Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  There was also the matter of command of the mounted troops. Evelyn had re-read Lord Chelmsford’s message regarding this numerous times. While it was clear that by stating Lieutenant Colonel Russell was to, ‘Assume the same duties as before’, the GOC did not explicitly state that he was to supersede Lieutenant Colonel Buller.

  While many officers grumbled about his lordship’s poor habit of leaving out important details within his orders, Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood viewed it as an opportunity to exercise a virtually independent command. Granted, he was given far more latitude by the GOC than the other column commanders, with Chelmsford not so much as raising an eyebrow when Wood ignored certain directives, such as deciding not to move his column further south in the direction of Rorke’s Drift.

  “Yes, about that,” he said, responding to Captain Gardner’s remark. He then decided he did not need to explain himself to a subordinate and simply told him, “For the time being, you will serve as staff officer to Colonel Buller. Report to him at once.”

  “Sir.” Gardner came to attention before taking his leave.

  Alan Gardner was no fool. Having held his commission for more than a decade, he had dealt with every type of commanding officer imaginable, to include those who would use hearsay and rumour to formulate their opinions of men. He knew Major Francis Clery despised him, and Clery was close with Wood. That Wood made no mention of Gardner’s message, informing him of the camp’s destruction at Isandlwana and warning him of the threat posed by the entire Zulu impi, seemed both petty and ungrateful. He also knew there was nothing to be done except report to Lieutenant Colonel Buller.

  The next morning saw C Company, 1/13th on 24-hour picquet duty. Among the more hated and tediously boring tasks a soldier could be assigned, they marched out to their assigned outposts, forming a long line roughly 200 yards from the camp. The men they were replacing were from Captain Benjamin Waddy’s E Company, 1/13th. Because they had been on picquet duty, none were able to take part in the previous day’s sporting events. All were red-eyed and exhausted as their section leaders accounted for both men and equipment before marching back to camp. Captain Thurlow, Lieutenant Pardoe, and Colour Sergeant Fricker established their own position in the very centre of the company. Sergeant Walker’s section occupied several posts along the far left, where a company from the 90th Regiment was just visible. Their frontage was wide, around fifty yards between each fighting position.

  C Company’s section of picquets faced towards the southeast, in the direction of the Zulu royal kraal some fifty miles away. The terrain was mostly wide open. The occasional rising hill contrasted sharply with the mountainous terrain to the north and northeast. As soldiers reached the dug-out positions, they noted a pungent stench in the air.

  “Bugger all,” Private Hill grumbled. “Did they have to all piss right next to our fighting positions?”

  “Smells like they pissed in them,” Jonathan Allen added.

  “I hope they found someplace further out to shit,” Hill said.

  The two men, along with Private Grosvenor, dropped their packs and established themselves in their position. These consisted of shallow entrenchments with the earth piled in front. Each was large enough to be occupied by three soldiers lying on their stomachs.

  “Come nightfall, we’ll rotate two men awake, one asleep,” Sergeant Walker directed. “Shift change will come every two hours.”

  Different Degrees of Comfort (on piquet), by Lieutenant William Lloyd

  The day proved to be a miserable one, as storm clouds blew in from the southeast. Soldiers quickly donned their greatcoats, knowing there was little else to be done. Their outposts lacked any sort of overhead cover from the elements. Within minutes of the first crack of thunder, the heavens burst and completely flooded every picquet position around the Khambula fort. There was no way for the men to keep dry. The fighting positions were filled with several inches of water and the surrounding grasslands also completely drenched. Some soldiers chose to sit upright, hunched beneath their greatcoats with their helmets pulled down over their eyes.

  Sometime after nightfall, Harry Davies left his position to check on half the section. Sergeant Walker saw to the rest. The corporal checked the knot on the rag wrapped around his leaky helmet and carefully made his way over to the next picquet post. Between the all-encompassing darkness of night and the incessant rains, it was impossible for the young NCO to see more than a couple feet in front of his face. He nearly tripped over the outstretched legs of one soldier trying desperately to catch some sleep, while his companions kept watch.

