Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  Sihayo shook his head. “While there is insight in your words, my son, you have experienced war unlike that ever seen by the amaZulu. You understand how the red soldiers fight and what they are capable of, far greater than any of the amakhosi. I am sorry that you have had to experience such horrors, especially as young as you are. You can perform far greater service to the people by remaining close to our king. When the time comes for the amabutho to return to war, I will meet you in the north, most likely near the lands of Prince Hamu.”

  Mehlokazulu scrunched his brow. “Surely, we should concentrate our efforts in the south. There is a British impi that lurks behind a wall of mud surrounding the abandoned Christian mission at Eshowe.”

  “The same men who defeated Godide at the Inyezane River,” Sihayo replied. “But they have allowed themselves to become trapped behind their walls. Their wagons are practically useless in the mud that the divines have blessed us with by returning the summer rains. And the red-jacketed soldiers cannot move without their wagons. For the time being, they are not a threat to us. The northern lands and disputed territories are far less stable. We have allies in the abaQulusi and Khubeka, yet our king fears treason from within his own house. Scouts have reported that the white soldiers are less impeded up there and continue to ravage the people, burn their crops, and steal their livestock. With the harvest upon us, it will take some time before King Cetshwayo is able to summon the amabutho to war once again. But when it does happen, I am certain it will be to deal with these red locusts in the north.”

  Though his mounted reinforcements had begun to arrive at Khambula, the mass-desertions by Colonel Wood’s indigenous warriors negated much of this. He was particularly exasperated that the regiment of allied Zulus which bore his name had been so grievously depleted. ‘I regret to report that 400 of my 800 natives have gone home without leave’, he bluntly informed Lord Chelmsford in one of his despatches.

  “I fear the morale issues are not just confined to our natives,” Captain Campbell remarked candidly one evening. “There have been numerous grumblings coming from the ranks.”

  “It’s the nature of soldiers,” the colonel replied dismissively. “They’re always bickering about something.” He then paused and asked, “You don’t think it’s serious, do you?”

  “No, sir. However, I do think it would be wise to find a distraction for the men, a day of sport, perhaps.”

  “By Jove, that is a splendid idea!” Wood responded enthusiastically. “We’ll make a day of it. Why, back at Aldershot we used to inspire both confidence and fighting spirit amongst the ranks with a bit of competitive sport. I do recall, much to my embarrassment, having declared none of the men from my Regiment were strong enough to compete in a tug-of-war. I personally took up the end of a long rope and dared any one of them to pull me over. Well, suffice it to say, those Scots are far stronger than they appeared!” He let out a boisterous laugh before finding himself in the middle of a coughing fit.

  “Are you alright, colonel?” Campbell asked.

  “Just a touch of overzealous mirth is all. Mind you, I haven’t slept but two or three hours each night for the better part of a month.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. Sir, if I may be direct, you will only make yourself ill if you don’t get some rest each night.”

  “Yes, well, somebody has to check the guard posts a few times each night,” Wood countered.

  “With respect, sir,” Campbell said slowly, “That is what you have sergeants-of-the-guard for. If we cannot trust our non-commissioned officers to perform their duties, then why even bother giving them their chevrons and added pay?”

  Wood said nothing, but grumbled a bit under his breath. The captain suppressed the urge to sigh and took his leave. While he held a large amount of respect for his column commander, he knew Colonel Wood was often prone to illness, mostly real though sometimes imagined.

  “Is the colonel alright?” his fellow staff officer, Captain Edward Woodgate asked, as soon Ronald left the tent.

  “Just a touch of overwork is all,” he replied reassuringly.

  “It’s enough of a damned struggle keeping the men in the ranks healthy. Let us hope it is nothing serious.”

  Saying farewell to his father had been emotional for Mehlokazulu. Since the commencement of hostilities, one of his brothers was dead, and another was acting as a servant to the exiled Swazi prince, Mbilini. Most of their surviving relations were either scattered or attempting to resettle in the uPoko Valley. And though he still retained King Cetshwayo’s favour, the young induna felt very much alone. He was surprised when he was approached by the aged inkosi, Ntshingwayo; the man who led the impi to victory at Isandlwana.

