by James Mace
“An army equipped with spears, no matter how disciplined, cannot withstand the onslaught of British firepower,” Wood asserted to his assembled staff and battalion commanders. “It is time we take the fight to the abaQulusi and dare them to face us!”
British forces on the march in Zululand, from The Illustrated London News
The previous night brought with it a torrential thunderstorm, leaving the ground drenched and the air humid, as the camp was struck at Fort Thinta.
Colonel Wood ordered his forces to spread out in a wide frontage. Each element consisted of three to four infantry companies supported by roughly a hundred allied Zulus tasked with providing a rear guard. Piet Uys and his burghers were ordered to deploy ahead and find the enemy; the Frontier Light Horse would attempt to draw them into the lines of imperial infantrymen.
On the extreme right were three companies from 1/13th Light Infantry to include Captain Thurlow’s C Company. With the massive plateau of Hlobane looming in the distance, soldiers clutched their rifles close, keeping their eyes open for any signs of the enemy. Approximately three miles from Zungwini, Colonel Wood ordered the wagons formed into a laager and the infantry deployed into a long, thin line. The six guns from 11/7 Battery were kept limbered, that they might be readily deployed as needed. C Company, 1/13th found itself on the extreme right of the entire formation.
They were spread out along a stretch of rocky ground which overlooked an open expanse leading towards the imposing mountain of Hlobane. Though the ground appeared to be mostly flat with sparse vegetation, Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert informed his company commanders that there were dongas and low-lying areas that could not be seen from their positions.
“Set your sights to 400 yards,” Captain Thurlow ordered. The officer commanding of C Company sat astride his horse, his field glasses constantly scanning the horizon, as he paced behind his extended line of soldiers.
Lieutenant Pardoe was also mounted, though he kept himself mostly on the left end of the line near where Captain Benjamin Waddy’s E Company was positioned. Colour Sergeant Fricker established an ammunition supply point thirty yards behind C Company. He was joined by four bandsmen, including Richard Walker. They brought with them a single stretcher which they hoped would not be needed. Four heavy wooden boxes of Martini-Henry cartridges lay at their feet, the sealing screws loosened. Each box contained sixty paper packets of ten rounds each.
“Stand easy, lads,” Fricker instructed the bandsmen before walking over to check with each of the section leaders.
Sergeant Walker directed Corporal Harry Davies and seven of their riflemen to anchor the flank, forming an angle off the remainder of the line.
It was now late morning and the clouds hung thick in the sky. For the moment, this proved a mercy; it kept the red-jacketed soldiers from being scorched by the intense summer rays. On the other hand, should they grow thicker they might bring with them yet another deluge of rain.
Sounds of rifle fire and musketry echoed off to their left, about a mile from where the small band of redcoats sat or knelt amongst the rocks and splotches of stiff grass. Given his position anchoring the flank, Harry was once again lent Lieutenant Pardoe’s field glasses to constantly scan the far distance. Though he had seen no signs of the Zulus, he and his men were now the eyes protecting the right flank of the entire taskforce.
“Over there!” Private Albert Page shouted excitedly.
About twenty dark forms rose up from a previously unseen patch of low ground in the distance.
A single Martini-Henry shot erupted.
Corporal Davies gave a loud, “Cease fire, damn you!” He scanned the area where the excitable soldiers had fired and saw that there were about a score of Zulus watching them. That, however, is not what incensed him. “Private Page,” he said, his voice calm yet tense. “What were the captain’s orders for engagement range?”
“Four hundred yards, corporal,” the soldier said, suddenly aware of his grave error.
Davies stood and pointed his field glasses in the direction of the roaming Zulus nearly three times that distance away. “And does that look like 400 yards to you?”
“No, corporal.”
