Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  “I will take thirty of my own men to support,” Piet Uys added. “The rest should remain here to keep an eye on enemy activity coming from the south and east.”

  Wood nodded and then looked to Major Knox-Leet. “We’ll send half our natives to make up the brunt of our fighting force.”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Hook’s 2nd Battalion has suffered a large number of desertions lately, but I think between his and Commandant Henderson’s 1st Battalion, we can muster a little over 400 fighting men for this expedition.”

  “It will have to do,” Wood consented. “I’ll send a despatch with Colonel Buller, requesting whatever reinforcements the garrison at Luneburg can spare.” He then addressed his artillery officer. “Captain Slade, I want a section of two cannon sent with the expedition. A bit of shelling may be required to drive the savages from their caves.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll send Mister Bigge and two 7-pounders.”

  “Gentlemen,” Wood said, as he stood. His officers quickly followed suit and he offered a salute. “Assemble your men and make ready to depart at once. Good hunting!”

  Chapter XVI: Futile Retribution

  British Camp at Khambula

  12 February 1879

  A four-man vedette in northern Zululand, from The Graphic

  With the latest camp at Khambula established, Captain Thurlow ordered the men of C Company, 1/13th to conduct section manoeuvre and bayonet drills during the daytime, weather permitting. Empty mealie sacks were procured, filled with dirt, and hung from the sides of the company wagons. There were just enough for a dozen men to drill at a time. Colour Sergeant Fricker oversaw this phase of training with two of the company’s sections, while Sergeants Michael Ring and Lewis Walker took theirs beyond the camp under the supervision of Lieutenant Pardoe.

  “Two hours’ drill, followed by lunch, then rotate,” Captain Thurlow ordered before his company dispersed.

  South of the camp, the two sergeants stood atop a small knoll from where they could observe their sections manoeuvre. Michael Ring was in his late twenties and fairly new as a section leader. Slightly shorter than average, he had also gone completely bald at a young age. He therefore often kept a rag tied around his head to protect it from the sun, and to keep his helmet from chafing. On this particular morning he was glad to be training with the venerable and highly-experienced Sergeant Lewis Walker. Their respective corporals, Harry Davies and James Shepard, stood in the centre of each section, having paraded them roughly 200 yards from the knoll.

  “Advance in skirmishing order!” Walker called out.

  The thirty-four infantrymen spread out, leaving roughly ten feet between each other, as they began to walk towards the knoll. Rifles were held at port arms, eyes scanning for perceived threats. Pacing back and forth behind their respective soldiers, the two corporals were constantly searching for viable cover, should they come under attack.

  “Enemy marksmen to your right-front!” Walker shouted. “You are taking fire from a range of 200 yards!”

  “Get down!” both corporals shouted at the same time.

  Soldiers dove behind scrub brush or patches of raised earth, flattening themselves onto their stomachs.

  “Section, right wheel!” Sergeant Ring bellowed.

  Corporal Shepard called to the men to his left to bound twenty-five yards and then fall behind cover once more. The rest would only have to travel ten. Harry Davies gave similar orders to his men, while directing them towards specific rises in the ground or, in the case of the right wing of his section, a short donga around twenty yards away.

  “At 200 yards!” Sergeant Walker shouted. “Fire and advance!”

  The two corporals divided their sections in two, ordering half to simulate firing while the rest rushed forward ten to twenty yards each time. The experience of the soldiers in the two sections was evident. Every private kept a close watch on his mates, making certain to not overextend the line or cluster together. Their drills were precise. The assistant section leaders ordered their men to adjust their sights to 100 yards, as they closed on the knoll.

  At fifty yards, Sergeant Ring shouted, “Form online, fix bayonets!”

  Once again, the drills became instinctive. They quickly closed ranks until they were a few feet from each other. Bayonets flew from their scabbards and were fixed to the ends of their rifles with a series of audible clicks.

  “Advance on the hill!” Sergeant Walker ordered.