  “Apologies, inkosi, but my father has gone to help our people in the uPoko Valley,” Mehlokazulu said, as he bowed slightly.

  “It is not him who I wish to speak,” Ntshingwayo replied.

  Nearly two decades older than King Cetshwayo, he was among the few remaining who had come of age during the reign of King Shaka. Despite his greying hair and beard, not to mention his protruding belly, the aged inkosi had refused to ride a horse during the Isandlwana campaign and, instead, ran at the head of his regiments. There was a decided change to him, however. His eyes, previously gleaming with many years of wisdom and experience, had noticeably darkened. And though his physical appearance remained unchanged, to Mehlokazulu he seemed infinitely older and tired.

  “What service can I offer?” the young induna asked, not bothering to hide his confusion.

  The two then sat on mats which lay on the floor of the hut.

  Ntshingwayo took a moment, breathed deeply through his nose, and began to speak. “We won a great victory, son of Sihayo, but it came at an unbearable cost to our people. I feel that scarcely a family within the kingdom escaped its sorrows. Even Mnyamana lost two of his sons. Though your regiment was denied the abaqawe honours, I know how greatly the iNgobamakhosi suffered and how bravely they pressed the attack in spite of terrible losses. You defeated an enemy unlike any the sons of Zulu have ever faced in battle. And you, Mehlokazulu kaSihayo, understand better than most what it means to fight against these red-jacketed soldiers.”

  “My father said something similar,” Mehlokazulu recalled. “But there were 20,000 of us who fought that day. I am certainly not the only one who understands now how to fight the red soldiers.”

  “True, but you are one of the few who has the king’s ear. And while 20,000 warriors went into battle that day, it was the lead companies who did most of the actual killing…and dying. The little branch of leaves will be calling councils of war with his chief advisers prior to summoning the regiments to return from the harvest. I will arrange for you to speak with the king prior to this. It would not do to have a young induna, even the son of a revered inkosi, at the council.”

  “Especially not when that same induna is blamed by many izikhulu for bringing war to the kingdom,” Mehlokazulu said openly.

  The inkosi did not respond to this remark, but simply added, “Our king needs sound advice before committing the amabutho to battle again. He is still attempting to make peaceful overtures to the English, but I fear these will be refused. The time will come soon for the sons of Zulu to take up arms in defence of the kingdom.”

  Ntshingwayo kaMahole with two of his sons and a grandson

  Chapter XIX: Charlie Harford’s Next Adventure

  Helpmekaar

  18 February 1879

  Lieutenant Henry Charles Harford, 99th Regiment

  Acting-Captain, Natal Native Contingent

  The weeks following the disaster at Isandlwana seemed like a blur to Charlie Harford. A Regular Army lieutenant from the 99th Regiment, he had been given permission to come to South Africa as a special services officer, where he was made an acting-captain with the 3rd Regiment, Natal Native Contingent. The 3rd NNC was disbanded soon after making the retreat back to Rorke’s Drift. Their commanding officer, Commandant Rupert Lonsdale, retired to Pietermaritzburg. Ironicall
y for Harford, the 99th Regiment had arrived in Natal just prior to the invasion, where they were assigned to Colonel Pearson’s No. 1 Column. However, any hopes of returning to his regiment were on hold for the moment, as the poor fellows were now trapped under siege at Eshowe. Despite these unfortunate circumstances, Charlie still managed to write himself into the history books when he and a small patrol found the lost Queen’s Colour belonging to 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment, stuck in the chilly waters of the uMzinyathi River. That he’d been directed to carry the Colour aloft as it was returned to its regiment was among the highest honours Harford would ever receive.

