by James Mace
Conversely, Colonel Wood knew exactly what he was facing and would be able to see their approach from miles away. Privately, he confessed that part of the reason he knew so well the enemy’s strength was due to his tragic blunders of the previous day. Had he heeded the warnings of his scouts, he would have withdrawn Buller and Russell’s forces back to Khambula and waited for the Zulus to come to him. Instead, he suffered a disastrous defeat with over 200 of his mounted troops and allied warriors paying the ultimate price for his error. As he stood atop the redoubt, Wood was determined that this day would be different.
The colonel and his staff were soon joined by Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert from 1/13th Light Infantry. “As we command the high ground, the Zulus will be hard-pressed to know our true strength and disposition,” the infantry officer mused.
“My greatest fear is that the enemy will attempt to lay siege to us here,” Wood confessed.
Leaving his staff atop the redoubt, he and Gilbert walked down the slope through the clinging mist, towards the position near the cattle kraal occupied by one of Gilbert’s companies.
“While most certainly possible, sir, I find it unlikely,” Gilbert replied. “Cetshwayo may have laid siege to Pearson’s column, but I think it was only so he could unleash his entire army against us here.”
“Still, if the Zulus were wise, they would do just that,” Wood remarked. “Leave enough warriors to pen us up here and send the rest to raid the Transvaal and northern Natal.”
After several minutes of stumbling through the dark, following the sounds of cattle, they came upon the stone kraal. They followed the wall until it intersected with the palisade Wood ordered erected the previous day. Here they were greeted by the challenge of a sentry. After giving the watchword and informing the soldier who they were, a runner was sent to find their officer commanding.
“Colonel, sir,” Captain Thurlow said. He briskly walked over to the two senior officers and saluted.
“Quiet night, captain?” Gilbert asked.
“Yes, sir. Although, some of my lads swore they could hear the enemy’s war songs. It may have been their imagination.”
“Perhaps. The hills have a funny way of channelling sounds even over many miles,” Wood observed. “But no actual signs of the enemy?”
Thurlow shook his head. “No, sir. I placed a four-man piquet about a hundred yards to the east. It was these lads who thought they heard the Zulu war songs, which they may very well have. Otherwise, not a sound.”
“The mist obscures the enemy’s vision as much as it does ours,” Wood remarked. “I doubt they could manoeuvre 25,000 warriors through the dark, completely blind, without us knowing it.”
“That would negate the advantage of using the mist for concealment,” Gilbert concluded.
“Your men have sufficient ammunition?” Wood asked.
“Yes, sir,” Thurlow replied. “I’ve ordered each man to carry an extra thirty rounds, plus we moved twelve of our cartridge boxes into the kraal.”
“Carry on then, captain.” Wood and Thurlow exchanged salutes. He and Gilbert then retired to the high redoubt.
In this position, he had two companies of redcoats and a pair of cannon. Given that a similar force repelled a Zulu corps at Rorke’s Drift, he was confident the redoubt, with its command of the high ground and stone wall, was nearly impenetrable. He cast his gaze to the west, where companies of redcoats were taking up their positions within the laager. Unlike Pulleine’s unfortunate lads, his riflemen were concentrated and their ammunition wagons nearby, as well as the laager and earthworks to help halt any Zulu attacks. While a pair of cannon occupied the high redoubt, the colonel had ordered the remaining four to stage in an open space of ground between the main laager and the cattle kraal. He wished to keep them mobile, that they might be dispatched as needed along the defences. He’d directed the battery commander, Captain Slade, to not bother wasting gunners to man the rocket troughs. He stated these were utterly useless, and his crews would be better served manning the guns.
Evelyn walked along the laager and encampments of both infantry companies, as well as that of the battered survivors from the mounted units. Most of the men were having breakfast, though there was little of the normal early morning banter that usually buzzed throughout any military camp. A pall hung over No. 4 Column, along with the clinging mist.
