by James Mace
I expect to hear favourable news soon, regarding an appointment on the staff of Lord Chelmsford, perhaps even in time for my birthday. I will be twenty-three on the 16th of this month, the same age at which my noble great-uncle, Emperor Napoleon I, was already a general! I, however, am not seeking to become a general, only a staff appointment, even if simply as an observer for the time being.
I will keep you abreast, dearest friend, and look forward to joining you soon somewhere along the African veldt!
Yours faithfully,
Napoleon
“I see my friend wishes to restore military glory to the name ‘Bonaparte’,” Arthur chuckled. He then grew concerned. Louis-Napoleon possessed a nobleness of spirit which matched his family name. He had also proven his technical and tactical abilities, both during his years of study at Woolwich as well as taking part in exercises with the Royal Artillery. But Arthur felt he was perhaps too eager to seek action in war.
He decided he would send the Prince Imperial a reply, cautioning him about how an actual battle was far more terrifying and savage than could ever be simulated on the drill field. He’d remind him that he was, after all, the last of the Bonapartes; a displaced empire, along with its legions of loyal supporters, depended on him.
“War is nothing like playing with your toy soldiers, old friend,” he quietly whispered. He then dug a note pad and quill from his baggage and began to write.
Louis Napoleon, the Prince Imperial
Sometimes styled, ‘Napoleon IV’
The approach of Prince Hamu and his entourage caused quite a stir among the garrison at Khambula. The fog and rain obscured much, and the prince remained hidden beneath the canvas tarp of the wagon Colonel Wood had dispatched for him. Troopers rode on either side of the long column of followers who had joined the procession over the past few days. Those who’d reached Luneburg, only to find their prince had departed, were sent south, following the trail of wagon ruts and muddy footprints. Captain D’Arcy’s troop from the Frontier Light Horse escorted the large band, which now numbered several hundred souls, to where their prince could make his camp west of the British laager.
Sergeant Lewis Walker and Corporal Harry Davies had just returned from a patrol with their section when they saw the prince and his entourage approaching.
“Well, there’s something you don’t see every day,” Walker observed.
“Still, a shame his highness is hiding away in his wagon,” Harry remarked, as the rain continued to pummel them. “Not that I blame him in this godawful, shitty weather.”
They were soon joined by Lewis’ son, Richard. The bandsman wore his glengarry hat and greatcoat, which he huddled beneath.
“I say, Richard, have you grown taller since we’ve been here?” Harry asked.
“Could be,” the young man replied. “My boots have gotten tight, and I’ve noticed there’s less of my trousers to tuck into the gaiters.”
“Come about your lessons?” Lewis asked, eliciting a nod from his son.
“Yes, sir. Got them underneath my coat. I hope they don’t get too damp before you can read them! I confess, Bandmaster Kelly helped me with some of the geography.”
“So long as you’re retaining the knowledge, son.” Lewis nodded to his assistant section leader before following the bandsman back to his tent.
Harry smiled and watched the two depart. Watching his section leader take such pains to see his son educated made him even more grateful for the schooling he’d received as a boy. And while Richard had long expressed an interest in remaining with the Regiment after he came of age, his father wanted him to have every option available. ‘I’ll not have any of my children wasting away in the damned workhouses,’ he often said. Though Harry sometimes felt resentful that, as the youngest of his siblings he was not afforded the same opportunities, there was never any risk of his ending up in a workhouse.
His parents were very much ‘middle-class’; a far cry from the landed gentry but still worlds away from the poverty-stricken working-class. Were he to return to Britain, the worst Harry could hope for would be working the cloak room at the bank and staying in his old room at his parent’s house until he found a more suitable career. While he loved his father and mother deeply, the very thought of being a grown man living under their roof did not sit well with him. Privately, he admitted this was one of his reasons for joining the Army. Conversely, many of the soldiers he served with had enlisted so they would not starve to death. It felt naïve to admit, but he had never known there were so many poverty-stricken citizens within the Empire until he joined the Colours.
“Lost in thought?” The voice of James Shepard startled Harry, causing him to jolt.
“Sorry, I was miles away,” he confessed with a red-faced grin.
“I think we all are on days like this. I swear it rains more here than back in Blighty!”
“But they do get the sun more here…well, not on days like this. It seems when it’s not raining back home, there’s an extra cloudy day for every one of sunshine.”
“Anyway, I didn’t come here to discuss the bleeding weather,” James said. “I saw a bunch of officers gathering near Colonel Wood’s tent. Think they’re going to pay a visit to our kaffir guest?”
“Probably,” Harry surmised. “I mean, he is King Cetshwayo’s brother, after all. I suspect he has more reliable intelligence about the region than anything we’ve managed to gather.”
James then added with a touch of cynicism, “Let’s just hope the officers don’t want us to parade for him.”
A Gathering of Redcoats, from The Graphic
As it was a short way from the Khambula fort to where Prince Hamu and his followers were establishing their camp, Colonel Wood and his entourage elected to walk. He was joined by his staff officers, Captains Campbell and Newgate, his orderly, Lieutenant Lysons and the battalion commanders of his infantry, mounted, and indigenous regiments. Though Hamu had his own translator, Llewelyn Lloyd walked next to the colonel. Wood’s personal escort from the Imperial Mounted Infantry, to include young Private Edmund Fowler, were also given the privilege of accompanying him.