  In the days following the successful retrieval, as well as locating and burying the bodies of poor Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill, he now wished to forget the squalid and downright horrific conditions the survivors were compelled to live in. Colonel Richard Glyn was concerned to the point of paranoia that the Zulus would return to finish what they started. He refused to allow anyone to camp outside of the stone forts which now stood upon the old mission station once belonging to Jim Rorke. It intrigued Harford that the men in the ranks had named the stone fortifications surrounding the depot Fort Bromhead, in honour of the officer commanding from B Company, 2/24th. It was, perhaps, due to regimental bias that the men had not named the fort after Lieutenant John Chard of the Royal Engineers, who, in fact, had been the overall officer commanding during the battle.

  There was no cover to be found within the fort, and the men were compelled to sleep under the open sky every night. The incessant heat and summer rains soon turned the interior of the fort into a festering quagmire, and it was little wonder that so many soldiers were now down with fever. Every day wagons departed with the worst of the sick, some of whom would never recover.

  Following the disbanding of the 3rd NNC, Colonel Glyn decided to send their officers and NCOs to Helpmekaar, as there simply wasn’t anything for them to accomplish at Rorke’s Drift. Conditions here were scarcely any better, though Harford felt he could stretch his legs a bit more.

  The garrison at Helpmekaar fell under the charge of Colonel Hassard, who was also overseeing the Court of Inquiry. However, like many, Hassard’s health was suffering from the appalling conditions at Helpmekaar. There was rumour that he was to be sent to Cape Town for ‘a fresh change of air’, and would be replaced by Colonel Edward Bray of the 4th Regiment.

  “Leave it to the colonels to allow themselves a ‘change of air’,” Harford muttered to himself as he leaned against the large wooden wheel of a wagon and attempted to dislodge a large rock stuck in the treads of his boot.

  “Yes, one would not want to miss out on all the excitement,” a voice said, startling him. Charlie looked up to see Brevet Major Russell Upcher, the acting commanding officer for the remnants of 1/24th.

  “Your pardon, sir,” Harford said. The rock sprung from the sole of his boot, and he stood tall. “Something I can help you with?”

  “I seem to be in a bit of a fix,” the major replied.

  “Well I’m not exactly gainfully employed at the moment,” Harford confessed. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “Seems the meat contractor has returned without any cattle, damn his eyes,” Upcher explained. “And the commissary reports to me that the garrison’s stock of beef is completely exhausted. Regretfully, none of our commissariat officers speak Dutch, and if any of the local farmers speak English, they aren’t telling us.”

  “I have a passing understanding of their crude, frontier speak,” Charlie stated.

  “Find a couple of officers or non-comms still remaining from the NNC and take them with you,” Upcher directed. “I need you to procure around 300 head of cattle as soon as you are able.”

  “Very good, sir. It will be good to get out and about for a ‘change of air’.”

  Upcher grinned knowingly at this remark and dismissed him.

  The earthworks and surrounding trench at Fort Helpmekaar, from The Graphic

  Elisa Wilkinson found herself spending more and more time at Bishopstowe in the company of Frances Colenso, though the rains often made it impossible for her to make the six-mile trek from Fort Napier. On these days, she remained in the guest quarters. This was little more than a room no larger than a jail cell, with a single window and undersized bunk. There was a wardrobe; however, it was falling apart. Elisa, therefore, kept most of her clothing and possessions in her travel trunk. She hated being cooped up inside the fort, though she was able to find the occasional distraction on the library’s shelves. Even then, she still felt a sense of claustrophobia, and she knew her time was running short.

  Mary Edwards, whose late husband had been Arthur Wilkinson’s section leader, was leaving for Cape Town by the end of the month. Elisa would have to decide soon if she was to accept Mary’s offer of riding the coach with her and booking passage aboard the next steamship bound for England. The Army would cover her transportation costs, but once she landed in either Southampton or Portsmouth Harbour, she would be on her own. She was told to expect to receive the remnants of the final month of Arthur’s pay and stoppages, but with most of the battalion wiped out, including the paymaster, this would likely take several months to sort out. And besides, a month’s wages of a private soldier amounted to very little.

