Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

“Commandant Weatherly!” he shouted, pointing vigorously in the direction of the kraal to the west.

  Weatherly nodded and signalled for his troop to follow. The ground leading off the trail was extremely broken, yet near the kraal it opened into a large bowl, over-watched by various rock formations and hillocks lined with caves. Though puzzled at the cattle being left in the kraal unattended, Evelyn Wood assumed Buller’s forces had already crossed this way and cleared it of any threat. Little did he know; Buller’s column had reached the plateau from a trail nearly a mile further north, with the Border Horse taking an entirely different path up the mountain.

  Shots rang out from the direction of the caves, causing the Border Horse to sprint their mounts towards the kraal. Here they quickly dismounted, sending a dozen troopers to clear the huts before taking cover behind the stone kraal wall.

  “I suppose we should dismount, sir,” Captain Campbell advised.

  “Yes, once we reach the kraal,” Wood confirmed.

  The officers and their escorts from the IMI galloped their horses around the back side of the kraal. They hastily stabled the horses within before joining the Border Horse, whose troopers were returning fire towards the caves and rock formations.

  A warrior not ten feet from Mbilini cried out as a bullet tore through the muscle between his neck and shoulder, shattering the bone beneath before exiting out the left side of his back. The man was in immeasurable pain, and the Swazi prince pitied him. There was nothing he could do, but hope that death would not be delayed for long.

  “Take his musket!” he then ordered Tshwane.

  The young Zulu complied. At last, he would have a firearm of his own, albeit he wished it had been taken from a slain redcoat rather than one of their own warriors.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said to the dying warrior, whose eyes were scrunched shut, teeth grinding in agony. The warrior shrieked, as Tshwane jerked the pouch with his powder horn and bullets from his shoulder.

  “I am sorry,” the young Zulu said once more.

  “You do know how to use a musket?” Mbilini asked while reloading his breach-loading rifle.

  “Yes, my brother taught me,” Tshwane reassured him.

  Mbilini then turned his attention towards his other skirmishers. There were around fifty hunkered down between the rocks and within the caves. The remainder of his warriors waited impatiently for the signal to attack. However, with the whites occupying the stone kraal, now was not the time to charge brazenly into their musketry. The prince estimated it was around 200 paces between the kraal and their positions. This was too far for their muskets to be effective, and those few carrying Martini-Henry rifles were unfamiliar with the sights. Granted, the sheer volume of their rifle fire had inflicted some losses; however, their adversaries were far better shots, and all were equipped with modern weapons. That said, the Swazi prince and his men had far better cover and concealment. The enemy struggled to see them lurking in the shadows behind the wafts of smoke.

  While the fighting had quickly ground to a stalemate, it was enough. The Swazi prince reckoned he had as many as a hundred enemy combatants trapped within and around the kraal. What’s more, should they attempt to retreat down the narrow path which they’d come up, they would be easy prey for his warriors.

  Mbilini took his time. He knew he had a finite number of cartridges for his rifle. He also noticed that the kick was becoming fiercer with each shot, and the spent cases occasionally became stuck in the breach. Little did he know that what appeared to be a musket ramrod protruding beneath the barrel was actually an extraction tool, meant for forcing stuck or broken cases from a fouled-up breach. He thought, perhaps, once his rifle cooled a bit, he could continue to fire. For the time being, he observed his skirmishers, taking note of the broken ground leading towards the kraal. It now became a waiting game to see who grew impatient first. And if the main Zulu impi was close, Mbilini knew the longer they delayed the English and their allies, the better the chance of Cetshwayo’s army devouring what remained of them.

  Attack on the caves, from The Illustrated London News

  For Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood, patience was not a virtue he possessed on this morning. He was anxious to get what he felt was a paltry number of Zulu skirmishers sorted, so they could gather up this herd of cattle and finally link up with Lieutenant Colonel Buller. He was also completely oblivious to any of the ongoing fighting along the vast plateau.

