by James Mace
“Time to make our way down this infernal ‘Devil’s Pass’,” Knox-Leet said, as he reined in his horse near Buller.
The westernmost wing of the abaQulusi regiments were now swarming the mounted troopers and their African allies. As men tried to make their way down the steep and stony cliffs, others were engaged in fierce hand-to-hand fighting with the enemy. Having a shorter barrel and with no bayonets to fix to the ends, the carbines carried by the troopers proved useless in close-quarters melee. Warriors easily knocked aside the clumsy weapons with their shields before plunging their iklwa spears into the guts and hearts of their hated foes. If a European trooper were fortunate, he’d manage to fell one warrior with a last-second shot before being overwhelmed. Fortune had abandoned most of them this day.
The abaQulusi were not content to drive the white soldiers over the edge. Many scampered down the rocks, attempting to catch any who proved too slow making the descent. It was only when a score of warriors was a couple dozen yards from overwhelming them that Lieutenant Colonel Buller and Major Knox-Leet fired their final shots; Buller with his carbine and Leet with his pistol. The two officers then kicked their scared horses into a canter, attempting to remain mounted as they plummeted down the krantz.
A short way from Ntendeka Nek, the Boer Burghers under Piet Uys were also on the verge of being overwhelmed. Their horses were exhausted, and many feared that even if they did manage to make it off the mountain, the pursuing Zulus would catch them.
“Into the saddle, now!” Piet shouted to his sons and their fellow Boers. He then fired his carbine, but the cartridge became stuck as he attempted to extract it.
Time seemed to pass slowly as the old Boer saw an enraged abaQulusi warrior rushing towards him, his arm back, ready to fling an assegai. Piet slung his carbine with just enough time to grab the pommel of his horse and place one foot in the saddle, when the stabbing pain of the assegai plunging into his back overtook him. The warrior who’d flung the weapon rushed into the old Boer, driving the spear further into his back and through his heart. With eyes squeezed shut and blood streaming from the corners of his mouth, Piet Uys fell to the hard ground, the last of his life’s blood staining the rocks around him.
His death was witnessed by Captain Cecil D’Arcy, who’d been cut off from most of his troop. He saw he was the last of his men remaining up top and led his horse down the brutal krantz. With each jump and step, he expected his feet to slip out from under him, or for the rocks to break way, sending him tumbling down the side. Rather than praying for salvation, he simply hoped for a quick death should the worst happen.
“Look out below!” a voice shouted from somewhere above him.
The captain looked up in time to see an enormous boulder, the size of a piano, dropping towards his head. Whether it had broken away or been shoved over the cliff by the abaQulusi, he could not say. With no time to think he pressed himself hard against the side of the rocky face. The huge boulder smashed into his horse, severing one of its legs. Both flew crashing down the krantz. Before he had time to gather his bearings, another stricken horse fell against D’Arcy, pinning him against the rocks. Groaning in pain and starting to panic, with the last of his strength, he shoved the dying beast off him. His vision was foggy, his mouth parched, and every inch of his body ached. He stumbled the rest of the way down to the plain below.
Having made his way to the bottom, just below the Ntendeka Nek, he noticed there were no signs of Lieutenant Colonel Russell or any of his column. D’Arcy assumed they had left for Khambula long before the fighting became intolerable.
The sounds of chanting warriors echoed in his ears. He turned back to see hundreds of enemy warriors in amongst the desperate men and horses trying to make their way down the krantz. No mercy was shown to man or beast. The cliffs and rock formations were littered with dead troopers and horses, as well as the occasional abaQulusi warrior.
“Oh, bugger all,” he said through dry, cracked lips as he watched numerous warriors continuing the pursuit off the mountain. He looked to the south, and for the first time saw the distant columns of the main Zulu army. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!”
“Here!” a man shouted in a thick accent. Cecil turned to see one of Piet Uys’ sons, leading a rider-less horse by the bridle. Cecil thanked the man and climbed into the saddle.
