by James Mace
“Go to the ammunition wagons and help them!” he ordered the young Zulu, before shouting further instructions to more of his warriors.
Tshwane found twenty men dragging the heavy ammunition boxes from the back of the wagons. Others were rummaging through destroyed tents, searching for weapons and plunder. Tshwane grabbed the rope handle on one of the wooden boxes and with all his strength drug it out of the back of the wagon. He was surprised at how heavy they were. Two of them stacked on each other would weigh more than he did. A warrior came over and grabbed the other rope handle, and together they carried the box of precious cartridges away. Like the Swazi prince, he knew time was short. There was an entire garrison of redcoats not far from the drift, and they had to escape with their ill-gotten gains before any arrived.
“Steady lads!” Sergeant Booth shouted, struggling to keep his voice calm in the face of the catastrophic slaughter that was unfolding. He then raised his helmet over his head. “Form a firing line…on me!”
“Let’s go, boys!” Lance Corporal Burgess called out. He began grabbing men by their collars and shirts, shoving them towards where his section leader was conducting the only coherent defence within the chaos.
Once he had about a dozen soldiers in a line to his left, Anthony slapped his helmet atop his head. He found his composure and took control of the situation. “Set for 100 yards!”
“Set for 100 yards!” soldiers echoed over the din of Zulu war cries, coupled with the shrieks of terror and agony as their friends across the river were butchered.
“Load!” For those who joined Sergeant Booth’s firing line, these simple commands gave them purpose; a chance to save some of their mates, while taking the fight to the Zulus. It may not have removed their fear, but at least it kept that fear from crippling them.
“Present…fire!” The volley of musketry was the first real blow the redcoats had struck since the Zulus began swarming the camp.
“Reload! Present…fire!”
Cigarette card depicting Sergeant Booth leading the fighting retreat from Myer’s Drift
A hand grabbed Anthony by the shoulder as he ordered his men to make ready to unleash a third volley. Over his shoulder, he saw that Lieutenant Harward had holstered his pistol and was scrambling onto his horse. The officer would later insist he informed Sergeant Booth that he was riding back to fetch reinforcements. If he had, neither Anthony nor any of his soldiers heard him.
“Where in the bleeding fuck is he going?” John Mace shouted in disgust as he forced a stuck spent cartridge from the breach of his rifle.
“Eyes front, damn you!” Anthony responded. He then grabbed a half-drowned soldier by the shoulder. “We’re making for the farmhouse. Stay close, if you don’t want to end up with an assegai in your guts!”
With at least 200 Zulus now ravaging the south camp, to run was a fool’s endeavour. Those who tried were quickly chased down and butchered. The shrieks and screams caused the hair on Anthony’s neck to stand up.
“Fix bayonets!” he shouted.
Keeping a wall of steel between themselves and the enemy was as effective of a deterrent as their measured salvoes of musketry. Anthony’s biggest fear was that their numbers were too few, and it would not take much for the Zulus to become emboldened enough to surround his tiny formation.
Though the sun was creeping up in the east, black powder smoke now mingled with the morning fog, making it difficult to see. None of the redcoats in Sergeant Booth’s formation had any notion how many Zulus had fallen to their volleys. Given their impeded vision, and that their foes were rushing about wildly, the numbers were likely few.
Anthony hoped they were at least buying enough time for whoever was still alive within Moriarty’s camp to make their escape across the Ntombe. When he did not see any more survivors in the river, he ordered his men to withdraw. “Back to the farmhouse! Stay together and don’t break formation!”
There were far more soldiers scattered about than on the firing line, giving the Zulus plenty of victims to slay. Anthony knew it was a mile or so back to the Myer farm, yet he kept their pace slow and deliberate. It soon became too much for some of the terrified soldiers, even as they continued to punish any Zulus who came too close with concentrated bursts of rifle fire.
“They’re almost around us!” Private Dodd cried out, tears of abject fear streaming down his face. He struggled with the lever on his rifle. “God-fucking-damnit!”
“Take it easy, Dodd!” Lance Corporal Burgess retorted. “We stay together, we survive!”
“Like hell we do,” Dodd countered. He saw a group of around fifty Zulus racing off to their left. Thinking these warriors were about to flank them, he sprinted away, fleeing towards the perceived safety of the farmhouse.