As they reached the gathering, most of the Zulu men and women alike were gathering all the brush they could carry from within half-a-mile, trying to build shelters for the night. The prince and a few senior advisors remained in his wagon. He was seated on the back end, where the tailgate was down. Standing next to him, acting as his interpreter, was James Rorke. The prince spoke for a moment, gesturing towards Wood as he did so.
“His Highness, Prince Hamu of the Zulus, extends his gratitude, inkosi of the British Empire,” Rorke translated.
“Inform his highness that on behalf of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, we welcome him as both friend and ally of the Crown,” Wood replied.
Hamu smiled pleasantly and nodded as Rorke translated. The two then spoke about the state of affairs in the northern lands of the Zulu Kingdom.
“The king has declared Prince Hamu and his followers enemies of the Zulu people,” Rorke translated at length. “Any who failed to hide from his regiments were slaughtered, to include the women and children. They’ve purged the land of all mealies and livestock, leaving the prince’s lands completely barren. His people starve, and he asks that you provide whatever food you can for them.”
“I will have a wagon of mealies brought from the fort,” the colonel promised. “But know that our stores are limited and we are many miles from our supply depots. We can provide enough mealies that his people can eat tonight and have breakfast tomorrow. I’ll also have a bull brought down, that his highness might enjoy some fresh meat.”
Though Hamu was hoping for more for his followers, he seemed to understand. After all, Colonel Wood had several thousand soldiers and indigenous warriors to feed. The prince then waved his hand towards an older warrior who stood to his right.
“This man is Mandlenkosi; an induna of great renown,” Rorke explained. “His highness is offering you his services, as well as thos
e of every fighting man among his followers.”
Wood looked to Major Knox-Leet, who nodded affirmatively. “We can certainly use the manpower, sir. And they likely know the region better than any of our scouts.”
“Very well,” Wood said to Hamu. “I will task Captain D’Arcy’s troop with escorting his highness as far as Utrecht. From there, he will be under the protection of Colonel Rowlands. He will see to his needs.”
Of the 1,300 followers of Prince Hamu to eventually arrive at Khambula, around 300 were men of fighting age. These were enlisted into their own battalion of Wood’s Irregulars. The prince asserted that their sovereign had declared war on them, and they could only restore dignity and peace to their people by helping the British overthrow Cetshwayo.
These words horrified Mandlenkosi, yet he could hardly feel surprised. After all, once he agreed to accompany Prince Hamu across the Phongolo, he became a fugitive from his own people. And now he would take up arms, not only in support of King Cetshwayo’s enemies, but against his brother warriors. Would he be able to put a spear through the heart of one of his life-long friends, should they face the uThulwana Regiment in battle?
That evening, he sat with his wife beneath a low brush stand while their daughter slept nearby.
“Our prince has given my services to the white inkosi, who would have me slay my own brothers,” Mandlenkosi said quietly. They sat near a campfire that struggled to remain lit. The constant drizzle of rain caused the flames to hiss, with more smoke than actual fire emanating forth. His face was cold, his heart darkened. He looked Ayanda in the eye. “Are we the traitors to our people or is the king?”
“We must look to our survival,” she replied evasively. “We’ve had little to no food for weeks, and our daughter grows weak.” She then spoke bluntly, “I do not care who sits upon the amaZulu throne, whether it be Hamu, Cetshwayo, or even the white queen. This war has already taken our son. All I want is to be able to offer our daughter a life of peace. Does she not deserve the happiness that her parents and brother were denied?”
“I want a life of peace for all of us,” Mandlenkosi stressed. He continued to sit and stare at the sputtering fire long after Ayanda had fallen asleep, her arm wrapped around their daughter.
In the morning, Ayanda and Nofoto would accompany Prince Hamu and the rest of the women and children to wherever the white inkosi had promised them refuge. Mandlenkosi and the men of fighting age would remain.
Their talk had left the old induna even more confused and lost than before. There was no resolving in his heart that he had betrayed his regiment and his king. But he was part of a new regiment now; one whose inkosi was white men in red uniforms. He could only hope the ancestors, as well as Kwanele’s spirit, would understand.
Prince Hamu arriving by wagon, from The Graphic
Chapter XXVI: The Hyena Hunts
Tafelberg Mountain, near the Ntombe River
10 March 1879
Captain David Moriarty
Officer Commanding, E Company, 80th Regiment
Watching the miserable soldiers drag their cumbersome wagons through the muddy bog that passed for a road brought much amusement to Mbilini. But more than just a few chuckles at his enemy’s expense, he saw an opportunity. Three days prior, he’d sent Tshwane as a messenger to Manyanyoba and the abaQulusi. Mbilini had around 300 warriors hidden in the caves along the Tafelberg, but these would not be sufficient. Unlike the white and black settlers whose farms they had raided over the past few months, these red-jacketed soldiers were well-armed and fierce fighters.
