by James Mace
“For now, the amabutho can tend to their crops and families,” the king said, after a few moments of contemplation. “The red soldiers have fortified the crossing near kwaJimu, but have made no attempts to re-cross the uMzinyathi in substantial numbers. You are probably aware that your father has tasked hundreds of warriors with keeping a watchful eye on the path to Isandlwana. For now, we can assume little threat to come from the whites at kwaJimu. There is another enemy impi whose soldiers have barricaded themselves at the abandoned Christian mission of Eshowe.”
What the king made no mention of was that the Zulu southern force under the aged inkosi, Godide, had been defeated by this force of redcoats on the same day as the main impi’s victory at Isandlwana. Mehlokazulu was already aware of this, having spoken with a messenger sent by the royal induna, Phalane kaMdinwa. One of King Cetshwayo’s most trusted military leaders, Phalane had been rather direct in his criticism of both Godide and the scratch force of older warriors who made up the ‘Chest’ of the impi at Inyezane; even going so far as to accuse them of cowardice, and of abandoning his own regiments to be pulverised by merciless fire from the English soldiers. Whatever the truth to these allegations, it was clear the southern impi was disorganised and poorly led. They had also numbered but a fraction of what the main army had unleashed against the redcoats at Isandlwana. The king, therefore, concluded that the Battle of Inyezane was not a reasonable measure of how his fighting forces compared against those of Queen Victoria.
Privately, Cetshwayo speculated that, had the Undi Corps obeyed his orders not to cross into Natal, and had Godide not been so hesitant when attacking the British southern forces at Inyezane, Chelmsford would have been more likely to come to terms. But for these misfortunes, the war might actually be over.
“The time will come soon, when the Sons of Zulu must stand against our treacherous former allies,” Cetshwayo said after a long pause. “I thank you for your council, Mehlokazulu kaSihayo. You are a credit to your father’s house and to the Ngobese people.”
He dismissed the young induna, who crouched low to the floor, eyes cast downward, as he slowly yet deliberately made his exit.
“I will always be at your service, and that of the House of Zulu, Ndabazitha,” he said, as he reached the entrance to the hut.
As he stepped out into the open air, Mehlokazulu took another deep breath and gazed up at the heavens. Though the ground was wet and the skies gloomy, he could see rays of sunlight breaking through the seemingly impenetrable clouds. It was a strange feeling; a warrior who’d yet to see his twenty-fifth harvest was asked for advice by his king. It was an honour and measure of respect that Mehlokazulu did not expect to receive for many years to come, perhaps not until Cetshwayo passed on to his ancestors and his son, Dinuzulu, became king.
“You have earned the trust and confidence of my father,” a voice said behind him.
Mehlokazulu turned abruptly before smiling and bowing. “It is my honour to serve him,” he replied.
It was a strange coincidence that the royal prince was waiting outside the king’s hut as Mehlokazulu emerged. Though just a boy of eleven, Dinuzulu kaCetshwayo was already well-built and stood over most of his peers. There was an intelligence and understanding in his eyes that went well beyond his youth.
“The kingdom needs warriors who are both brave and resourceful,” the prince said. “It fills me with hope that we have men such as you serving the people.”
Chapter XXII: Flight of the Prince
British Fort near Khambula
1 March 1879
Prince Hamu kaNzibe
With Lord Chelmsford engaged in organising an expedition to relieve Colonel Pearson’s No. 1 Column at Eshowe, responsibility for the political situation in the north was left entirely to Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood. Among his immediate concerns was the safe extraction of the Zulu defector, Prince Hamu. Runners from the prince had informed Wood of the growing danger and precarious position Hamu found himself in. King Cetshwayo had dispatched a pair of regiments to pacify his errant brother and his rebellious followers. Cattle were seized and some of his followers killed. It seemed the Zulu king was determined to forcibly subjugate the northern realms and remind the people who their master was.
“The prince and his wives have crossed the Phongolo River into Swaziland,” the latest runner said, through Llewelyn Lloyd’s translation. “Cetshwayo has ordered his mealie crops seized or burned, while the treacherous Mnyamana has taken many of the prince’s cattle into his personal herd.”
