Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  7 February 1879

  Her Majesty, Queen Victoria

  While Cetshwayo’s intentions to end the war might have seemed reasonable to the Zulu King, for the British, the defeat at Isandlwana only hardened their resolve. The Empire was at the height of its power, spanning nearly a third of the globe, with approximately 460 million subjects of The Crown. In the age where ‘The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire’, to accept terms offered by a ‘savage’ foreign king after one embarrassing defeat was simply unacceptable. This resolve would prove fortuitous for Lieutenant General Sir Frederick Thesiger, Lord Chelmsford. Her Majesty’s government, who had been outspoken against any sort of hostilities against the Zulus and was unaware of the invasion, would now have little choice but to send the reinforcements he’d been requesting for months.

  Having retired back across the uMzinyathi River, his lordship had first overseen the fortification of the river crossing at Rorke’s Drift with the survivors of Colonel Richard Glyn’s No. 3 Column. He simultaneously sent urgent despatches to Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood’s No. 4 Column in the north and Colonel Charles Pearson’s No. 1 Column in the south, informing them of the calamity. Pearson had reached the old mission station at Eshowe, near the coast of the Indian Ocean, where they were now in danger of being cut off and surrounded. This left Colonel Wood’s column as the only operational forces left in Zululand. Knowing there was little else to be accomplished along the frontier, the General Officer Commanding and his staff retired to Pietermaritzburg. From there he sent his urgent telegram to London, informing both his superiors at Horse Guards, as well as Her Majesty’s government, of the invasion and subsequent disaster.

  His lordship woke early on the morning of 7 February. Despite the comforts offered by sleeping indoors at the governor’s residence, he would have preferred being in the field, taking the fight to the Zulus. He sat in the drawing room, having his morning coffee, while awaiting the high commissioner.

  Chelmsford’s military secretary, Lieutenant Colonel John Crealock entered with a freshly-penned message for his lordship to review. “Your directives for Major Baker, my lord.”

  The GOC took the message and reviewed it before signing his name. The directive was for Major Jonathan Baker in Port Elizabeth to raise his mounted contingent, known as Baker’s Horse, once more. If Colonel Wood was going to continue to prosecute the war, then he needed a large contingent of experienced cavalry; the since-disbanded Baker’s Horse had been among the most effective during the Xhosa War.

  There was also a writ for the commissariat and pay departments, authorising the pay, horses, weapons, and necessary kit to outfit eleven officers, twenty-two non-commissioned officers, and 240 troopers. Major Baker was experienced in frontier warfare. Lord Chelmsford could only hope that he would be able to raise the necessary number of men, with as many veterans as possible, in short order. Port Elizabeth sat along the southernmost tip of the African Content, 750 miles from the disputed territory where Colonel Wood’s column was operating against the abaQulusi and the Zulus. Chelmsford estimated this journey alone would take upwards of a month.

  Lieutenant Colonel John North Crealock, 95th Rifles

  Military Secretary for Lord Chelmsford

  “Nothing to do now but wait,” his lordship said, as he sat for lunch with the high commissioner, Sir Henry Bartle-Frere.

  On more pleasant days, they would dine on the long balcony which encompassed much of the uppermost floor of Frere’s mansion. However, on this particular day, the skies were a foreboding grey with rainstorms pummelling the structure, accented by flashes of lightning and crashing thunder.

  “You’re surprisingly calm, given what you’ve been through,” Frere stated, as a servant poured him a tall glass of bourbon.

  “When one has been a soldier for as long as I have, Sir Henry, you learn to supress your personal feelings,” the GOC replied. “The fault of our defeat at Isandlwana lies with the tragically deceased Colonel Durnford, while the garrison at Rorke’s Drift put up a splendid display of initiative and valour in repulsing Cetshwayo’s attempts to invade Natal.”

  “But what of the larger picture?” Frere protested. “As we spoke of scarcely a month ago, this little war was our doing alone. Her Majesty, the prime minister, members of Parliament, and I daresay your own colleagues at Horse Guards will be furious when they read your despatch!”