There was a sense of excitement and lingering thrills from the previous day’s triumph at the vast Zulu camp west of Zungwini Mountain. Warriors took up their sleeping mats, shields, and weapons. Their izinduna guided them into their places within the five columns of march. Along with the shouted orders from their leaders came the chanted chorus, ‘We are the boys of Isandlwana!’
As the sun rose, the morning mist dissipating, those izinduna and amakhosi in possession of horses took to their mounts. Coordinating such a vast force of humanity was a difficult endeavour, and Ntshingwayo had ordered the columns to keep a dispersion of a hundred paces between each other to prevent clustering due to the terrain. The left-most column would follow the White Mfolozi River, with all other regiments dressing off them. With each column formed into files roughly a hundred warriors deep, the entire frontage of the impi extended for more than a mile. Since Ntshingwayo chose to march on foot with his warriors, he had to rely on his amakhosi to keep their regiments in order.
A rhythmic pounding of weapons on shields acted as a type of cadence, keeping the men of each regiment in step. From their places at the head of the iNgobamakhosi, Mehlokazulu, Bongani, and the other izinduna led their men in their most recent war chants.
“Thou great and mighty chief!”
“Thou who has an army!”
“The son of Shepstone sent his forces!”
“We destroyed them!”
“The red soldiers came!”
“We destroyed them!”
“The mounted soldiers came!”
“We destroyed them!”
“The mounted police came!”
“We destroyed them!”
“The volunteers came!”
“We destroyed them!”
“Thou the great and mighty chief!”
“Thou who hast an army, when will they dare to repeat their attack?”
At the end of the final chorus, each regiment gave a rousing, ‘We are the boys of Isandlwana!’
Soon it seemed as if the entire army was singing as one; 25,000 voices chanting ominously to the red-jacketed soldiers cowering behind their wagons and few feet of stone atop the Khambula ridge.
The chanting exercised Mehlokazulu’s lungs, his spirits soaring. The miles between Zungwini and Khambula passed quickly beneath their feet. Khambula sat much higher than the open plain which the Zulu army now traversed, and it was difficult to see any real details regarding the British camp. Just from what they’d managed to gather from the abaQulusi, the young induna surmised that their foes were of a similar strength as those they faced at Isandlwana. With the losses the enemy suffered the previous day, their morale was likely fragile. And despite the hesitations of Ntshingwayo and the elder amakhosi, there was no question in Mehlokazulu’s mind that there would be battle this day!
It was now around noon. Though they could not yet see the approaching Zulu army, the buzzing of war chants was growing louder. Soldiers tried to go about their usual daily routines, yet all eyes kept gazing towards the distant Zungwini and Hlobane Mountains in the east.
“Over there, sir,” Lieutenant Lysons said, pointing northeast. He lowered his field glasses. Wood raised his, not sure if he should feel confident or terrified. The Zulus were marching towards Khambula in regimental columns. From this distance, they reminded him of Roman legions from antiquity.
“They’ve halted,” Wood remarked. “What are they waiting for?” After a few minutes, he shook his head and said to his bugler, “Order ‘stand-to’.”
Bugle notes were echoed by musicians throughout the camp, and soldiers took up their rifles, rushing to their places within the
defences. Sergeant Ring and Corporal Shepard’s section were already posted on picquet duty in the small stone kraal. Twelve wooden ammunition boxes, their screws already loosened, sat in a line ten yards behind the ramparts. They were soon joined by the rest of C Company, 1/13th. Sergeant Lewis Walker and Corporal Harry Davies arrayed their men along the southeast corner of the kraal overlooking the steep cliffs to the south and the ground to the east, between the redoubt hillock and the southern slope. The brush huts built by their indigenous allies sat about 300 yards due east.
“This is as good a position as any,” Harry said to some of his more nervous soldiers. “We’ve got a nice cliff on our right, plenty of mates up on the hill to our left, and the rest of the column behind us.”
“A hundred and fifty yards between them and us,” Private Howard replied nervously.
