Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  Harry nodded contemplatively as Sergeant Walker continued back down the column to talk with his fellow section leader, Sergeant Michael Ring. Harry reckoned he had always done well when it came to maintaining his bearing in front of the enlisted soldiers. However, he knew he was still young and learning what it meant to be a non-commissioned officer in Her Majesty’ Forces.

  Despite having fought in several actions, and even being wounded previously, he found himself scared to a far greater degree during this day’s skirmish than the battle in which he was shot. Given the imminent threat of a Zulu counter-invasion now facing British Natal, he was suddenly glad to be a bachelor! Even though most of the families from the 13th Somerset were hundreds of miles away in King William’s Town, what of the spouses and children of regiments who resided in places much closer to the frontier, such as Pietermaritzburg? He could not imagine the strain placed on soldiers who not only had to concern themselves with their own safety and that of their mates, but of their wives and children.

  The sun set three hours before the bedraggled No. 4 Column limped its way back to their makeshift fort at Tinta’s Kop. They had kept a decent pace, despite the terrain and the occasional pockets of mud their wagons had to slog through. The last couple miles were especially hazardous as there was little light to see by. Soldiers were constantly tripping over unseen obstacles.

  Piet Uys and twenty burghers had ridden ahead to act as guides for the soldiers and wagons when they reached the hill. It was difficult to see. Many of the haggard infantrymen didn’t even realise they had reached their destination until they saw the burghers standing with oil lamps marking the way.

  The ‘fort’ was little more than a trench with earthen ramparts topped by a few feet of stone. As such, there was nothing for the Zulus to disturb, even if they’d known it was where the British had camped for the past couple weeks. Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert and Major Rogers had their battalion staff and senior NCOs direct each company back to where they would camp for the night. Given the late hour and threat of enemy warriors in the region, it was decided not to establish tents outside of the fort. However, this meant the soldiers were compelled to sleep out in the open next to the ramparts. Most kept their tunics and boots on, utilising their packs and bed rolls for pillows. Conditions were cramped and uncomfortable, yet despite their sheer exhaustion, few would manage to sleep this night.

  Before his headquarters tent had even been erected, Colonel Evelyn Wood called for a meeting of the staff and senior officers. He also directed Lieutenant Lysons to pen a message to Brevet Major Henry Spalding, the commanding officer in charge of Helpmekaar and Rorke’s Drift. He could only hope that the Zulus had not crossed the uMzinyathi River and destroyed the depot.

  “We will strengthen our defences here,” he explained. “Colonel Buller, the Frontier Light Horse will continue mounted patrols of the region, supported by Mister Uys and his burghers. Before we can decide our next actions, we must know where the enemy is and what they are doing We also have heard nothing regarding the state of Colonel Pearson’s coastal column.” He paused and forced back a sigh of resignation. “Gentlemen, we may be the only effective force of British soldiers remaining in Southern Africa.”

  Isandlwana Casualty List, from The Standard

  Chapter XI: The Shattered Column

  Helpmekaar, fifteen miles west of Rorke’s Drift

  27 January 1879

  Night Watch at Fort Bromhead, Rorke’s Drift, from The Illustrated London News

  Lord Chelmsford, having departed for Pietermaritzburg, left Colonel Richard Glyn of the 24th Regiment in overall command of the district between Rorke’s Drift and Helpmekaar, along with what remained of No. 3 Column. Five companies from 1/24th and one from 2/24th, left to guard the camp at Isandlwana, were annihilated. Two cannon from N/5 Battery were lost and most of the crewmen killed. Additionally, hundreds of European volunteers and NNC warriors were slain. In all, over 1,300 British soldiers, local volunteers, and allied African warriors lay dead all along Isandlwana’s bloody slopes.

