by James Mace
“I was ordered to stay here and let Colonel Russell know where to establish camp for the night,” Williams replied, somewhat embarrassed.
As neither officer knew of the personal animosity which Colonel Wood harboured for Lieutenant Colonel Russell, this blatant lack of trust was puzzling.
“Well, we’re here now,” Browne said. “Captain Cochrane and the Natal Native Horse aren’t far behind us. I believe Colonel Russell is riding with them. I assume he’ll want to use our natives as picquets.”
“That is my assumption, as well,” Williams concurred. He then noted the approach of the commandant from 1st Battalion of Wood’s Irregulars and walked briskly over to meet him, hoping he’d brought an interpreter with him!
“We’ll dismount here, lads,” Lieutenant Browne called over his shoulder. He and McCann then crept up to the top of the Zungwini and gazed towards Ntendeka and Hlobane.
“An even larger ‘Sphinx’ than the one our lads now rest beneath,” the corporal said solemnly. Though not a superstitious man, he felt a sense of ill-omen creeping up his spine.
Ever since 22 January, both men had been anxious to avenge their friends who’d fallen at Isandlwana. The day prior to the battle, Lieutenant Browne and a small patrol had, in fact, very nearly run across the entire Zulu impi. On the day of the battle, he’d been with most of the Imperial Mounted Infantry which accompanied Lord Chelmsford in the direction of Mangeni Falls. Of the thirty men left behind from the IMI, only ten survived, including Corporal McCann. The past couple months had been hellish for the survivors. They had a complete lack of supplies and equipment, not to mention having lost all of their personal belongings when the Isandlwana camp was overrun. Despite their deprivations and Colonel Wood’s utter lack of confidence in their will to fight, every man from the IMI who’d survived the disaster was eager to exact retribution.
Lieutenant Cecil Williams, 58th Regiment
Staff Officer, Wood’s Irregulars
At around 10.00, Redvers Buller’s column found the place Uys was looking for; a secluded glade near a calm space of water where the horses could graze and the men refill their water bottles. Horses were left saddled, the reins bound together in a series of long lines. The riders took their bedrolls and laid down in front of their respective mounts. The Burghers had found a small abaQulusi homestead, consisting of a trio of abandoned huts. Buller ordered these demolished and used for campfires. Troopers and warriors cooked a humble meal of crushed mealie porridge before attempting a few hours of sleep.
Mandlenkosi and the warriors of Wood’s Irregulars laid out their issued blankets. The induna had directed his men to arrange themselves in a series of ranks, that they might be able to wake and fall into battle formation should a crisis arise. He scowled at the lack of enthusiasm displayed, yet his warriors reluctantly complied. Some were unhappy that their positions left them in the open, while others could use the shelter of trees in case if inclement weather.
Weather would soon add a level of misery. Two hours after lying down for the night, they were awoken by the bright flashes of lightning, followed by the nearby crashing of thunder. As expected, this heralded yet another torrential downpour. Men and horses alike were completely drenched within minutes. Even the trees and what brush shelters the local warriors had been able to construct did little to offer them reprieve. The river swelled, and by 2.00 in the morning, the entire camp was flooded.
As he curled up beneath a soggy blanket, his slouch hat pulled over his eyes, Lieutenant Colonel Redvers Buller prayed that the sleepless night would be the worst of their grievances over the next few days.
Chapter XXXIV: The Vast Plateau
The Nkongolwane River Valley, east of Hlobane
28 March 1879
Lieutenant Henry Lysons, 90th Perthshire Light Infantry
Orderly, No. 4 Column
It was just before 3.00 in the morning when Mandlenkosi was woken by a white interpreter. The induna quickly sat upright and wiped the sleep from his eyes. The rains had thankfully ceased about thirty minutes prior. Despite lying in a couple inches of water, he could hear the sounds of snoring coming from numerous warriors and white troopers.
“You know this region?” the interpreter asked.
“I do,” Mandlenkosi replied.
“Can you find the way up the side of the mountain?”
