by James Mace
“Tell us about who you lost,” Elisa implored after a few moments.
Frances let out a muffled sigh and composed her thoughts. Recent events were still fresh, and it pained her to think of him. “His name was Anthony Durnford,” she managed to say. “He was brave, yet more importantly, a just and honourable man. Such a dear friend to my father and to our family, he was able to perform his duties as a soldier while showing temperance and respect towards the people of this land.”
“You loved him,” Elisa said, noting the pained countenance of her host.
“I will always love him,” Frances asserted. “We knew our feelings could never come to fruition. Estranged from his wife for many years, he was still married in the eyes of God, and would never bring discredit to his family or ours. Honour was all he had left at the end, yet that vile beast, Chelmsford, seeks to take it from him.”
She went on to explain how Lord Chelmsford and Sir Henry Bartle-Frere were leading a campaign of slander against Lieutenant Colonel Anthony Durnford, attempting to cast blame on him for the disaster at Isandlwana.
“Neither of those vipers will ever admit that they started an unjust war,” Frances continued. “The Zulus are a great people who are our equals before God. Sadly, they were foolish enough to call us ‘friends’. They, too, have suffered greatly. I suspect Chelmsford will see another 10,000 killed and their entire kingdom destroyed before this hateful affair is over.”
The Colenso home at Bishopstowe
Chapter XV: Spiritual Purging
Hermannsburg Mission, four miles west of Luneburg
10 February 1879
A Zulu induna parading his warriors, from The Graphic
It was an hour before dawn; the time known to the Zulus as ‘The Horns of the Morning’, when Mbilini and his band of warriors found the abaQulusi led by Manyanyoba. The Swazi prince had abandoned his ikhanda near Hlobane, taking several hundred warriors northwest towards the white township of Luneburg. On this night, he rode a large, brown horse that was a gift from Prince Dabulamanzi of the Zulus.
“As you said, the homesteads are mostly devoid of fighting men,” Manyanyoba said, after the two exchanged greetings.
“I have eyes everywhere,” Mbilini asserted. “The vile traitors have dispatched their warriors to fight beside the red soldiers. For this betrayal, as well as their sacrilege by bowing to the white man’s god, we shall make them bleed. There are three smaller settlements and a village in the vicinity. I advise we divide our corps into four elements and attack them at the same time.”
Tshwane kaSihayo accompanied Mbilini and a force of 600 warriors. They made for the farmstead belonging to two German settler brothers, Willem and August Klingenburg. August was the schoolmaster for Luneburg and the brothers and their families hid in the schoolhouse within the town laager. They had left the farm in the hands of local African caretakers.
The torch and lamplight from the town, six miles to the southeast, were just visible to the raiders as they slinked towards the farm. As before, they carried no shields, though some now wielded firearms. Tshwane clutched his iklwa and knobkerrie close, wondering if tonight he would be able to use them to kill rather than just for practice?
In the faint glow of moon and starlight, he was able to see a pair of European-style buildings. The closest was the family home; the furthest was a large barn. There were also six African huts beyond the barn, where Tshwane guessed the workers lived. Wordlessly, Mbilini signalled for a group of warriors to head for the barn. A large band of more than a hundred rushed the huts, while others surrounded the house. The Swazi then looked to young Tshwane and nodded. Together with a score of followers, they hurried towards the main door to the house. Upon reaching the door, they found it locked and barred from the inside. A pair of warriors began kicking away, their blows echoing in the still of the night. Terrified voices called out from within, as Mbilini’s warriors stormed the huts. Shrieks of horror and agony immediately followed with the loud crack and muzzle flash of a rifle from between the previously unseen boards over one of the house’s windows.