  With a unified battle cry, the two sections stormed up the side of the knoll. It was not a mindless charge but a fast and controlled run, with all thirty-four men reaching the top at nearly the same time. While personal valour was commendable, soldiers were also taught from their first day in the Army that they were most dangerous when fighting together as a single unit. Individual bayonet drill was a crucial part of an imperial redcoat’s training, but it was a wall of spikes surging forward as one that would break the enemy’s spirit before even the first blow was struck.

  Once at the top, the two sergeants ordered their men to rest and sheath their bayonets.

  “Don’t want any of you silly buggers stabbing each other,” Michael Ring remarked.

  Despite being an overcast day, the soldiers were soaked in sweat after their exertions, feeling as if they were suffocating in their wool tunics. Their section leaders ordered them to remove their helmets, unbutton their jackets, and take a few minutes to rest and drink water.

  “Bugger all, but when is the sodding army going to issue us uniforms that don’t make us die from heat stroke?” Private Grosvenor grumbled, as he undid the buttons on his jacket and tried to force a breeze onto his sweat-soaked body. He then noticed the large group of horsemen and indigenous warriors gathering outside the northern face of the main camp. “I say, where do you suppose they’re off to?”

  “Bloody horsemen and kaffirs get to have all the fun,” Private Albert Page muttered.

  “Yes, well, it’s a pity none of you lot can ride a horse,” Corporal Davies remarked, running an already damp handkerchief vigorously through his sweaty hair.

  “To be fair, corporal, it does seem like Colonel Buller’s troopers and the natives are the only ones really taking the fight to the Zulus,” Private Hill spoke up.

  “Just be glad our column commander has decided to allow you to sleep in your tents at night,” Sergeant Walker said. “If we were to take part in this little venture, we would likely have to leave our tents, camping equipment, and most of our ammunition.”

  “Besides, no sense in running the risk of ending up like those poor lads from the 24th,” Sergeant Ring added. “I imagine sooner or later Cetshwayo will grow tired of having us as his guests and will try seeing us to the door.”

  Lewis Walker then checked his pocket watch. “Time for a spot of lunch. We’ll see if we can find some shade at the base of that short cliff face. Meantime, we’ll send runners to refill our water bottles.” He then looked to Lieutenant Pardoe, who’d been observing the training with the two sergeants. “With your permission, sir.”

  The subaltern checked his own watch and nodded in concurrence. “Your men can also remove their outer tunics,” he said. “Make certain they drink sufficient water, and also that they eat. Lack of food can contribute to a man dropping from the heat as much as insufficient water.”

  Near the sloping southern face was a steep drop-off that was mostly rock with a few scrub bushes. A couple of soldiers prodded along the rocks with their bayonets, checking for snakes, before the two sections sat down to their lunch of hard biscuit and tinned beef. Soldiers were permitted to stack their rifles and kit while removing their outer tunics. Harry Davies went a step further and took off his undershirt which he doused with the remnants of his water bottle. He handed the bottle to Private Page who, along with George Hill, was collecting them for the section. As soon as they returned, the two sections were given thirty minutes to consume their humble rations and rest a spell before rotating to the makeshift bayonet practice dummies. While the
South African summer heat was stifling, particularly when wearing wool uniforms, Harry found it preferable to the constant rains that made their lives even more miserable.

  Despite the desertion of scores of their indigenous warriors, the expedition led by Lieutenant Colonel Redvers Buller still numbered over 500 total troops. Most of these were members of Wood’s Irregulars, who either did not have families living in the recently attacked homesteads, or who decided the best way to bring justice for their loved ones was by hunting the man who slaughtered women and children in the night, like a cowardly hyena.

  “We’ll ride ahead and meet with Commandant Schermbrucker,” Buller informed Major Knox-Leet. “Hopefully, he knows where these barbarians are attacking from. Have your men march through the night if they must, but know that we attack in the morning.”

  “Sir,” the major replied, saluting before riding back to inform his subordinate officers.

