Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  “I feared you had gotten lost, or worse,” the prince said earnestly.

  “The last leg did prove difficult, my prince,” the young Zulu replied. “It was so unbelievably dark, I thought perhaps I might stumble directly into the English camp!”

  “What news from Manyanyoba?” Mbilini asked anxiously.

  “He has agreed to send a force of 500 warriors to assist,” Tshwane replied triumphantly. “They will meet us at nightfall due east of the English laager along the Ntombe.”

  “Splendid! I will summon my own warriors and have them meet the abaQulusi.” He then grinned, a malicious gleam in his eye. “But before we strike, I will first do a little hunting.”

  There had been no substantive orders for 2nd Lieutenant Lindop and Sergeant Booth from their captain. Instead, Moriarty had simply wished to extend the invite for the subaltern to join him for breakfast. This was not at all unusual, though it was these little day-to-day niceties amongst the officer-class that Alfred Lindop was still adjusting to. In truth, he enjoyed David Moriarty’s company and that of Henry Johnson. And while all were anxious to get the wagons across the river, Moriarty was determined to not allow the rather unpleasant situation to dampen his mood.

  “In a few more weeks, the rains will stop altogether,” he remarked as the officers shared their first pot of hot coffee in several days. “The land will dry, the rivers fall, and the grass will turn an unpleasant shade of brown. During the winter months in Southern Africa, the ground becomes so damned dusty that we’ll be wishing for the rains to return!”

  The two lieutenants shared a knowing laugh with the captain.

  “I just realised, today marks exactly two years since the Regiment first arrived in the Cape,” Johnson recalled.

  “Sorry I was a little late getting here,” Alfred Lindop replied. “I only received my commission last February, and it wasn’t until August that I finally caught up with the rest of you. Mind you, we were both in Hong Kong around the same time.”

  “Strange how the paths of soldiers will cross at various corners of the world,” Moriarty mused.

  Following the officers’ breakfast, 2nd Lieutenant Lindop was ferried back across the Ntombe by a group of soldiers manning the barrel raft. While it was perfectly suitable for carrying men and equipment, the subaltern was not too keen on testing it with a fully-laden wagon.

  Captain Moriarty shared this assessment. “As the water level appears to be dropping, we’ll see if we can’t use the drift proper within the next day or so,” he informed Lindop, before the lieutenant departed for the southern bank. Alfred found Sergeant Booth and Lance Corporal Burgess waiting for him.

  “Any new orders, sir?” the sergeant asked.

  “We’re holding fast for now,” Alfred informed them. “I think the river dropped about a foot just over breakfast. The captain wants us to wait another day. Provided the rains don’t return, perhaps tomorrow we’ll see about driving the convoy through the drift.”

  It was around 2.00 in the afternoon when Major Tucker and Lieutenant Harward were spotted riding up the road from Luneburg. Both Lindop and Booth walked over to greet them, coming to attention and saluting their commanding officer.

  “Major, sir,” Alfred said. “The skies have at last given us a fine day.”

  “Indeed, Mister Lindop,” Tucker replied. “I came to see about the convoy, and why it hasn’t arrived yet.” He squinted, surveying the camp on the far side. “What the devil kind of laager is that?”

  “Captain Moriarty is across the river, sir. I’m certain he can explain.”

  “I do hope so.”

  The major’s gaze remained fixed on the camp as he and Harward swam their horses across the drift. They were met by Captain Moriarty and Lieutenant Johnson.

  “Ah, major. Glad to see you, sir,” Moriarty said, his smile never fading.

  “I’ve come to check on your progress, captain,” Tucker replied, remaining mounted, still surveying the camp. “And why are your wagons so loosely arrayed? They should be closer together and in a square. The dropping of the river has left an entire third of your camp exposed.”

  “Your pardon, sir, but as you can see, the ground here is very swampy,” Moriarty explained. “It has been nearly impossible to move the wagons at all, let alone into a proper laager. It does look to be clear for the remainder of the day, and the river level is falling. By tomorrow morning, I intend to have the convoy across; either via the drift or the barrel raft the lads constructed.”

