Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  “I imagine the inspirations are real, even if how they came to be is fictional,” Elisa conjectured. “If this was five years ago, why have you not published?”

  “Anthony asked me not to publish so long as he was still alive,” Frances explained. “Despite the many times his superiors betrayed him, he was a loyal soldier unto the bitter end. And now that the same disgusting men who started this cursed war have sought to smear the name of a dead hero, it falls to me to clear that name.”

  “How do you intend to do so?” Elisa asked.

  “By keeping people informed of the truth of what’s happening in both Natal and Zululand. That is why you see all those newspapers that Mister Fuze has been good enough to print for us. That despicable Bartle-Frere may view the Zulus as mindless animals, but my father knows they are children of God as much as any white man.”

  “You hold the Zulus in reverence even though they killed your lover...” Elisa stopped quickly when Frances abruptly turned and glared at her.

  “I never said he was my lover,” she replied, though her voice lacked conviction.

  “Your actions make it plain, my dear,” Elisa said. She was a bit surprised by her own forthrightness, not to mention her use of the term ‘my dear’, much like Eleanor Brown. Had the past two months since she first left Stratford really aged and matured her so drastically?

  “It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other,” Frances stressed. “But there were matters of propriety. You recall me telling you that Anthony was still married. Oh, they had been estranged for years, and he had not seen his daughter since she was a little girl. She’s probably about your age, maybe even a couple years older. I always found it a bitter coincidence that both his wife and daughter shared the same name as me.” She let out a sad sigh of resignation and went on to explain the unfortunate affair at Bushman’s Pass, where Anthony failed to capture the renegade, Langalibalele. During the abortive expedition he was stabbed through the elbow, losing the use of his left arm.

  “After that, he clung to his sense of honour ever tighter. I think, he felt that honour was all he had left. That is why he never petitioned his wife for a divorce. He did not wish to bring any further shame or scandal upon himself. It is also why he continued in his duty so diligently, even though he knew the war against the Zulus was without merit.” She shook her head in anger. “A lot of good his sense of duty did him! He had held his commission for thirty years and was perfectly within his rights, should he have wished to retire. He died for honour’s sake. And now that viper, Chelmsford, has besmirched his name, blaming Anthony for the disaster!”

  Frances’ words struck Elisa hard. Up until that moment, she had only heard partial conversations about the justification for the war. Had her beloved Arthur died in a conflict that was unjust? Did he and the other 1,300 imperial soldiers and their allies give their lives for nothing? Frances Colenso certainly thought so. As she placed a hand on Frances’ shoulder, it was as much for her own reassurance as her distraught friend.

  Frances reached back and clutched her hand. “I am sorry,” she whispered hoarsely. “I have been selfish, filled with self-pity, while you still mourn for your husband. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Elisa said, now fighting against her own tears. “I pressed the issue when I should not have. You have given me much to ponder, for I never really thought about the reasoning behind the war with the Zulus. I mean, I had never even seen a black African before I came here, and I could not tell a Natal native from a Zulu, even if I saw them standing together. I guess I’m a bit naïve. And if I’m being honest, I feel completely lost.”

  “We are all lost,” Frances replied sympathetically. “But I think together we can find our common purpose, whatever it may be.”

  For his ride out to the farming communities nearest Helpmekaar, Charlie Harford elected to wear his officer’s blue patrol jacket. Since the disbanding of the 3rd NNC Regiment, he debated wearing his red regimental uniform. However, there was some confusion now as to his actual rank. Substantively, he was still a lieutenant, yet had been given a position as acting-captain within the NNC. However, he did not feel it would be appropriate to wear a captain’s insignia on his regular uniform. He, therefore, decided his blue patrol jacket, devoid as it was of any insignia, was far more practical given the circumstances.

  He and his companions first headed west towards a large farmstead belonging to a family of Dutch settlers who’d arrived in Natal a generation before.

