by James Mace
Utrecht, prior to the Anglo-Zulu War, from The Illustrated London News
Before returning to his headquarters in the Transvaal, he passed through Luneburg, where most of his remaining infantry were to be staged. Given the persistent threat of the renegade chieftain, Mbilini, it seemed prudent to detach five companies from the 80th Staffordshire Regiment to garrison the town. However, devoid of mounted support, there was little the redcoats could hope to accomplish. After all, Mbilini had made no effort to attack any of the major laagers, making the presence of the Staffordshire soldiers little more than an impotent show of force.
“Still, I imagine your lads will have a chance to get ‘stuck in’ with the Zulus sooner-rather-than-later,” Rowlands told Major Charles Tucker, the commanding officer of the 80th, as the two finished a parade inspection of the companies garrisoning the township.
“Whenever and wherever we need to perform our duties, sir,” Tucker replied.
A forty-year-old career officer, Charles Tucker fancied himself a pragmatist. At 5’10”, he stood taller than most of the men in his regiment. Possessing a thick moustache with a few traces of grey, his hairline had only recently started to recede. Though he’d spent twelve of his twenty-three years with the Colours on Foreign Service, his first action against an armed enemy had not come until the previous year during the abortive conflict against Sekhukhune. And while he respected Colonel Rowlands greatly and felt Lord Chelmsford’s admonishments unfair, he knew there was little to be done except continue to follow orders and make certain his soldiers remained battle ready.
“Regardless of whether you fall under my command or that of Colonel Wood, your priority at the present is purely logistical,” Rowlands noted.
“The road from Derby to Luneburg is the most hazardous,” Tucker conjectured. “But we need the supplies and ammunition currently gathering dust in their warehouses.”
Rowlands made no mention of his growing concern regarding Prince Mbilini. While his lordship was primarily concerned with defeating the forces of King Cetshwayo, the Swazi and his abaQulusi allies posed a very real threat to both the civilian populace and British forces in the region.
The 80th Staffordshire was a single-battalion regiment, originally raised by Lord Paget in 1793 in response to the threats posed by the French Revolution. After a few years in France and Egypt, the 80th was sent to India where it remained for fourteen years. Like most regiments, they were constantly posted all throughout the British Empire. Most recently, they had spent five years in Singapore, China, and the Straits Settlements before being dispatched to Southern Africa in March 1877. Seven years had passed since the Regiment last saw Britain, and rumours throughout the Officer and Enlisted Messes was that they would finally be rotating home within the next year.
Sergeant Anthony Clarke Booth
Section Leader, E Company, 80th Regiment
“Section… ‘shun’!” the sergeant’s voice bellowed. “Fix bayonets!”
Twenty triangular spikes flew from their scabbards, and the group of soldiers quickly attached them to the ends of their rifles.
While Colonel Rowlands and Major Tucker discussed the potential mission hazards facing the Regiment, Sergeant Anthony Clarke Booth of E Company was putting his soldiers through their daily drills and exercises. On this drizzly morning, he was leading them through section manoeuvre and close-combat with bayonets fixed.
A career soldier of fourteen years with the Colours, he was average in height, possessing a full head of black hair which he kept sharply parted down the middle. A thick moustache graced his upper lip. His eyes depicted his keen intellect and sharp wit. It was the constant dulling of his wits through the bottle—a common vice amongst the men in the ranks—that had led to several unfortunate incidents during his early years with the Colours. Noted for his quick learning and outstanding leadership potential, Anthony was promoted to corporal after only a year with the Regiment. However, he was to lose his stripes scarcely two months later, following a drunken debacle and a short spell in the stockade. Another four years would pass before his rank was returned to him.