Warriors carrying muskets fired at the windows. One cried out as he was struck in the chest with a bullet shot from a window to the right of the door. Mbilini rushed over and snatched up the gravely injured man’s musket and powder horn. He had no intention of shooting his quarry, however. Instead, he signalled for Tshwane and another warrior to help lift him up onto the roof. Using his spear, he dug away at the damp outer layer of thatch until he found a drier patch within. He then emptied the powder horn onto the straw, running a short trail several feet away. He cocked the musket and used the flint to ignite the powder. Clambering down from the roof as the fire took hold, he waved for his men to position themselves on either side of the doors and windows.
It took several minutes for the fire on the roof to fully take hold. Meanwhile, the workers in the huts had been slain. These were mostly women and young children. Livestock were herded from the barn and cattle kraal. Several warriors lit long sticks from the spreading fire on the main house, which they used to ignite the barn and huts.
Knowing they would soon burn to death if they did not make a run for it, the desperate people inside the house tore open the main door and attempted to flee into the night. Without thinking, Tshwane lunged forward and plunged his iklwa into the guts of a hapless settler who cried out in agony before tumbling to the ground, writhing and begging for death to come. His spear ripped from his hand, the young Zulu swung his knobkerrie in a series of quick blows, catching one person in the chest, stomach, and arm, while cracking another across the skull. Mbilini and the other warriors were plunging their blades into the fallen with chants of vengeance.
The heat from the flames engulfing the house became intense, driving the assailants away. As he turned to leave, Tshwane saw the individual he had stabbed through the guts. He was appalled to see it was a young woman, likely in her early twenties. In the glow of the firelight, he could see her face contorted in terrible pain as she clutched at the spear still embedded in her stomach. Panicking and not knowing what else to do, the Zulu smashed her across the skull with his club. The bone cracked with the second blow, causing the woman to convulse violently as death took hold. Grimacing in disgust, Tshwane quickly snatched up his iklwa before rushing to join Mbilini and the assembling raiders. They were fairly easy to spot in the glow of the burning house and barn.
“We head north,” the Swazi said, pointing with his bloodied spear. “Once we cross the Ntombe River, we will make for my personal stronghold.”
During the long trek back to Mbilini’s ikhanda, Tshwane struggled against the feelings of revulsion that welled up inside him. He would later learn that, in addition to the Zulu woman he had slain, six other African women and three white men had been in the house that night. Whether the men were settlers or merely squatters, he did not know. It was one of these men who he’d smashed with his knobkerrie across the head, rendering him unconscious, as a warrior stabbed him through the heart.
Upon reaching the stronghold atop the Tafelberg Mountain, there was much singing and chanting from the elated warriors. And yet for Tshwane, there was little except guilt and shame. He did not remember falling asleep that night, only waking the following morning to the sound of pouring rain outside the hut he was crammed into with a dozen warriors. He wanted to speak with Mbilini, but feared facing a stern rebuke from the Swazi prince, who seemed to harbour no feelings of guilt whenever he killed. More than anything, Tshwane wished his brother were there. Mehlokazulu was the one person he could always confide in, who seemed to always have the right answer.
For Commandant Schermbrucker of the Luneburg garrison, there had been little time for him to react to the series of raids that hit communities around the township the previous night. The worst had been at the Klingenburg farm. Schermbrucker and sixty of his men rode there as soon as there was a break in the rains near midday. He was accompanied by Doctor William Cobbin, a civilian surgeon attached to the 8
0th Regiment. The redcoats’ commanding officer, Major Charles Tucker, had dispatched two companies to see to another homestead not far from the town.
Bodies were scattered about the charred ruins of the farm. Schermbrucker removed his hat before dismounting his horse. He shook his head in frustration, knowing that his forces were too few to prevent such atrocities, or to avenge them.
“The enemy attackers on each settlement numbered in the hundreds,” one of his African warriors said.
“Sir, this one’s still alive!” a trooper called out.
Schermbrucker and Doctor Cobbin rushed over to find an African woman lying in a pool of muddied water mixed with blood. She had been stabbed dozens of times, and it amazed the commandant that she still breathed.