  “Goeie dag vir jou!” he called out to the man driving the cart, with what he hoped were the correct words for, ‘a good day to you’. The language used by many of the longstanding families along the South African frontiers resembled Dutch with a trace of German, but it was very crude, with a great deal of local slang. Officially known as Afrikaans, it was usually referred to as ‘frontier speak’ by the British.

  “En ‘n goeie dag vir jou, Engelse soldaat,” the man replied. Harford was a bit relieved that he understood the response, ‘And a good day to you, English soldier’.

  The man knew almost no English, and like many Boer families he had little regard for their British overlords. However, by simply making the attempt to converse with the farmer in his own tongue, Charlie Harford earned far more goodwill than any British officer who’d previously come to call upon the farmer. Memories of dealing with local Dutch and German families in Natal during his youth flooded back into Harford’s consciousness. It had seemed so much easier as a young lad, learning the various dialects spoken by white settlers and indigenous Africans. Interestingly, he was far more fluent in isiZulu, perhaps because most of the Continental European children he’d grown up with came from better off families and had spoken a fair amount of English. As a boy, it had been a game for him to speak to as many black African children as possible in their own language.

  Before he could explain the reasons for their coming to his farm, the farmer invited Harford and his companions into the main house. He spoke quickly to his wife and teenage daughter.

  Charlie cringed a bit. They spoke so rapidly he was barely able to understand half of what they were saying. The farmer then explained that it was the Sabbath. There would be no business conducted that day.

  “You are welcome to see to the needs of your horses,” he said, still speaking in Afrikaans. “I regret there is no room in our house, but you may sleep on the veranda. It will at least shelter you from the rain.”

  A fair drizzle beat down upon the roof overhanging the veranda as Charlie stretched out on his bedroll that evening. It seemed strange to him that this was now his tasking with the army, chasing after beef for the Helpmekaar garrison. During the opening stages of the campaign, he had unwittingly found himself ‘stuck in’ with the enemy on multiple occasions. Though he often sought adventure, he was not a glory-seeker. He was also nearly twenty-nine years old and had seen enough action during his decade with the Colours to know that he was not immortal. And yet, during the attack on the large kraal belonging to a local chieftain, as well as the skirmishes around Mangeni Falls on the 22nd of January, Harford had been right in the thick of the worst fighting. He and a couple hundred of his Natal warriors had been in the midst of clearing out a series of caves not far from Mangeni, when he was ordered to withdraw. This was soon after word reached his lordship regarding the disaster at Isandlwana. From that moment, Harford’s entire world changed.

  Since the harrowing return from Mangeni Falls, first to the horrific destruction of Isandlwana, then to Rorke’s Drift, Charlie had taken part in numerous expeditions; one finding the bodies of poor Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill, and another discovering the lost Queen’s Colour of 1/24th.

  “And now I’m an errand boy,” he said glumly. He closed his eyes and pulled his blanket up under his chin. He then silently prayed for his mates in the 99th Regiment under siege at Eshowe. He hoped relief would come for them soon, and that he would have a regiment to return to.

  Chapter XX: The Mounted Tr
oops Return

  The British Stronghold at Khambula

  19 February 1879

  Throwing the Assegai, from The Graphic

  The sporting events declared by Colonel Wood took place on the morning of the 19th. He had intended to hold them the previous day; however, a day-long thunderstorm prevented this. The column commander had proclaimed that the contests would begin soon after breakfast. There were a few clouds in the sky; just enough to keep the sun from frying the men in their uniforms. It was also decided that those participating would be allowed to wear just their shirtsleeves. Colonel Wood was especially looking forward to the polo match between the officers of the 13th and 90th Regiments.

  One event that held particular interest for Corporal Harry Davies was the assegai throw. During the previous conflict against the Xhosa, he had often passed the time practicing with captured enemy spears, and he fancied himself to have a very strong throwing arm.

  As the men of the column gathered in a three-sided square with the fourth left open, Major Rogers of the 90th Regiment stood in the centre, holding an assegai. His sergeant major stood close by. There were about a dozen spears lying in the grass at their feet. An old biscuit box had been dismantled and reassembled into a flat plank, with a large black circle painted in the centre, to serve as a target.

