by James Mace
Mandlenkosi winced as the interpreter translated the first question. His eyes were cast downward. He then began to explain.
“He says his son was killed at Isandlwana. After the defeat at Rorke’s Drift, he returned first to Ulundi and then to his home which lies within Prince Hamu’s lands. He says there is much unrest in the northern kingdom. Many fear the Zulus cannot win this war. He defected to save his wife and daughter from starvation and the deprivations that are already spreading across the land.”
Mandlenkosi continued to speak and the interpreter paused for a moment, swallowing hard before continuing. “He says that after today, he began to rethink his doubts regarding the Zulus being unable to win the war. During the retreat, he became separated from the rest of the battalion and found himself in amongst his former regimental mates. They welcomed him back and told him about how their commanding general, Ntshingwayo, intended to move past Khambula and raid into the Transvaal and northern Natal.”
“Which is as we feared,” Wood grumbled. “This man isn’t telling us anything we don’t already know or suspect. And if he thinks his old friends can defeat us, then why is he here?”
The interpreter posed the question, and this time Mandlenkosi looked Colonel Wood in the eye as he responded.
“He says his heart would break at the thought of betraying his life-long friends once more, had it not already shattered upon losing his son and seeing his wife and daughter suffering. Though he has his doubts, he still believes the British will triumph in this campaign, as his companions told him the army has no intention of following Ntshingwayo’s directive. To a man, they are convinced that they must destroy us here, rather than heading towards the Transvaal and hoping we choose to face them in the open. He says discipline has floundered within the amabutho, following Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift. It is the young warriors who guide the army rather than their aged generals. Even the uThulwana is voraciously calling for our blood.”
Wood looked to Major Knox-Leet. “Do you believe a word of this, Bill?”
“I spoke with this man when he first came to us, along with a number of the fighting men who accompanied Prince Hamu,” the major replied. “He told me some of his story then. It was the same for many of them, especially those who took part in the Isandlwana campaign. I have to tell you, colonel, after today’s debacle, most of the Irregulars have deserted. However, Hamu’s followers that survived have returned to the ranks.”
“And if this man’s story is true, then we may be able to use the cracks in our enemy’s discipline to our advantage,” Wood remarked. He then told the interpreter, “Tell him he has Her Majesty’s thanks for his loyalty and perseverance. See to it he is fed and keep him close to you, major.”
“Sir.”
Evelyn sat with his chin in his hands, resting his elbows on the desk, contemplating what he’d just heard. He’d always assumed that if they did come up against the main Zulu impi, he would be compelled to fight them in the open. Surely after Rorke’s Drift the enemy would not be so foolish as to attack a fortified stronghold again! Such a thought had always been unsettling, as he simply did not have the numbers to handle 20,000 enemy warriors swarming his understrength column from all sides. And if their ranks had been supplemented by the abaQulusi, whose regiments he now knew numbered several thousand rather than several hundred warriors, then he was even more horrifically outnumbered.
He contemplated the state of the laager and defence works and wondered if it would be enough. Like many of his fellow officers, he’d assumed King Cetshwayo would send the main impi to deal with Chelmsford in the south. The flying column his lordship had mustered for the relief of Eshowe, consisting mostly of recently arrived reinforcements from Britain and around the Empire, had twice as many professional redcoats as Wood’s No. 4 Column. Not to mention, there were several hundred sailors who could acquit themselves readily in a brawl, along with a pair of fearsome multi-barrel Gatling guns. Wood had none of these assets.
Adding to his troubles, the morale of the mounted troops was utterly devastated. Hundreds were dead, with scores of wounded, and every last survivor left in a state of shock and despair. Most of his Irregulars had absconded, leaving him with 1,500 infantry redcoats and six cannon with which to stand against the entire Zulu army. He could only hope that the turncoat induna was correct, that the enemy meant to attack him where he stood. Should the impi march past Khambula and into the Transvaal, Colonel Wood felt uncertain whether he could defeat them out in the open, especially on ground not of his choosing.