  Though still displeased with the layout of the camp and the tardiness of the convoy’s arrival in Luneburg, Major Tucker nodded in consent. “Very well, I leave it to you, captain.” He then spoke to the adjutant. “Mister Johnson, there are several administrative issues that require your assistance. I’m also taking Mister Lindop back to Luneburg with me. Mister Harward will remain in command of the southern bank. I trust you can manage, captain?”

  “Undoubtedly, sir.” Moriarty saluted. “We’ll be back in Luneburg in time for tea tomorrow.”

  The major nodded and took his leave.

  “Well, this is where I leave you,” 2nd Lieutenant Lindop said to Sergeant Booth as he mounted his horse. Major Tucker was impatient to return to Luneburg, and he’d directed Alfred to leave his tent for Harward’s use.

  “I’ll miss your company, sir,” Sergeant Booth replied.

  “It’s not like I’m going far. Help the captain and Mister Harward get the convoy safely to Luneburg, and I’ll share a couple bottles of my best claret with you and your men.” The two men then exchanged salutes. “A good day to you, sergeant.”

  As the officers rode back to the regimental camp, Anthony sought out Lieutenant Harward, that he might inform him of their activities over the past few days and what he could expect.

  At thirty-one years of age, Henry Harward was an officer of some experience. Originally commissioned into the 1st West India Regiment, he’d served with then-Major General Sir Garnet Wolseley during the Third Ashanti War from 1873 to 1874. Afterwards, he exchanged into the 80th Staffordshire. Though Anthony Booth did not hold him in the same regard as Alfred Lindop, Harward was still an officer holding the Queen’s Commission and, for the time being, his immediate superior.

  “Ah, Sergeant Booth,” Harward said, walking over to his ranking NCO. “I understand your men are guarding the stores as well as the southern side of the drift.”

  “Yes, sir,” Anthony replied. “We’ve built up as much as we could along the slope about a hundred yards upstream, where we’ve staged the barrel raft. Should Captain Moriarty order us to make use of it for the wagons, that is where we will stage.”

  “I see. It looks like you have matters well in hand. I will be across the river for the time being, seeing if I can be of assistance to Captain Moriarty.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As Harward mounted his horse and gingerly swam the beast across the river, Anthony stood with his arms folded across his chest. He was soon joined by his assistant section leader.

  “Bugger all, the lieutenant is too good to stay here with us, eh?” the lance corporal asked.

  “If you’d rather, I can request he return and keep close watch on everything you and the lads are doing,” the sergeant replied with a mischievous grin.

  “Oh, no, I’m certain he has important ‘officer business’ to attend to,” Burgess answered quickly. “No, best the proper gentlemen keep well away, lest they become soiled by being in the mere presence of us rankers.”

  For once, Anthony found his lance corporal’s cynicism a touch amusing and allowed himself a short laugh. He supposed it was the presence of the sun and promise of a pleasant day that aided in his demeanour.

  The remainder of the afternoon passed uneventfully. A caravan of Germanic settlers came upon Harward and Booth’s detachment, and with amusement noted the convoy of wagons stranded on the other side of the river.

  “For a fee of £5, we’ll build you a bridge,” one of the men said, in heavily-a
ccented English.

  As they departed, laughing among themselves, Lance Corporal Burgess muttered to his section leader, “Blimey, we should have taken them up on it. I’m good for a shilling or two!”

  “The concept of building bridges seems to be lost in this part of the world,” Anthony remarked.

  It dawned on both William Burgess and Anthony Booth that not only were roads completely lacking in both Natal and Zululand, but so too were bridges. The indigenous peoples seemed content to remain on their side of any rivers until such time as they were fordable, and the white settlers never seemed to bother themselves with building bridges.

  Mbilini left his weapons behind and crept down the slopes of Tafelberg Mountain while the evening sun glowed red in the west. He then stood tall, taking a deep breath and finding his courage. Though he was absolutely certain his plan would succeed, there was still the nagging doubt in the back of his mind that he would be recognised and either captured or killed.