  “Prior to the reign of King Shaka, Zulu warfare was mostly a harmless bit of sport, with the armies standing in a square fifty paces from each other,” the major explained. “They would dance about and shout insults towards each other before throwing volleys of assegais. These would mostly deflect harmlessly off their opponents’ shields. Any casualties suffered were little more than an unfortunate stroke of ill luck. As we all know, the Zulu style of war-making has become decidedly deadlier over the past sixty years. While they still forge throwing spears, the art of long-range pitching has been mostly lost. Today we encourage all men, both British and allied Zulu alike, to test their skills.”

  “Shall we have a go at it?” James Shepard asked his friend.

  “Let the kaffirs lob a few first,” Harry replied.

  The two corporals stood, arms folded, as a few indigenous warriors and emboldened redcoats took turns throwing the long spears. The Zulus naturally managed to fling theirs a fair distance further. Harry noted none had gone further than fifty yards, and only a handful of these had managed to strike the target board.

  Feeling emboldened, he strode forward and picked an assegai up off the ground. He checked it for balance and made certain it was reasonably straight. Satisfied, he looked to the 90th’s sergeant major, who nodded for him to execute his throw. Thirty or so of his mates had suddenly crowded together to watch. Many shouted words of encouragement or vulgar insults, both intended to ‘motivate’ the corporal. He took a deep breath and squinted his eyes as he looked towards the range markers that were staked out early that morning and the target board at the end. With a defiant grin, he stepped back well beyond where all the allied Zulus had executed their throws. He then brought the spear to his shoulder, jogged forward a dozen steps, and let the weapon fly. It arced slightly higher than he’d intended, but it flew straight and true. A shout erupted from the assembled soldiers of C Company when the assegai stuck into black circle on the target board. A trooper from the Frontier Light Horse tasked with measuring and recording the distances, ran out with his tape, and after a few moments called out, ‘Sixty-five yards!’ This led to another round of shouted praises from Harry’s companions.

  “Not too shabby,” James Shepard said as Harry left the field. “You might make a fine Zulu if your skin wasn’t the wrong colour.”

  “Well, it certainly is for this climate,” the corporal laughed. He ran a rag over his face, which he swore had turned a permanent shade of red ever since he’d arrived in Southern Africa four years before.

  “Let’s go watch the tug-of-war,” James then said. “I hear Major Rogers and the Scots of the 90th have challenged the burghers. Should be a bit of fun.”

  The two NCOs followed the sound of cheering to where the entire 90th and approximately half of the 13th had formed into a large square. The grasses had been flattened, and the ground was churned up in places from the weeks of rain and the incessant stomping of soldiers’ boots and grazing oxen.

  “I hope they found a spot not too covered in cow shit,” James mused. They then forced themselves between a large gaggle of soldiers.

  In the centre of the square, a rope about twenty yards in length lay stretched on the ground. On one end were twenty men from the 90th Regiment and on the other twenty burghers. The first thing both men noticed were just how large their European allies were.

  “Bugger me,” Harry said. “Those Dutch and Germans do breed them big!”

  “I’ll say,” James added. “I’ve never paid much attention to them before. Those bastards must weigh over 200 pounds apiece!”

  Harry nodded as he folded his arms. The burghers were certainly taller than their British counterparts on the field. He reckoned they each outweighed even the largest of the Scotsmen by thirty pounds or more. The quartermaster sergeant from 1/13th served as marshal for the contest, picking up the centre of the rope and telling both sides to take their places. Colonel Wood and all the staff were on-hand to watch, with the column commander taking particular interest. It was his regiment being represented, after all.

  “Alright, gentlemen,” the quartermaster sergeant said, not knowing or caring if the burghers could understand him. “Stand ready.”

  Both teams hefted the rope and stepped back, digging their heels into the muddy ground and pulling the rope tight.

  “And…go!”

