by James Mace
“Perhaps we can share a brandy when this is over, Mister Davison.”
On the afternoon of 4 March, the bedraggled Prince Hamu and his small band of followers reached the town of Derby, located about fifteen miles north of Luneburg. It also served as a supply depot for British forces in the region and was in a perpetual state of frenzied activity. It was with much joy and relief that Hamu was greeted; not just by the town’s leading citizens and a British Army officer, but several hundred of his own followers who managed to escape the butchery wrought by Cetshwayo’s vengeful regiments. There were praises and enthusiastic chants, as the prince and his small entourage reached the town. If not for the reassurance of his white advisors, including James Rorke, the already nervous citizens might have concluded that the Zulu prince was about to lead an attack on Derby.
“He may be a kaffir, but he’s a friendly kaffir,” Rorke told the town’s mayor and council.
“That may be, but the sooner he leaves, the better,” the mayor replied curtly.
“There’s a convoy headed for Luneburg,” a councilman observed. “A company of redcoats recently arrived to act as their escorts. Tell the prince he can accompany them.”
Rorke nodded, stifling the urge to tell the pompous politician that Prince Hamu was not only a valuable ally, but had no desire to remain in their filthy little village longer than necessary.
The logistics route from Derby to Luneburg
Mbilini’s stronghold atop Tafelberg is located four miles from the road
Derby was just one stop along a lengthy logistics trail which ran from the town of Lydenburg in the Transvaal, first to Middleburg then through Derby to a place called Myer’s Drift, where it crossed the Ntombe River, and finally to Luneburg. In all, it stretched roughly 200 miles. Given the months of rain and terrible state of the muddy roads, it could take convoys several weeks to traverse the entire length. One such convoy had departed Lydenburg during the last week of February. Consisting of eighteen wagons, it carried vast quantities of food and other stores, not to mention over 90,000 rounds of Martini-Henry ammunition. Having arrived piecemeal over the past few days, Major Charles Tucker of the 80th Regiment dispatched his D Company under Captain Wilfred Anderson to Luneburg to escort the much-needed supplies through the highly dangerous lands near the Tafelberg Mountain. It was here the renegade Swazi prince Mbilini established his stronghold.
The recent arrival of several hundred redcoats from the 80th Staffordshire brought a bit of solace to the citizens of Derby and Luneburg. However, they were too few in number and completely devoid of mounted troops. Assaulting Tafelberg and dealing Mbilini would have to wait for another time.
When Captain Anderson and the men of D Company, 80th Regiment finally joined the errant convoy, they saw only eleven of the eighteen wagons. The officer rode forward and met with the senior conductor, an Englishman named Josiah Sussens.
“These roads are shit!” the conductor complained. “Can’t keep our sodding wagons from sinking up to their axels. The ammunition wagons are the worst. You’ll find most of them a couple miles back.”
“I’ll send some men to dig them out,” Anderson reassured him.
He loathed the thought of dividing up his force, but found the idea of losing the precious ammunition stores to the enemy even more unsettling. He ordered his senior subaltern to take two sections and make their way up the road to render assistance. His soldiers formed into columns on either side of the remaining wagons and proceeded to heave them along the sinking track.
The convoy was soon joined by Prince Hamu and his entourage, that they might all travel to Luneburg together. Exactly what plans were in store for the Zulu turncoat, Anderson could not say. The Zulus kept mostly to themselves. They often watched in bemusement as the imperial soldiers and teams of oxen struggled to keep their wagons moving. It would be a long journey from Derby to Myer’s Drift.
Chapter XXIII: A Bitter Slog
Between Luneburg and Derby
4 March 1879
Major Charles Tucker
Commanding Officer, 80th Staffordshire Regiment
The journey from Derby to Luneburg would prove utterly hellish for both the supply convoy and the redcoats of D Company. The mud was thick and soupy, and the rains never seemed to end. At times, it felt as if they were trudging through a sludge-filled stream rather than one of the main roads in the region. Wagons were perpetually sunk in the muck, with scores of soldiers labouring to dig them out and heave them onward. It was utterly exhausting for the overworked draught oxen, and they required frequent rest.