“Help me get her out of the muck,” Cobbin directed.
Two troopers, along with a pair of African warriors, helped carry the badly injured woman over to the charred remains of the house veranda.
As he took up his aid bag and started checking the wounds, he told Schermbrucker, “I need a stretcher and an ambulance.”
“I’ll have word sent to Major Tucker,” the commandant replied.
In all, the poor woman had been stabbed thirty-six times. Miraculously, none had gone into her intestines or vital organs nor had any of the major arteries been severed.
Though she had lost a great deal of blood and was in unimaginable pain, Doctor Cobbin was confident he could save her life. “Let us hope her wounds don’t become infected,” he said grimly, as they waited for the ambulance wagon to arrive from Luneburg.
In all, fifty people were slain during this latest night of terror. The raiders had known which settlements were most vulnerable and focused their efforts on these. Most of the dead were the wives and children of warriors now serving with No. 4 Column. This had a particularly demoralising effect on the men of Wood’s Irregulars. They cried out in sorrow and rage. Many departed from Khambula without permission from their officers, that they might return home and see if their loved ones had lived or perished. The two reverends overseeing the Christian missions in the district had taken it upon themselves to form burial details. Thus, many of the men would never see their wives and children again.
The continuing string of counter-raids by Mbilini and his allies was starting to wear on Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood. What’s more, his most recent sorties against the Swazi prince and the abaQulusi had netted little more than a few dozen cattle and other livestock in plunder. And while they had burned a rather large ikhanda they thought belonged to Mbilini, their adversaries were still avoiding open battle.
Reconnaissance expeditions towards Hlobane discovered that the enemy was fortifying the heights, as well as building ramparts and blockades along the few paths leading up to the main plateau. Wood found this particularly worrying. If he should be compelled to launch a major assault upon Hlobane, the enemy would be fighting atop fortified high ground with very few avenues of approach. What’s more, though his lordship reassured him that both Lieutenant Colonel Russell’s Imperial Mounted Infantry, as well as the resurrected Baker’s Horse, would be joining No. 4 Column, it would be upwards of a month before any of these troops arrived.
With a sense of aggrieved frustration, on the morning of 11 February he learned the defences of Utrecht had been inspected by none other than Lieutenant Colonel Russell.
“Colonel Russell’s time would be better spent sorting out his mounted troops and making them ready to join the column,” he complained bitterly as he breakfasted with Redvers Buller and Philip Gilbert. “What’s more, he is but a brevet lieutenant colonel. Were we not at war in Southern Africa, he’d still be a battalion major! If his lordship questions the readiness of our defences, which is his prerogative, the least he could do is send one of my peers to conduct the inspection rather than an officer so subordinate to me!”
“The order was signed for the GOC by Major Clery,” Gilbert observed, as he read the despatch.
“And Clery should certainly have known better,” Wood contested. He then sent for Lieutenant Lysons, but rather than tasking his orderly with penning his letter to Chelmsford, Evelyn elected to write it himself. He also penned a separate message for Lieutenant Colonel John Crealock. Wood was one of the few senior officers in the Cape Colony to share an amicable rapport with Chelmsford’s military secretary. While his rather bitter missive to the GOC dealt with his protestations regarding having a subordinate inspect the defences he had personally overseen, his letter to Crealock was a more personal rant, voicing opinions he did not dare express in front of the officers of his staff.
My Dear Colonel Crealock,
All Helpmekaar wants stirring up. They are still crying over spilt milk; spilt on the 22nd of January. To continue is silly. You are quite right about Russell. He is not strong enough for this place and, indeed, all down Helpmekaar way are like beaten children. I could well forgive it for a week, but now ‘tis time to cheer up!
I trust the general is keeping his spirits up, and that reinforcements necessary to see to the matters along the coast will not be long coming. My column continues to prosecute the war as best we are able and will be in a position to perform greater work, once the mounted troops from No. 3 Column are reassigned to us. I can only hope that Russell somehow finds it in him to resume his duties!