  And, it was not just the severe loss of life which rendered the strategic situation along the Zulu border precarious. Though the six companies from 2/24th Regiment who’d been with Lord Chelmsford at Mangeni Falls were glad to be alive, they were in a fearful state. Utterly exhausted from the twenty-five-mile trek they’d force-marched from Mangeni Falls back to Rorke’s Drift, their tents, ammunition reserves, rations, and personal belongings were all lost when the camp at Isandlwana was taken. The defenders of Rorke’s Drift, mostly from B Company, 2/24th, were also completely spent, following their twelve-hour ordeal against 4,000 Zulu warriors. The hospital, once the home of Reverend Otto Witt, had burned to the ground, leaving the surviving sick and wounded exposed to the elements. All of B Company’s tents were also destroyed. What’s more, only 800 of the 20,400 rounds of reserve ammunition remained. Some survivors quietly whispered to their mates that should the Zulus attack in force, they would be unstoppable.

  In the aftermath of 22 to 23 January, a pair of stone forts had been established to protect the crossing. The first was established near the ponts, overlooking the river, and in fact had been the very reason for Lieutenant John Chard of the Royal Engineers being at Rorke’s Drift in the first place. It was named Fort Melvill after the late adjutant of 1/24th, who died while trying to save the Queen’s Colour of the battalion. The second, which was built up around the ruins of the depot itself, was named Fort Bromhead after the officer commanding of B Company, 2/24th.

  Having relocated most companies from 2/24th back to Helpmekaar, coupled with the two from 1/24th who had regrettably arrived too late to assist at Rorke’s Drift, Colonel Richard Glyn was left with a logistical nightmare. Living conditions at both depots were absolutely appalling. The ground around Rorke’s Drift was a churned-up bog with a stench hanging in the air from rotten mealie sacks and as-yet undiscovered bodies of slain Zulu warriors. At Helpmekaar, Major Russell Upcher, now acting battalion commander for what remained of 1/24th, penned in his official reports,

  Between the two depots, a thousand Europeans and natives are crowded together without tents or shelter, except for a few tarpaulins, exposed to cold and rain. Some sleep on wet mealie bags, others on the damp ground, disturbed by frequent alarms and subjected to noxious exhalations.

  The unsanitary conditions were already taking their toll. Scores of soldiers were placed on the sick list every day. Arrangements were made, using what few wagons and draught animals remained, to transport the worst of the sick and wounded from the Battle of Rorke’s Drift seventy miles west to the town of Ladysmith.

  There was also a severe shortage of medical staff. Surgeon James Reynolds and his orderlies had seen to the wounded and sick as best they were able, yet they were too few in number. Surgeon-Major Peter Shepherd, along with all his orderlies and hospital staff, was killed during the retreat from Isandlwana. A mounted volunteer recalled, with much sorrow and horror, watching Doctor Shepherd trying to save the life of a mortally wounded trooper, only to be killed by a flung Zulu spear while re-mounting his horse. An ambulance wagon loaded with badly wounded soldiers was also overwhelmed, with its driver and all the patients slaughtered.

  “The garrison at Rorke’s Drift has at least managed to replace their rampart of rotting mealie sacks with proper stone fortifications,” Major Upcher noted, as he surveyed the defences at Helpmekaar.

  He was joined by Captain Thomas Rainforth. The two were officers commanding of D and G Companies, 1/24th. For the past two weeks they had made the long trek from Greytown and reached Helpmekaar shortly before the rest of their battalion was wiped out at Isandlwana. Their companies, along with Major Spalding, made a night march to Rorke’s Drift to reinforce the garrison, when they spotted the glow of the hospital engulfed in flames in the distance. Spalding, thinking the depot was wiped out, ordered the withdrawal back to Helpmekaar. It was a decision he, Upcher, and Rainforth now deeply regretted.

  “I hope the governme
nt decides what to do about our situation here soon,” Rainforth observed. “These mealie sacks will rot completely within the next month.”

  Something neither of the officers mentioned, but both gave much thought to, was the pending Court of Inquiry. Before departing Helpmekaar, his lordship had requested the court be convened to ‘inquire into the loss of the camp’. Presiding over this was Colonel Frances Hassard, Royal Engineers, who had recently arrived in Southern Africa. With no other responsibilities as an engineer for the time being, in Chelmsford’s mind Hassard was the perfect officer to oversee the matter.