“When this is over, you are going to pace that off, holding your rifle overhead, until I get tired.” Harry was furious. Not only had one of his men, who clearly knew better, shown poor fire discipline and situational awareness, it had doubtless caught the attention of Captain Thurlow and the rest of the firing line. The corporal would now have to confess to the false alarm, while also informing his officer commanding of the presence of Zulus in the distance. Unless something drastic occurred to distract everyone, both he and Sergeant Walker could expect a severe berating later.
“What the devil was that?” Captain Thurlow shouted, quickly making his way over to Davies’ position. His pistol hung loose in his right hand, his field glasses dangling around his neck.
“Zulus, sir,” Harry explained. “A small band of about twenty; roughly a thousand yards to our right.”
“And one of your men fired on them?” The captain’s voice was terse.
“I will sort him out, sir,” Harry said quickly.
Thurlow gave a curt nod and scanned the area with his own glasses. He was soon joined by Sergeant Walker who glared at Harry, though he kept silent for the moment. Meanwhile, their officer commanding continued to scan the area when he spotted another band of Zulus another hundred or so yards further off to their right flank.
“Ah, Sergeant Walker,” Captain Thurlow said, as he lowered his glasses. His composure had returned, and he seemed to have forgotten about Private Page’s negligence. He pointed to a short rise about halfway between Davies’ position and the Zulus. “Send Corporal Davies and his riflemen to that short knoll. There may be a hidden donga we haven’t seen yet.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. He then nodded to Harry, who ordered his soldiers to follow him.
The corporal and the seven privates ran at a measured jog, the rocky ground battering the soles of their well-worn boots. Harry kept his rifle close against his chest, his eyes quickly searching for any signs of enemy warriors lurking among the rocks. He reached the short rise and immediately dropped down to a kneeling position. His soldiers fanned out on either side of him, Private Page closest to him. The corporal then asked, “How far would you guess those Zulus are now, Private Page?”
“Um, 400 yards?”
Harry said nothing for a moment. He ran his gaze over the stretch of ground to where the band of Zulus knelt behind their shields. Their adversaries appeared to be unconcerned, for such a distance was well beyond the effective range of any firearms they had ever dealt with.
Harry gave a nod of concurrence. “You know what to do, then.” He jerked open the breach of his rifle and ordered his men, “Load! Take up stable firing positions but wait for my command. And don’t make too many sudden movements; I don’t want to scare these bastards off just yet.”
He reached into his ready pouch and pulled out a single cartridge. He quickly felt for any dents or blemishes on the cartridge before seating it into the breach of his rifle, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on the Zulus. Even with their modern rifles, 400 yards at a single target was a very challenging shot, particularly if their quarry was moving. Thankfully, the Zulus were not moving and had gathered closer together. The NCO took slow breaths as eight Martini-Henry breaches closed with a click.
“Mark your targets,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “At my command, present and fire at will. Ready…now.” The entire time he spoke, he kept his eyes on a brown and white shield. It was easier for him to see than the warrior who clutched it close. With calm precision, as if he were on the firing range at Aldershot, the corporal raised his rifle tight into his shoulder, bringing the sights to where his gaze fell. He let out half a breath and squeezed the trigger.
The crack of eight rifles firing shattered the silence, clouds of smoke temporarily blinding them. As it cleared, it appeared that
one Zulu had been felled in their volley with the rest scattering.
Harry then shouted, “Two shots…fire at will!” A smoking case flew from the breach of his rifle as he pushed the lever down. Within seconds, he had another round loaded and was searching for targets.
A pair of Zulus were dragging away their stricken companion. Even from a distance, he appeared to be convulsing. Though it filled Harry with guilt at the thought of shooting one of these men, who he admired for refusing to leave their stricken friend behind, they were an easier target than their sprinting companions. He placed his sights just in front of the man who was dragging the badly injured warrior by his left arm, and fired once more. It was almost with a sense of relief that Harry saw he had missed; his shot impacted the ground just to the left of the trio of warriors. Several more shots rang out. The corporal watched the Zulu holding onto the injured warrior’s right arm spin around violently, as he was struck in the shoulder.