“Dodd, formation!” Sergeant Booth called back.
“John!” Private Mace added, pleading with his friend. “Get back here!”
It was the last time they would see Private John Dodd alive.
The faint sounds of rifle fire had alerted the garrison at Luneburg. Even before Lieutenant Harward rode back into the camp, C and H Companies under Lieutenants James Chamberlain and Lipton Potts were assembling and donning their equipment. Harward nearly fell onto his backside as he leapt from the saddle outside Major Tucker’s tent. The commanding officer of the 80th Regiment had just buttoned up his blue patrol jacket and was donning his helmet when the lieutenant burst in, breathing heavy and completely spent.
“The camp…overrun! Captain Moriarty…dead!” He then collapsed in a dead faint onto Tucker’s field bunk.
The major’s face twitched, but he left Harward and stepped quickly out into the morning air. “Captain Anderson!” he shouted to the officer commanding of D Company.
“Seems we’re in a spot of trouble, sir,” the captain remarked.
“Parade your men, but don’t go anywhere just yet. Also, have the town garrison turned out. I’ll take the remaining companies and make for Myer’s Drift.”
The complete lack of mounted troops was again proving to be the undoing of the British forces between Luneburg and Derby. The only men with horses were the officers, and Charles Tucker was not about to ride off with only himself and a pair of lieutenants until they knew what they were up against. Intelligence regarding the strength of Mbilini and the abaQulusi had been conflicting. If they had mustered an entire regiment of several thousand warriors, it could spell trouble for the people of Luneburg. As it was, Tucker feared the worst for Captain Moriarty and his men.
The infantry moved at a quick shuffle, almost a jog. The sounds of rifle fire had ceased about twenty minutes after they departed camp. Major Tucker was one of the only men in possession of field glasses, and as the Myer farm came into view he scanned intently for any signs of life. He let out a relieved sigh when he saw the distinctive form of red jackets.
“Someone still alive, sir?” Lieutenant Chamberlain asked.
“Looks that way,” the major replied.
He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode the remaining half mile to the farmhouse. Soldiers were manning every window on both the ground and upper levels. A few more gathered on the veranda. He then spotted Sergeant Booth walking towards him.
“Is the situation as dire as I’ve been told, sergeant?”
Anthony nodded, his face pale and eyes bloodshot. “Worse, sir. There’s only twenty of us here, and only half have weapons. The Zulus attacked the camp just before dawn. Surprise was total, and poor Captain Moriarty’s lads never stood a chance.”
“Any idea how many Zulus there were?” Though sympathetic to their plight, at that moment, Major Tucker needed as much actionable intelligence as possible regarding the strength of their adversaries.
“Maybe a thousand; it was difficult to tell in the darkness and fog. Several hundred crossed the river and attacked us, while the rest ransacked the laager. They weren’t just after blood, sir, but our stores.”
Given the urgency of the situation, Anthony refrained from mentioni
ng what he’d heard about Mbilini’s intrusion into the camp the previous night. He now had no doubt as to the veracity of the story Private Mace told him. The Swazi renegade had been conducting a preliminary reconnaissance. He knew exactly how the camp was laid out, what its weaknesses were, and what stores could be plundered from the convoy.
“I’ve brought Mister Chamberlain and Mister Potts’ companies,” the major said, after taking a moment to digest the information he’d been given.
“We’ll reform and join you, sir,” Sergeant Booth said.
Major Tucker shook his head. “No, if the Zulus have come after supplies, they’ll likely abandon the field before we arrive. Besides, you’ve done enough for one day, sergeant. As the senior man remaining, I’ll want a full report from you.”
“Or course, sir.” Anthony saluted the major before returning to the house veranda.
Major Tucker scanned the horizon with his field glasses and rode back to his infantry companies. As they hastened their pace, they found a handful of bodies during the last legs of their march; unfortunate souls who’d panicked and failed to heed Sergeant Booth’s orders to stay together.
It would be another twenty or so minutes before they reached Myer’s Drift. Both camps lay in ruins. Tents were torn down and in tatters, draught oxen had been driven off, and most of the wagons plundered. The north laager was particularly ghastly. The wagons were all completely empty, the tents shredded and trampled. The corpses of the dead lay strewn about or buried beneath their tents.