  Shortly after his lordship’s departure for Pietermaritzburg, Hassard summoned the two officers who would sit on the inquiry board with him. One was Lieutenant Colonel Francis Law, a highly-experienced Royal Artillery officer. Chelmsford was considering dispatching him to Lower Drift to assume command of all British forces guarding the southernmost border post between Natal and the Zulu Kingdom. The other was Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Harness, also of the Royal Artillery, who served as the senior artillery officer on the staff of No. 3 Column. His N/5 Battery suffered grievous loss of life, not to mention two of its 7-pounder cannon, so he was perplexed at his selection to sit on the court of inquiry, as it could mean a conflict-of-interest. Their mandate was left vague, and every officer involved in the process wondered about Lord Chelmsford’s intent.

  Five days had passed since Captain Edward Essex made his harrowing escape from the slaughter at Isandlwana. A thirty-one-year-old officer from the 75th Regiment, Essex had extensive experience in Southern Africa, dating back to when his regiment was posted to the Cape from 1871 to 1874. With the approval of his colonel, he heeded Lord Chelmsford’s call for officers to volunteer for service in South Africa in 1878. His duties as Director of Transport for No. 3 Column were necessary, albeit devoid of any sense of glory. Assisting him was the eager twenty-year-old Lieutenant Horace Smith-Dorrien. The young officer’s lust for adventure and glory was shattered on the bloody slopes of Isandlwana. Of the regular army officers holding the Queen’s Commission left at the camp that day, only Essex, Smith-Dorrien, and three others survived.

  During the opening stages of the tragic battle, the two transportation officers took it upon themselves to supervise an ammunition resupply detail of about twenty soldiers, taking a single donkey cart and piling it with Martini-Henry cartridge boxes which they ferried to the over-extended firing line. Young Horace, especially, remembered his first trip, dropping a 600-round wooden box at the far left of the line and speaking briefly with the corporal leading a section of sharp-shooters occupying the long spur off the mountain. It pained him to know that every last one of those brave souls now lay butchered on the slopes of the mountain, being feasted on by flies and wild beasts.

  On this grey and drizzly morning, Smith-Dorrien emerged from the headquarters tent being used by Colonel Hassard and the Court of Inquiry. He had just finished relaying his account and was clearly shaken at having to recall every last horrifying detail from that terrible day. Though he wished to find a quiet place alone to compose himself, he was grateful to find his captain waiting for him.

  “Everything alright, Horace?”

  Smith-Dorrien nodded, though the pained expression on his face said differently. “I told the board everything I could remember. To be honest it’s still a right mess.” He jabbed a finger against the side of his head in emphasis.

  Edward, who had given his own account to the court the previous day, walked over and placed a reassuring hand on the officer’s shoulder. At just twenty years of age, Lieutenant Smith-Dorrien was the youngest officer in No. 3 Column. In a single afternoon, he went from a boyish soldier with visions of adventure and glory, to a broken old man forever haunted by visions of the dying, nightmares of his own narrow escape from death, and feelings of disappointment.

  “I feel like I failed, sir,” Horace explained quietly. “The entire time I was being questioned, mostly by Colonel Harness, I kept thinking, if only I could have gotten ammunition to the line quicker, perhaps they could have held. And what of those who tried to help us get ammunition to the line? They were all bandsmen, hospital orderlies, and soldier-servants; yet they died as horribly as those in the rifle companies. Strange, but I feel an even greater sense of guilt because I know not what any of their names were. All I know is I survived and they did not. Why am I still alive when every last one of those lads now lies butchered on that hateful mountain?”

  “You did all you could, Horace,” Edward replied. “Those brave lads from the 24th kept the fire hot in the Zulus’ faces, thanks to you. Even an inexhaustible supply of ammunition could not have saved them. I said as much during my interview yesterday, and I am certain so did Mister Curling.”

  Lieutenant Henry Curling was the lone artillery officer to survive Isandlwana and among the last to quit the field, trying desperately to save his guns.

  “Once Colonel Durnford’s flank collapsed we were undone,” Edward continued. “As for why either of us are still alive…well, there is little to be gained by speculation. Whether by divine providence or just dumb luck we’re still here, and we have our duties to perform.”