H.E. Wood, Colonel
Even greater frustrations awaited Evelyn Wood, as the large force he’d dispatched in response to the most recent atrocities committed against the settler and Christianised African blacks returned. Major Knox-Leet, leading 200 warriors from Wood’s Irregulars, along with seventy troopers from the Frontier Light Horse, and an additional thirty burghers returned early that evening.
“They’ve simply disappeared, sir,” the major reported, not bothering to hide his disappointment.
“If this Swazi prince is attempting to win over the local populace, he has a strange way of going about it,” Wood remarked.
“I don’t think he is,” Knox-Leet replied. “The Zulus view Christianity as morally corrupting. Cetshwayo was content to simply expel all missionaries from Zululand, but Mbilini is taking a more ‘direct’ approach.”
“By ‘direct’, you mean slaughtering women and babies,” Wood said contemptuously. “Let us not play nice with words, major. Whatever his motivations, this barbarian is murdering subjects of the Crown.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wood then summoned his two primary staff officers, Captains Campbell and Woodgate. “Gentlemen, I think it is time we moved our camp once more.”
“Agreed,” Woodgate acknowledged. “The sanitary conditions are starting to deteriorate, and I fear it won’t be long before more of our soldiers begin falling ill.”
Khambula Camp, from The Graphic
Note, this is only a generic layout and not to scale. The final camp at Khambula was actually an uneven hexagon, its shape dictated by the terrain
The new campsite was just shy of two miles from their previous one and sat atop higher ground along the Khambula plateau. Captain Slade of the Royal Artillery requested permission to station part of his battery atop a conical hill roughly a hundred yards from the campsite.
“We’ll use it as one of our picquets, as well,” Colonel Wood confirmed.
The usual laagering and entrenchments took the better part of two days, with earthworks erected to bolster the protection offered by the encircled wagons. Tents were erected outside the defences, allowing more room for soldiers to bivouac, as well as keeping the draught animals and cattle penned within the laager. Picquets were placed a hundred yards from the camp; the open ground allowing for ample warning, should the Zulus or abaQulusi feel emboldened to launch a sortie against the encampment.
Moving the camp was only the first step of Evelyn Wood’s plan for the next phase of the conflict. The Phongolo River was roughly twelve miles north of the new camp, with the town of Luneburg just beyond.
“It is time we taught those who would make war against British
subjects a harsh lesson,” Wood explained during a council-of-war soon after breakfast. “Though Mbilini continues to evade us, his ally, Manyanyoba, will be much easier prey to capture or kill. I received a message this morning from the high commissioner endorsing our efforts to route Manyanyoba and put his kraals to the torch.”
He then turned the meeting over to Lieutenant Colonel Buller, who laid out a crude map he’d received months before from a Boer trader. The level of detail was far greater than any maps possessed by the Army, yet it was still sorely lacking. Many hills, as well as the locations of indigenous strongholds, had been added by both Buller and his scouts during their numerous raids and reconnaissance patrols.
“While the number of enemy warriors in this region is quite large, they are by no means united,” the cavalry commanding officer began. “They belong to several different tribal peoples who were absorbed by the late King Shaka, yet still retain much of their independence. Those falling under Manyanyoba are known as the Khubeka. We’re not certain how many fighting men he has under his direct control, though we suspect it to be no more than 500. Additionally, he is in possession of over 4,000 head of cattle. Mister Uys and his scouts believe they are utilising a series of caves north of the Phongolo and east of Luneburg.”
“Speed will be crucial to any operation we undertake,” Colonel Wood stated. “Our regular infantry will remain to guard the camp at Khambula, along with most of the artillery. Colonel Buller, I understand the Frontier Light Horse is gravely understrength at the moment. How many men can you muster for an extended mission?”
“Around sixty, maybe a few more,” Buller replied honestly.