“And from the looks of it, about 10,000 Zulus to our front,” Private Hill quietly added.
Jonathan Allen glanced over his right shoulder. “Let’s hope they don’t come straight up that gentle rise and get behind us.”
The ground he referred to was the slope that came off the rocky cliffs and extended along the southern face of the main camp. It led into the valley, and every last redcoat knew it was the perfect defilade to mask the movements of an entire army.
“That’s part of the reason we’re here, lads,” Sergeant Walker explained. “Help the boys in the redoubt keep an eye on the southern approaches and, perhaps, put a few bullets into any Zulus who might come slinking our way.”
Chapter XL: A Pitiful Foe
Khambula
1.00 p.m.
Zulu Attack, from The Graphic
The regiments of the amabutho marched at a leisurely pace, not wishing to expend any needless energy before unleashing on the British. The first signs of their foes came when they spotted the white bell tents in the distance on the high ridge of Khambula. They contrasted sharply with the green grasses and scrub brush that covered the surrounding hills.
“Look how small and puny their camp is!” a warrior called out from one of the lead companies of the iNgobamakhosi Regiment, eliciting a few laughs and taunts towards their foes.
Indeed, the British camp did appear deceptively small, especially when compared to Isandlwana. The iNgobamakhosi had stormed that camp from the south. Mehlokazulu recalled how vast it appeared with its long lines of white tents and wagon parks. However, he rightly suspected what they saw this day was an illusion. The enemy camp at Khambula was well concentrated, not scattered in a thin line. They also occupied the high ground, and the Zulus could see only a fraction of their laager and defences. The impi was now within three miles of the British camp. Despite their orders to bypass the enemy and draw them out of their defences by invading the Transvaal and border regions, the victors of Isandlwana were loudly calling for an immediate attack upon the red-jacketed soldiers.
At a gathering of the amakhosi, an argument ensued between the two senior generals and their regimental commanders.
Ntshingwayo was steadfast in his insistence that the impi follow the king’s directives exactly. “Have we learned nothing?” he chastised. “A paltry band of white soldiers threw back the entire Undi Corps at kwaJimu! To attack a fortified enemy force is a fool’s endeavour.”
“With respect, have you learned nothing, inkosi?” Prince Zibhebhu retorted. His warriors in the iNgobamakhosi were among the youngest in the amabutho. They were also the most difficult to control, and they were anxious to bloody their spears once more. “We destroyed the red soldiers once, and we shall do so again!”
“Bah!” the commanding inkosi of the rival Umcityu Regiment retorted. “Your warriors are young and impetuous, yet they moved like sickly boars when we took Isandlwana.” He then turned to Ntshingwayo. “Unleash the ‘Horns’, inkosi. The only challenge today will be who will take the enemy’s camp first!”
Ntshingwayo paused and looked to Mnyamana. That moment of indecisiveness caused the remaining amakhosi to join in with calls to unleash the full might of the amabutho against the English. Ntshingwayo may have been their commanding general, and Mnyamana the king’s prime minister, but they knew they could not quell the fire that burned in the belly of every warrior converging on Khambula. What’s more, the intense rivalry between regiments, which Cetshwayo himself had long encouraged, was raising the fury of the impi even more. Each ibutho would seek to outdo the others, like they had at Isandlwana.
“This may be an opportunity,” Mnyamana said quietly. “If we destroy the red soldiers here, we can invade the enemy’s lands unopposed; something we were unable to do after Isandlwana.”
Ntshingwayo nodded, though he recalled that the reason they had not invaded Natal following their last major battle was two-fold; firstly, the king at the time had hoped to fight a purely defensive war and forbidden any incursions into enemy territory. The second was because the army was exhausted. Every warrior of the gathered impi had supressed the memories of the terrible price they had paid for their previous victory. The images of slain and brutally maimed friends only served to incense them into action.