Two more of their companions were rushing back to help them, and it was one of these men who Harry and three of his men set their sights on. It was impossible to tell whose shots had found their mark; the four rifles firing almost simultaneously. Their foe doubled over, his momentum causing him to do a complete flip onto his back. Harry reckoned this man was likely dead. His companions left him where he fell, all the while helping their two badly wounded friends away.
“Cease fire, but look alive lads,” Harry said, keeping a calm deportment. His heart pounded in his chest and sweat ran down his face. His banker’s mind, which was always calculating numbers, quickly ran through their ammunition expenditure. Between he and the seven privates, they had fired twenty-four shots, with one enemy warrior killed and two more injured; one possibly mortally. He knew that accuracy in battle was far different than on a range against static targets. At 400 yards against an evasive enemy, even trained soldiers were lucky if one shot in ten found its mark. With that in mind, he was not displeased with his men’s shooting.
“I say, nicely done, Corporal Davies!” Captain Thurlow called out from astride his horse as he rode up to them and scanned their fleeing adversaries with his field glasses.
For Harry and his men, especially Private Page, the words provided a great sense of pride and relief.
Along the left end of the British line, the fighting was more intense. Six companies from the 90th Regiment deployed forward to attack a band of abaQulusi warriors along the slopes of a smaller mountain called Ntendeka. Colonel Wood ordered two of the 7-pounder guns brought up in support. The 90th’s commanding officer, Major Rogers, was personally leading the assault, leaving Major Hackett in command of the remaining two companies along the main firing line.
“Bound by sections,” Rogers ordered his company commanders. “Once the enemy is within 200 yards, engage with volley fire. Let them come to you if they wish to face the bayonet!”
Companies of Perthshire infantrymen formed into a long line, with sections of fifteen to twenty soldiers rushing forward about twenty yards before halting to fire. Sections on either side then used the smoke as concealment, racing past their mates before subsequently halting to unleash their own ragged volleys.
All the while, the warriors on the slopes lurked behind boulders and patches of high ground as they continued to engage with their muskets. Their fire was scattered and ineffective.
It took the average Zulu skirmisher around half-a-minute to reload his musket, whereas the British riflemen could chamber a fresh cartridge into their Martini-Henry rifles every six to ten seconds. Even at ranges of 300 to 400 yards, the redcoats’ volleys were proving far deadlier. The screams of the wounded echoed along the slope, as warriors were butchered by the high-calibre rounds.
At roughly 200 yards from the nearest abaQulusi skirmishers, Major Rogers ordered his companies to find cover and start firing more concentrated volleys into the opposing ranks.
Being mounted, the major was the perfect target from enemy marksmen, yet the slapping of musket balls striking the muddy ground or skipping off nearby patches of rock left him unphased.
“That’s it lads, adjust your sites and send those bloody heathens to oblivion!”
Major Robert Rogers, VC
Commanding Officer, 90th Perthshire Light Infantry
Leading the abaQulusi and their Zulu allies along this stretch of the mountain was the Swazi prince, Mbilini. He excelled at guerrilla fighting and striking at vulnerable bands of enemies under the cover of darkness, but he hated this type of open warfare. However, in light of recent events, and with Seketwayo and Manyanyoba agreeing to join him in the fight against the British invaders, the Swazi prince was left with little choice but to join them in defence of the Zungwini and Hlobane strongholds.
Mbilini crouched behind a large rock outcropping. Though he rarely, if ever, used them, he was in possession of a trio of old muskets. While he took his time to fire at the advancing line of redcoats, his Zulu servant, Tshwane, sat with his back against the boulder, frantically reloading for him. The screech of a nearby warrior caused the young man to jolt. He watched, wide-eyed in horror, as a badly maimed Qulusi clutched at his shattered face, blood gushing freely between his fingers. The bullet had struck the man in the right cheekbone, exiting out at the back of the jaw. The poor warrior continued to scream as the right side of his jaw hung loosely by a few shreds of skin.
