by James Mace
“Special precautions will be taken should we be compelled to withdraw,” Russell replied demurely.
“There is also the issue with the supposed large impi said to be in the area,” Major Knox-Leet spoke up. “While our patrols have found no sign of this, our natives could have been referring to the main impi at Ulundi. It is possible, sir, that Cetshwayo intends to throw the weight of his army against us instead of his lordship’s flying column that’s headed for Eshowe.”
“Unlikely,” Wood replied. “However, we must take all precautions. Colonel Buller, you will be in the best position to observe any threats coming from the south. Once you’re in position, send out patrols to make certain the Zulu army isn’t preparing to crawl up our backsides. If that is all, gentlemen, you are dismissed.”
The officers came to attention and collectively saluted before departing to make their units ready. There was little time, especially for Buller’s column. Russell’s Imperial Mounted Infantry were only marginally combat ready. Other units, such as Baker’s Horse, had just arrived within the past few days. They had little to no time to assimilate into their duties.
Buller lingered for a bit after the other officers departed. He read through the message from Lord Chelmsford again, his brow furrowed in thought.
“Your regiment is part of the relief column, is it not?” Wood asked, referencing the 60th Rifles.
“Part of it,” Buller replied. “I believe it’s our 3rd Battalion. Last I heard, command had passed to Lieutenant Colonel Francis Northey.”
“A good man?”
“Not as experienced as one would like but, yes, a very good man,” Redvers answered. “He did see active service during the Oude Campaign in India, but that was twenty years ago. I confess, I am a little concerned for him. The 3/60th is filled with very young men with no campaign experience.”
“Look to our own men,” Evelyn recalled. “Even most of our ‘seasoned veterans’ are in their early to mid-twenties. War has always been a young man’s endeavour.”
“An endeavour that turns young men old,” Buller said sombrely.
Hlobane Mountain with the Ntendeka Nek visible on the left, photo by Ian Knight
Buller’s column would assault from the eastern spur, while Russell’s troops staged just beyond Ntendeka
Chapter XXXIII: Under the Shadow of Death
Zulu encampment, ten miles south of Hlobane
27 March 1879
A Zulu mounted induna, from The Graphic
Because British reconnaissance efforts within the Zulu Kingdom were practically non-existent, neither Chelmsford nor Wood had any idea that King Cetshwayo had no intention of sending the reorganised impi against either Rorke’s Drift or Eshowe. The Zulu monarch viewed the centre column as impotent, and the British southern forces posed no real threat so long as the siege held. Instead, he ordered his main army north, against the one active wing of the British invasion force which had caused the Zulus so much grief since early January.
The massive impi departed on 26 March, trekking across the open land in four columns of varying size. The largest was the iNgobamakhosi Regiment, designated as the ‘Right Horn’ should the army need to hastily deploy for battle. There had been numerous reshufflings of fighters within the regiment, as the decimated companies under Mehlokazulu absorbed numerous volunteers into their ranks.
Though the induna and his father, Sihayo, were loathed by many within the izikhulu barons, he was loved by his peers and fellow warriors. There had been numerous outcries from the ranks of the iNgobamakhosi, not only when they were denied battle honours for their role in smashing the enemy’s right flank at Isandlwana, but that the king had denied to name Mehlokazulu one of the abaqawe. Many a warrior had stated voraciously to their commanding inkosi that it was Mehlokazulu who kept the lead companies from fleeing, in spite of the murderous slaughter they were suffering from the British mounted troops at Isandlwana. Some had even gone so far as to state that it was Mehlokazulu’s inspiring leadership which won the battle. This was met with ferocious rebukes from the elders and izikhulu. They were quick to point out that it was the self-sacrifice of the inkosi, Mkhosana, which inspired the regiments of the ‘Chest’ to execute one last charge through the British camp. Even Mehlokazulu chastised his warriors not to defame the name of the brave general who gave his life so that the impi might carry the day.