Married since the age of twenty, his wife, Lucy, and their six children accompanied him to Singapore, China, and now South Africa. Their courtship and wedding came a year after his reduction back to private. While he still loved the occasional snort of bourbon, he credited his wife with keeping him sober and on the straight path; at least when he was on duty! Their first five years of marriage had proven difficult as Anthony did not hold the required rank or sufficient years of good-conduct service to earn Lucy a place on the regimental married roll. It was only in January 1872, upon his promotion to sergeant, that he was able to petition the colonel to place Lucy on the roll and receive the additional stipend to his pay. Since their arrival in Southern Africa, Lucy and the children, along with the other families belonging to soldiers of the 80th Staffordshire, remained at Pretoria, 240 miles to the northwest.
Anthony had also seen his share of enhanced responsibilities since becoming a non-commissioned officer. In April 1876, during the Regiment’s tenure in the Straits Settlements, he was given a temporary appointment to colour sergeant of A Company. This ‘temporary’ posting lasted for nearly three years. It was only in February 1879, having been superseded by a substantive colour sergeant named Henry Frederick, that Anthony was compelled to remove the crossed flags and crown insignia from his shoulder and revert back to a sergeant in command of a section. As there were no section leader vacancies within A Company, he was forced to take a posting with the battalion’s E Company with soldiers he scarcely knew. Part of getting to know his soldiers was by running them through their drills and learning their strengths and weaknesses. For this particular task, he’d had them practice working together in close-order bayonet fighting.
“At ease!” the sergeant’s voice boomed after running them through their paces for nearly half an hour. The nineteen privates and lone lance corporal paused to catch their breath.
Booth glanced up at the darkening sky. “Looks like it’s going to get a little damp, gentlemen. Return to the section tent and don your greatcoats. You have five minutes. Lance Corporal Burgess, a word.”
The man he addressed was his assistant section leader; a twenty-five-year-old lance corporal named William Burgess. Burgess had only recently been elevated to assistant section leader, when the previous corporal elected to return home to England, following the end of his enlistment.
“Yes, sergeant?”
“I want you to take charge of the next set of drills; half an hour of basic parade march followed by two hours of individual bayonet drill.”
Burgess swallowed nervously and nodded.
“I know a career with the Colours was never your intent, but you did sign on for another six years last February,” Booth noted.
“Yes, sergeant, though to be honest, I’ve regretted it every day.”
“Regrets or no, you signed your name. And since our captain has seen fit to appoint you as my assistant, I expect you to uphold the same standards Corporal Smith set.” Anthony grinned as he remarked, “If you didn’t want the added responsibility, you should have just made an ‘X’ on the forms when you re-enlisted.”
Like much of the army, where soldiers came from the poorest classes of society, E Company, 80th Regiment suffered a shortage of men who could read and write. As this was a basic requirement for promotion, it had proven difficult to find qualified soldiers to fill the billets of time-expired non-commissioned officers. E Company’s officer commanding, Captain David Moriarty, had explained to Burgess that the only reason he was being appointed to lance corporal was because he had a basic education. ‘It will be for Sergeant Booth to decide whether you have what it takes to be a leader and are worthy of that second stripe,’ the captain had stressed on the day of Burgess’ promotion.
The lance corporal quickly returned to the section’s tent to retrieve his greatcoat, while the private soldiers reformed in front of Sergeant Booth. Upon
his return, Burgess assumed charge. Anthony stood off to the side, notebook in hand. He watched his assistant call the men to attention and begin leading them through basic parade drill.
“Slope…arms! Right turn! Quick march!”
It was the most basic of tasks for him to give Burgess, and the sergeant felt it was a good place to start. Any man could be made to follow commands through endless repetition and drill. It was another matter completely to make not just independent decisions, but decisions for numerous soldiers under your charge. Once the sergeant was satisfied, he directed his assistant to take the men to the bayonet practice field.
“Fix bayonets!” Burgess shouted. “Stand ready…attack!”
The line of soldiers replied with loud battle cries, plunging the long triangular spikes fixed to their rifles into the hanging sacks of straw. Anthony continued to observe as Lance Corporal Burgess gave corrections as needed, should a soldier’s stance be too narrow or their technique lacking. There was very little need for this, as many of their men were experienced veterans who’d been with the Regiment since before they arrived in Natal. Most were in their early to mid-twenties. One long-service soldier had just turned thirty the month prior. Only three were still in their teens, having come to South Africa with a draft of new soldiers the previous year.