Charles Tucker and the two company commanders swam their horses across the river. Near the lone tent outside the laager, they found the corpse of Captain David Moriarty. He was in his shirtsleeves, his body covered in blood. The side of his skull was caved in from a savage blow.
“They didn’t even make a good show of it,” he whispered dejectedly. He knew this had not been a valiant last stand like the 24th at Isandlwana; this had been total and abject slaughter.
Even more bodies were found over the coming days, having washed away downriver. In all, sixty-one imperial soldiers were slain, including Captain Moriarty and Colour Sergeant Frederick. Sergeant Anthony Booth was the only non-commissioned officer to survive. Two white civilian wagon conductors, along with fifteen African drivers and voorloopers were also killed. The body of Surgeon William Cobbin was found not far from Moriarty’s tent.
As for the Zulus, they had absconded with their spoils long before Tucker and his rifle companies arrived. They also succeeded in carrying away all of their wounded, so there would be no prisoners to interrogate. And while he could only assume that they had also managed to steal away some of their dead, only thirty Zulu corpses were found, mostly near the south camp. The Battle of Ntombe had been completely unexpected and was the greatest disaster to strike the British Army in Southern Africa since the tragedy of Isandlwana.
Chapter XXVIII: A Day of Humiliation and Prayer
Rorke’s Drift
12 March 1879
John William Colenso, Bishop of Natal
Fear had gripped the British colony of Natal since the catastrophic defeat at Isandlwana. Rumours of an imminent Zulu counter-invasion created panic amongst both rich and poor, black and white. The heroic defence of Rorke’s Drift had done little to assuage this. This was particularly true for the few who remained to guard the borders between Natal and the Zulu Kingdom.
In the south, with most of Colonel Pearson’s No. 1 Column trapped at Eshowe, only a handful of ‘Jack Tars’ from the Royal Navy and imperial redcoats from the 99th and 3rd ‘Buffs’ Regiments held the crossing at Lower Drift. Along the uMzinyathi River, a lone battalion from the Natal Native Contingent was all that defended Middle Drift. And Colonel Glyn’s decimated No. 3 Column could scarcely be expected to withstand a major assault coming from both Sothondose’s and Rorke’s Drifts. Nearly three months had passed, yet every soul that lingered along the borders slept fitfully each night, anticipating the fearsome onslaught of Cetshwayo’s blood-thirsty horde.
On the morning of 12 March, while Sergeant Anthony Booth was leading the survivors of the Ntombe disaster away from the slaughter, the Lieutenant Governor of Natal, Sir Henry Bulwer, had declared a day of ‘humiliation and prayer’. It would be several days before news of this latest catastrophe to befall the British Army reached Pietermaritzburg, and with the scare of a Zulu invasion subsided for the time being, Bulwer felt it was time to honour and remember those who had fallen at Isandlwana. What’s more, the citizens of Natal began to assess and question the reasoning behind the war. The loudest voice came from Bishop John Colenso, an outspoken critic of the invasion since Sir Henry Bartle-Frere first spoke of the supposed ‘Zulu threat’.
At St Peter’s Cathedral in Pietermaritzburg, Frances Colenso invited both Elisa Wilkinson and Eleanor Brown to join her in hearing her father’s sermon. Soldiers from the garrison at Fort Napier were also present, to include Eleanor’s beau, Sergeant Benjamin Rogers. He had elected to sit with his men, though he and Eleanor shared the occasional smile and gaze before the service began. Seated next to Frances Colenso was Magema Fuze, dressed in as fine a suit as any of the wealthiest tradesmen in the colony.
“Is this the largest crowd that has ever gathered to hear your father speak?” Elisa whispered to Frances. The church was crammed full of listeners, both white and black alike; the walls lined with dozens who were unable to find seats.
“Now that people finally want to hear what he has to say,” Frances confirmed.
While impressed by the respect commanded by the bishop, such a large mass of people also made the church hot and stifling. Elisa took a small paper fan, which she vigorously used to try to keep cool. It was also quite loud inside. The voices of a hundred conversations echoed off the high walls and ceiling. But then all grew silent as the bishop took to the pulpit. Elisa had met John Colenso on a few occasions. His hair was now completely white and his spectacles rested halfway down his nose. His wife, Sarah, and eldest daughter, Harriette, sat on the pew closest to him.