  From behind the stone wall, it was difficult to tell who was gaining the upper hand in the exchanges of musketry. Two men from the Border Horse were wounded, including the troop’s sergeant major. The colonel thought he could see a few Zulus lying sprawled along the rocks, and he assumed they were dead. His civilian interpreter, Llewelyn Lloyd, crouched close by, a carbine clutched in his hands.

  “How are you managing, Mister Lloyd?” Wood then asked.

  “Tolerable, colonel, though I confess I will feel much better once we’re back at camp, where I can put my linguistic skills to better use interrogating some of these damned kaffirs.”

  Wood gave a grim nod and looked to his staff officer. “Captain Campbell, form our men into a skirmish line and make ready to advance on those rock formations.” He then shouted in the direction of the Border Horse troopers. “Captain Dennison, cover us!”

  Evelyn stood and went back to fetch his horse, which he led by the reins.

  “Your pardon, sir, but are you sure that’s wise?” Captain Campbell asked quietly. “Leading your mount will make you the perfect target for the enemy.”

  “Then it will take some of the heat off you and the lads,” the colonel countered. “Now be a good man and fall in with our men and get ready to assail those damnable caves.”

  Lieutenant Lysons quickly rushed over to the colonel, his pistol drawn. “Permission to join them, sir?”

  “Granted,” Wood replied with a quick wave of his hand.

  Campbell and Lysons rushed back to the band of ten soldiers who made up Colonel Wood’s bodyguard, the captain then shouting, “Right lads, with me!”

  Waving his pistol forward, the Ronald Campbell rushed across the expanse of open ground. The ten redcoats followed, with Private Edmund Fowler finding himself in between Captain Campbell and Lieutenant Lysons. Bullets kicked up clods of dirt and skipped off the various rocks around them. As soon as they reached a large formation of boulders, they took cover and began returning fire.

  “Still with us, Private Fowler?” the lieutenant asked with a forced good-natured grin to help settle both of their frayed nerves.

  “For the moment, sir,” the young soldier replied.

  Troopers from the Border Horse soon joined them off to the left, though two of their number had fallen dead during the rush across the exposed ground. Fowler saw an enemy warrior raise himself up a little too high to engage the colonial troopers. The private quickly brought his carbine up to his shoulder, then forced himself to take a moment to steady his aim and slow his breathing. With a deafening crack, his weapon recoiled savagely into his shoulder. Though he could not see the enemy warrior any longer, he did notice the man’s musket lying barrel first within a cluster of rocks. Fowler was trembling, although it was less from fear and more from not knowing whether or not he had just killed a man. He wanted to rush across the broken expanse of rocks to see and found his gaze fixed on where his quarry had been.

  “Look alive, private,” Lieutenant Lysons said, shaking him by the shoulder. “There are still plenty of kaffirs for you to engage.”

  “Yes, sir.” Edmund took a slow, deliberate breath and fetched a loose cartridge from his ready pouch. He jolted as he heard a shriek from off to his left. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he saw that Colonel Wood’s horse had been struck by a slew of enemy musket balls and lay thrashing about, as death claimed its poor life.

  The colonel had avoided being hit and now hunkered behind a boulder where his interpreter, Mister Lloyd, lay clutching at his bleeding shoulder. A trooper from the Border Hor
se named Andrew Hammond also lay wounded near the colonel.

  “Come along, Mister Lloyd,” Wood said, his voice calm. “Let’s get you out of here. Help me, trooper.”

  Hammond nodded, though he grimaced in pain as his left hand pressed hard against his bloody side. While their companions continued to fire at the enemy skirmishers within the caves, the trooper and colonel helped the civilian interpreter back to the stone kraal. Commandant Weatherly was still there with his son and a handful of his men. They helped Wood heft Lloyd over the wall.

  “You’d best stay here, son,” Wood said to Hammond. “I don’t think you can do much more today.”

  The trooper’s face was turning pale, and he simply nodded before slumping down against the wall. Without another word, Colonel Wood bounded back across the open ground until he came across Captain Campbell and his escorts. The Border Horse troopers were spread out in a long line that extended roughly 200 yards to Wood’s left. Sergeant Brissenden and six of his men were lying prone amongst a cluster of broken boulders just a few yards from the far left of the colonel’s escorts.

