Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  The African troopers from the various regiments that had taken part in the Isandlwana campaign were reformed as the Natal Native Horse (NNH), under the command of the recently promoted Captain William Cochrane, former transportation officer of No. 2 Column. Lieutenants Richard Vause and Charlie Raw, both of whom had survived Isandlwana, were each given command of a troop. It was Raw who had first spotted the Zulu impi, north of Isandlwana, and whose troopers fired the first shots of the battle.

  Leading a troop from the Imperial Mounted Infantry was Lieutenant Edward Browne of the 24th Regiment. Twenty-six years of age, he’d served with the Colours for the past seven years. Previously a subaltern with Captain William Mostyn’s E Company, 1/24th, Edward had been selected to help lead the IMI two years before. On the day of the Battle of Isandlwana, he and most of the 1st Squadron had been with Lord Chelmsford, taking part in the skirmishing near Mangeni Falls. Like the enlisted soldiers who came from the same battalion, he understood that being given this assignment with the mounted troops was the only reason he still drew breath.

  “Fortune is a tricky mistress,” Captain Cochrane said as he and Browne completed an inspection of their respective troops one morning.

  “I think the sooner we get the lads back into action, the better,” Browne surmised. “Sergeant Naughton rightly noted that we were having discipline issues long before the war with the Zulus. Our men from the 24th are even more distraught after what’s happened to their mates.”

  “And how about you?” Cochrane asked sympathetically.

  Though he had made numerous friends since volunteering for service in Southern Africa the previous year, not to mention narrowly escaping from Isandlwana, it was not Cochrane’s 32nd Regiment that had suffered so greatly. While they had spent several years in the Cape Colony, the 32nd was rotated home to England two years earlier, with a detachment subsequently sent to the West Indies. William returned to Southern Africa upon volunteering to join Lord Chelmsford as a special services officer.

  “I confess, there are many nights when I think I should have died with my friends,” Edward admitted. “Captain Mostyn was like a brother to me, always looking after the welfare of both his subordinate officers and the enlisted men. I learned more about being an officer during the five years I spent as his subaltern than I could have in ten with another company. I’d be lying if I told you my heart does not long for revenge.”

  “Such feelings are not unnatural,” Cochrane asserted. “But as officers, we cannot allow them to cloud our judgement. Any personal vendettas must remain secondary to the safety and well-being of our men.”

  Edward nodded in reply. “Of course. And I promise that those who survived Isandlwana did not do so in vain.”

  Lieutenant Edward Browne, 24th Regiment

  Troop Commander, 1st Squadron, Imperial Mounted Infantry

  The day after receiving the general order reassigning both the IMI and NNH to his column, Colonel Wood met with a pair of Zulu messengers. They were first spotted by artillery crewmen occupying the high redoubt.

  “Colonel!” Captain Slade called down, having spotted his commanding officer. “A pair of riders approach. They appear to be Zulus.”

  Wood nodded and ordered the lance corporal in charge of the gate sentries to have them sent to him as soon as they reached the camp. He then had his interpreter, a civilian gentleman named Llewelyn Lloyd, brought to the headquarters tent while sending Lieutenant Lysons to fetch the battalion commanders and staff. The colonel had his batman check his uniform and make certain he looked presentable. The east-facing canvas wall of the tent was rolled up, allowing a much-needed breeze to blow in.

  Buller, Gilbert, Rogers, and Knox-Leet stood on either side of Wood, with Captain Campbell and the staff behind. Evelyn had his hands clasped behind his back and watched intently as six infantrymen from the 90th escorted the two men to his tent. Both were quite tall and well-built; each wore the head ring denoting them as married men. The elder, who appeared to be in his forties, wore a willow necklace, which Wood recognised as one awarded to warriors for exceptional bravery in battle. He considered it the Zulu equivalent to his own Victoria Cross, which he had pinned to his jacket just prior to the meeting.

  “Sawubona, inkosi,” the elder man said, bowing slightly and holding his hands up by his face in salute. He then stood tall and spoke slowly, allowing the colonel’s interpreter time to translate.