Elisa had always found the bishop to be rather pleasant company. He exuded an inner strength and gentleness of demeanour. His years abroad and openminded attitude towards indigenous cultures gave him a far greater perspective than most of the clergy Elisa could recall back in England.
“My friends, beloved sons and daughters in Christ,” Colenso began, “today we come to honour those who have given their lives in what can only be described as a great tragedy. God loves those who love mercy. Christ speaks of this repeatedly, imploring his followers to love our neighbours as he loved us.”
There was a pause as the bishop surveyed the slew of people hanging on his every word.
“I ask you this; in our invasion of Zululand have we shown that we are men who ‘love mercy’? Did we not lay upon the people heavily, from the very moment we crossed the border, unleashing the terrible scourge of war? Have we not killed already, it is said, 5,000 human beings and plundered 10,000 head of cattle? It is true that, in that dreadful disaster, on account of which we are this day humbling ourselves before God, we ourselves have lost many lives. Widows and orphans, parents, brothers, sisters, friends are mourning bitterly their sad bereavements. But are there no griefs, no relatives that mourn the dead in Zululand? Have we not heard how the wail has gone up in all parts of the country for those who have bravely died? No gallant soldier, no generous colonist will deny this. Have they not bravely and nobly died in repelling the invader and fighting for their King and fatherland? And shall we kill 10,000 more to avenge the losses of that dreadful day? Will that restore to us those we have lost? Will that endear their memories more to us? Will that please the spirits of any true men, any true sons of God, among the dead? Above all, will that please God who requires of us that we ‘do justly’ and ‘love mercy’?”
A deathly silence followed his words. Eleanor chanced a glance over to where Benjamin Rogers and a handful of soldiers sat. She had expected them to react uncomfortably to the bishop’s words, ye
t they mostly remained stoic, though a couple did have their heads bowed, as if ashamed.
“I have here a sermon recently penned by my dear friend, Reverend Otto Witt,” Colenso continued with a nod towards where Witt and his family sat in the front row. “Reverend Witt and I have not always seen eye-to-eye, particularly on matters involving the Zulus.”
Otto simply smiled in sad recollection. At thirty years old, he was around the same age as Frances Colenso and possessed less than half the years as his friend, Bishop John Colenso. He had also had his own close run with the Zulus. It was he who leased the mission station at Rorke’s Drift, which was also his family’s home, to Lord Chelmsford and the British Army. He’d sent his wife, Elin, and their two young children to stay with friends at the border town of Msinga, while he and a close friend remained to assist the soldiers in defending his home.
Otto had been a staunch advocate of the invasion, having never forgiven King Cetshwayo for expelling all Christian missionaries from Zululand. He’d felt that Lord Chelmsford and his imperial redcoats were doing God’s work in bringing the heathen king to heel, that he might bring the word of Christ to the Zulus. When news reached Rorke’s Drift about the disaster at Isandlwana, Witt feared for his family, just fifteen miles away. He departed to find Elin and the children just prior to the Zulu attack on the mission station. He rode through the night, only to find they had left, having been erroneously told of his death. It was weeks later, in Pietermaritzburg, that the Witt family was reunited.
In the three months which followed that harrowing day of suffering and courage, Otto had taken a different view of both redcoat and warrior, and he gave a copy of his sermon on the matter to the bishop. With a nod of reassurance from Otto, John began to read:
“Who wins your warmest sympathy; the Captain, who, knowing that he is lost, stops a moment to spike the cannon and die? Or what of the Zulu who, in his excitement, leaves his fellows behind, and alone makes the attack on the hospital at Rorke’s Drift, resting his gun on the very barricade, and firing at those inside? Is your admiration greater for the ninety-five who entered the commissariat stores at Rorke’s Drift and defended it against 5,000 Zulus, rather than for those same 5,000 who fought outside the whole night, trying to overpower the whites, only to withdraw in defeat, leaving a thousand dead, hundreds of whom were lying even on the very veranda of the house? Indeed, your admiration ought to be as great for the one as for the other. Where did you find greater courage or contempt for death than theirs?”