Wishing to quench his thirst, he reached for his water bottle and found that his hip and side were completely soaked. Thinking he’d been hit by an enemy spear or musket ball, he was relieved, if somewhat dismayed, to see that it was his water bottle which had broken when he was smashed against the cliffs by the falling horse. He rode at a canter, well aware of the pursuing warriors, yet not wishing to risk his horse blowing itself completely before he could make good his escape.
Near the valley floor, he saw a badly injured trooper, horseless and clutching at his injured side, hobbling along. Henry grimaced, knowing that the already tired horse he was riding could not possibly carry both of them. And while giving up his mount would most likely mean his death, he suddenly found it preferable to the eternal shame he would feel if he left this man to die.
“Trooper!” he shouted, reining in the horse next to the man. He then quickly dismounted and began to help the man into the saddle.
“Thank you, sir,” the trooper said, gritting his teeth in pain. There was no blood on his uniform, yet plenty of tears and gashes. D’Arcy presumed the man had fallen hard on the rocks, injuring his leg and ribs.
Having lost his carbine during the fall, the captain drew his pistol before smacking the horse on the rump, sending it away. The trooper halted briefly and looked back at the officer. “What about you, sir?”
“If the Zulus catch me now, at least I made a good sport of it,” Cecil replied. “Now get out of here, and don’t let them catch us both!”
He then took a slow breath, his ribs and side aching, as he made certain his revolver was loaded. Taking a moment to check his sights, he fired a shot at the growing band of warriors, who were quickly approaching. He began to move at a slow jog, hoping they would give up on catching him and whoever else might be lingering behind, yet he knew this was a vain hope. Twice more he fired at his pursuers whose enraged faces he could now clearly see.
He then noticed a pair of welcome faces, Lieutenant Colonel Buller and Major Knox-Leet. He assumed they must have been the last men off of Hlobane. The major had another officer, Lieutenant Anthony Smith of the Frontier Light Horse, riding on the back of his horse. The lieutenant had had his own mount shot out from under him and would have perished, were it not for William’s quick thinking and selfless risk-taking.
“Dash it all, Cecil, did you make it all this way without a horse?” Buller asked, halting his mount and extending his hand.
“More or less,” Captain D’Arcy replied. He then raised his pistol and fired into the chest of a fast-sprinting enemy warrior before pulling himself up behind his commanding officer,
Buller kicked his horse into a gallop. Much to his relief, the sounds of their pursuers’ war chants began to grow fainter.
Lieutenant Colonel Buller’s rescuing of Captain D’Arcy
Chapter XXXVII: An Ignominious Retreat
The Zulu impi, five miles south of Hlobane
1.00 p.m.
Prince Zibhebhu kaMaphitha
The Zulu impi’s approach had been delayed by incessant arguments between Mnyamana, Ntshingwayo, and a number of the amakhosi in command of the individual regiments. Prince Zibhebhu had stressed that they should unite with the abaQulusi regiments while seeing what the trouble was, regarding their signal fires from the previous days. Others were anxious to reach Khambula, and said the abaQulusi could catch up to them, if they wanted to take part in the spoils.
“This is what happens when the king ceases leading his regiments to war,” Bongani said, as he and Mehlokazulu mingled in front of their impatient companies.
His fellow induna nodded in reply. “No king since Shaka has personally
led his armies in the field,” he observed. “While it is not for us to question the king or his ministers, it would seem the old amakhosi are too busy bickering among themselves, which does not help the discipline of the army. Were King Cetshwayo here, there would be no doubt as to who was in command.”
Despite his age, Mehlokazulu was very keen and observant. That the ‘elite’ Undi Corps had disobeyed their sovereign and attacked the British garrison at kwaJimu, back in January, told him that lapses in discipline were not just confined to the young, impertinent warriors of the amabutho. Most baffling of all was that the uThulwana—King Cetshwayo’s personal regiment—had defied him! And while Isandlwana had ended in triumph, numerous tactical errors and loss of control by various izinduna and amakhosi had led to many otherwise preventable deaths.