Colonel Wood pondered these words carefully while looking over his map of the region.
“If we send an armed escort to bring the prince and his adherents back to Khambula, it must be stressed to the Swazi king that this is not a hostile action against his people, but merely an escort mission.”
“King Mbandzeni promises no hostilities will be taken against your troops, so long as they leave the Swazi people and lands unharmed,” the interpreter translated.
“Tell him he has the promise of the Great White Queen,” Wood asserted.
Despite being compelled to flee from his home with his lands, cattle, and crops seized by his brother’s warriors, Prince Hamu lost none of his regal demeanour or steadfastness. The ordeal had taken its toll, however. Hamu’s immense girth made walking over such long distances impossible and he was compelled to ride a horse. The only other mounted men with him were two of his white advisors, James Rorke and Jonathan Calverley. Rorke was the son of the man whose name was given to their old homestead along the uMzinyathi River, now synonymous with one of the most harrowing ‘last stands’ in recent memory. It was Rorke who acted as a type of secretary for the prince, writing messages on his behalf to British government agents.
The crossing of the Phongolo had been wrought with peril as the river was greatly swollen by recent rains. There was also the matter of King Cetshwayo’s pursuing regiments. Hamu’s followers were scattered throughout the region, and thankfully the warriors chasing after them did not know the whereabouts of the prince. The king had ordered them to take his brother alive, but made no such directive towards Hamu’s followers. The Zulus viewed them as traitors, fit only for death. Those captured were immediately executed.
It was well after dark on the 1st of March. Those who successfully made the crossing were fumbling their way in the dark, trying to find an old Swazi homestead near an abandoned Christian mission station. Of the 1,300 followers Hamu hoped to bring with him, only 300 made the crossing, to include his thirty wives. Among the entourage was the induna, Mandlenkosi, with his wife and daughter. He had feared losing young Nofoto, who’d clung to her father as the torrential waters reached up past her neck. She’d nearly been swept away several times by the rough river current. Once safely across, they plodded through the darkness, the incessant storms adding to their collective misery. The girl clutched her father close, her tears masked by the rains. She was terrified, not understanding why they had been forced to abandon their home or why the king would wish them harm. ‘Has our family not suffered enough?’ she silently asked herself.
Hunger further weakened them, as they were compelled to travel light with little to no food. While Mandlenkosi was willing to suffer such tribulations, he cursed himself for putting his loved ones through such torment.
The induna reached down and took his daughter’s hand reassuringly. There was little else he could do. He had never travelled into Swazi territory and was completely unfamiliar with the land. More troubling was the knowledge that, by consigning himself to Prince Hamu’s retinue, Mandlenkosi was committing treason against his king. Darkness and the incessant rainfall helped hide his shame and sorrow. It was a cruel fate that placed him in such a predicament; that to save his family he should have to betray his regiment, his king, and his nation. Yet it was Prince Hamu who offered Mandlenkosi the only way he could find out of the drowning abyss that threatened to devour his soul every night. The induna placed his trust in him, hoping the prince would lead them t
o salvation.
As they trudged through the darkness and rain, Mandlenkosi’s mind unwittingly returned to his youth and early days with the uThulwana. It was Cetshwayo who first recommended him to be one of the regimental izinduna, back when they were still very young men. Prior to this hateful conflict with the armies of the Great White Queen, the most harrowing and mournful affair for Mandlenkosi came during the civil war between Cetshwayo and Mbuyazi. The slaughter of the rival prince’s faction, to include thousands of women and children, had been a hateful ordeal. But, like all his fellow warriors in the uThulwana Regiment, Mandlenkosi endured because he believed in Cetshwayo. Even Prince Hamu had thrown his support behind Cetshwayo, rather than attempting to seize the amaZulu throne for himself. And now, both Hamu and Mandlenkosi were on the run from the very man they had given their unswerving loyalty to so many years ago.