  “His name is Ngwegwana, chief induna to Prince Hamu kaNzibe,” Mister Lloyd said. “On behalf of his sovereign, he bids you welcome and extends the branch of friendship.”

  “Give him my thanks and expressed desire to accept that branch of friendship,” Wood replied. “Ask him if he speaks for Prince Hamu or King Cetshwayo.”

  Mister Lloyd spoke with Ngwegwana. The induna replied very quickly, while making a few elaborate gestures with his hands.

  “He says, Prince Hamu is the only master he acknowledges. The prince states that, while Cetshwayo is his brother who he loves dearly, he has brought about the ruin of the Zulu people. He wishes to ensure the safety of his people before more are needlessly killed.”

  “I see.” Wood paused and held his hand up by his chin in contemplation. His officers were talking quietly amongst themselves, trying to grasp the significance of what they were hearing.

  “That’s a fair prize,” Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert said, “Winning the defection of the king’s own brother.”

  “To be fair, Cetshwayo has more than a score of brothers,” Buller remarked. “Several of whom he had killed during the Zulu civil war, twenty-two years ago. A couple of his siblings have already sided with us. However, securing the defection of Prince Hamu would greatly undermine the king’s authority in the north.”

  Wood nodded and addressed the izinduna again. “Have them inform the prince that we will place him under British protection, once he and his followers reach Khambula. Is he able to leave his kraal?”

  “Not at this time,” Ngwegwana said, through the interpreter. “Prince Hamu was compelled to flee from Ulundi back to his own lands. Cetshwayo has already sent companies of warriors after him, and he fears it won’t be long before he dispatches an entire regiment. If Prince Hamu manages to secure the friendship of the Swazi king, Mbandzeni, he can take refuge in Swaziland. But as they have yet to choose a side in this war, the prince will not be completely safe. He will need an escort of British troops if he is to make his way from Swazi to British territory.”

  “Send my regards to the prince, and inform him that once he reaches Swaziland, he is to meet with the British agent, who will inform us of his arrival. Also let him know that Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, rewards those who remain loyal friends of the Crown.”

  Satisfied that they had the support of the British, the two izinduna exchanged pleasantries and took their leave. Ngwegwana promised to maintain contact with Wood, keeping him informed as to the prince’s location and when he would be ready to defect.

  “There must be an incentive for Prince Hamu to betray his brother,” Wood later stated. “Had the No. 3 Column not been utterly routed at Isandlwana, it would be a simple matter of compelling him to defect, lest he and his people be destroyed.”

  “But threats will no longer have any real effect,” Redvers Buller observed. “Which means he must have designs to have his brother overthrown. As he is the elder, perhaps he hopes to petition the Queen to install him as King of the Zulus.”

  “That is for Her Majesty and the government to decide,” Wood remarked. “We need to worry about those matters which we can directly influence.”

  “Any thoughts, sir?” Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert asked.

  “Indeed, yes. There is the matter of the Swazis, who so far have remained neutral. They have allowed Cetshwayo to send some of his royal herds into their lands, yet they refuse to commit warriors to his cause or ours. Firstly, we need to send a message to King Mbandzeni, informing him that should Prince Hamu attempt to send his cattle into Swazi territory, they will not
be raided by British forces. Mbandzeni will further be informed that Hamu is viewed as non-hostile and will be afforded the protection of Queen Victoria’s soldiers, should his personal conflict with Cetshwayo leave him imperilled.”

  “Your pardon colonel,” Buller said, “But I think we shall need to do more than offer our verbal support to Prince Hamu. Cetshwayo will no doubt be anxious to prevent any defections, and may send a regiment or two to prevent Hamu’s escape.”

  “Then we must be prepared for that eventuality,” Wood declared.