  “Bloody piss!” the man whose legs had just been stepped on shouted. Within moments, he was snoring nearly loud enough to be heard over the pounding rain.

  “Corporal,” an alert private said, with a nod beneath the brim of his helmet, off of which streamed a steady flow of rainwater. “Can’t see a blasted thing in this shit. Damned Zulus could simply walk up and gut us all.”

  “They can’t see in the dark,” Davies reminded him. “They’re just as blind as we are, and I suspect they have little love for this sodding weather.”

  “True, they didn’t have to sneak into the camp at Isandlwana under the cover of night; they walked right in during broad daylight and butchered everyone.”

  “Damn it, man, it wasn’t like that,” Harry chastised. “We don’t know what happened, only rumours. Besides, the Zulus were stopped at Rorke’s Drift. They fall dead when shot, just like any other man. You lot need to stop with the fucking hearsay that makes our adversaries into bleeding gods!”

  “As you say, corporal.”

  It was a constant source of frustration for Harry Davies and, indeed, every officer and non-commissioned officer within the column. Though they were roughly thirty miles from where the tragic battle had taken place and were, in fact, able to hear some of the muffled cannon fire and musketry in the distance, little in the way of facts and actual intelligence ever made its way down to the lower enlisted ranks. All they knew was that approximately half of No. 3 Column had been wiped out and a subsequent Zulu attack on Rorke’s Drift was successfully repulsed.

  Though he was quick to chastise his men, Harry quietly admitted to himself that he shared in their collective sense of apprehension. The truth was, they knew absolutely nothing regarding the location and disposition of the Zulu army. There was some speculation that they had headed south to engage the No. 1 Column at Eshowe, but this was nothing more than conjecture. There was also the notion that the impi could very well make its way north, seeing as how No. 4 Column was the only British military force still actively operating within the Zulu Kingdom. But until the enemy made his presence known, there was little they could do except watch and wait.

  The following morning, as the sun tried to force its way through the lingering black clouds, the men of C Company slowly roused themselves. They were still ordered to attend morning and evening parade, complete with a thorough inspection of weapons and kit; however, they were otherwise given a day of rest. Like his men, Harry Davies was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep for the remainder of the day. He shouldered his rifle and rubbed his hand vigorously over his face, trying to wake himself up.

  He recalled very little of their haggard march back to the fort, having been relieved by the battalion’s B Company. The camp was covered in a couple inches of water. As he feared, the drainage cuts around their tents had failed to keep the seeping water out. Though he craved nothing but sleep, he and his soldiers knew they first had to clear the flooding out of their living space.

  “Roll up the tent sides and dig out your spades,” Sergeant Walker ordered.

  Rifles were stacked, packs dropped with a splash, with many soldiers taking off their helmets and tunics. Some even stripped down to being bare-chested. Taking their entrenching shovels, they proceeded to scrape all the pooling water from the inside of their tent area. It felt muggy inside, even with one side rolled up. As soon as they finished, they stripped out of their uniforms
and hung them to dry, hoping it did not rain on them again. Their bedrolls and blankets were equally soaked, and these too were laid out or hung up.

  Harry elected to crawl into the back of the company’s ammunition wagon to get some sleep. The canvas tarp had kept the wooden cartridge boxes relatively dry. He stripped completely naked, grimacing as he removed his soiled socks. He took a rag from his pack and rubbed it over each foot, removing balled up chunks of dead skin. His feet and entire body stunk. If the weather remained pleasant, he thought he might wander down to one of the nearby streams later and bathe. Letting out an exhausted sigh, he laid back onto a row of boxes. It was not the most comfortable place to rest, but he found it preferable to sleeping on his soaked bedroll on the soggy ground. Though his stomach growled, he was too tired to even bother with breakfast.