While grateful for the experience of his section, Sergeant Booth understood he would be losing many of them before long. He cursed the day the Army changed the mandatory enlistment period from twelve years to six. To him, it meant losing soldiers just as they were starting to mature and become useful. As it was, he knew of at least eight men in the section whose enlistments would expire within the next year to year-and-a-half. And of these, only one or two expressed any interest in remaining with the Colours.
“At ease!” Burgess called out as the rains started to come down harder. He briskly walked over to his section leader. “Permission to dismiss the lads. No sense in subjecting our rifles and bayonets to potential rust-pitting.”
Anthony nodded. “See to it that all weapons are properly wiped down and oiled. We will conduct a thorough inspection before evening parade. Also, I want two men to check the drainage trench around our tent.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
Anthony then decided to seek out the company’s colour sergeant, Hugh Day. He and Day had known each other for years and were both named colour sergeants around the same time. The difference, however, was that Day’s had been a substantive promotion while Booth’s was a temporary appointment.
“Ah, Anthony,” Hugh said as Booth stepped into the company’s headquarters tent. “I take it you’re assimilating well with E Company?”
“I can make myself at home anywhere Her Majesty’s forces place me,” Booth replied.
Colour Sergeant Hugh Day was twenty-nine years of age and had served with the Colours for the past eleven years. He was slightly taller than Booth, with a closely-cropped head of dark brown hair and long sideburns. His once boyish face was weathered by years on active service. A deep scar ran from just above his right eyebrow to his temple. As the two men were friends, they had long grown accustomed to referring to each other by their given names. However, since Anthony was now Hugh’s subordinate, he refrained from doing so even in private.
“And how is Burgess managing as your assistant?” the colour sergeant asked.
“I could do without his incessant complaints, but at least he refrains from bickering in front of the men. He’s knowledgeable enough, just lacking ambition. He requires the occasional boot up the backside.”
“It’s not uncommon,” Day remarked. “Many rankers don’t feel the added headaches of leadership is worth the extra three to four pence per day.”
“I did wish to speak with you about any rumours or directives you may have heard from the officers,” Anthony said. “Before I left A Company, Captain Howard informed me that, while we are currently tasked to garrison the town of Luneburg, he suspects we’ll be reassigned to Colonel Wood’s column at Khambula in the near future.”
“I would say the good captain’s suspicions are sound,” Hugh replied. “Captain Moriarty made a similar mention only this morning after breakfasting with Major Tucker. We only have five of our companies available. I believe the remaining three will remain in the Transvaal to keep an eye on those goddamned ungrateful Boers. We’re also short on supplies at the moment.”
“Yes, Captain Howard did make mention of a convoy headed this way from Lydenburg,” Booth noted. He shook his head. “They’ll have a murderous time getting the wagons through those muddy quagmires that pass for roads in this part of the country!”
“And they will require a substantial armed escort,” the colour sergeant added. “Colonel Rowlands’ attempts at dislodging the outlaw kaffirs near Tafelberg Mountain with his mounted troops came to naught. But from what the quartermaster sergeant told me, there’s 90,000 rounds of ammunition aboard those wagons.”
“That’s 18,000 per company,” Anthony observed. “Nearly an entire additional reserve stock.”
Day nodded. “And they wouldn’t be sending that large of a shipment across miles of muddy bogs, in the heart of enemy territory, if we were to be left here lounging around on our backsides.”
As he returned to his section’s tent, glad that neither he nor his soldiers were on guard duty that day, Anthony walked with his head stooped, the collar on his greatcoat turned up. A steady wind was blowing down from the mountains to the northeast, whipping the rain against his back. He knew autumn was when the weather turned drier and the winter months were usually devoid of rainfall. It could not come soon enough.