  Chapter XVIII: Sons of Zulu

  Near the Royal Kraal of Ulundi

  17 February 1879

  Zulu smith smelting iron, from The Graphic

  The din of musketry echoed in the young warrior’s ears. He was blinded by the haze of dust and black powder smoke. Screams of pain came from all around him, as his friends were torn apart by enemy rifle fire. Then through the haze suddenly appeared a wall of white men in red uniforms. The warrior was suddenly alone, facing the death wrought by scores of British rifles. They erupted in a deafening fury, tearing the young man’s body to shreds. Blood spurted from his mouth, as he gazed up at the sky, whispering to himself, ‘why?’…

  Mehlokazulu gasped, and he bolted upright. Sweat dripped down his face and neck as he ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, fighting back his tears. It was completely dark inside the small hut that he shared with several other izinduna. Rain beat down on the thatch roof, masking the sounds of his panicked breathing. Feeling as if he were suffocating, he clambered over the sleeping forms of two of his companions before stumbling out into the stormy night. The winds were strong and cold, blowing the rain in stinging sheets against his body. Yet rather than causing discomfort, they brought the young man solace and relief, emphasising he was still alive. He closed his eyes and turned his face skyward, allowing the punishing storm to batter him. Mehlokazulu then slumped against the side of the hut and splashed down onto his backside. Burying his head in his arms, he wept uncontrollably.

  It was Bongani who found Mehlokazulu early the next morning, still slumped against the side of the hut, his body soaked and pale from the night cold. The young warrior knelt down and gently placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Mehlokazulu bolted upright, gasping with his eyes wide.

  “The spirits haunt you, my friend,” Bongani said, “As they do many of us.”

  Mehlokazulu did not reply, but simply nodded and tried to stifle a deep yawn. “Thank you,” the induna said, his voice hoarse.

  Bongani then helped him to his feet. “It is almost time for us to return home.”

  Mehlokazulu knew the regiments of the amabutho would not remain at Ulundi for long, for the harvest was now upon them. The cleansing rituals had lasted for several days, purging the contagion from those who spilled the blood of the imperial redcoats and their feckless Natal allies. And now it was time for the king’s surviving warriors to return home and see to their crops and families

  For Mehlokazulu kaSihayo, there was no longer a home to return to. The kraal belonging to his family was the first destroyed by the British soon after they crossed the uMzinyathi River. Adding to the tragedy, sixty of the caretakers left to look after the clan’s livestock were slain, to include one of Mehlokazulu’s brothers. Its proximity to the old mission station of kwaJimu made any return too dangerous for the time being. Many of Sihayo’s followers had migrated towards the uPoko valley where the inkosi had another, albeit much smaller, homestead.

  “I must speak with our men before they leave,” Mehlokazulu asserted.

  It was now midmorning. The warriors had breakfasted and the induna addressed his companies one last time. There was a combination of triumphal relief and heart-breaking sorrow clinging in the air. His assembly, once 300 warriors strong, now contained just over half that number. Many of the more gravely wounded, along with some of the despondent and spiritually broken, had simply gone home following the battle. Then there were those who were nothing more than shattered corpses, for whom there was no going home. Unburied and exposed to both the weather and wild beasts, their restless spirits, along with those of the slain redcoats, haunted the battlefield of Isandlwana.

  “My friends, fellow sons of Zulu,” the induna began. “We have suffered greatly, paying a fearful toll in blood and souls sent to join the ancestors. But we have triumphed. The white soldiers lie slain, their corpses a feast for the carrion birds. But now, our people hunger. We have done our duty as guardians of amaZulu, and now we must continue to work as caretakers of our families. When you return home to bring in the harvest, do so with heads held high; for it is because of you that the amaZulu have homes and fields to harvest.”

  “Bayade!” his warriors shouted in unison, raising their assegais in salute.

  Mehlokazulu went on to implore them to conduct their duties with haste, for it was only a matter of time before the king summoned them for war again. “We destroyed the red soldiers, but they will come again. Our return home for the harvest has bought them time, and our valour and mettle will be tested once more before we achieve final victory.”