  Cheers and shouts came from the assembled onlookers as both teams pulled for all they were worth. Unfortunately for the Scotsmen of the 90th, the drastic size disparity between them and their European counterparts was far too great an obstacle to overcome. It was with relative ease that the burghers dragged the hapless redcoats across the line, causing several to slip and fall onto their stomachs and backsides.

  “Well, that’s settled then,” Harry said with a shrug. He and James went to watch some more of the contests.

  There was stick fighting, utilising the shields of the allied Zulus, along with various gymnastics to include horse riding trials and obstacle courses. Here the imperial officers had a decided advantage, even over the frontiersmen who made up Buller’s cavalry. Most of those possessing the Queen’s Commission came from wealthier families and had spent much of their youths playing equestrian sports, such as polo. The mounted obstacle course was won by 2nd Lieutenant Arthur Bright of the 90th Regiment. Colonel Wood had expressed his desire to hold a marksmanship competition; however, as the column was in the middle of hostile territory, he found it imprudent to expend their precious cartridges so carelessly. An hour after noon, with the sun now beating down upon the sweaty competitors and spectators, Harry Davies strode back to the assegai throwing range. He was surprised to see that in his absence he had been bested by an African auxiliary from the southwestern Cape. What’s more, the man who’d struck the target board from exactly seventy yards stood only five feet in height, and Harry reckoned he did not even weigh a hundred pounds.

  “Ah, well, corporal, it’s not like they’re giving out medals or anything,” Private Albert Page said, joining the assistant section leader. “He’s probably had more practice than you.”

  “Hmm, yes, well I thought our Zulus had as well.” Harry then shrugged and asked the private, “Did you take part in any of the contests?”

  “A couple. Always prided myself on remaining fit and healthy enough. Mind you, I never smoke and rarely imbibe in spirits, so I decided to try my legs out on the half-mile sprint. Was rather pointless when half our natives decided to take part as well!”

  Harry laughed and patted the soldier on the shoulder. The athletic contests continued until mid-afternoon, ending with the polo match between the Regular Army officers of the two redcoat battalions, which ended in a draw. The h
eat soon sapped the energy of European and African alike. At 2.30, Colonel Wood declared the competitions at an end. The entire column was paraded before their commanding officer, with the winners of the various contests brought forward. The colonel somewhat begrudgingly clasped hands with the burghers who defeated his men at the tug-of-war.

  “Alright, back to your duties!” Colour Sergeant Fricker shouted to the men of C Company, 1/13th once the colonel dismissed the formation.

  “Yes, no one told us to stop working,” Harry said to Corporal Shepard with a much-needed laugh.

  Polo match at Khambula, from The Penny Illustrated Paper

  Later that afternoon, an officer wearing a blue cavalry officer’s patrol jacket rode into camp. A soldier on sentry duty took his horse, and another escorted him to Colonel Wood’s headquarters tent.

  “Colonel, sir,” he said, coming to attention. “Captain Alan Gardner, 19th Hussars.”

  “Ah yes, we’ve been expecting you, captain,” Wood replied, extending his hand. Though cordial, his demeanour was noticeably cool. “You found us easily enough.”

  “It was easier than the last time, sir,” Gardner said. “Fortunately, after Isandlwana I was able to make my way to Dundee in the dark without coming across any more Zulus. But with the mounted troops of No. 3 Column now falling under your command, I am ready to return to duty, sir. I understand that Colonel Russell is to assume command of the mounted contingent, and Colonel Glyn thought it best to assign me as his staff officer.”

  Wood’s face twitched. Though Gardner’s report on the battle was indeed timely, he had a dislike for the captain, brought on in part by a biting note he’d received from Major Francis Clery. Far from viewing Gardner’s night-time trek to Dundee to find and warn No. 4 Column as heroic, Clery had thought it cowardly and an excuse to abandon Helpmekaar before the Zulus could come. Captain Edward Essex had even coined a little verse, ‘I very much fear that the Zulus are near so hang it, I'm off to Dundee!’ Clery had shared this with Wood.