There were strange feelings of déjà vu within Mehlokazulu and his warriors, as they made the journey from Ulundi towards Hlobane. Had it been just two months since they made their first trek west towards Isandlwana? This war with the armies of the Great White Queen was unlike any threat the people of amaZulu had ever faced. Though there had been numerous bloody conflicts against the Boer settlers, as well as the violent war of succession between Cetshwayo and his brother, Mbuyazi, this time the very survival of their people was at stake.
“Feels strange, doesn’t it?” Bongani asked his friend and fellow induna, as they pulled up brush stands and piles of branches with which to make their shelter for the night.
The impi had travelled nearly thirty miles and would reach the mountain of Hlobane within the next day or so. Once they joined with Manyanyoba and the abaQulusi, they would head west into the Transvaal, hopefully drawing the British column out into the open. Seketwayo had proven a fickle friend of the Zulus and deserted to the British a month prior. Fortunately, only a small number of his followers and attendants accompanied him. To King Cetshwayo, his defection was of little concern.
“I thought the war would be decided in one decisive stroke,” Mehlokazulu confessed. “The amabutho and our entire nation were pushed to the brink, yet we remained standing.”
“The white inkosi, Chelmsford, has refused all of the King’s entreaties for peace,” Bongani recalled. “It would seem that his pride alone is compelling him to sacrifice more of his soldiers to slaughter and oblivion.”
Mehlokazulu pondered these words as he then helped Bongani drive the long branches into the ground that would support their shelter. Though they had never been close during their youth, Mehlokazulu had come to respect the young man during the months since the start of hostilities against the British. He’d long thought of Bongani as a simple man with little ambition, yet he had since demonstrated a knack for quick thinking and situational awareness. It was Mehlokazulu who recommended him to replace one of the slain izinduna after Isandlwana, which was met with near-universal acclaim.
“Pride often leads to the downfall of great men,” Mehlokazulu observed at last. “Yet it is their warriors, as well as their innocent families, who often pay the highest price for their folly.”
Zulus assembling around their induna, from The Graphic
Lieutenant Colonel Buller and his column made a late start the following morning, departing Khambula around 8.00. Riding with him was Major Knox-Leet, in command of Wood’s Irregulars, and Buller’s newly-assigned staff officer, Captain Alan Gardner. While Colonel Wood had little good to say about Gardner, Buller found him able enough and was glad to have an experienced cavalry officer on his staff.
The Transvaal Rangers took the lead, riding in a large screen-line. The column made its way southeast towards Zungwini Mountain. From there, they would make their way east across the open plain that lay south of Hlobane. It was roughly ten miles from Khambula to Zungwini. They would have to trek another fifteen to twenty before reaching their proposed bivouac in the Mkhuze Valley, east of Hlobane. A thick mist covered the land, impeding vision and compelling the column to advance at a slow trot. It wasn’t until noon that the sun finally burned off the last of the fog. The gentle slopes of Zungwini came into view with the Hlobane plateau just beyond.
“We’ll halt there,” Buller said, pointing towards a shaded vale near the base of Zungwini.
Two companies of indigenous warriors swarmed up the hill, scouting for any signs of the enemy. The rest of the column formed into a defensive square. Horses were tethered, and Buller directed his men to have their coff
ee and midday meal.
“Colonel Russell should be departing Khambula right about now,” Gardner said, checking his watch.
Buller nodded and called over Lieutenant Charles Williams, a Regular Army officer from the 58th Regiment who commanded a company of allied Zulus. A twenty-three-year-old subaltern, he had obtained a leave-of-absence from his regiment, arriving in Southern Africa after the disaster at Isandlwana and joining with Colonel Wood at Utrecht in early February.
“Sir?” the lieutenant asked, walking over briskly and coming to attention.
“Stand easy, Mister Williams,” Buller replied. “You’re to remain here with your men and await Colonel Russell’s arrival.” He then noted the arrival of Commandant Weatherly and the Border Horse. “You can encamp to the south, near the stream, colonel. I will let you know when it is time to depart.”