“It’s been many years, but yes, I think I can.”
“It will have to do. Come, the colonel wishes to speak with you.”
Mandlenkosi picked up his saturated blanket and weapons before following the man to where he saw the whites’ leaders standing around a faintly-glowing oil lamp.
“This man knows the way up the mountain,” the interpreter said to Buller.
“Splendid. He can accompany Mister Uys and our lead escorts,” the commanding officer replied.
Piet then spoke to the Zulu in his native tongue. “What is your name and regiment?”
“Mandlenkosi. I was with the uThulwana.”
The Boer raised his eyebrows. “One of Cetshwayo’s own. I’ll not ask your motives, for they are your business. But I will ask if you know the way up the eastern path.”
Piet did not suspect treachery. If the Zulu had intended to betray them, he would have led his old companions into their camp during the rainstorm. However, he wanted to make certain that Mandlenkosi actually knew the way and wasn’t just the first man the interpreter spoke with.
“Once the mountain is in sight, I will remember the way,” the induna replied reassuringly.
Piet then looked to Buller. “Time to capture the Painted Mountain.”
A heavy mist engulfed them as the contingent prepared to break camp. It was 3.30 when they began their journey back towards Hlobane. Between the shadows of the valley and encompassing fog, it was nearly impossible to see.
At their head walked Mandlenkosi, trying to recall how far along the river they needed to travel before veering north onto the long spur which led first to the Ityenka Nek, and finally onto the Hlobane plateau.
The abaQulusi atop Hlobane had watched the enemy column of mounted troopers and traitorous warriors advance into the river valley the previous evening. While many assumed this to be a raid of vulnerable homesteads to the east, Mbilini was unconvinced. Having compelled Manyanyoba to lend him some skirmishers, the Swazi prince and a hundred warriors, all bearing firearms, encamped along the high rocks overlooking the eastern path up the mountain. Twenty of these men, including Mbilini, carried captured Martini-Henry rifles taken from slain redcoats along the Ntombe River. The prince carried twenty cartridges in his shoulder pouch. The ever-present Tshwane held another thirty for him.
Like their adversaries, they spent a hellish night exposed to the battering rains. Shivering, with bloodshot eyes brought on by lack of sleep, the young Zulu crept over to where Mbilini remained motionless, watching and waiting for the mist to dissipate.
“Are they coming?” Tshwane whispered, his teeth chattering.
“My eyes can see no more than yours,” the Swazi replied, his gaze still fixed on the foggy path below. “We can only watch and wait.”
Over the past few months, Tshwane had come to explicitly trust Mbilini’s judgement, albeit this did little to relieve the agonising hours and days of incessant boredom. He remembered his brother, Mehlokazulu, taking him on hunts when he was a young boy. The wait had always been the worst, yet what he remembered most were the moments of triumph when they slew a warthog or fleet-footed impala. Unfortunately, Tshwane had lacked the patience that his brother and Swazi mentor possessed. He recalled with much embarrassment how his constant fidgeting had cost Mehlokazulu the chance to take down a cheetah with his assegai. His father, Sihayo, had said it would hopefully come with age.
Time passed slowly and Tshwane was feeling hungry. He thought about making his way back up to their camp atop the plateau to see about his breakfast, when he spotted shadowy movements coming through the dissipating mist below. Eyes wide, he breathlessly fell onto his stoma
ch against the large rock outcropping. As he pointed to what now appeared to be men and horses climbing up the narrow path, Mbilini placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
The ground below was covered in smooth rock, slick from the previous night’s rains. And as the track was perilously narrow, the white troopers were compelled to walk and lead their horses up towards the nek. Leading them was an older African warrior who appeared nervous and uncertain. They had now reached an area of flat ground, roughly 400 paces from where Mbilini and his warriors lurked. Ideally, he would have wished to allow their foes to get much closer before engaging; however, there were numerous obstructions the closer one came to the Swazi prince’s hiding spot. Instead, he quietly opened the breach to his prized Martini-Henry rifle and took a cartridge from his shoulder pouch. It was time to test the range and accuracy of these new weapons.