  “Alright, there’s a sight I did not need to see,” Sergeant Walker said as he looked into the back of the wagon.

  Harry gave a tired smile. “There’s room in here, if you wish to join me. At least it will get you off the wet ground.”

  “I may have to take you up on that,” Lewis replied. “But for now, I have to go see Colour Sergeant Fricker about tomorrow’s work schedule. Suffice to say, we have today to rest up, so make certain the lads get some sleep.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem, sergeant.”

  As soon as Walker left Harry fidgeted for a moment, trying to get comfortable and hoping he did not end up with a splinter in his bottom. He laid his forearm across his eyes and was immediately asleep. Captain Thurlow had decided to exempt the company from evening parade, and Harry did not wake again until nearly 2.00 the following morning. By this time, he was completely famished but had to settle for some hard biscuits in the dark, as he waited for morning to come once more.

  On the afternoon of 28 February, the mounted troops ordered to No. 4 Column arrived at Khambula. The Imperial Mounted Infantry, their numbers depleted by casualties suffered at Isandlwana as well as those sent to hospital in Utrecht with fever, numbered just two officers and seventy-six enlisted men. The Natal Native Horse were even more understrength, with only fifty-two troopers in addition to Captain Cochrane, Lieutenant Vause, and Lieutenant Raw.

  Colonel Wood had devised a rather simple plan with which to settle the issues of command amongst the mounted troops once and for all. Redvers Buller and Cecil Russell were the same rank, each having been brevetted to lieutenant colonel after their arrival in Southern Africa. Wood decided not to even bother with reviewing the Army List to see who held seniority. Instead, he directed that both Buller and Russell would maintain command over their respective troops, operating independently and answering only to the column commander. Russell’s men were subsequently ordered to the column’s old encampment at Balte’s Spruit to avoid any further conflict.

  Over the coming weeks, Wood hoped to receive more mounted men. Lord Chelmsford had implored the African Basutos who fought with distinction at Isandlwana to return to the ranks. The revival of Baker’s Horse would also supplement the mounted ranks. In all, Colonel Wood hoped to have around 1,300 horsemen by mid-March, with Buller and Russell each commanding half. Such a large mobile force would be necessary if he intended to attack Hlobane and put an end to the abaQulusi nuisance once and for all.

  Chapter XXI: A Staffordshire Regiment in Zululand

  Near Tolaka Mountain, northern Zululand

  25 February 1879

  Colonel Hugh Rowlands, VC

  Commanding Officer, No. 5 Column

  Since the formation of the columns for the invasion of Zululand, Colonel Hugh Rowlands, VC, was left perpetually as an outlier, only given any sort of command due to his seniority over every officer in Southern Africa short of the GOC himself. His No. 5 Column, scattered throughout Natal and the Transvaal on garrison duty, was being gradually diminished with each passing day. The disaster at Isandlwana had compelled Lord Chelmsford to withdraw his surviving forces and rethink his entire strategy going forward. Because the only troops still able to actively take the fight to the enemy were Colonel Wood’s No. 4 Column, his lordship had directed Rowlands to give ‘all possible assistance as requested’. This directive was a great humiliation for Colonel Rowlands. Wood was ten years his junior, yet Evelyn had the GOC’s explicit trust; he did not. Sadly, it had not always been this way.

  At nearly fifty-one years old, Rowlands was closest in age to Lord Chelmsford and his most senior colonel. What’s more, at the Battle of Inkerman during the Crimean War, he became the first Welshman to be awarded the Victoria Cross. After a number of years in India, followed by a stint on Home Service, it was Lord Chelmsford who requested his presence in Natal. The two fondly remembered each other from the Crimea. Chelmsford had even expressed his support for Rowlands, stating that his promotion to brigadier or major general was long overdue. The amiable feelings between them would prove short-lived, however.

