Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  “There aren’t any extra tents available, I’m afraid,” the man said. “I recommend you sleep in the wagon tonight. If anyone needs help walking to the shitting trench, let me know. I’ll be staying in that empty wagon over.”

  Despite his exhaustion and mild delirium brought on by fever, John Chard was feeling claustrophobic in the back of the wagon. Dressed only in his shirtsleeves with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he pulled himself upright. He had to stop and catch his breath for a moment, trying to clear his head enough to sit on the tailgate of the wagon while the orderly helped him down.

  “There we are, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Chard replied. “Just need some fresh air is all.”

  “Sadly, I don’t think you’ll get it here,” the orderly said, his nose scrunched at the terrible stench that permeated the depot. He then stepped to one side, when he saw the three officers approaching.

  “Mister Chard, is it?” Lieutenant Cochrane asked.

  “Yes, and you, sir?” The engineer officer’s eyes were half-closed. He shivered as he pulled the blanket closer around his shoulders.

  “Bill Cochrane. I was transportation officer for Durnford’s column. We’ve never actually met, though I was riding with Colonel Durnford and privy to your conversation with him about the Zulus you’d spotted near Isandlwana.”

  “I am sorry,” Chard said, with a tired nod. “Beastly terrible day that was.”

  “Still, you and Bromhead’s lads managed to keep the Zulus from invading the whole blasted colony. I would like to shake your hand, sir.”

  “And I would gladly oblige, but it would seem my grip has failed me for the time being,” Chard replied with a tired smile. “But if one of you could assist me to the latrines, I would be most grateful.”

  “Of course.”

  Captain Essex and Lieutenant Smith-Dorrien watched Cochrane help the feverish and exhausted engineer to the latrine trench, just beyond the laager.

  “We must look after ourselves,” Horace said, attempting to stifle a coughing fit. “Lest we all end up in such a fearful state.”

  At Rorke’s Drift, where Colonel Richard Glyn established his headquarters, there was a great sense of urgency in fortifying the forts which protected the crossing. With a sense of relief, he learned that Captain Walter Jones’ No. 5 Field Company, Royal Engineers, was only about three days’ journey from the drift. Meanwhile, soldiers made due, working to replace the ramparts of mealie sacks around the mission station with stone walls.

  A great difficulty facing Glyn was the state of the mounted troops. Both the Natal Mounted Police and Imperial Mounted Infantry had lost all of their kit, not to mention most of their key personnel, such as farriers and blacksmiths. What’s more, Lord Chelmsford had left many elements in confusion regarding chains-of-command. While Colonel Glyn was in command of the district, both Lieutenant Colonel Russell of the IMI and Major Dartnell of the NMP fell directly under his lordship’s command. Therefore, it placed Glyn in an uncomfortable position when attempting to task Russell and the IMI to conduct patrols across the uMzinyathi River.

  All of these awkward encounters were witnessed by Glyn’s staff officer, Major Francis Clery. One man whom he felt confident expressing his grievances to was his fellow major, Wilsone Black, from 2/24th. The forty-two-year-old Scotsman had served with the Colours for twenty-five years and was easily one of the most dependable officers in No. 3 Column. Clery made note of this, as he spoke with his friend. They strolled along the plateau overlooking the depot, which had been used by Zulu marksmen during the attack on Rorke’s Drift.

  “I’ve heard Colonel Degacher say on several occasions that if promotions were based on merit, rather than patronage or seniority, you would be a general by now.”

  Wilsone chuckled. “Aye, well, if his lordship wishes to resign his position as GOC, I’ll send a note to Her Majesty and let her know I’m ready to assume command.”

  “I just wish someone would actually command our mounted troops!” Clery said in exasperation. “I understand they are battered and demoralised. Yet, we still have a war to prosecute, while they sit on their backsides at Helpmekaar. Some actual work would aid their morale.”

  “Meanwhile, we are left blind,” Black added. “The entire Zulu army could be encamped just beyond the river, or they could have all gone home. It’s exacerbating not knowing.”