Lieutenant Colonel Buller was relieved when their Zulu guide found the track leading up to Ityenka Nek. Piet Uys and his Burghers were immediately behind the guide, followed by the Frontier Light Horse and the rocket section. The rocky ground had proven slick, with many slipping and taking rough falls during the slow trek up the mountain. Buller had both his feet slide out behind him, causing him to land painfully on his knees. That he’d been holding tightly to the reins of his horse was all that kept him from seriously injuring himself.
Less than a quarter mile from the head of the nek, they reached an open plateau. From there he could assemble his troops and assess the remainder of their journey. Surprisingly, there was no sign of any Zulus or abaQulusi warriors.
“At least this beastly mist has started to clear,” the artillery officer, Major Tremlett, remarked. “I’m a bit surprised the Zulus haven’t come to offer us breakfast.”
Buller took a few moments to gather his bearings, while troopers continued to reach the small table of flat ground. The fires they had seen from atop the mountain suggested that the abaQulusi were there. Though where, exactly, he could only guess. If, as Piet Uys suggested, their warriors only numbered a few hundred, they might very well feel compelled to abandon their stronghold once his and Russell’s columns reached the summit. The mountain was enormous, yet he had no knowledge as to what was at the very top. Were there rock formations where the Zulus could establish ambush points? Was there a large kraal, with thousands of huts, like the one he’d heard about at Ulundi? As they were less than half-a-mile from the plateau, he reckoned he would know soon enough.
The last elements of the Frontier Light Horse had reached the flat ground, with the Transvaal Rangers and Baker’s Horse close behind, when the first shot echoed off the mountain, breaking the calm stillness of morning. This was followed by a salvo from a hundred muskets all along the rock formations to their front.
“I guess the Zulus are giving us a warm welcome after all,” Major Tremlett said nervously.
Buller gritted his teeth and called out to one of the officers from the Frontier Light Horse. “Seize that hillock on the left and cover our advance!”
The officer saluted and climbed into the saddle of his horse, only to be struck through the forehead by a single shot. The back of his skull exploded in a spray of bone, blood, and brain tissue as his lifeless corpse fell to the ground. The sheer destruction told Buller that was no musket ball which had slain the poor man, but likely a captured Martini-Henry.
“Damn it all,” he said through gritted teeth.
The Boers and FLH troopers were starting to return fire, though they could see little but shadows engulfed in black powder smoke and lingering mist. Major Tremlett had drawn his pistol and was lurking behind a boulder. His rocket section was still some distance back down the trail, so he could not even call them into action.
“All troops, on me!” the colonel shouted, raising his carbine and scrambling onto his mount. Kicking his horse into a gallop, Buller charged into the fray of enemy musketry.
The Boers and Frontier Light Horsemen quickly followed, knowing that to delay out in the open meant certain death. As they sprinted their horses towards the enemy, an officer and trooper from the FLH both fell dead, shot numerous times by enemy rifles. Several others received minor wounds, yet all knew that the obscuration of smoke had likely kept their losses from being much worse.
As they reached the outcroppings of rock, with a small hillock on their left, Buller was able to see a group of warriors racing up the last stretch onto the top of the mountain. A few haphazard shots from mounted troops proved ineffective and only caused their horses to buck about, nearly throwing their riders.
Meanwhile, Mandlenkosi lurked behind a large boulder near the base of the rocky table. He had heard the snap of the first bullet, which had flown past him and cracked against the rocks. He had little doubt that the first enemy marksman had been aiming for him. That he had survived the subsequent storm of rifle and musket fire astounded him. His face was now covered in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest.
Scores of mounted troopers were now rushing past him into the fight. Taking a deep breath, the induna stood and waited for his own warriors to reach the rocky table. This took some time, as the battalion from Wood’s Irregulars had acted as the rear guard of Buller’s column. He saw their white inkosi and the interpreter who’d directed him to lead the vanguard up the slopes a few hours before. Wordlessly, Mandlenkosi took up his iklwa and signalled for his warriors to follow him. He hoped the white officers proved as able as those he’d fought against at Rorke’s Drift.