  Though the intense heat caused the ground to dry relatively quickly, it was still a muddy trek for the detachment as they made the fifteen-mile journey from the Khambula camp to Luneburg. The Phongolo river was swollen from the recent rains and the artillery section was only able to cross the fording site with great difficulty.

  “Dash it all, whatever you do, don’t upset the ammunition cart!” Lieutenant Bigge shouted when the left rear wheel of the cart struck a large rock and nearly tipped over.

  In all, he had brought forty solid shot, sixty ‘common’ shot, and a hundred powder bags for his two guns. It was an unfortunate series of mishaps with the newer model breach-loading cannon that compelled the Army to temporarily revert to the outdated muzzle-loaders. The artillery officer felt that the 7-pounder RML cannon were only marginally effective, and sometimes not even worth the bother. In his mind, the Hales rockets he was normally left in charge of were even more useless. Unless they caught the enemy out in the open, or happened to place a shot directly within the caves they were hiding in, Arthur felt his guns were only good for making a lot of noise.

  Inside a town laager, from The Graphic

  It was around 6.00 that evening when they reached the town of Luneburg. Prior to the conflict with the Zulus, the town had been entrenched, with additional work begun on defences. Following the disaster at Isandlwana, the surrounding white populace fled to the safety of the town, using every wagon available to form an even bigger laager, which they then reinforced with an earthen wall. Conditions were cramped and unsanitary, made all the worse by the constant rains turning the town into a quagmire and filling the encircling trench with stagnate water. Dozens of citizens were already down with fevers and dysentery, completely overwhelming the town’s doctor. A handful of children and infirm had already succumbed to various ailments, evidenced by the growing cemetery outside the laager.

  As Redvers Buller and his officers neared the southern gate, they were greeted by Commandant Schermbrucker and a handful of men from the community.

  “Colonel,” the German officer said, offering a salute. “I am relieved you have come.” While he still spoke with an accent, Frederick Schermbrucker’s years with the British Army left him with a far better grasp of the English language than many of the European volunteers. As such, he spoke on behalf of the town council.

  “Our native contingent should be arriving either later this night, or by morning at the latest,” Buller explained. “Colonel Wood felt speed was crucial to catching these bastards. Hence, why our infantry remain in camp.”

  “I can offer you a hundred riflemen from the Luneburg Militia,” Schermbrucker remarked, nodding towards some of the men who’d accompanied him. “We also have a band of natives who are willing to fight.”

  “We’ll gladly take them, provided, as you say, they are willing to fight,” Buller stressed.

  “They are. Most were workers on our farms who managed to escape from the abaQulusi raids. Many lost wives and children in the barbaric slaughter.”

  “We will do all we can to offer them a chance at retribution,” the colonel asserted. “I know conditions are cramped within the laager, so my men and I will sleep outside under the stars.”

  “I wish you a clear night,” Schermbrucker said, looking up at the sky. Though it was relatively cloudless, he knew the weather in the Cape could turn very quickly. He then offered a bed in his own house to Buller, who respectfully declined.

  While his rank and status certainly made such an offer tempting, it was the stench coming from within the town that turned him away, as much as the sense of decency at sharing in the same living conditions as his men. The smell was pungent, consisting of unwashed bodies that hadn’t bathed or had their clothes washed in many weeks and the sickly scent of human waste and garbage not properly disposed of.

  “It’s no small wonder the entire town doesn’t have dysentery,” he said quietly to Piet Uys after Schermbrucker departed.

  Crossing the Phongolo River had proven even more problematic for the warriors from Wood’s Irregulars. Zulus were notorious for their inability to swim, and even with the water at the ford being only chest deep, it took more than a little prodding from Major Knox-Leet, his subordinate officers, and NCOs to compel their men to force their way across. As such, it was only after the sun was seen rising over the hills in the east that they reached Luneburg.

  Despite the uncomfortable conditions brought on by lying on the ground with only their saddles for pillows, Redvers Buller and the mounted troops were relatively fresh compared to William Knox-Leet and his men who had yet to go to bed.