“To face the enemy on his terms is to meet the same fate as poor Henry Pulleine,” he said quietly to himself. “I must make the enemy fight me here!”
It was just after ‘lights out’ when Corporal Harry Davies decided to take a walk and clear his head. He wore his shirtsleeves, which were unbuttoned halfway, while his unlaced boots flopped loosely on his feet. A cool breeze was blowing gently from the east as he reached a guard post along the southeast corner of the ramparts. There was the gentle glow of an oil lamp coming from inside the nearest wagon. The two privates on duty gave him a simple nod of acknowledgment, and he climbed into the back of the wagon. Inside he found his friend, James Shepard, just starting his two-hour shift as corporal-of-the-guard.
“Can’t sleep,” James observed.
“After what happened today, I don’t think a soul within this camp will get a wink of sleep,” Harry replied.
“Bloody hell, I plan to! If the Zulus feel up for another round of sport tomorrow, I’ll not have my musketry skills all buggered up by yawning all through the battle.”
Harry raised an eyebrow at this last remark. “Round of sport? I’m amazed you can jest right now.”
“It’s how I cope,” his friend explained. “Those bastards likely outnumber us at least ten-to-one, and after the mounted troops got their backsides handed to them today, those damned kaffir’s will come for us next.”
Harry shook his head in frustration. “Since this war began, it’s been one fucking disaster after another. I mean, sure, the lads of the 24th repelled a Zulu attack at Rorke’s Drift, but that was after they lost six companies at Isandlwana.”
“The lads of No. 1 Column also won a victory on the same day as Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift,” James pointed out.
“I’ll give them that, but they weren’t facing the main Zulu army, were they? And it can’t have been much of a victory, since they’ve been shut up in their little fort at Eshowe for the past three months. God only knows what that place must smell like by now! For all we know, his lordship will find them all dead by the time he gets there. Twice now our own forces have been routed within the past few weeks. The 80th took a beating, lost a hundred men, not to mention a slew of rifles and boxes of ammunition, which I suspect the Zulus intend to make good use of. And now we’ve lost a quarter of our mounted troops and all of the natives have deserted.”
James shrugged and leaned back against the side rail of the wagon. “It’s a fucking nightmare, I’ll grant you. And don’t think I’m dismissive of it. Thing is, I used to stress over the most inconsequential details. Fighting against the Xhosa woke me up a bit; helped me figure out what was important and what was not. Whatever happens, I intend to still be alive when all this is over. And if I am meant to die here, then I’ll be sure to take as many of those bastards with me as I can. Worrying and losing sleep isn’t helping me or the lads.”
“I’m just grateful I have you to vent to,” Harry remarked with a nervous chuckle. “It’s all stoic confidence in front of the men, and I don’t want to test Sergeant Walker’s good humour with my constant fretting.” He paused for a moment before cocking a half-grin. “I imagine it must feel pretty lonely for Colonel Wood. After all, one can only express their worries to peers or superiors. Who can he talk to?”
“Sod it,” James replied curtly. “The Crown pays him more in a month than either of us will see in ten years! He can deal with a few sleepless nights.”
“Mig
ht explain why he’s going a bit bald,” Harry added with a more relaxed laugh. “Thank you, James.”
“For what?” his fellow corporal asked. “All I did was tell you I intend to get some sleep tonight. If you’d like, you could always take over my shift as corporal-of-the-guard. I’ve got to make my rounds here in a few minutes and then report to the sergeant-of-the-guard.”
“Who is it tonight?”
“Sergeant Williamson from D Company,” James recalled. “Don’t know who’s in charge of the 90th’s sector and don’t really care. Those haggis-eaters can look after themselves.”
The two NCOs shared a short laugh, though Harry declined the offer to take over as corporal-of-the-guard. He was suddenly very tired and knew that the best thing he could do, both for himself and the soldiers in his section, was get as much sleep as possible. He crept back to their tent, and in the darkness tried not to trip over any of the sleeping privates until he found his bedroll. Stripping down to his underpants, he pulled his blanket over him. Within moments he was fast asleep.