For Prince Hamu and his followers, the whole ordeal seemed absurd. Despite their weakened state, brought on by fatigue and weeks without sufficient food, even the young children were able to easily keep ahead of the ponderous column of wagons, braying oxen, and dozens of imperial soldiers. The uniforms of the redcoats were covered in mud, splotches stuck to many of their faces and hands.
“The Ntombe River is but a short distance from here,” Hamu remarked to James Rorke as they rode together a few dozen yards in front of the convoy. “We could walk there and reach it by sundown, yet the same journey will take these men several days.”
“The wagons of the army are, indeed, a source of exhaustive labour and make any journey move at a crawl,” Rorke conceded. “But it is also why their soldiers always have places to sleep and food to eat. Whereas the Zulus live beneath whatever brush shelters they can manage each night and carry only a minimal amount of food. They may move painfully slow, but Her Majesty’s redcoats will never go hungry so long as they keep their wagons moving.”
At the Luneburg camp, Major Charles Tucker was becoming ever more anxious, not just for the convoy of supplies, but the company of riflemen sent to protect them. Though he’d only been in the area for a few weeks, he’d learned enough to know that the threat posed by Prince Mbilini and his army of murderous freebooters made any journey via the road north of Luneburg extremely hazardous. He said as much to his friend, Brevet Major Samuel Huskisson, who had taken over the duties as one of the two battalion majors when Tucker was elevated to commanding officer.
“It’s a sticky situation,” Charles remarked. “The Regiment needs ammunition and rations. Yet, the route to the closest depot runs right through the heart of enemy-held territory.”
“And one rifle company will not be sufficient against an entire regiment of Zulus,” Huskisson added. “If the local gossip is anything to go by, this Mbilini has an army numbering in the thousands.”
“I heard different,” Tucker said, scrunching his brow in thought. “The locals told me they think his force numbers a few hundred at most. But, it’s not as if any of these damned settlers has ventured forth to count how many hostiles may be in the area.”
Major Tucker then checked his watch. “If we have not heard from them by suppertime, we’ll send riders out to find them and see if we can’t hurry Captain Anderson along.”
By around noon, the first seven wagons had reached the Ntombe River at Myer’s Drift. Another group of six were roughly three miles further up the trail. The rest were scattered between the drift and Derby. As Captain Wilfred Anderson had ordered his sections to remain together, this meant roughly half the wagons had no riflemen guarding or helping them along. This left the hapless wagon drivers and voorloopers to manage as best as they were able. In most cases, they remained bogged down and immobile, hoping the ground either dried sufficiently or they received assistance before the Zulus and abaQulusi came and slaughtered the lot of them.
“The sodding river has risen several feet since we left Luneburg,” a private grumbled as a group of soldiers sloshed through the grassy plain leading to the crossing.
The constant rainfall had swollen the Ntombe beyond its banks. Roughly the last fifty yards leading to the drift was flooded by an inch or two of water.
“And just how in the bleeding fuck are we supposed to cross this shit?” another soldier bickered.
A crash of thunder w
as followed by a fresh deluge of rain showers, as if the heavens were mocking them.
“Bugger me,” the first soldier spat.
“It’s what you get for taking the piss out of the weather gods,” one of his mates remarked with a mirthless laugh.
Over by the lead wagon, Captain Anderson was talking with Mister Sussens, the lead conductor.
“If we can just get these wagons across the drift, we’ll be safe,” Wilfred remarked. “Thankfully, the damned Zulus can’t swim.”