  “To be honest, Wilsone, I feel like I’m useless here. Ever since his lordship elected to accompany No. 3 Column, the entire column staff, including Colonel Glyn, were rendered redundant by the general and his staff.” He shook his head in frustration. “And now, Colonel Glyn has his command back; what’s left of it. But he is as broken as the column.”

  This last remark caused Wilsone Black to stare at the ground for a few moments. He’d known Richard Glyn for twelve years, and they were always on very friendly terms. He had long respected his colonel, yet now there was no hiding it. Glyn was a broken man. Black suspected he would never recover from the tragic loss of most of his battalion, plus so many of his brother officers. However, Henry Degacher, the commanding officer of 2/24th, lost his actual brother. William Degacher had commanded 1st Battalion up until five days before Isandlwana, when he was superseded by Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pulleine. Both men were now dead, and while Henry Degacher most certainly mourned for his brother, he kept his head about him enough to perform his duties.

  Black said as much to Clery. “It’s Colonel Degacher who’s really in command,” he observed. “Which I suppose is for the best. However, he cannot order Colonel Russell and the IMI to take to the saddle once more, and Colonel Glyn has no desire to press the issue. Though his lordship tends to keep his strategic thinking to himself, I suspect he will be taking the IMI from the us before long. Colonel Wood’s column is the only effective fighting force in Zululand at the moment. He could no doubt use the additional mounted troops.”

  Clery concurred. “I do know Chelmsford has sent a runner to find Colonel Pearson’s column. Whether he wishes to withdraw them back to Lower Drift or press on to Eshowe, I’m not certain. Depending on what the enemy is doing right now, Pearson may very well be immobilised.”

  “Which leaves Wood’s boys to continue prosecuting the war for the time being,” Black concluded. “He’s in need of mounted troops, which he’ll likely receive from us.”

  “Perhaps he is also in need of his old staff officer,” Clery added knowingly.

  Fort Melvill, overlooking the ponts at Rorke’s Drift, from The Illustrated London News

  It was not only the officers feeling the loss and frustration. For the redcoats who made up the Imperial Mounted Infantry, there were feelings of desolate hopelessness, as well as futility at continuing with their present duties. Of the thirty left behind at Isandlwana on the morning of 22 January, ten survived. The senior ranking of these was Sergeant Patrick Naughton, originally from 2nd Battalion of the 3rd ‘Buffs’ Regiment. His mates were with the southern No. 1 Column and, as far as he knew, were somewhere around the old mission station of Eshowe. Another ‘Buffs’ NCO, Sergeant Frederick Milne, had been left to supervise the ponts at Rorke’s Drift and had also survived the harrowing ordeal of the previous week.

  “There’s been a lot of grumbling from the lads,” remarked Corporal John McCann, the other non-commissioned officer from the IMI to survive Isandlwana. He, along with three surviving private soldiers, came from 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment. Every man from his former company was slain.

  Naughton was deeply concerned for the corporal. “So I’ve heard.”

  “They feel our mission has become redundant, and they wish to return to their regiments.”

  “And what about you?” the sergeant asked, folding his arms across his chest and trying to gage McCann’s response.

  The corporal shrugged. “Not much left of my regiment is there? I’ve already explained matters to Davis, Parry, and Power. They want to avenge their friends and, naturally, wish to bring every rifle that
can be mustered back to our regiment. However, I believe the 24th’s role in this war is essentially over. Our best chance for revenge is with the IMI. Especially if the rumours are true, that Colonel Wood’s northern column is still active and in need of mounted troops.”

  “And did they understand your reasoning?” Naughton asked.

  “They did,” McCann replied. “Private Power’s only words were, ‘Just let me get stuck in with those kaffir bastards. Besides, it’s not as if they have any choice. We all volunteered for the Imperial Mounted Infantry, and can only return to our regiments when the GOC has no further use for us.”