“Very good, sir,” Weatherly replied, before leading his men away from the main camp to where they would have their breakfast.
At Khambula, Colonel Wood was writing a few letters and reports before making ready his own departure to join Buller’s forces. His outward confidence from the day before had diminished, and he admitted as much in a note to Lord Chelmsford.
I am not very sanguine of success. We do not know how steep the eastern end may be, but I think we ought to make a stir here and divert attention from you.
He let out a sigh, set down his quill, and rubbed his eyes. A persistent cough had kept him up most of the night, and he’d managed only about an hour or two of sleep. His mind was addled even after several cups of coffee.
The flap of his headquarters tent was lifted as Captain Ronald Campbell looked in. “Everything well, sir?”
“Fine, fine. Just finishing a few reports. I take it Colonel Russell has departed?”
“Yes, sir,” Campbell replied. “They rode out approximately thirty minutes ago. Shall I order your escorts to make ready?”
Wood nodded quickly, struggling to mask his discomfort. He reckoned that a brisk ride would do him some good, and called for his batman to help him into his tunic and prepare his horse to ride.
At Manyanyoba’s stronghold atop Hlobane, the chieftain met with Mbilini, who’d recently arrived with several hundred followers, including Tshwane. The Swazi prince told of the large force which had assailed the Tafelberg region, destroying crops and burning any homesteads they came upon.
“As you can see, I did not have enough men to oppose them,” he explained, waving in the direction of his mingling warriors.
“And if they attempt to assault the mountain, I don’t know if the abaQulusi alone could stop them,” the old chieftain remarked candidly. His demeanour was placid and calm.
It surprised Mbilini. “But we will not be facing them alone, will we?”
“I have received word from King Cetshwayo himself,” Manyanyoba stated. “The entire impi has left the royal kraal and is heading this way. Our regiments will join them and sweep through the disputed territories.”
“And what of the British forces occupying Khambula?”
“That will be for Mnyamana and Ntshingwayo to decide,” Manyanyoba explained. “They defeated the white soldiers at Isandlwana, and with our combined forces, we shall destroy them once more. But for now, we must look to fortifying our positions here. There is no stronger place from which to make a stand against the invaders, and we must hold it at all cost.”
Tshwane spent much of the day exploring the vast reaches of the Hlobane plateau. He had only previously seen the imposing mountain from a distance. And now, from atop the cliffs that stood sinisterly over the southern plain below, he could see for many miles. Were the king to relocate the royal kraal to Hlobane, he could stand defiantly against the White Queen indefinitely. But, the Zulu amabutho was not organised as a defensive force; they took the fight to their enemies, rather than hiding atop mountains or behind stone walls like the English.
It was now late in the afternoon, with the sun making its gradual descent into the west. Suddenly, he heard shots coming from the west. He quickly turned to determine the cause but was unable to see around the concave cliffs immediately below him. Tshwane then started running towards where the sounds of gunfire came from. A couple miles further along the plateau, he saw a band of abaQulusi warriors lining the hilltop, carrying muskets and a few breach-loading rifles captured from the redcoats at Ntombe. A pair of men were wielding a large musket with a huge bore, meant for hunting elephants. They had fired in the direction of enemy troops that the young Zulu now saw in the valley below.
“The white soldiers come on horseback,” a warrior said, spitting on the ground in disgust.
With his keen vision, Tshwane was able to see that they numbered in the hundreds, and there were a similar number of African warriors with them.
“Light the fires!” an induna ordered.
The shots from the enemy’s elephant gun alarmed many of the men within Buller’s column. With the sound echoing off the mountain, it was difficult to know exactly where it came from. A warrior from Wood’s Irregulars pointed up to the cliffs, calling out to his companions. Major Knox-Leet took his field glasses and scanned the mountain. There were small groups of abaQulusi all along the steep slopes and cliffs, yet they were well out of range of even the Martini-Henry.