  The assembled companies shouted praises to both their king, as well as their regimental inkosi, and even to Mehlokazulu himself. They then dispersed to gather their belongings before returning to their homes throughout the Zulu Kingdom. Having led the main attack of the ‘Left Horn’ at Isandlwana, they were laden with spoils. The greatest prizes claimed were the modern breach-loading rifles and carbines carried by the white soldiers and some of their African allies. Around twenty of Mehlokazulu’s warriors had acquired these magnificent weapons from the battlefield.

  Zulu induna in full ceremonial garb

  The induna himself had kept the red tunic belonging to a man he’d slain, which he was required to wear it until after the spiritual cleansing ceremonies. Most who’d been compelled to don the red jackets discarded them as soon as the rituals were complete. After all, they were mostly torn and covered in dried blood stains. Others continued to wear theirs, like one would an iziqu necklace awarded to the abaqawe for bravery. Mehlokazulu had taken the tunic off as soon as he was able, for he found it stifling and impractical. However, he kept it with his personal belongings as a reminder of the darkest days of the Zulu Kingdom and the sacrifices made to save their people.

  As he watched his men rush back to their huts, excited to be returning home, Mehlokazulu became aware of someone standing behind him. He turned to see his father, Sihayo.

  Around sixty years of age, the inkosi of the Ngobese clan had lost a touch of his height and stood slightly shorter than his son. His hair was mostly gone. What little remained was a silvery grey, as was his scruffy beard. His face was weathered and etched deeply, making him appear even older.

  “I have spoken with the king,” he said. “And he wishes you to remain here, as his personal body servant.”

  “I am honoured, Father,” Mehlokazulu replied. “Will you also be staying? The king could use your wise words and council.”

  Sihayo shook his head. “No. I must make for the uPoko Valley to see to it our people do not starve. There is much suffering from this war that comes not from fighting, but from the destruction of homes, crops, and the theft of our cattle. I confess, my son, I did not think it wise for you to remain at Ulundi, and I am grateful Tshwane is with Mbilini in the north.”

  “Many of the izikhulu blame us for the kingdom’s misfortunes,” Mehlokazulu said bitterly. “Yet they forget that the chasing of wanted criminals across the borders between our kingdom and that of the English has been accepted since we first came to know of each other’s existence. They have absconded with thieves and murderers who had sought safety within our lands, just as we have done with them. That the whites would use the return of two traitors of the kingdom as justification for war means they were already planning to destroy us.”

  Sihayo gave a sad smile. The two ‘traitors’ had been faithless wives of his, including Mehlokazulu’s mother, who fled into British
Natal with their lovers. The men disappeared soon after, sadly escaping royal justice. The women were captured and dragged across the uMzinyathi River by a band of raiders led by Mehlokazulu and subsequently executed. While he certainly viewed the killings as just, Sihayo had taken no pleasure in it, nor had he ever advised his son to take such brutal action. Indeed, the executions only drew greater shame upon the family, serving as a continued reminder of his wives’ faithlessness. Killing the woman who brought him into this world also weighed heavily upon Mehlokazulu. Yet, so great was the fury of a son betrayed, he had not shed a single tear for his mother. Thoughts of his happy childhood now only brought anger.

  “You are wise beyond your years, my son,” Sihayo said. “Yet there are many in the royal council, even the king’s inkosi nkhulu, Mnyamana, who think we should have given in to the demands brought by our disloyal former friend, Shepstone.”

  “They say they would rather sacrifice a few in order to save the kingdom,” Mehlokazulu recalled. “But if we are to throw ourselves onto our bellies at every insistence from the English, then we have no kingdom worth saving.”

  “Such words have also been spoken by our king,” his father asserted. “His keeping you here, close by his side, is his way of publicly offering his continued support to our clan. I, at first, advised against it. But he was very adamant; he would not be cowed by the grumblings of cowards who would have us skulking back to the English.”

  “I will continue in my royal duties until such time as the king summons the regiments once more,” Mehlokazulu said. He then noticed how tired his father looked, and it made him reconsider. “Would it not be best if you stayed with the king and I returned to our people? If I am to one day succeed you as inkosi of the Ngobese clan, what better time for me to start leading them? Besides, Father, you have wisdom and experience that I do not.”