  As he started to walk in the direction of the river, an additional opportunity arose which he had not foreseen. Making their way towards the British camp was a group of two elderly men and around fifteen women. They carried with them bags of mealie, along with various pumpkins and gourds, while leading a pair of goats. Mbilini walked up to one of the men, exchanging pleasantries with him. The man did not seem to recognise him, or if he did, he gave no inclination.

  “We are looking to sell our mealies to the white soldiers,” the older man explained.

  “I, too, wish to trade in goods with the redcoats,” Mbilini lied. “Though I wish to see what sort of deal they would offer before bringing up my wares.”

  It surprised him that anyone had excess mealie, or indeed any crops to sell to the red-jacketed soldiers. After all, they had been raiding Zulu and abaQulusi lands for months, stealing cattle and burning their fields. Meanwhile, his own raiders had been destroying farms and taking food for his warriors. The common people caught in the middle were facing starvation. One possibility that crossed his mind was that these people might be refugees who were hoping to trade the mealies and pumpkins, which weighed them down considerably, for either a cow or a few more goats.

  “Walk tall, act as if you belong there, and no one will ever know,” he muttered to himself. Being small of stature and very thin worked to his advantage in such situations. Because he appeared no more threatening than a child, his adversaries would find his presence disarming.

  Near the enemy camp, a pair of sentries halted them. One of the elderly men came forward to speak with the soldiers, though it was a few minutes before an interpreter could be found. At last, a white man in civilian garb came over and spoke to the Zulus in their own language. After a few more words were spoken, the soldiers checked them for weapons and ushered them into the camp.

  Zulu women selling pumpkins, from The Graphic

  It wasn’t until around suppertime, the sun having set and numerous fires lit up the camps on both sides of the river, that an African man of small stature was seen walking around the inside of the laager. The farmers and their women had already departed, yet this man remained. Though he was dressed in just a loin covering, rather than the jacket and trousers worn by the African wagon drivers, some of the redcoats assumed he was one of them. His small stature made some assume he was one of the voorlooper boys, and it was only up close that his face betrayed his age.

  One of the drivers who frequently made the journey between Luneburg and Derby was clearly distraught. He began speaking frantically with the conductor, Josiah Sussens, who appeared to be the only white man able to speak any of their language.

  “Your pardon, captain,” Sussens said, walking up to where Moriarty and Harward were sitting down for supper. The captain had disdained the idea of erecting his tent within the laager and instead set it up about ten yards beyond the tip of the ‘V’.

  “Yes, what is it, Mister Sussens?”

  “One of my drivers came to me about a suspicious person walking about the laager. He swears it’s the Swazi renegade, Mbilini.”

  “Mbilini, eh?” Moriarty asked, his eyebrows raised. He chuckled softly to himself and said, “Come, Mister Harward, let us see this scourge of Swaziland.”

  They walked into the laager where scores of soldiers sat around campfires, cooking their humble rations of tinned beef and crumbled hard biscuits. None were paying any attention to the practically naked African man who was leaning against one of the wagon wheels. A short stick was held loosely in both hands.

  Upon seeing him, Captain Moriarty burst into laughter. “That’s no Swazi prince,” he said dismissively. “He looks like a half-starved beggar. And he isn’t even armed. Send him away, Mister Sussens, there’s a good fellow.”

  Across the river, Sergeant Anthony Booth waited as the four soldiers from his section returned from a work detail via the rickety barrel raft. Six of his men were on sentry duty during various shifts, and he wanted to make certain he had accountability of his soldiers before seeing to his supper. As their mates held the raft in place and the small group of redcoats disembarked, Booth noticed one of his soldiers, Private John Mace, looked rather troubled.

  “Private Mace!” the NCO called out, startling the young soldier.

  “Yes, sergeant?” he replied quickly.

  “Something the matter?”

  “No…well, actually yes, sergeant.”