  “Privates Wassall and Westwood will likely get the chance to fight in the vicinity of their regiment,” Naughton noted. He recalled the two soldiers from the 80th Staffordshire who’d made a harrowing escape during the retreat from Isandlwana. Naughton’s official despatch to their commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Russell, detailed the daring rescue Wassall made in saving Westwood’s life, all while under intense enemy fire. Last the sergeant heard, the GOC had given his endorsement for Wassall to receive the Victoria Cross.

  “Let us hope, then, that someone well above my rank decides what to do with us, lest lethargy and lack of work rot the very core of our men’s fighting strength.”

  Chapter XII: Pull Me Out of My Difficulties

  Fort Thinta

  27 January 1879

  Lieutenant Colonel Philip Gilbert

  Commanding Officer, 1/13th Somerset Light Infantry

  With their southern flank now exposed, the situation for Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood and No. 4 Column became precarious. The Zulus and abaQulusi controlled most of the northern border regions. And aside from Piet Uys’ force of burghers, the Boers were content to sit back and watch their hated rivals butcher each other. With Durnford’s No. 2 Column destroyed and Glyn’s No. 3 Column shattered, Wood’s understrength force was faced with the very real possibility of having to contend with the entire Zulu impi without any support or reinforcements. And despite the promises of Lord Chelmsford, it was unknown when or even if the 1st Squadron, Imperial Mounted Infantry would be fit to join them from Helpmekaar.

  On the morning of the 27th, Colonel Wood received a rather despondent message from the GOC. Chelmsford had uncharacteristically pleaded to Wood: ‘I wish to find a way with honour out of this beastly country. You and Buller will have to pull me out of the mire’. His lordship further stated that Wood should abandon any pretext of protecting the Swazi and European settlers in the region. Although, he gave Wood complete latitude to act as he saw fit. Furthermore, Chelmsford promised to dispatch most of the surviving mounted troops from No. 2 and No. 3 Columns to him, including the Imperial Mounted Infantry and reorganised Natal Native Horse. However, they were in a fearful state, and he could not say when.

  “This position is untenable,” Wood said, addressing his senior officers that afternoon. “His lordship has suggested leaving the Boers and Swazis to deal with the Zulus in this region, and that we should rally our forces to the south, closer to Rorke’s Drift.” He pointed to a position on the map, near where he had met with Chelmsford on the 11th. Evelyn tapped his finger a few times on this position and shook head. “However, he has also given me latitude to command and manoeuvre this column as I see fit.”

  “That terrain is not suitable for defence,” Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert conjectured. “Too many woods and dongas from which the Zulus could sneak up on us. It may be closer to Glyn’s column, but they are in no shape to support us should Cetshwayo come calling.”

  “Whereas if we head northwest,” Major Knox-Leet mused, “we will be closer to Rowland’s column. They are fresh. And besides, the GOC has already tasked them with supporting us.”

  “The ground is also more open,” Buller recalled. “We can better utilise our mounted troops. Plus, we can keep a better watch over the abaQulusi, who are still slinking about their mountain caves.”

  Major Rogers from the 90th then spoke up. “Sir, we will have to deal with the abaQulusi sooner or later. The Swazis are already undecided as to who to support. No doubt this will be compounded when they hear about Isandlwana. If we simply abandon the region, what’s to stop them from adding another ten thousand warriors to Cetshwayo’s army? As for the damned Boers…” He paused and scowled in disgust. “Let us not think their having the same skin complexion as us makes them any more reliable than the Swazis. I daresay the only people they hate more than the Zulus are us. I wouldn’t put it past them if they decided to align themselves with Cetshwayo.”

  Evelyn Wood stood with his chin resting in his hand for a few moments, pondering what his officers were telling him. He then placed his finger on the map at a long plateau just a few miles from Hlobane. “If we move north, we can maintain pressure on the abaQulusi. And I agree with Major Rogers. We will have to deal with them sooner or later. I’ll not go out of my way to offer protection to the ungrateful Boers, but to completely abandon the region would only invite them to join with our enemies.”

  He glanced at the faces of his officers, suddenly glad that Piet Uys was not at this meeting. Though there was no love lost between the Boer and his British allies, Evelyn thought it might prove tempting to simply abandon them, should Piet learn of Lord Chelmsford’s directives regarding abandoning the settlers to the abaQulusi and the Zulus.