  During the annexation of the Transvaal, Hugh Rowlands was constantly caught between conflicting directives from Lord Chelmsford and the senior civilian administrator, Sir Theophilus Shepstone. Given that Chelmsford and Shepstone were on friendly terms, it irritated Rowlands to no end that the two did not sort out their intentions before sending the hapless colonel countermanding instructions. The GOC’s confidence in Rowlands was further diminished by his failure to decisively engage the Pedi tribesmen during a prolonged conflict with the restless people who still continued to resist British subjugation. Chelmsford further ignored the harsh reality that Rowlands’ disappointment was due, in large part, to his forces being horribly understrength and poorly supplied.

  With the pending conflict against the Zulus, Colonel Rowlands was assigned command of No. 5 Column. However, when logistical issues brought on by a critical lack of wagons and draught animals compelled the GOC to reduce his invasion force from five columns to three, Rowlands’ forces were relegated to garrisoning the ever-restless provinces. As news from Isandlwana spread throughout the region, both indigenous Africans and European settlers alike started growing restive, particularly in the recently annexed Transvaal. Worst of all, Rowlands was being forced to relinquish entire regiments to a colonel who was a decade his subordinate! This was nothing short of an insult. Given his seniority, Rowlands should have been given responsibility for the northern campaign, and Wood either relegated to a subordinate role or assigned to guard the Transvaal and northern Natal.

  Cognisant of being substantially junior to Rowlands, Evelyn Wood had thus far remained diplomatic, only proffering vague requests that his fellow colonel might be ready to aid him. Of course, he could not ask Rowlands to bring all his forces into northern Zululand. Not only would that leave the volatile provinces unprotected, the presence of Rowlands would mean a usurpation of his command; something neither Lord Chelmsford nor Colonel Wood had any intention of allowing to happen. On a rainy mid-March morning, with the South African autumn imminent, Hugh Rowlands received the most direct request yet from Evelyn Wood.

  Colonel,

  As you know, the remnants of Colonel Glyn’s centre No. 3 Column are holding the border near Rorke’s Drift, while Colonel Pearson’s No. 1 Column is currently pinned down at Eshowe near the coast. This has left my own No. 4 Column as the only active force remaining in Zululand since the end of January.

  His lordship has tasked me with maintaining a vigorous presence, drawing the enemy away from his own efforts to mount a flying column to relieve Pearson. I therefore respectfully request that the 80th Regiment, being closest to my own forces, be dispatched to my command at once. I will, of course, await your confirmation before sending orders to Major Tucker, directing him and the 80th to Luneburg.

  Yours faithfully,

  Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood, VC

  “There’s nothing for it,” Hugh mumbled quietly to himself, recalling Chelmsford’s recent orders regarding his support of Wood.

  Rowlands was rightly worried about the potential for unrest within the Transvaal, where technically he was stil
l the Commandant. The Boers were becoming more and more unsettled since the defeat at Isandlwana had shattered the notion of British invincibility. This emboldened those who sought to free themselves from the dominion of the Crown. Colonel Rowlands’ protest against transferring his troops had been in vain. His refusal to release the Border Horse under Commandant Frederick Weatherly was overridden by Chelmsford himself. If the GOC commanded him to give all support to Wood, and Wood requested a regiment of soldiers, by God he would get a regiment of soldiers.

  In order to be of some use, Rowlands took it upon himself to inspect the towns and laagers within the disputed territories. Taking a small entourage of mounted troops, he made his first stop in Utrecht, where he found the conditions appalling. Civilian and soldier alike remained crammed behind the defensive laager. Attempts at maintaining cleanliness and sanitary conditions were hampered by the inability to uproot the town, like soldiers tended to do when human and animal waste rendered a camp unliveable. What’s more, the detachment from the Imperial Mounted Infantry had brought with them the same sicknesses that plagued them at Helpmekaar. Nine hospital tents had to be erected. Over a hundred soldiers were on the sick list, many of them gravely ill. Rowlands sent despatches to both Chelmsford and Wood, informing them of the horrid conditions.