“Up there, sir,” Captain Barton of the Frontier Light Horse said, pointing to the flames and smoke coming from the pyre near the centre of the plateau. “That’s no campfire. What do you think it means?”
“Likely a signal,” the major replied. “Letting every Zulu within twenty miles know we’re coming.”
Ten miles to the south, they saw another fire spring up from atop a lower hill. Knox-Leet sent his staff officer back to Buller to inform him of the situation. Their commanding officer had already spotted the flames and come to the same conclusion.
“Unless Cetshwayo has sent his entire army against us, the signals are meaningless,” he remarked dismissively.
Though he could not understand a word the white soldiers were saying, Mandlenkosi theorised that the signal fires were meant as a sign to the main impi. As one of the oldest and most respected warriors from Prince Hamu’s followers, he had been pressed into leading one of the companies of Wood’s Irregulars that now accompanied Major Knox-Leet. “We must find their interpreter and warn them,” he said to the men in the lead rank of his column.
“It will not do any good,” one warrior replied. He’d been with the battalion since before the outset of hostilities. “We’re nothing but expendable labour to these white soldiers. They heed neither our advice nor warnings.”
Mandlenkosi was greatly troubled by this but said no more. In his previous life, he had been highly respected amongst the Zulu people. As an induna within the king’s own uThulwana Regiment, he achieved as great a status as a ‘common’ Zulu could expect. In many ways, it was similar to a British soldier who had reached the rank of sergeant major. Since fleeing from the Zulu Kingdom with Prince Hamu, he had lost any modicum of renown or respectability. The men he led were little more than traitorous mercenaries who, despite their victory at Isandlwana, felt the Zulus could not win the war in the long term. Many were young and unmarried; they fought for pay and little else. They remembered their drills from the years spent within the King’s amabutho, yet Mandlenkosi found their overall discipline wanting. If the main impi was coming and the fighting turned against the English, those who survived may very well attempt to return to their former regiments while concocting stories as to why they had missed the royal muster and week of spiritual purification.
No other shots were fired by either side and the column continued its advance past the foreboding mountain. The sun was setting behind them as they reached the Nkongolwane River valley east of Hlobane.
As they approached, Mandlenkosi saw a group of white horsemen riding past them. He recognised Lieutenant Colonel Buller and knew of his importance, even if he did not recall his name. “I hope they spot the signal fires and know what
it means,” he said quietly, ever watching to the south for signs of the king’s impi.
The riders moving past the indigenous warriors were led by Piet Uys and two of his sons. They knew the river valley well, and the older Boer had informed Buller of an ideal place to camp for the night.
“With any luck, the abaQulusi will think we’re raiding the valley rather than planning to storm their stronghold,” Piet remarked as they reached a small forest of trees that lined the valley floor.
The sun had long since set and the column continued to move along the river. Both Buller and Uys maintained alert senses, in case the Zulus had lain a trap for them. All remained quiet. Only the sounds of the running river and the occasional snort from their horses broke the stillness of night.
Along the nek near Zungwini Mountain, Lieutenant Cecil Williams spent a nervous evening waiting for the arrival of the second half of the assault force under Lieutenant Colonel Russell. He only had his band of warriors from Prince Hamu’s followers with him and no interpreter. The Ntendeka Nek loomed ominously behind him, with the great plateau of Hlobane rising up even higher in the distance. His warriors were clearly nervous and talked anxiously amongst themselves.
It was therefore with much relief when he spotted the tell-tale columns of dust being kicked up by hundreds of horses in the distance. Leading the vanguard from the Imperial Mounted Infantry was Lieutenant Edward Browne of the 24th Regiment. Riding next to him was Corporal McCann, also originally from the 24th.
“Am I glad to see you!” Williams remarked.
Browne reined in his horse near the bivouac site. “And you, Mister Williams. But what the devil are you doing here?”