  “It does us no good to fret, Sir Henry,” Chelmsford replied. His calm demeanour caused his host a touch of irritation. “Prime Minister Disraeli will have no choice but to consent to have my reinforcements sent to the Cape at once,” his lordship continued. “And even if our esteemed commander-in-chief, the Duke of Cambridge, wishes to have me replaced, I happen to know that between the war in Afghanistan, and all the other postings throughout our glorious Empire, there are no general officers of sufficient rank to replace me with for the time being.”

  “It’s all well and good for you,” Sir Henry scoffed. “For you also enjoy the patronage of Her Majesty.” There followed an awkward pause before Frere finally said, “My apologies, Sir Frederick. I fear that politically this may see us undone.”

  Chelmsford ignored this last remark. “Colonel Pearson’s column has become bogged down at Eshowe with, quite possibly, the entire Zulu army bearing down on him. I’ve ordered Colonel Wood to prosecute the war in the north as best as he is able, with Colonel Rowlands offering his support from whatever garrison troops are available in the region. Until Cetshwayo is clapped in irons, my concerns are strictly military. The politics, I will kindly leave to you.”

  His manner with Sir Henry Bartle-Frere may have appeared genial and relaxed. In truth, his lordship was under profound strain. Eventually, he would be called into account for his actions, as well as the deaths of over a thousand British soldiers at Isandlwana. He consoled himself that public outcry would be partially tempered by tales of the gallant defence at Rorke’s Drift. Chelmsford had personally endorsed a number of recommendations for the Victoria Cross and Distinguished Conduct Medal for the most heroic defenders, which he was certain Horse Guards, and eventually the Queen herself, would approve.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Pearson’s victory at Inyezane had been given nary a mention, and was further rendered moot by his column allowing itself to become trapped at Eshowe.

  There were also many factors outside of the immediate strategic situation in Zululand to contend with. The threat of unrest amongst the various populations within the Cape Colony, both indigenous African and European settler alike, meant the GOC could not simply send all British troops in Southern Africa to attack the Zulus. The Ninth Cape Frontier War against the Xhosa had ended only the year prior, and the Dutch Boers were a constant thorn in the side of the colonial government.

  A rather unpleasant task Chelmsford felt compelled to perform was penning his report on Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Russell and the state of the Imperial Mounted Infantry. While he sympathised with both Russell and the IMI soldiers who’d lost so many friends, not to mention most of their cavalry-specific tools and kit, he felt the colonel had lost the will to fight. Unfortunately, Russell was one of the only professional cavalry officers of sufficient rank in all of Southern Africa.

  “I fear Colonel Russell is not physically up for the hard work that lies before him,” Crealock stated, echoing the frustrations felt by the GOC.

  “Colonel Russell must prepare himself for work, or else there is no sense in him holding the Queen’s Commission,” his lordship answered sternly. “He has until the first of March to refit his mounted troops and link up with Colonel Wood’s column. As it would be unwise to deprive Colonel Glyn of all mounted troops, Major Dartnell’s Natal Mounted Police will remain at Rorke’s Drift.”

  Major John Dartnell, who retired from the regular Army eight years earlier, was a better fit in terms of temperament and leadership style for the Volunteers and Police under his command than Russell, otherwise Chelmsford would have given him command of the IMI and left Russell at Rorke’s Dri
ft.

  Having ordered Lieutenant Colonel Russell and Major Baker to assemble their troops and join No. 4 Column, while imploring Colonel Rowlands to offer whatever assistance was required, the GOC had done all he could to reinforce Colonel Wood. Satisfied that Colonel Glyn had the main crossing at Rorke’s Drift relatively secure, he could focus his attention on the coastal column. Word had reached him that Colonel Pearson had reached the old mission at Eshowe but was now cut off and unable to return to Lower Drift.

  “Once reinforcements arrive, we will form a relief column to break the siege around Pearson,” Chelmsford declared.

  Crealock then stated, “Let us hope Colonel Wood can give the Zulus a sound bloodying, that we might have time to relieve Colonel Pearson.”