The civilian conductor was slowly stepping through the muck and trampled grass nearest the flooded crossing. His boots were sinking a few inches with each step. “Even if we double-span the oxen, I don’t know if we can make it through this god-awful mess,” he said at last. “With as much as I’m sinking into this shit, you can only imagine how these heavily-laden wagons will fare. And there is no gravel or river rock for them to find purchase on within the drift.”
Anderson then glanced up at the dark skies. “But the longer we delay, the more chance of the Zulus converging on us. I have no doubt their scouts have been watching us, and they must view these wagons as a great prize!”
“I daresay your redcoats are the only thing keeping them at bay,” Sussens consented. He let out a sigh of resignation. “Alright, I’ll have my boys get the first wagon double-spanned. We’ll see what sort of a ‘drift’ this manages to be.”
It took around twenty minutes for the African drivers and voorloopers to unhitch sixteen oxen from one of the wagons and link them with another. They chose a wagon full of flour and biscuits, reckoning it was the lightest. The river was flowing quickly, and its depth was too great for the infantrymen to be of any assistance. Knowing his indigenous drivers could not swim, Mister Sussens decided to take this first wagon across personally.
Voorloopers assisted as much as they were able, guiding the protesting beasts of burden into the drift. One brave young lad remained on the driver’s seat with Sussens. The oxen struggled to keep their heads above water and were beginning to panic. What’s more, as the wagon reached the centre of the river it sank more than three feet, becoming inexorably stuck. Speaking quickly to the voorlooper in his native tongue, Sussens directed him to unhitch the oxen. The boy climbed onto the back of a terrified beast, unhitching the main bar and holding on for dear life as thirty-two oxen stumbled and splashed through to the other side.
“Well, that’s that, then,” the colour sergeant of D Company said, trying to hide the dismay in his voice.
“Nothing to do but try to rally all the wagons at the drift, wait for the rains to cease, and the river to drop,” his captain replied.
They watched as Josiah Sussens plunged into the drink and frantically swam back across. The deceptively strong current carried him roughly fifty yards downstream before he was able to pull himself onto the riverbank.
The rest of the day was spent trying to get the remaining twelve wagons to the drift, though their efforts were mostly in vain. The sun remained hidden behind black clouds, and the only sign that it was setting was that it grew even darker. The rains continued relentlessly, and there were still only seven wagons at Myer’s Drift, including the one that remained stuck fast in the middle of the river. Anderson ordered his company to rally at the drift where the six wagons were formed into a loose laager with the draught oxen in the middle.
“We’ll post sentries and see if we can find enough space in some of these wagons to keep dry,” he directed.
“Won’t be easy, sir, as most of them are packed almost completely full,” his colour sergeant noted.
“Rider approaching, sir!” a private called out from over by the crossing.
Anderson squinted his eyes, holding his hand off the edge of his helmet. He tried to make out the figure on horseback riding towards them. Only when the man spoke did he recognise the voice of Lieutenant Henry Harward of Captain Moriarty’s E Company.
“Captain Anderson!” the rider shouted, waving to him.
“Come to lend us some assistance, Mister Harward?” Anderson called back.
“I would if I was a better swimmer, sir. Major Tucker sent me to find you and to ask that you expedite your return to Luneburg. We’ve received intelligence of an entire Zulu regiment gathering in the area, and he wishes you to return with all possible speed.”
“Does he think we’re lingering out here for our own fucking enjoyment?” a private soldier muttered incredulously under his breath.
Anderson nodded to Harward and let out a sigh. He felt as if he had failed in his mission, yet knew it would be foolish to risk the lives of his soldiers, exposed in the open, against several thousand enemy warriors. “Inform the major that D Company will return to Luneburg at once!” he shouted, cupping his hands by his mouth.
Harward offered a hasty salute before turning his horse about and riding back to Luneburg.
“Parade the company, colour sergeant,” the captain then directed. “We’re heading back to Luneburg.”
“Very good, sir.”
As the colour sergeant bellowed for D Company to fall in, a rather nervous Mister Sussens walked briskly over to Anderson.