Chapter XXXIX: We are the boys of Isandlwana!
Hlobane Mountain
Midnight
Zulu War Dance, from The Graphic
As night fell upon the Zulu impi encamped near Hlobane Mountain, there was much banter and singing of war songs. For the first time in over three months, Mehlokazulu allowed himself to smile and join in the revelry. Isandlwana had been a terrible trial for the iNgobamakhosi Regiment, yet they had triumphed. And this day the amabutho had won another victory, one even more decisive. Hundreds of white horsemen and their mounts lay shattered along the cliffs of Hlobane. The young induna pitied the horses, for they were such noble creatures. They did not deserve to die horrible deaths under the yoke of contemptable masters.
Warriors danced and chanted around their campfires, those with bloodied spears, like Mehlokazulu, brandishing them as symbols of honour. Warriors who had yet to ‘wash their spears’ envied those whose weapons were streaked dark red. Cleaning the blood from one’s weapons was expressly prohibited until the spiritual cleansing ceremonies after the fighting was over. The izinyanga diviners would purge the evil spirts from the warriors who had killed, and from their spears and clubs.
Mehlokazulu’s thoughts were consumed by the coming battle. Despite the insistence of Ntshingwayo, he knew it would take place on the morrow. The redcoats at Khambula were rumoured to be a larger force than what they had destroyed at Isandlwana, yet the impi still had them greatly outnumbered. And unlike on that fateful morning three months prior, this time the Zulus held the initiative. There would be no surprises, no traitorous riders coming upon them and forcing battle before they were ready. Izinyanga had performed the last of the spiritual charms, which they had been deprived of at Isandlwana. While Mehlokazulu had plenty of doubts whether a diviner’s spell could stop a British rifle bullet, he would rather go into battle with the spiritual forces of his ancestors guiding him than the dark spirits which doubtless had plagued the impi when they were previously compelled to fight on the ill-omened day of the New Moon.
“The portends are great, my friend,” Bongani said, dancing about and beating his fist against his chest. All around the thousands of campfires, which extended as far as they could see, bands of warriors gathered to sing praises to their king and ancestors, bringing them into a frenzy of rage which would carry them through the following day’s slaughter.
“Once again the white soldiers came and we destroyed them,” Mehlokazulu replied. This elicited a cheer from the nearest warriors.
Grinning widely, the induna stood and addressed his assembled companies. “Thou great and mighty chief!” he called out.
“Thou who has an army!” several hundred voices answered in return.
Mehlokazulu then recalled the chant whose verses had been growing since the impi reassembled at Ulundi.
“The red soldiers came!” he cried.
“We destroyed them!”
“The mounted soldiers came!”
“We destroyed them!”
This last verse carried even louder, as every last man recalled the bloody carcasses of the British mounted troops.
The light of the fires glowing off his white teeth, Mehlokazulu raised his spear and led his warriors in repeated chants of the final stanza, “We are the boys of Isandlwana!”
At long last, the feelings of euphoria and triumph from the day’s victory gave way to fatigue and the need for sleep. It was ten miles to the Khambula ridge, where Mehlokazulu and his companions hoped they would ‘purify’ the land with the blood of the redcoats.
Around Ntshingwayo’s campfire were gathered most of the amakhosi in command of the king’s regiments. While the warriors danced and sang their battle songs, the old general was stoic and impassive. He now commanded the largest Zulu army since the days of Shaka. The addition of the abaQulusi had more than made up for the losses the impi suffered during the Isandlwana campaign. The Zulus now had as many as 25,000 warriors, all of whom were chanting for the spilling of British blood. What was troubling Ntshingwayo was the demeanour amongst the various regiments that an attack on the enemy’s encampment was inevitable.
“We have been ordered by our king to invade the disputed territories, should the English choose not to face us in battle,” he said. “The Great Elephant is wise in his council, for to attack the red-jacketed soldiers when they are skulking behind their laagers is both costly and foolish.” He then looked towards Mnyamana. “And what says our king’s chief minister, who speaks with his voice?”