  While Lord Chelmsford pondered his next move, waiting to hear whether Horse Guards was hastening fresh regiments to Southern Africa, there was a sombre tone amongst those already widowed and orphaned by the war. In the district of Bishopstowe, not far from Bartle-Frere’s residence in Pietermaritzburg, two women took a melancholy stroll along the road, contemplating what fate awaited them.

  Nineteen-year-old Elisa Wilkinson was married for just six months before her husband, Private Arthur Wilkinson, was killed at Isandlwana. Sadly, the two had not seen each other since the morning after their wedding. The day they had pledged their lives to each other the previous June had been so vibrant, sunny, and full of promise.

  “The next morning was so wretched and damp,” she recalled to her friend, Eleanor Brown. “It felt like an omen, though I never told Arthur. He had enough to worry about.”

  “I had hoped we would be able to spend Christmas with our husbands,” Eleanor replied. She, too, was widowed by Isandlwana. Her husband, Thomas, was the colour sergeant of C Company, 1/24th, and had been one of Arthur Wilkinson’s instructors during his recruit training at The Depot in Brecon.

  “I should have known better,” Eleanor continued. “It was already early December when I came to fetch you. I am sorry, my dear, for dragging you halfway around the world only to have our ‘adventure’ end this way. Had you stayed in England you would still be a widow, but at least you would be safe.”

  “A widow at nineteen,” Elisa lamented.

  The two, along with the other widows of the 24th Regiment, remained at Fort Napier near Pietermaritzburg for the time being. With the entire Colony of Natal in a state of panic, no one even knew what to do with the hapless wives and children. While citizens tried to go about their daily lives, buildings were boarded up, with barricades established around the towns and cities. This was happening even at Pietermaritzburg, which sat more than a hundred miles from Rorke’s Drift and a similar distance from Fort Pearson, near the Thukela crossing.

  Having destroyed a force of the world’s best professional soldiers, the Zulus had taken on a near-mythical status. White European and black African alike lived in fear that the great hordes would smash through the paltry border defences and burn all of Natal to the ground. Both Eleanor and Elisa found these anxieties absurd, and instead concerned themselves with their very real plight, now that their husbands were dead and the Army no longer obligated to look after their welfare.

  Barricading a building in Pietermaritzburg, from The Graphic

  “Sooner or later, we will have to decide what our fate will be,” Eleanor said.

  Elisa shuddered, thinking back to a conversation they had shared soon after learning of their husbands’ demise. There were only three real options for them; either find another soldier to marry, return to England and live out their lives as spinsters, or take up the less-than-savoury work with one of the local brothels. None of these appealed to Elisa. Though she could readily return home to Stratford-upon-Avon, and she desperately longed for her mother’s comforting embrace, she felt to leave South Africa now was a betrayal of Arthur.

  “I cannot explain it,” she said. “But something tells me I must remain here for the time being.”

  “Well, don’t expect the Army to keep taking care of you, my dear,” Eleanor countered bluntly. “Mary Edwards is already planning to hire a coach to take her and her children to Cape Town. It’s nearly a thousand-mile journey, but it will be easier for her to find a steamship to take her back to England. I imagine she’ll have it all sorted within a week. If you were smart, you would join her.”

  “And what of you? You’ve made no mention of returning home.”

  Eleanor snorted. “There is no home for me, my dear. Both my parents are long deceased, and I have not spoken with my drunk of a brother in nearly ten years. I only count myself fortunate that Thomas and I never had children. Beastly thing to say, I know. But at least I only have myself to look after.”

  “So many wearing black,” Elisa observed, as they neared the church.

  Bishopstowe was a small community of both white settlers and local Africans. As the casualty lists from Isandlwana reached the towns and major cities, those who’d lost fathers, husbands, and sons found themselves in a perpetual state of bereavement. The only reason neither Elisa nor Eleanor had donned mourning garb was because they had not brought any suitable black dresses with them.