About a dozen paces ahead of Mandlenkosi and his family rode Prince Hamu and his white advisers. Riding next to him, James Rorke squinted his eyes in the darkness and rainfall. He thought he spotted a faint glow but could not be certain if this came from a lamp or an illusion wrought by his addled mind.
The light then started to swing back and forth, bringing a grin to Rorke’s face. “That will be our friends,” he said to Hamu, speaking in isiZulu. He spurred his horse into a canter and rode to where he saw a single white soldier, wrapped in a greatcoat with a white pith helmet atop his head. The man was escorted by a band of Boer burghers and a handful of Swazi policemen.
“Captain McLeod?” Rorke then asked, having to practically shout over the pounding rain. When the British officer nodded, he extended his hand. “James Rorke, adviser to Prince Hamu.”
“I take it your charge is with you?” McLeod asked.
“He is.”
“Splendid! There is a homestead near the Mkhondvo River not far from here. One of your companions, Mister Nunn, is waiting for you there.”
“We would be obliged for some food,” Rorke added. “These people have been on the run from Cetshwayo’s killers and have not eaten in days.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” the captain said. “The effects of the war have been felt even here. The Zulus and other natives nearest the disputed territories are having to forage further afield to find food. Colonel Wood may not be able to see the results of his constant raids, what with the enemy hiding in caves, but his acquisition of so many cattle and the destruction of their grain fields has left the entire region in a state of starvation. Cattle rustling has become rampant, as has the stealing of crops, even from as far away as Swaziland.”
“Which leads us to another matter,” Rorke replied. “It seems the Boer burghers accompanying the prince have decided to lay claim to all of his cattle. They say they have an agreement with Colonel Rowlands, regarding taking the prince’s cattle in payment for their protection.”
McLeod grimaced. “I find that preposterous. Of course, by the time we can track down Colonel Rowlands to confirm this, they will have long since departed. Unfortunately, it’s only me here. I don’t have any soldiers with which to forcibly take the cattle back.”
“Best, then, that we get his highness to the safety of British territory sooner rather than later,” Rorke stressed.
It was, perhaps, a blessing for Prince Hamu that most of his followers had failed to cross the Phongolo into Swaziland. The small size of his retinue made it harder for his brother’s pursuing regiments to find him. He could only hope that those who had pledged to follow him managed to reach British lands without being killed by Cetshwayo’s warriors or by jittery redcoats who came upon them. And though he was particularly embittered towards his Boer ‘friends’ who had claimed his herds for themselves, for the time being Prince Hamu was safe.
At Helpmekaar, nearly 150 miles southwest of where Prince Hamu crossed into the Swazi Kingdom, Charlie Harford was feeling most pleased with himself. It had taken him nearly a fortnight, but by the time he returned, he’d managed to procure 300 head of cattle for the garrison. There had been some awkward moments. Major Upcher never specified what the British government was willing to pay per head. And so, Charlie was compelled to negotiate a wide variety of fees. He only hoped it did not cause too much of a squabble, once some of the Dutch farmers learned that they were getting paid far less than others.
Extended camp at Helpmekaar, from The Graphic
On the day the first farmers reached Helpmekaar, ready to hand their herds over to the Crown’s soldiers, the logistics officer in charge of cattle procurement, Major Brownrigg, arrived from Greytown. With his nearly immaculate blue officer’s patrol jacket and cap, close-cropped greying beard, and a pipe clutched between his teeth, he looked every bit the ‘typical’ support-arms officer, who often gave his hard-working peers a poor reputation. Rather than meeting with Colonel Bray, who was now the commanding officer of the garrison, Brownrigg sought out Major Russell Upcher.
“I’ve heard a disturbing rumour, major,” Brownrigg said, taking his pipe from his mouth.
“If you are referring to the acquisition of cattle, we can thank the initiative of acting-Captain Harford,” Russell replied.
“This is most irregular,” Brownrigg protested. “Sending out one of your men, rather than going through proper channels. I am the one who handles the acquisition of livestock for the column, not you!”