It was troubling to Ntshingwayo that Mnyamana had acted so indecisively since the impi left Ulundi. It was Prince Zibhebhu who had compelled the army to surround and attack the British soldiers at Hlobane. And while this had proven to be a wise decision, it had not been Zibhebhu’s to make. When the sounds of the white soldiers’ carbines were heard in the distance, Mnyamana had said nothing; the rest of the amakhosi simply following Zibhebhu’s lead and ordering their regiments into battle.
“Our king is indeed wise, but he is also not here,” Mnyamana said, his voice tentative. “We should allow events to unfold and see how our enemies react before deciding whether to attack or march the army past them.”
“A prudent decision, inkosi,” Zibhebhu said quickly, before Ntshingwayo could press the matter further. “We should see what our adversary’s strength is before deciding to march into the disputed territories.”
While to the outside observer these seemed like reasonable assertions, Ntshingwayo knew what they portended. Prince Zibhebhu had previously commanded the Undi Corps, though now had been given temporary charge over the iNgobamakhosi Regiment, whose numbers exceeded those of the four regiments of the Undi Corps. Not only were they the largest regiment within the amabutho, they were also the ones calling loudest for the slaughter of the redcoats just a few miles away. Prince Zibhebhu was as shrewd as he was charismatic, and he would no doubt use the ferocious ardour of his young warriors to his advantage. And because officially it was Mnyamana and Ntshingwayo who commanded the king’s impi, it was they who would shoulder any blame should the proposed battle turn against them. Ntshingwayo knew this, and he privately reckoned that regardless of how the war against the English ended, upstart nobles such as Prince Zibhebhu would need to be dealt with and reminded of their place within the Zulu Kingdom.
The night passed quietly at the Khambula fort, though the campfires of the Zulu army were visible even from such a great distance. There were only a few wisps of clouds in the sky as Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood roused himself around 3.30 that morning. His headache still lingered and his throat was a touch sore from his recent illness, yet his cough had dissipated for the time being. His feelings of dejected defeat and loss from the previous day were far more subdued. In their place was a fierce determination, as well as hope that the Zulus would choose to make battle this day.
“Colonel, sir,” Captain Maud said as Wood stepped from his tent.
While not as welcome
a face as the late Ronald Campbell, Evelyn was glad to have Maud on his staff. “A fine morning, captain,” Wood replied. “I can only hope the Zulus will give us ample work this day.”
His batman handed him a cup of steaming coffee. “I think we shall soon find out, sir,” Maud replied.
The two were joined by Captain Woodgate and Lieutenant Lysons. They then made the trek up to the top of the high redoubt, where Lieutenant Nicholson of the artillery commanded a pair of cannon. In the event the Zulus did choose to attack the camp, two infantry companies would also occupy the over-watching defences.
Lieutenant Frederick Nicholson, Royal Artillery
“One can see for miles from up here, once the sun rises and this damned mist clears off,” Captain Woodgate observed. All eyes were fixed to the east, where they knew the Zulus would soon be breaking camp.
“Unlike poor Henry Pulleine,” Wood added. “From what Captain Essex has said, the men left at Isandlwana could see ‘bugger all’.”
While it was tempting to keep making comparisons to the Battle of Isandlwana, Colonel Evelyn Wood knew any similarities ended with the antagonists consisting of a British column against the entire Zulu impi. From what he was able to gather from Isandlwana survivors, such as Alan Gardner and Edward Essex, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pulleine never knew what he was up against until it was too late. Thinking he was only facing a marauding band of a few thousand warriors; his infantry had deployed too far from the camp and in an extended line that was stretched thin. The camp at Isandlwana had sat within a large bowl, the terrain masking the movements of the enemy ‘Horns’ on either flank. It was only when Colonel Anthony Durnford’s mounted No. 2 Column collapsed, exposing their right flank, that Pulleine most likely came to realise he was up against the entire Zulu army.