  “I think there are more than just one or two Zulus causing trouble, sir,” Campbell observed. “Private Fowler potted one fellow, and I don’t think a lone kaffir is causing us this much bother.”

  “Take our escorts and the bugler and see if you can sort this out,” Wood ordered. “And do be careful, man!”

  “Don’t worry about me, sir,” the captain replied with a reassuring smile. He then turned to the bugler, and ordered him to sound the general advance.

  While the ten escorts from the IMI heeded the call and followed Captain Campbell across the rocky terrain towards the high ground the enemy was engaging them from, there appeared to be indecision and delay from the Border Horse.

  “Sir, we’re getting too far ahead,” Lieutenant Lysons said, after their contingent had crossed over about a hundred yards of ground. He nodded back to where Weatherly’s troopers were carefully making their way from boulder to boulder.

  “Hold here,” Campbell told the orderly and IMI escorts. Hunkering low, he rushed back down the broken slope waving his pistol and urging the troopers on. “Forward boys!”

  Whether inspired by the captain’s bravery or simply out of fear of being branded cowards, the Border Horse troopers pressed on, with Sergeant Brissenden echoing the captain’s order. Around twenty were now engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a similar sized band of Zulus, creating even more chaos amongst the broken rock formations. One man took an enemy spear to the guts, while another trooper pinned a warrior against a large rock and repeatedly smashed the buttstock of his rifle against his face until it turned into a bloody, pulpy mess.

  As another warrior leapt at Francis Brissenden, the Border Horse NCO managed to jab the barrel of his carbine just beneath the man’s chin before pulling the trigger. The entire top of the warrior’s head exploded, coving the sergeant in blood, bone, and brain matter.

  Satisfied the troopers were sufficiently taking the fight to the enemy, Campbell returned to his detachment. He crouched low behind a boulder and surveyed what appeared to be a series of caves to their front. “The worst of their fire is coming from there,” he observed. He glanced around and saw that Lieutenant Lysons and Private Fowler were closest to him. “Right lads, let’s sort these devils out.”

  No sooner had Ronald Campbell pulled himself up onto the nearest rock when his head snapped back, the upper part of his skull shattering outward.

  “Fuck!” Fowler shouted, raising his carbine and firing in the direction from where the fatal shot had come.

  An enemy warrior was suddenly visible in the shadows, as he tried to make his escape. Lysons fired three shots from his pistol, striking the man twice in the shoulder and side. The warrior tumbled out of sight, yet more shots and clouds of smoke came from the rocks and shallow caves. Meanwhile, Campbell’s lifeless corpse thrashed about sickeningly, the remnants of his head turned unnaturally to one side. Fowler swore the dead eyes were staring at him through the broken skull.

  From his position near the kraal, Colonel Evelyn Wood let out a scream of horror. “No!”

  The badly injured Llewelyn Lloyd peered over the wall to see what the commotion was, only to be struck through the neck as the enemy skirmishers continued to unleash relentless fire upon the kraal.

  Unaware that his interpreter was dying, his life’s blood gushing from the hideous wound in his neck, nor caring about his own safety, Colonel Wood stood and shouted to Lieutenant Lysons, “Get him back! Do not leave your captain!”

  “Is he out of his sodding mind?” the bugler who’d accompanied Campbell asked, as they heard the colonel’s shouted order.

  Though the escorts and Border Horse troopers appeared to be driving the Zulus from the caves, there was still a large volume of enemy bullets snapping overhead and cracking against the rocks around them.

  “He didn’t seem too concerned about those poor fellows,” an IMI soldier said with a quick nod towards two of the slain troopers who lay broken and in pools of blood to their left.

  Lysons ignored these remarks and called out to Fowler, “Come on, man, let’s get him out of here!”

  Edmund fired one last shot from his carbine before slinging his weapon over his shoulder and grabbing the slain captain by the sleeves on his patrol jacket. Halfway down the slope, a pair of troopers grabbed onto Campbell’s legs and helped the two men carry him the rest of the way back to the kraal.