Mbilini was impressed with the smooth functioning of his prized rifle, albeit his small frame and shorter arms meant he could only effectively fire when lying prone or having a supported position to rest the barrel. The kick was brutal, yet he thought to himself how it must be for their hapless foes receiving their salvoes of musketry! The expended smoke was thick, much like a musket, and after his second shot, the Swazi struggled to see. Quickly sweeping his hand in front of his face to try to clear the obstruction away, he could see the white troopers mounting their horses, readying to attack. He opened the chamber to his rifle, expelling a smouldering case, before reloading and loosing one more shot in their direction. Having no formal training on this specific weapon, he wasn’t entirely certain if he was using the sights correctly. However, upon seeing a pair of enemy corpses in the distance, he was pleased to see their musketry was having some effect.
“Up the hill!” he shouted to his warriors, waving with his rifle in the air.
Tshwane gathered up his shoulder bag and weapons before following the nimble prince towards the main plateau. They scampered directly over the rock formations rather than dropping down onto the narrow path. He was aware of shots being fired behind them, his breath coming in gasps. He expected to feel the sickening slap of a bullet in his back at any moment. Feelings of relief swept over him at reaching the summit. Warriors were shouting the alarm. Mbilini and his skirmishers rushed to defensive positions near the centre of the eastern plateau. It was here that they met with Manyanyoba, who was assembling his warriors for battle.
“The white soldiers approach from both the east and the west,” the chieftain said, with nervous apprehension.
“And we will make them bleed for every scrap of ground,” Mbilini replied with brazen confidence.
“They appear to have brought only horsemen and a few traitorous warriors,” said an induna, who’d been watching the western approach. “We have seen no signs of their red-jacketed infantry.”
“We’ll let them onto the plateau,” Manyanyoba decided. “They will assume we are fewer in number than we actually are.”
Mbilini agreed. “Once they think we’ve fled, they’ll attempt to escape with our cattle. Then we shall drive into them and send them toppling over the cliffs.”
“We can only hope the main impi is close enough to join the fight,” Manyanyoba added. “And if they are, they will swallow up what remains of the white soldiers, once we’ve sent their companions plunging to their deaths.”
More than ten miles to t
he west, Lieutenant Colonel Russell’s column broke camp around 4.00 that morning. Given the distance, plus having all of Hlobane Mountain and the lower Ntendeka Nek between them, none could hear the sounds of musketry coming from the east when Buller’s column came into contact two hours later. Russell had ordered their battalion from Wood’s Irregulars to form the vanguard, followed closely by the Imperial Mounted Infantry. The rocket section under Lieutenant Bigge came next, with the African troopers from the Natal Native Horse behind them. Commandant Schermbrucker’s Kaffrarian Rifles formed the rear guard.
As the sun burned off the last of the early morning mist, the lead elements reached the smaller mountain of Ntendeka, also known as ‘Little Hlobane’.
“It would be a marvellous view, if not for the hundreds of Zulus waiting to gut us,” Private Thomas Westwood said to his friend, Private Samuel Wassall. The two had become inseparable since their traumatic ordeal on the uMzinyathi River, during the closing stages of the Battle of Isandlwana, when Wassall had saved Westwood’s life.
“At least here there isn’t a river for us to drown in,” Sam replied with a touch of macabre humour.
The lower plateau that made up Ntendeka was roughly a mile from end to end and 150 yards wide at its narrowest portion. The very centre dipped down abruptly. With the jutting rock formations on the north-eastern edge, the entire formation resembled a large horse’s saddle from a distance. Their commanding officer rode up and ordered the indigenous warriors to halt. He then addressed Lieutenant Williams who, unable to return to his duties with Buller’s detachment, was acting as a staff officer for Russell.
“Mister Williams, reconnoitre to the top of that rocky krantz, and see if you can get a look at the top of the plateau.” He then handed Cecil Williams his field glasses.