Blame was placed on Mnyamana and Ntshingwayo. Hence, Cetshwayo had not granted them the same honours that normally were given to generals after important victories. Yet in Mehlokazulu’s mind, the king had not taken this lesson completely to heart. Instead of taking to the field to see to it his orders were followed, he left the same men in command with the same issues in discipline continuing.
“Still, we cannot control what decisions our elders make,” he said, after a few minutes of silent contemplation. “We can only follow the orders as they are given to us and see to it that our men remember their training and discipline.”
“I admit, I am a bit troubled since our inkosi was replaced,” Bongani said quietly. “Do you trust Prince Zibhebhu?”
“I only know him by reputation,” Mehlokazulu replied. “And as he seems to have escaped the formal rebukes that were heaped upon Prince Dabulamanzi after the kwaJimu debacle, I think he still has the king’s trust. He does have a reputation as a fighting inkosi, and I suspect that whatever dangers we face, he will be there with us.”
“That’s enough for me,” Bongani conceded.
The sounds of gunfire now echoed in the distance from the top of Hlobane Mountain. Though faint, they were continuous, as if the entire plateau were under attack. This was also noticed by the bickering amakhosi. As he returned to the iNgobamakhosi, it seemed Prince Zibhebhu had won his debate with his peers.
“The abaQulusi are under attack,” Zibhebhu said to his gathering izinduna. “We will help them destroy their vile assailants and then march on Khambula!”
“Bayade!” the warriors shouted in unison.
Being on the extreme right of the massive impi, the iNgobamakhosi and uKhandempemvu Regiments were ideally located to commence an enveloping assault on the eastern and south-eastern faces of the mountain. Mehlokazulu and his fellow izinduna shouted orders to their men, who enthusiastically formed into a series of battle lines. He further ordered fifty skirmishers with firearms to advance a hundred paces in front of the main body.
Mehlokazulu’s heart pounded in his chest. He took long, slow breaths, as he ambled his way to the northeast; his warriors dressing off the left off his shield arm. It was as if the divines had heard the cries of their ancestors and were now offering the Zulu amabutho the chance to soak their spears once more. Mehlokazulu reckoned this was just a taste of things to come.
When Captain Barton of the Frontier Light Horse received his commanding officer’s directive, there was much confusion. Buller’s message had ordered him to depart ‘by right of the mountain’ where there was supposed to be a manageable path down. While this order made sense for the Border Horse, it directed them to move north as Buller intended. However, from Barton’s position further east, ‘by right of the mountain’ actually took him south. There was nothing resembling a path that he could find. With the abaQulusi in close pursuit, he and his troopers had no choice but to take their chances down the steep slope.
While not the horrifying expanse of cliffs and steep rock formations that the rest of Buller’s contingent had been compelled to attempt, the horses and men of Robert Barton’s troop were nearly spent, not to mention they were running low on ammunition. It took more than thirty minutes to reach the bottom. Several of his hapless men were unable to outrun their maddened pursuers. Their screams as the enemy warriors gutted them sent a chill up Barton’s spine.
Once the band of survivors reached the plain at the bottom, the captain ordered them into an organised column that they might remain in good order and be able to react to any hazards awaiting them.
“Sir, there are riders approaching behind us,” said his bugler, an Irishman named William Reilly.
Barton looked behind him and saw Commandant Weatherly and the remnants of the Border Horse. Waving to Weatherly, Barton turned his horse about and continued on his way. They could hear the chants of the Zulus to the south now intending to cut them off from escape.
They soon reached a small homestead lined with rock walls. Shots rang out from within, felling several troopers and their mounts.
“Fall back!” Barton shouted, wheeling his tired horse about once more.
Joining with Weatherly, he ordered his men into lines. They dismounted and fired into the homestead, as well as the first ranks of the main impi now cresting a rise less than a mile to the south.
“We’re cut off,” Frederick Weatherly said, trying to hide his desperation from his already terrified son. “There is only one way we can escape now.”
The commandant nodded towards the Ityenka Nek off the eastern edge of Hlobane, where Barton’s troop had just made their precarious descent. Looking to the east, he saw companies of Zulus manoeuvring to block any escape from that direction. With glum acceptance, he signalled for his troopers to follow him.