  Assuming this was the signal to retire, the remainder of the Border Horse began to reform to the west of the kraal. With Colonel Wood appearing inconsolable following his staff officer’s slaying, Commandant Weatherly and Captain Dennison took it upon themselves to continue their mission. Six of their men had been killed during the hectic fray, with another seven wounded left at the stone kraal. Much to their surprise, the intense firing from the rocks and caves had ceased.

  “We should find Colonel Buller and see what assistance we can render,” Dennison said to his commanding officer.

  Both men were anxious to be on their way, though Weatherly took a moment to confer with his wounded sergeant major, who assured him the injured would be looked after.

  The Death of Captain Campbell, from The Illustrated London News

  Lieutenant Lysons is depicted in the foreground, with Private Fowler firing his carbine from behind Campbell

  Tshwane was covered with a spray of blood and gore, as the warrior nearest him was shot through the chest at close range. The young Zulu shouldered his musket and squeezed the trigger, yet the weapon failed to fire. He then remembered his weapon was a flintlock, and he needed to first prime the flash pan with a bit of powder. However, the return fire from the imperial soldiers was becoming intolerable, and he knew they could no longer hold their position. Most of the warriors who’d accompanied him and Prince Mbilini were engaged in close quarters combat with the white soldiers off to their right. While they were able to inflict casualties with their spears and clubs, it appeared the abaQulusi were getting the worst of the exchange.

  “Follow me!” he heard Mbilini shout from atop the highest rock formation. The Swazi was waving his rifle in a circular arc above his head, drawing the attention of his warriors. Those within earshot quickly heeded his call, scrambled down the rocks, and sprinted towards the nearest hillock about a mile further along the plateau.

  Upon reaching this position, the gathered warriors halted to catch their breath. It was then that Tshwane noticed the pained expression on Mbilini’s face. There was a gash on the right side of his ribcage with terrible bruising evident.

  “My prince, you’ve been hit,” he said worriedly.

  “Only a scratch,” Mbilini replied, although his breathing was laboured and Tshwane wondered if his ribs were cracked. “We must reform and make ready to press the attack once more.”

  A grin of malice now creased his face, and his warriors gazed at him inquisitively. “I have seen the shadows approaching from the south,�
� Mbilini explained. “The sons of Zulu approach.”

  At the kraal, the effect of the enemy skirmishers’ savage musketry was evident. In addition to the dead and wounded troopers from the Border Horse, fourteen of the twenty-eight horses Colonel Wood and his staff brought with them were killed. As he struggled to control his senses, the column commander ordered his escorts to retire 200 yards back down the slope. The bodies of Ronald Campbell and Llewelyn Lloyd were slung across the backs of horses, while one of the more gravely injured troopers, Andrew Hammond, was helped into the saddle of a spare mount. As they reached the rally point, Colonel Wood ordered their indigenous escorts to dig a pair of graves for Campbell and Lloyd with their assegais.

  “My prayer book!” Evelyn said suddenly. He then turned to his bugler. “It is in the saddlebags of my horse. Be a good man and fetch it at once.”

  The colonel’s primary horse lay dead out on the open ground and the absurd order horrified the young bugler. Whether it was brought on by Wood’s sleepless delirium and recent illness or an overt fondness for his dead staff officer was impossible to say. The young man also knew he had no choice but to obey, and he ran back up the slope towards the kraal.

  “Doubt he’d go through this much trouble for his own wife,” the bugler grumbled, as he spotted the bloodied remains of the colonel’s horse. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he then sprinted as fast as he could, aware of the cracks of enemy muskets he assumed were aimed at him. Diving hard onto the hard ground near the dead horse, he hastily dug through the saddle bags until he found the colonel’s prayer book. A pair of musket balls ricocheted off the rocks nearby. Another struck the dead horse with a sickening thud.

  Fighting down the urge to vomit, the bugler rushed back to the kraal and then down the slope to where Colonel Wood stood mournfully over the bodies of his staff officer and interpreter. Lieutenant Lysons stood nearby, his helmet under his arm. The IMI soldiers were fanned out in a protective screen line, watching the hillocks to their front.