  Bishopstowe was also the home of Bishop John Colenso and his family. An outspoken critic of both the war and Sir Henry Bartle-Frere’s policies in general, the conflict with the Zulus had already brought much personal loss to the Colenso family.

  The two widows soon came upon a print shop owned by a local African named Magema Fuze. They saw a woman emerge, wearing all black and carrying a stack of papers tied together with frayed string. She was very striking and looked to be around thirty. Her naturally curly hair was pulled back; her modest dress accentuating her figure, and she exuded a strong physical constitution.

  “Can we be of assistance?” Elisa asked.

  The woman stacked the papers in the back of mule cart. “I would be much obliged.” She went back into the shop and emerged with another bundle.

  Eleanor shot her friend a confused look, then shrugged and went about helping carry the bundles to the waiting cart. Working the printing press inside was a black African man around forty years of age. He wore a modest European suit, much like the ones worn by those working in print shops in England. When he spoke, there was almost no trace of an accent.

  “The first of many papers to bring the truth to the people, dear Nelly,” he said to the woman.

  “We are obliged to you, Mister Fuze,” the woman replied. “My father would thank you personally, but his services were required in Durban for the next few days.”

  “Many blessings to the work he and his family do on behalf of the people.” Fuze smiled warmly.

  The three women then left.

  The woman called ‘Nelly’ then addressed Eleanor and Elisa. “My thanks,” she said. “We have not been properly introduced. I am Frances Colenso, daughter of the Bishop of Natal. Some of my friends call me ‘Nelly’.”

  Elisa and Eleanor introduced themselves in turn.

  “I have not seen you in Bishopstowe before,” Frances observed. “Are you new to the colony or have you come from the fort?”

  “Both,” Eleanor answered. She then cast her gaze downward for a brief moment. “Our husbands were soldiers with the 24th Regiment.”

  “Were,” Elisa muttered under her breath.

  Frances nodded, her mouth taught, as if trying to suppress fierce emotions within. “I am sorry,” she managed to say, her words strained.

  “You mourn as well,” Elisa observed. “Did you also lose your husband?”

  “Husband?” Frances asked, slowly shaking her head. “No, not my husband. And yet, one as dear to me as any I could have given myself to.” She let out a resigned sigh. “I suppose I should tell you about myself, my family’s role in Southern Africa, and how the one I loved died for one man’s greed.” She nearly added, ‘as did your husbands’, though fortunately, she stifled the words before committing a grievous lapse of decorum.

  “We do not wish to impose,”
Eleanor began.

  “Not at all,” Frances countered. “After all, we are sisters in our grief.”

  Frances Ellen Colenso, by Tracy Mace

  Having little else with which to occupy their day, the two widows accompanied Frances back to her family’s abode. Away from the rest of the settlement, it was a large, two-story brick and stone house with high peaked roofs, gables, and an impressive veranda.

  “Secluded from the world, a place of respite,” Frances said. “At least this is how my mother describes it. I think she misses England dearly and feels so cut off from society on this far-flung corner of the world. And yet, she loves the solitude offered by Bishopstowe.”

  “You grew up here?” Elisa asked.

  “Partly,” Frances said. “I was schooled at Winnington Hall in Cheshire before pursuing my passion at the Slade School of Art in London. And yet, I have always felt like I belonged here, helping people rather than idling my life away. My brothers returned to England during the last couple years, but my sisters and I remain to help our father in his work.”

  “Bringing the word of God to the natives,” Eleanor surmised.

  “It’s far more than that. You see, unlike the monsters lurking within the government, my father does not view the peoples of Southern Africa as ‘savages’ or ‘heathens’. He sees all as children of God, equal in the eyes of the Lord. And while he does bring the message of Christ to both the native and settler communities, he respects the beliefs of the indigenous people. He has a profound respect for the Zulus and views their spiritual beliefs as compatible with those of Christianity. As you can guess, this has not won him many friends within the Church of England hierarchy or the colonial government.”

  Frances then escorted her new friends to the veranda, where sat wicker chairs, including one rocker and a few tables. She then excused herself momentarily before returning with a pitcher of lemon water and three glasses.