.
“I think I can see the mountain, sir,” Major Hackett said in a low voice. He squinted and stared hard into the darkness.
Evelyn strained to see as well and thought perhaps he saw a shape that appeared slightly blacker than the horizon. “Difficult to tell where the sky ends and the ground begins,” he replied. “Still, I trust your hawk-like vision.”
“Years of hunting has trained my eyes well,” Hackett said, with a touch of pride.
A trooper from their lead scouts had ridden back and was conferring with Lieutenant Colonel Buller. The officer nodded and quietly gave a handful of instructions to his troop commander before riding over to Colonel Wood. “Zungwini is just two miles further on,” he reported. “No signs of the enemy.”
“Good,” Wood replied. He hoped this did not mean the abaQulusi had abandoned the area. He looked to Major Hackett. “Your old hunter’s eyes were correct. Deploy your men into skirmishing order.”
“Sir,” Hackett replied, as the two exchanged salutes.
It was dawn on the 22nd of January and the detachment reached the base of Zungwini Mountain. Little did any of them know that, only fifty miles to the south, Lord Chelmsford and over half of No. 3 Column had departed in the middle of the night in support of the Natal Native Contingent, who thought they had spotted the campfires of the main Zulu impi at a place called Mangeni Falls. At the same time, Colonel Pearson and No. 1 Column were continuing their trek towards Eshowe and would soon engage in the first major battle of the Zulu War as they crossed the Inyezane River. Until that morning, no British soldiers in Southern Africa had seen a large concentration of Zulu warriors. Small bands of skirmishers had been their only adversaries, to include those who opposed No. 3 Column in their sacking of the kraal belonging to the inkosi, Sihayo, on the 12th.
The ground was now visible enough for the infantry and horses to keep from losing their footing. Orders were issued at a low volume from company commanders down to their section leaders. Soldiers unslung their rifles and carried them at port arms. Sergeants ordered them into skirmishing order with six feet between the soldiers. Once deployed, the frontage of 360 riflemen extended for roughly half-a-mile. The indigenous warriors from Wood’s Irregulars arrayed themselves into battle lines behind the redcoats, with Major Knox-Leet keeping them in reserve.
The only sounds to come from the plain leading up to Zungwini Mountain were the brays of stray cattle as they were gathered up and taken away by a group of warriors from Wood’s Irregulars. Infantry now took the lead with Major Hackett’s companies advancing in a long skirmish line. Rifles held close, every redcoat’s eyes were wide, scanning the ridgeline to their front. The mountain was not particularly large, angling down their right flank to form a half-crescent bowl the soldiers marched up. The region was extremely green. One Irish soldier muttered that, with the exception of the intense heat, it reminded him of his home in County Clare. Like much of the terrain, the mountain was covered in lush grasses and an occasional scrub brush or Mphafa tree.
“Do you hear something?” a soldier said quietly to one of his friends.
At first dismissing it as a fit of nerves, by the time they were within fifty feet of the top of the hill, there was no longer any mistaking it. A loud voice shouted in isiZulu, barking what sounded like commands. Rifles were raised, the first wave of soldiers crouching low as they reached the top. What they saw caused them to collectively gasp.
In the valley below was a massive force of warriors. Rather than an unorganised mob, they were formed into columns of companies, distinguishing colours and patterns of their shields denoting their regiments.
“Fometha emigqeni!” an induna shouted.
With an affirmative shout from the host of warriors, the columns deployed into company lines. There were four large formations, and within each there were now ten lines of roughly a hundred warriors each.
“Would you look at that,” Major Hackett said quietly.
The senior officers gathered near the centre with their men. All had dismounted a few yards beneath the summit. They kept low, allowing only their heads to peak above the reverse slope.
“They’re holding morning parade!” Redvers Buller mused.
Colonel W
ood took his field glasses from their case and began to scan the ranks of enemy warriors, trying to assess their numbers. This was actually quite simple. Each company line consisted of roughly a hundred warriors. With their dress and spacing, he could readily count the number of lines within each larger group. “There are at least 4,000 men down there,” he said after a few minutes.
“And I doubt this is all of them,” Buller added. “Judging by the patterns on those shields, this is likely a single regiment, maybe two.”
Though the abaQulusi were not part of the king’s amabutho, they still organised themselves in a similar manner. Whether they were mustering to join with the main impi at Ulundi, or readying to defend the mountains against the British invaders, they could only guess.
Scanning with his field glasses, Colonel Wood noted that they all appeared to be of similar age. “I’d say these are men mostly in their late twenties to early thirties.” He then looked to their inkosi, an older warrior dressed in full regalia. His hair was grey and sparse, and his face deeply wrinkled. He wore a large headdress of crane feathers, in addition to the leopard skin mantle which hung off his shoulders. He carried a ceremonial axe, one normally carried by tribal chieftains or members of the Zulu royal house. Wood wondered if this was, in fact, Manyanyoba.
“How far would you say that old boy is from here?” he quietly asked Robert Hackett.
“About 800 yards,” the major replied.
Wood shook his head. It was tempting to allow several of his sharp-shooters to take a shot at the inkosi, yet he knew the risk was far too great. While the colonel had expected to run across the same band of several hundred warriors encountered by Buller’s horsemen, he knew he lacked the numbers to fight a pitched battle against 4,000. Though they held the high ground to their front, there was little to protect them on the flanks or from behind. If Lieutenant Colonel Buller was correct, and this was not all of the abaQulusi’s fighting strength, an attack now could end in catastrophe. Had he brought all of his infantry, the colonel would have considered the odds favourable. However, he had with him just one-quarter of his total fighting force.