“Our herds are completely depleted, and the men need beef,” Upcher countered. “Colonel Bray has authorised me to procure rations from local farmers, while you lot fifty miles away in Greytown get yourselves sorted out.”
Major Brownrigg was fuming. His eyes narrowed. He spoke in a slower, more aggressive tone. “Colonel Bray may have authorised you to find another source of cattle, but it is my department which will have to pay for them. Come then, major, let us see what these frontier heathens have to offer.”
Charlie Harford watched the entire exchange, standing uncomfortably next to Major Upcher. Though he wanted nothing more than to retire back to his tent, Upcher had directed him to follow, as he could passably speak the frontier settlers’ crude language.
“This is Mister Bakker,” Harford said, by way of introduction. “He has brought thirty head of cattle. They are of well-fed and healthy stock; I checked them personally.” Charlie paused for a moment, knowing his next words were certain to enrage Major Brownrigg. “The price we negotiated was £20 per head.”
As expected, Brownrigg’s eyes grew wide, his face reddening in anger. Despite his earlier protestations to Major Upcher he knew, by taking matters into their own hands, Upcher and Harford had saved him a great deal of toil and paperwork. He would have been content to rebuke the officers for going beyond the normal supply chain had they negotiated the usual rate for cattle.
“What do you mean ‘£20 per head’?” the major fumed. “That is nothing short of robbery, and the Army will not pay it! You can inform him that the Crown will pay no more than £8 per head. If they don’t like it, they can crawl back to their shit-smelling farms and be done with it.”
Charlie swallowed hard, struggling to diplomatically relay Brownrigg’s retort to the farmer. He said the British Army would only pay up to £8 per head, though Brownrigg’s demeanour and vocal scorn told Mister Bakker that the actual response was far less cordial. He removed his hat and threw it at the commissariat officer’s feet, then proceeded to berate him with a slew of insults and profanity. There was no need for Harford to translate. His face red with rage, Mister Bakker retrieved his hat and walked away, shouting curses at the British Crown.
Feeling triumphant, Major Brownrigg did a sharp facing turn towards Russell Upcher. “I think that settles the matter, major. From now on, I trust you will follow proper guidelines in the requisition of rations.”
Much to Harford’s dismay, Upcher said nothing.
Brownrigg turned to Charlie. “That will be all, Mister Harford.” He then quickly strolled away.
As he stretched out on his bedroll that night, Charlie wrote the entire story i
n his journal. He lamented that Major Upcher had not been firm in his resolve and demanded the contractors pay the fee for the cattle. Had he simply taken Major Brownrigg to Colonel Bray, the matter would have been resolved. While Harford agreed that £20 per head was an extortionate rate for cattle, the Army really had little choice. Even Lord Chelmsford, a highly skilled logistician, had been compelled to authorise even worse rates for all the wagons needed for the invasion columns, to say nothing of what Reverend Otto Witt charged for the leasing of the mission at Rorke’s Drift! And now, after two weeks of riding throughout the countryside and dealing with the already-hostile farmers, Charlie Harford’s labours were for naught. The local Boers were feeling even more outraged at Her Majesty’s soldiers, and the garrison at Helpmekaar was still without beef or milk.
‘I should not wish to go towards those farms again, lest I wish to take a bullet through the chest’, he wrote in his diary. While his expedition had thus ended in failure, it allowed him to escape from Helpmekaar for a time, as well as delight in the food and hospitality offered by the farmers who now would just as soon shoot him the face. The whole experience left him feeling useless. He knew that remaining at Helpmekaar was utterly pointless.
“Let us hope the affair at Eshowe gets itself sorted soon, and I can return to my Regiment,” he said quietly.
He was worried about his friends in the 99th. Two months had passed since they fell under siege at Eshowe. Rumour had it that reinforcements from Britain had started arriving at the coastal port of Durban, and his lordship intended to lead a relief expedition soon. Charlie thought about the officer who’d replaced him as battalion adjutant, Lieutenant Arthur Davison. A likable enough fellow and full of potential, he was also very young and inexperienced. Harford hoped the adjutant duties had not been too overwhelming, and that he had performed well.