  “This area is called Khambula,” the column commander continued. “It offers plenty of places on good ground where we can establish our camp. This war is clearly going to take much longer than his lordship had intended, and we shall need to make use of the ground and move our camp as often as the hygiene and cleanliness of our troops dictates.”

  The following day, Tshwane and a group of five abaQulusi warriors watched the ponderous convoy abandon the fort and begin its journey northward. Many of the abaQulusi had firmly aligned themselves with Mbilini, swelling the ranks of his warriors. Though not yet a member of the amabutho, Tshwane would often accompany scouting parties and was most often at Mbilini’s side. On this day, he was permitted to join a small scouting patrol observing the white soldiers. The other warriors watched in silence.

  First to depart were a hundred horsemen. Tshwane knew the British had large numbers of mounted Africans. However, these particular men were all white Europeans. Next to follow were roughly two companies of African warriors. While his companions remained impassive, the young man seethed in rage. He recognised some of the shield colours and patterns. These were not Natal warriors or Swazis, but Zulus! That they carried the shields of their previous regiments was not only a grave insult to their people, but theft of the king’s property. Tshwane sought to control his breathing as rage consumed him. These men, who should have heeded King Cetshwayo’s summons for the royal muster, were instead fighting for their enemies! What’s more, despite the amabutho’s great victory at Isandlwana, they remained with the white invaders.

  “They are more dogs than men,” Tshwane said quietly. He hated the traitors to the Zulu people even more than the British soldiers who led them.

  The wagons departed next, with columns of imperial redcoats marching on either side. Since there were no roads to speak of, they had to make their way cross-country, utilising their scouts to find the most passable routes. As they reached the open plain beneath the short hill, their African voorloopers guided the teams of oxen, forming the wagons into a column four wide. The procession was quite large. Roughly fifty paces of separation were required between each wagon team; meaning the entire convoy stretched for roughly two miles. While the red-jacketed soldiers remained close to the wagons, bands of horsemen rode out along either flank, keeping a mile or so from the column. Upon seeing a group of around twenty riders heading in their direction, Tshwane and his companions crouched low behind the rise, using the brush to conceal themselves. Two companies of Zulu traitors marched behind the column of wagons, followed by another contingent of around fifty horsemen a half mile behind.

  The warriors Tshwane accompanied were some o
f the most able scouts among Mbilini’s followers. They had the best eyes, allowing them to maintain a safe distance from the British convoy. It was still a tricky game, as the threat of the enemy’s mounted troops remained constant. The Zulus kept to the low ground, running through dongas and keeping behind any rises of high ground they could find. This often took them away from their quarry, forcing them to follow in a much wider arc than intended. Several times, Tshwane emerged from a ravine and had no idea where he or the enemy were. It would then take a few minutes of climbing up a small knoll or finding an open patch of ground to allow them to find the British once more. Thankfully, the wagons moved at a ponderously slow pace, often becoming stuck in the mud and requiring dozens of soldiers to dig them out. This gave the warriors plenty of time to manoeuvre and keep either parallel or ahead of their foes.

  It came as no surprise to Tshwane when he saw just how little progress the enemy column had made by the end of the first day. As the sun set, the small band watched the wagons forming into a large square, with the cattle penned in the centre and soldiers setting up their tents nearby. The young Zulu reckoned they had advanced no further than what an ibutho could run in just a couple of hours.

  A warrior then observed, “They move slowly, but they are relentless.”

  Two days after departing Fort Thinta, No. 4 Column had reached the White Mfolozi River. Progress was slow due to the muddy ground and constant rains. Upon crossing, they soon reached the region known as Khambula. Centrally located, it sat atop a high plateau that offered a commanding view in most directions. To the north, a pair of streams converged a short way down the slope. The ground to the south angled down into a large valley which then ran northeast. A knoll dominated the eastern edge of the plateau. It was flat and fairly narrow on top.