  Anthony then nodded over his shoulder. “Come on, then.” As they walked away from the riverbank, he noticed the private kept nervously looking over his shoulder at the camp across the river.

  The sergeant then stood with his arms folded. “Well, what is it?”

  “The strangest thing,” John replied. “I mean, I didn’t see the man or hear everything that was said. I was finishing up my work and getting my kit together when I saw a group of kaffirs talking all excitedly to one of their officers. They kept saying some weird name, Umbileen, or something like it. Said he was a renegade Swazi. They told the captain that he was in the camp, pretending to be one of our natives!”

  “Ah, and did Captain Moriarty see to this spy?” Booth asked.

  “No, sergeant.” Mace shook his head quickly. “I couldn’t hear exactly what he said, though I do recall the words daft nonsense more than once. Am I just being paranoid, sergeant? Would one of our own officers allow an enemy spy to simply walk into our camp as if he owned the place?”

  Anthony said nothing, though he brought his hand up to his chin and drummed his index finger against his jaw in thought.

  “And sergeant,” the soldier added. He was now shifting his weight from one foot to the next, unsure of his next words.

  Booth glared at him impatiently.

  “I’m no officer or tactician,” Mace finally said. “Damn it all, I’ve only been in the army for three years, but what is it with the layout of the camp across the river? I’ve never seen a laager set up in a triangle before, and with the river level having fallen off a bit, the near side is completely open. And I don’t know if you can see it from here, but there’s a good fifteen to twenty feet between each of the wagons. One would think they were setting up for a picnic rather than a defensible encampment…”

  “Alright, private, that’s enough,” Booth said, cutting the man off. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Now check in with Lance Corporal Burgess for kit inspection and then get yourself some supper. You have sentry duty from midnight to 2.00, and you’ll want to be sure to get some sleep.”

  It was a deliberate ploy on the sergeant’s part, reminding the soldier of the rather hateful duty he had. Ideally, first or last shift was the best; the worst shifts a sentry could draw were those in the middle of the night. By reminding the young private of this, it gave him something to complain about, thereby distracting him from his fears. Private Mace bit the inside of his cheek and gave a nod of understanding before leaving to find their assistant section leader. Though clearly still bothered by what he had seen, he was glad to be on the ‘friendly
’ side of the river.

  Chapter XXVII: The Hyena Feasts

  Near the Ntombe River

  12 March 1879

  2.00 a.m.

  The Battle of Ntombe, by 2nd Lieutenant Beverley William Ussher, 80th Regiment

  The Illustrated London News

  It was almost too easy. The redcoats on sentry duty hadn’t been bothered by Mbilini, and he’d walked straight into their camp. He spent nearly half an hour walking amongst the wagons, chancing the occasional glance at their contents, before a couple of African drivers seemed to recognise him. At first, Mbilini nearly panicked and considered running. He then realised if he did, he was a dead man. There was still enough light to see by, and the ground north of the Ntombe River was mostly open grassland. He would have gotten maybe fifty paces before a redcoat shot him in the back. It came as a relief when the white man in civilian attire came and shooed him away.

  After the sun set, he left for the rendezvous point about three miles east of the British camp. Their fires glowed incessantly, making the camp easy to see for miles. And though they had laagered the wagons in a very obscure formation, the side closest to the river was now completely exposed. What also baffled the Swazi prince was that there were no earthen entrenchments between the wagons, which were spaced at least fifteen to twenty feet apart. In short, the laager was no defensive fortification at all. As he’d suspected, only about a hundred of those encamped were red-jacketed soldiers, and some were across the river. The rest were indigenous wagon drivers, many of whom were unarmed.

  Around midnight he reached the rally point where he’d sent his warriors to meet with the abaQulusi. The Swazi prince was relieved to see Manyanyoba had heeded his call. Between their combined forces, the Khubeka chieftain had with him nearly a thousand warriors, to include two hundred armed with muskets. Tshwane was waiting for him, and he handed Mbilini his weapons as they met with Manyanyoba and the gathered izinduna.