  “What to do?” she asked herself quietly as she paced in her room soon after dressing. She saw a glint of sunlight beaming through the small window. Smiling for perhaps the first time in weeks, she stepped out into the fresh, early morning air. It had rained the night before and the ground was mostly mud and gravel, but it left a freshness that made her feel alive, and she breathed deeply in through her nose. She decided she would go visit Frances this day, but would first see if Eleanor wished to accompany her. It took her some time to locate her friend. She finally found Eleanor walking along the upper rampart of the fort, her arm linked around that of Sergeant Benjamin Rogers. He was the young NCO in charge of the small detachment left to guard the fort. The two had become close over the recent weeks, and this was not entirely surprising.

  Eleanor spied Elisa and waved to her. “I must bid you good day, Sergeant Rogers,” she said with a slight bow and mischievous grin.

  “And I wish you well, Mrs Brown,” he replied, tipping his glengarry hat to her.

  “You were awfully friendly with him,” Elisa said in puzzlement. “I thought you said he was married?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Widowed. His poor wife died in childbirth. Tragically, their son was born sickly and did not survive to his first birthday. He still wears his wedding band as a sign of mourning, even though it’s been more than a year.”

  “And are you not still in mourning?” Elisa asked.

  “Of course I am, my dear,” her friend replied, albeit with a trace of irritation in her voice. “But as I’ve told you, I have no family worth speaking of back home. And I doubt my dear Thomas would wish for me to consign myself to the spinster’s cottage or the brothel! Benjamin understands, of course.”

  “Still, he’s quite young, isn’t he?”

  “Seven years younger than I,” Eleanor confessed. “I imagine if we do take things beyond simple courting, it may cause quite the scandal in his family. They would doubtless be happier if he fancied you, as you’re young enough to satisfy any would-be mother-in-law’s desire for grandchildren.”

  “I appreciate the thought, but I have no desire to marry again,” Elisa replied. “Not for a long time or, perhaps, ever. Besides, I feel there are things I need to do here before I can even think about returning home.”

  “Which is why you spend so much time with that Colenso woman.”

  “She’s very kind, not to mention incredibly intelligent,” Elisa remarked. “I thought perhaps you would accompany me to Bishopstowe this morning?”

  “No, you go ahead, my dear. I find Frances Colenso’s company pleasant enough, yet I cannot help but feel self-conscious around her. Mind you, I can read and write well enough. However, though she and I are the same age, he
r education is leaps and bounds ahead of my own.”

  “She finds you very worldly,” Elisa recalled. “After all, you spent many years in India before you and Thomas married.”

  Eleanor smiled. “I see you two forming a bond that I don’t think I can share with either of you. I bear you no ill will for it, my dear. I am thankful for our friendship, no matter which paths life may take us from here.”

  Elisa pondered Eleanor’s words as she made her way the few miles to Bishopstowe. A man and a woman taking an empty cart to pick up newspapers from Magema Fuze’s print shop offered her a ride. It took nearly half an hour along the rutted and bumpy track, but it was preferable to walking. The air was muggy, and Elisa was grateful for the gentle breeze which blew over the cart. Upon reaching Fuze’s print shop, she thanked the couple and took her leave.

  She found Frances in the drawing room of her family’s home, pouring over a stack of papers loosely bound together.

  “Dear Elisa,” she said warmly as the two shared an embrace.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Not at all. I was actually hoping you would stop in and see us today. I wanted to share something with you.” Frances then handed Elisa a bound tome, devoid of a hard cover, all written in hand. The cover was titled, ‘My Chief and I, by Atherton Wylde’.

  “Is Mister Wylde a friend of yours?” Elisa asked, eliciting a laugh from Frances.

  “In a manner of speaking, for ‘he’ is me.” Frances then began to explain as she opened the manuscript. “It is an account of my dearest Anthony’s expedition through the Drakensburg Mountains more than five years ago. As no one would ever take any biography written by a mere woman seriously, I had to take on the fictional pseudonym and give him a history. In this story, Atherton Wylde is a poor, struggling writer with few aspirations, living in Durban. He chances upon Anthony Durnford, whose exploits inspire and give him a new sense of meaning and purpose.”