The Swazi prince dispatched warriors to scout in the direction of Derby, as well as the Ntombe River. On the evening of 10 March, as Mbilini sat wrapped in a hide blanket near the entrance to the large cave he’d called ‘home’ since the conflict began, it was confirmed that the entire convoy of British wagons were gathered at the drift.
“They have been unable to cross the river, inkosi,” one scout reported. “The Ntombe is flooded, and the English have made camp near the north bank.”
“What is their fighting strength?” the prince asked.
“Around a hundred soldiers, and perhaps another forty or fifty native wagon drivers. This is a great opportunity, my prince!”
Mbilini nodded. “I can only hope that Manyanyoba shares our sentiments.”
The faint glow of predawn on the 11th of March harkened the first day of clear skies in more than a week. Soldiers encamped on either side of the Ntombe River would soon emerge from their tents, relieved to finally be seeing some reprieve from the terrible weather. There was still, however, the issue of flooding along the river to contend with. One could not tell when the rains would return nor how long it might take for the river level to drop, even if the next few days remained clear. What’s more, the dirt road was a soupy mess of churned up mud.
Like most days, Sergeant Anthony Booth woke an hour before dawn. This was his personal quiet time, and his favourite part of the day. It was also when he would write letters to his beloved Lucy, which in itself he found soothing. He sat on the driver’s seat of A Company’s equipment wagon, enjoying his morning pipe. With not a scrap of dry wood to be found within miles, he’d had to settle for cold coffee. He smiled as he saw 2nd Lieutenant Alfred Lindop strolling along the soaked riverbank, assessing the state of the river and drift.
“Top of the morning to you, sir,” Anthony called from his seat.
“And to you, Sergeant Booth,” the officer replied. “Looks to be little change in the depth of the river, but at least the rains won’t be feeding it for the time being.”
“If the weather remains clear for a day or two, it should drop enough for us to get those wagons across,” Booth said as he nodded towards the camp on the far side, where the wagons formed into an inverted ‘V’.
Lindop agreed. “I just hope we can get them across before the Zulus take too much of an interest.”
The sergeant then scooted over as the lieutenant joined him on the driver’s bench.
“Can’t say I’m too keen on the disposition of the wagons,” Anthony admitted.
“Should the water level drop, the ‘legs’ of the formation will no longer be up against the river,” the officer concurred. “That will leave a significant opening for the enemy to exploit.”
Since getting to know the subaltern, Anthony Booth had ceased feigning surprise at his candour. Something he appreciated about Alfred Lindop is he talked to him more like a peer than a subordinate. The two men were just a year apart in age, almost to the exact day. And while Alfred had risen all the way to Sergeant Major of the 28th Gloucestershire Regiment, there was a measure of humbleness with which he carried himself. Anthony made a note of this as they sat and tried to enjoy their bitter cups of cold coffee.
“It was simply a matter of opportunity,” the lieutenant explained. “I was already well-educated when I joined the Colours. Had my application to Sandhurst not been rejected due to our family’s lack of influential patrons, I would have commissioned a decade ago. As it was, I think slogging my way through the ranks made me a better officer in the long-term. It’s easier for me to sympathise with an eighteen-year-old private, having been one myself.”
“Still, you should not sell short your accomplishments,” Anthony stressed. “After all, you were a sergeant major before you reached the age of thirty.”
“Besides being in the right place at the right time, being a teetotaller likely kept me out of trouble during my younger years.”
The two men shared a knowing grin. Anthony had been upfront when discussing his own career during their many talks over the past few weeks. He could only speculate where he’d be if he had not lost his corporal’s chevrons early in his career, which took him four years to earn back.
“I didn’t start out rising through the ranks so quickly,” Alfred continued. “It took me three years to make corporal and another three to reach sergeant. After that, it always seemed opportunity came finding me. I was a section leader for s
carcely two years before being elevated to colour sergeant, and only a year after that our quartermaster sergeant retired. We were then posted to Malta, where the sergeant major fell ill and had to be invalided home. As we were a single-battalion regiment, with no one else sharing our garrison, I was the senior non-comm available to take his place. I had just long enough to get comfortable with my duties when the chance came to accept a commission with you Staffordshire lads. It’s not every day that the Queen offers her commission to a lowly soldier from the ranks.”
“Mister Lindop, sir!” a voice called out from near the drift. It was Private Dodd from Anthony’s section. He was waving and pointing across the river to where Captain Moriarty stood; his white hair making him unmistakable.
“Sounds like the good captain is trying to get my attention,” Alfred said, before climbing down from the wagon seat. “Parade the men, sergeant, and have them ready for work as soon as they’ve choked down their breakfast.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though they were on as friendly of terms as the differences in their rank and status allowed, once duty called there was no mistaking where each man stood. As he returned to the nearby pair of tents—one for his section, the other being Lieutenant Lindop’s—the bugler on the far bank sounded reveille.
While the redcoats at Myer’s Drift saw to their morning parade and breakfast, Mbilini emerged from his cave, relishing the glow of the sun upon his upturned face. The crashing of limbs in a nearby thicket alerted him, and he quickly turned, brandishing his iklwa and knobkerrie. He smiled when he saw it was Tshwane, having returned at last.