“Your pardon, captain, but do you intend to just leave me and my wagons here?”
“You’re welcome to come with us, Mister Sussens,” Anderson replied. “I’m sorry we cannot do more at the moment. If you decide to stay, at least you know you can swim to safety, should the Zulus come.”
Though Josiah was more than a little angry at this sudden abandonment by his escorts, he could not entirely blame the redcoats for absconding. After all, if Mbilini did have an entire regiment at his disposal, there was little that eighty or ninety redcoats could do to stop them. He simply took his leave, holding his carbine across his lap and sitting beneath the tarp overhang on one of the wagons. He watched as the soldiers stripped down to their boots and helmets. Were he not so scared and miserable, it would have been comical to watch scores of imperial soldiers standing naked with their clothes, packs, and rifles held over their heads, as they attempted the crossing. He chuckled softly, musing that the incessant strings of profanity shouted by the freezing and highly irritable redcoats would hang over the drift like a cloud.
The men of D Company, 80th Regiment were in a fearful state when they returned to Luneburg. Filthy beyond comprehension and completely soaked, all were miserable and shivering with the cold. Their colour sergeant held a very brief parade to ensure accountability before dismissing the company. In the meantime, Captain Anderson sought out Major Tucker.
“I thought they were bringing a bunch of supplies with them,” Private John Mace said to his assistant section leader, Lance Corporal William Burgess, as they watched from just inside their tent.
“That is strange,” the lance corporal concurred but then shrugged. “Not for us to worry about.” He looked up at the sky. The clouds were still thick and black, and it had not stopped raining for the past three days. At Sergeant Booth’s direction, they had dug the drainage trench around their tent another foot deeper, though Burgess wondered if their efforts were in vain. “Might want to build ourselves a raft before long,” he remarked with a chuckle.
“Ah, captain, it is good to see you well, sir,” Charles Tucker said as Anderson stepped into the battalion’s headquarters tent.
The captain was clearly exhausted, soaked, and filthy, with bloodshot eyes and streaks of mud covering most of his body. “D Company has returned to garrison, sir, with all accounted for.”
“Splendid! And what of the wagons?”
The captain shot him a look of puzzlement. “Your pardon, sir, but your orders were for us to return with all haste. The drift is impassable, and one of the wagons is already stuck in the middle of the river.”
Major Tucker was appalled, yet he quietly cursed himself. It was his own fault for not making his orders clearer, and for not personally checking the state of the drift and his errant company.
“Alright,” he said, with a resigned nod. “We’l
l just have to hope this hellish weather keeps the Zulus away from our stores for the time being. Get some food and rest, you look like you need it. Dismissed, captain.”
The following day brought more miserable weather. Major Tucker knew it would be pointless to send soldiers back to Myer’s Drift. However, as the day dawned on the morning of 7 March, his battalion adjutant, Lieutenant Henry Johnson, quickly ushered himself into the tent.
“Your pardon, major, but a rider has just come from Myer’s Drift. He says he’s an advisor to Prince Hamu, and that his highness has reached the Ntombe River.”
This revelation caused Tucker to bolt up from his camp stool, where he was having his breakfast. “Send the man in,” he ordered.
It was James Rorke who stepped into the tent. Charles was pulling on his patrol jacket and taking his greatcoat off a hook on one of the support poles.
“James Rorke,” the man said, extending his hand. “Interpreter and advisor to Prince Hamu of the Zulus.”
“Charles Tucker,” the major replied, accepting Rorke’s rough hand. He raised an eyebrow. Before he could ask, Rorke quickly answered the question he had heard constantly since the end of January.
“Yes, I am the son of Jim Rorke. And yes, I am aware that my family’s old homestead has become quite famous back in England. Although, I was sad to hear that my childhood home burned to the ground.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mister Rorke. Did you by chance pass our supply convoy on your way here?”