“Keep your wits about you.” Mbilini slapped the young Zulu on the shoulder and handed him a recently fired musket to reload. “There is nothing you can do for him. Keep my weapons loaded, lest we suffer the same fate.” The Swazi’s words were harsh, yet spoken in a surprisingly calm voice.
Tshwane nodded and took up the powder horn once more, trying to block the stricken warrior’s cries from his mind. There were other screams heard along the slope, and the young man felt his guts turning in knots. During the past few months as a follower of Mbilini, this was the first time Tshwane had encountered an enemy who was more than able to fight back.
As the thunder of enemy cannon echoed off to his right, the inkosi, Manyanyoba, led a thousand of his warriors down the saddle that extended from the left of Zungwini towards Hlobane. Behind a reverse slope, izinduna were organising their companies into battle lines, making ready to sweep around the eastern spur and smash into the enemy’s flank. This was the section currently held by C Company, 1/13th. A loud bang above their heads startled the mass of warriors.
Hot metal shards and lead balls ripped into several of them. Another burst of what the British called ‘common shot’ killed or badly maimed several more of their companions.
An older induna named Makukuneseni knew he must seize the initiative, lest his men lose their nerve. “Now is the time!” he shouted. “With me!” Raising his spear, he sprinted along the eastern spur of the hill with several hundred warriors close behind. As he reached the bottom, he saw a long line of around 500 redcoats deployed near the base of the slope, barely 150 paces from where the induna stood. They seemed oblivious to his presence.
Makukuneseni grinned as he waved his iklwa towards the left flank of the enemy line. His companies quickly formed into a series of six ranks, shields and melee weapons held ready. Before Makukuneseni could order his wars to charge, a loud shout from the left of his formation alerted him.
“The white horsemen come!” a warrior was shouting repeatedly.
The enemy soldiers were now aware of their presence, and one of their companies turned their rifles towards them.
A volley of rifle fire cut down several of his warriors.
The induna knew he was undone. “Back up the hill!” he shouted, as the red-jacketed soldiers fired again. A blow then struck him on the right side of his lower back, causing him to arch in pain before falling forward. So great was the agony in his back, with the torn muscles knotting up and spasming, he wasn’t even aware of the horrific exit wound near his right hip. His guts were shredded, a putrid stench emitting from within. A pair of warriors grabbed the badly injured induna beneath each ar
m and helped him up the hill. Blood and spittle spat from his lips; the pain so paralysing that Makukuneseni was unable to so much as let out a whimper.
Their search for lurking bands of enemy warriors to the east proving fruitless, Lieutenant Colonel Buller ordered the Frontier Light Horse and Burgher force to head for Zungwini with all haste at the sound of rifle and cannon fire. Galloping their mounts, they were arrayed in a series of three lines. At approximately a hundred yards from where the large force of abaQulusi warriors was seen retreating back up the hill, Buller gave the order for his troops to halt. They quickly dismounted and checked the sights on their carbines before firing into the mass of fleeing warriors. As the enemy force scattered behind the hill, some of the troopers mounted and began to ride after them.
“Stand fast!” the colonel shouted. “You’ll ride right in front of our infantry!”
Riflemen from the 13th Somerset were continuing to fire into the fleeing warriors.
Their commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert, rode over to Buller. “Dash it all, Redvers, but your timing was splendid!” the infantry officer said, scarcely masking the excitement in his voice. “This lot could have very well caused us a spot of bother.”
“Couldn’t let your infantry have all the excitement, Philip,” Buller replied, pulling himself back into the saddle of his horse.
“Any activity to the east?” Gilbert asked.
The cavalry officer shook his head. “Not a lick. We did get a decent look at the southern face of Hlobane, though. I can’t see any way one could readily climb up or down that hellish pass. It would seem the only passable trails are along the eastern and western slopes.”