  What those duties were, Edward could not say. With No. 3 Column essentially out of the war, Colonel Glyn was uncertain what to do with his transportation officers. Even more at a loss was the Director of Transport for the mounted No. 2 Column, Lieutenant William Cochrane. Cochrane had also survived the slaughter, yet his entire column had ceased to exist. His commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Durnford, was dead, with most of their troops either killed or deserted.

  “Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant replied, nodding slowly in understanding. He was suddenly taken by a severe shiver, despite it being a rather warm morning.

  “By God, Horace, not you as well!” Captain Essex said, taking a step back and apprising his lieutenant.

  Horace’s face was pale, but his eyes remained sharp. He quickly shook his head. “I’m fine, sir, I promise.” He then pulled his notebook out of his pocket. “Not sure if it will be of any use, but I took the liberty of writing down our current strength, compared with the number of men on the sick list. Did you know that of the fifty-six troopers from the Natal Carbineers, only eleven are fit for duty?”

  “I knew they were in rough shape,” Edward acknowledged. “And what’s more, it is mounted troops that are needed most right now.” He then noticed Cochrane near the command tent speaking with Lieutenant Colonel Russell, the commanding officer of No. 3 Column’s mounted forces. Russell had been with Lord Chelmsford at Mangeni Falls on that fateful day and had remained in a perpetually depressed state ever since.

  After a few moments, Cochrane came to attention and saluted the colonel before walking over to join his fellow transportation officers. “Well, there’s a thing,” he said. “Looks like I’ll have employment for the rest of the war after all.”

  “Colonel Russell found a task for you?” Essex asked.

  “As poor George Shepstone is dead, he’s given me command of the Natal Native Horse, what’s left of it anyway.”

  “That means a promotion, doesn’t it?” Horace asked.

  Cochrane nodded. “I am being raised to captain for the duration of the war.” He looked to Essex. “Given that you and I have held our commissions nearly the same amount of time, I was hoping I might catch up to you eventually. Granted, it’s a local appointment and not a substantive promotion, so it doesn’t amount to much.”

  “Any idea where they’re sending you?” Essex asked.

  “Colonel Russell didn’t say, but I believe we’ll be relieved from our responsibilities here. No. 3 Column is no longer an effective fighting force, so I suspect we’ll be sent north to join Colonel Wood.”

  A convoy of wagons was seen arriving at the depot. These were mostly empty with the exception of the last two, which carried hospital patients being sent to Ladysmith. Among these was Lieutenant John Chard, Royal Engineers. It was a rather strange chain of events which
led to his being left in command at Rorke’s Drift on the day of battle.

  A subaltern with No. 5 Field Company, Royal Engineers, his company was slogging its way up the quagmire of a road from Greytown when the invasion began. On the orders of the GOC, Chard’s officer commanding, Captain Walter Jones, sent him ahead with a light equipment wagon in order to survey and stake out the location of the fort which now overlooked the ponts. On the morning of 22 January, the commanding officer of the depots at Rorke’s Drift and Helpmekaar, Brevet Major Henry Spalding, had ridden to Helpmekaar to establish the whereabouts of the errant reinforcements from 1/24th. It just so happened that the newly-arrived Lieutenant Chard had three years’ date-of-rank on the remaining officer at the drift, Lieutenant Gonville Bromhead of B Company, 2/24th. As a mere formality, he was left in command, for what Major Spalding assured him would just be a few hours. During those hours, survivors from Isandlwana rode past the depot, portending their imminent destruction. John Chard, who had always been described as ‘dull’ and ‘lacking in energy and initiative’ was thrust into command of the defence of Rorke’s Drift. His skills as an engineer proved crucial in establishing ramparts out of mealie sacks and biscuit boxes. His personal bravery inspired all during the harrowing battle which lasted more than twelve hours, and he was seen many times on the ramparts wielding a rifle. In a single day, Lieutenant John Chard had leapt from obscurity onto the very pages of history.

  Five days after the battle, the squalid conditions at the drift had taken their toll, with Chard now counted among the many who had fallen ill with terrible fevers. A hospital orderly from Surgeon Reynolds’ staff was overseeing the ferrying of patients to Ladysmith. He informed them that they would be spending the night at Helpmekaar before continuing their journey.