  “Your arrival is timely, major,” Buller said as Knox-Leet joined him. “We march at once for the caves where we believe the Khubeka are hiding.”

  Despite his own state of exhaustion, the red-eyed major nodded in understanding. “Just give us a few minutes to catch our breath, sir, and we’ll be ready.”

  “Dispatch a hundred of your men with Mister Uys,” Buller directed. He then spoke to Piet. “You will take the high ground above the caves. The rest of our forces will strike them from below. We’ll prepare the ground first with artillery bombardment.”

  It was only a few miles from Luneburg to where the British suspected the abaQulusi and Khubeka were hiding in a series of caves in the mountains. Lieutenant Colonel Buller waited until almost noon before attacking, so as to give the burghers and the company from Wood’s Irregulars time to get into position. There were several homesteads located near a cluster of caves, and Buller suspected these belonged to Manyanyoba and his followers. The colonel scanned the huts and caves, looking for any signs of activity. While smoke still emitted from camp fires, he only saw scant traces of what appeared to be a small group of warriors.

  “Given this rocky terrain, I don’t think we can get the guns closer than 1,500 yards,” he said to his artillery officer, Lieutenant Arthur Bigge.

  “It will be enough,” Bigge assured him. He ordered the pair of guns unlimbered with crews running through their preparatory drills.

  “Drop half a dozen shells into each of those kraals,” Buller ordered. “Then concentrate on the caves.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arthur called out to his gun crews, “Set for 1,500 yards! Six rounds, common shot!”

  The sergeants in command of each cannon echoed the order. Powder bags were brought forward and rammed down the gun tubes, followed by the appropriate shells. Each cannon was aimed at a different cluster of huts spaced roughly a hundred yards from each other. Following final range adjustments, each sergeant gave the command, ‘Fire!’

  A pair of concussive booms shattered the morning calm, causing men and horses alike to jolt. The shell from the left gun appeared to burst within its intended kraal while the right gun struck a hut, smashing in the roof and blasting out chunks of the upper wall.

  “I see a few Zulus heading for the caves,” Major Knox-Leet said. He scanned through his field glasses. “I only count five or six.”

  “The rest must already be hiding,” Buller surmised, as the gun crews went through their drills and made re
ady to fire again.

  By the time the sixth shot from each gun had landed within their respective targets, several huts had been flattened and a couple more were burning; no other signs of the enemy were seen beyond the first group who fled immediately after the shooting began. Lieutenant Colonel Buller directed the artillery section to concentrate their fire on the caves themselves. As these were another five to six hundred yards beyond the homesteads, they pushed the limits of the 7-pounder RML cannon. Lieutenant Bigge noted that at such a range, his guns were only marginally effective.

  “Won’t do much unless we manage to lob a shell or two directly into the caves,” he asserted. “And, of course, it all depends on which caves these bloody kaffirs are hiding in and how deep they run.”

  “Just make certain you don’t overshoot,” Buller warned. “We have friendlies on the high ground behind the reverse slope of that mountain.”

  Shelling of kraals, from The Illustrated London News

  Arthur nodded and ordered his sergeants to under-shoot rather than over. All recalled the story told by Lieutenant Charlie Raw about how the first British casualty at Isandlwana had been his fellow troop commander, Lieutenant James Roberts, who was accidentally shelled by their own cannon. Lieutenant Bigge ordered his crews to use solid shot in the hopes of collapsing some of the caves on their quarry. He knew this was mostly in vain, as the 7-pound round shot lacked the size and weight to be very effective, particularly when lobbed at nearly the maximum reach of the guns.

  “If I had a single mortar or a 24-pounder cannon, I could bring down half the mountain,” the artillery officer lamented, as he watched the shots crack against the stone outcroppings along the mountain.

  “In the meantime, we’ll just have to make do with what Her Majesty’s forces have issued us,” Buller remarked plainly, though he shared Bigge’s frustrations. After a few minutes he shook his head. “That will do, Mister Bigge.”