Near the homestead, Bugler Reilly had had his mount shot out from under him. Scores of Zulus were now rushing towards him. He fired into them and, as he reloaded, came to a grim decision. Though raised a Roman Catholic, he thought it preferable to explain his actions to God than allowing the Zulus the pleasure of murdering him. With the warriors less than thirty feet away, he placed the barrel of his carbine into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
It was the lead companies of the uKhandempemvu Regiment who first came upon the troopers fleeing near the southern face of Hlobane. There had been just enough time for skirmishers to lay their ambush within the abandoned homestead, which the foolish mounted soldiers rode right into.
Leading the furthermost wing of the attack, Mehlokazulu and several companies from the iNgobamakhosi had now cut the white horsemen off completely from escape. It amazed the young induna when he saw the sixty or so troopers ride straight up the saddle leading onto the Ityenka Nek. His skirmishers unleashed a volley of musketry, striking down a pair of men and horses before Mehlokazulu ordered them to continue the pursuit.
“Maintain formation!” he shouted, berating any groups of warriors who clustered along the more easily climbed stretches of the hill. “Do not give them any room to ride past us!”
Numerous white soldiers were struggling to get their horses up the slope. One man had fallen from his mount and jarred his head against the rocks. It was Sergeant Francis Brissenden, still covered in dried blood and bits of gore from the dreadful fighting atop the mountain. Slowly getting to his feet, his eyes glassy, he was not even aware of the enraged Zulu rushing towards him. Mehlokazulu gave a loud cry and leapt from his feet, plunging his iklwa into the side of the man’s neck. Blood spurted onto the wide blade, ‘washing’ his spear, which he wrenched free before continuing the chase. Warriors in the ranks behind him stabbed the dying man repeatedly.
Atop the nek, the abaQulusi had occupied the short saddle, intent on closing the trap on this hapless band of white soldiers. However, their line was only a single warrior deep, and the many of the desperate troopers managed to smash their way through. Though anxious to spill more of their blood, Mehlokazulu could not help but admire their tenacity and will to survive.
Colonel Weatherly’s Fight for Life, from The Penny Illustrated Paper
For Captain Barton, it was nothing short of miraculous that any of the Border Horse or FLH troopers wit
h him made it through the saddle. Clasping the barrel of his carbine which burned painfully into his hand, he swung his weapon like a club, smashing it against the head of an enemy warrior. Both skull and buttstock broke under the force of his blow. More men from his and Weatherly’s decimated troops were violently pulled from their mounts and savagely killed. No quarter was to be expected, and Barton knew his only choices were to flee or die.
Several men, including Commandant Weatherly and his son, had dismounted, surmising that the ground was too steep and rocky to ride down. Weatherly held the reins of his horse in one hand and his carbine and the reins of young Rupert’s mount in the other.
“Come along, sir, we’ll cover you!” Captain Barton shouted back.
He and several men then dismounted and started firing into the pursuing Zulus. It was to no avail. Numerous warriors swarmed both Weatherlys, plunging their spears into their bodies and smashing bones with knobkerrie clubs. Barton shook his head in dismay and mounted his horse once again. For Rupert Weatherly, there would be no attending Sandhurst, nor would his father regain his fortunes and take them back to Brighton. Instead, both now lay as bloody corpses on the slopes of Hlobane Mountain, thousands of miles from home. Warriors chanted and howled with fury, plunging their blades into the guts of father and son, then disembowelling them.
As he reached the bottom of the northern side of the nek, Barton found Captain Dennison, the surviving senior officer from the Border Horse. “We should head west towards the old trading post. From there we can make our way to Luneburg, and then Khambula.”
Dennison nodded and the unified contingent began to ride away, with the Zulu companies still in pursuit. The trouble was, neither captain knew exactly where the old trading post, or for that matter where Luneburg was. Nor were they familiar with the terrain. They had no way of knowing what obstacles, such as steep terrain or bodies of water, might impede their retreat.