Sergeants’ Mess, 80th Staffordshire Regiment, from the collection of Ian Knight
Though he had attended to the king on many occasions, it was with a touch of nervousness that Mehlokazulu heeded the summons of his sovereign. Following his previous discussion with Ntshingwayo, he knew why Cetshwayo needed to see him. In a way, it was a relief that he was compelled to recall the Battle of Isandlwana in practical rather than emotional terms. Perhaps the lessons he had learned from this hateful struggle could be used to save the lives of his fellow warriors, ensuring final victory against the white invaders. The king’s summons came rather early on this cool, wet morning, Cetshwayo having sent the rest of his servants and advisers away.
The royal kraal was alive with activity as numerous onlookers watched Mehlokazulu approach the royal hut. Many thought he was to be reprimanded, perhaps even exiled, for his role in bringing war to the Zulu nation. The young induna could only speculate on the fury and indignation that would be felt by many of the izikhulu had they known their sovereign was seeking his advice. He paused for a moment, stood tall, and closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath before entering the king’s abode.
“I have come as you command, Ndabazitha.” He crouched low, averting his gaze downward while keeping his hands up near his face.
“Come forward, Mehlokazulu, son of Sihayo,” the king said. He gestured with the ceremonial axe he sometimes carried like a sceptre.
The induna kept low to the floor, maintaining all royal protocols as he approached the throne. It was only when he was near Cetshwayo’s feet that he sat on the floor and allowed his gaze to rise partially. The king nodded, showing it was acceptable for Mehlokazulu to look upon him.
“I understand the indignities you have suffered,” Cetshwayo said slowly, “and I sympathise with you. Your actions in restoring honour to your father’s house and to the Ngobese clan were justified under Zulu law. That one of the perpetrators brought to justice was your own mother was difficult enough. Know that, unlike some of my councillors and tribal barons, I do not blame you for the war that now afflicts our people. Shepstone and Bartle-Frere have betrayed us. They would subjugate our people and destroy the Kingdom of the Zulus.”
There was a pause and the king stared hard at the young induna. At first, Mehlokazulu thought he should say something, but he prudently maintained his silence until his k
ing asked him to speak.
“Your father is very dear to me,” Cetshwayo continued. “He has been both friend and mentor since I was a boy. And I mourned with him when your brother, Mkhumbikazulu, was killed protecting his lands against the red-jacketed soldiers. But now I look to Sihayo’s eldest son to advise me. Yes, even a king sometimes requires the council of his youngest warriors. The amakhosi who led our regiments at Isandlwana have said very little that I can use to guide the impi when it next musters. You were subjected to some of the fiercest fighting. How, then, would Mehlokazulu kaSihayo lead the amabutho into battle?”
“We must fight the English in the open, Ndabazitha,” Mehlokazulu stressed without hesitation. “But we need to be wise in choosing the ground. Their rifles are fearsome. I can attest that they were able to strike down our warriors from as far as 800 paces. We know they wish to attack the royal kraal. And with their ponderous wagons limiting where they can travel, it is not difficult to guess which routes they will take. It is only a matter of watching their movements and having our regiments ready to attack when the terrain is most favourable. We should only assault their camps when they are not laagered or entrenched. Had they fortified their positions at Isandlwana, I fear we would have met the same fate as the Undi Corps at kwaJimu.” At first, Mehlokazulu feared offending his sovereign at the mention of the most senior regiments’ disobedience and subsequent defeat at Rorke’s Drift.
However, King Cetshwayo was a practical man. The survival of the kingdom was of far greater importance than the wounded egos of some of the elder warriors. What troubled the king was that while his armies had learned much in the tactics, strategies, and weapons capabilities of the British, so too had the redcoats taken away important lessons from the early battles of the war. What’s more, had the Undi Corps not attacked kwaJimu, the psychological blow of Isandlwana to the white soldiers would have been even more devastating. Their successful holding of the mission station against such overwhelming odds had served to boost British morale and confidence, even if the battle itself mattered little in strategic terms.