The old general also knew their enemy was weak. While rumours had reached Ulundi regarding a large number of reinforcements, these were all gathering at Lower Drift, more than two weeks’ march from Khambula. And the shattered remnants of the forces they destroyed at Isandlwana were confined to their pathetic strongholds at kwaJimu and Helpmekaar.
“We smash the enemy here, there is nothing to stop us from taking the disputed territory by force,” Mnyamana continued.
“This one camp is all that stands between the amabutho and all of the Transvaal,” Ntshingwayo conceded.
“We can pillage their colony of Natal as well, inkosi,” the commander of the iNgobamakhosi added, knowing he’d won the argument.
The old general knew he had no choice but to relent. Doubtless his king would chastise him for not following his orders exactly; however, this would be tempered by the destruction of the only British forces remaining in Zululand. And if the entire impi was rampaging through the now-defenceless Transvaal and northern Natal colonies, it did not matter if Chelmsford had 10,000 fresh troops gathered along the Thukela River. The armies of the Great White Queen would have no choice but to abandon the land of the Zulu!
Soldiers manned the perimeter of the laager, yet their tents outside the ramparts remained standing. This was done deliberately. The white canvas would be much easier for the Zulus to see from the low ground. Colonel Wood wanted his adversaries to know the British were there and daring them to attack.
Within the smaller stone kraal, the men of C Company, 1/13th watched as thousands of warriors split off from the main body, heading west into the valley. Meanwhile, the elements of what they assumed was the Zulu ‘Chest’ started reforming from columns into company lines.
“Such splendid drills,” Private George Hill said appreciatively.
“Think we could ask them to put on a performance for Her Majesty at Horse Guards?” William Grosvenor added. The sarcasm in his voice masked his fear.
For his part, Corporal Harry Davies was attempting to count out the paces in his mind from the ramparts to features within the terrain. There were range marking stakes at various points beyond the camp’s perimeter; however, wind and rain had knocked many of these down, and others could not be spotted from C Company’s position. The most noticeable features were the huts belonging to their allied African warriors, 300 yards to the east, at the base of a gentler slope.
Behind the occupied ramparts, Sergeant Lewis Walker was meeting with Captain Thurlow and the rest of the section leaders to discuss the range issues.
“Even with us here, covering the fort’s blind spot, the Zulus can still get unnervingly close before we’re able to engage,” Sergeant Ring noted.
Another section leader, Sergeant Richard Evans, added, “The slope between the cliff and the huts may channel them into a confined space; however, they will be scarcely a hundred yards from our posi
tion by the time they expose themselves.”
“We’ll simply have to rely on how fast our men can reload, should they get that close,” Colour Sergeant Fricker surmised.
Captain Thurlow concurred. “Maintain good order and control the volleys of your men. However, let them know, should the Zulus manage to mass for an attack from where the cliffs end, they should be ready for the command ‘fire at will’.”
The sergeants nodded in understanding. It was only in the direst of emergencies that officers and NCOs would relinquish all command over their soldiers’ firing. A massed Zulu assault from a hundred yards away was just such a crisis.
Up on the high redoubt, Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood watched the approaching onslaught of Zulu regiments, his deportment congenial, his headache and chill gone for the time being. Yet privately, he was terrified at the black mass of enemy warriors, their war chants humming a sinister cadence that echoed down the ridgeline.
“Sound ‘strike the tents’,” Wood calmly said to his bugler.
The young musician raised the bugle to his lips and let loose the series of three notes.
Redcoats poured from behind the defence works, executing their pre-planned drills. Two soldiers knocked down the centre poles of their tents, while others pulled up the stakes. In less than a minute, the camp disappeared from view for those watching from the low ground. As quickly as the tents were struck, soldiers rushed back to take up their positions behind the ramparts.
A vast corps of 6,000 warriors, centred around the iNgobamakhosi Regiment, formed into the ‘Right Horn’ of the Zulu attack. They had a longer route to travel; first to the north, and then sweeping in a long arc westward before falling upon the enemy’s laager. The ‘Chest’ would attack from the east, manoeuvring past the high koppie, where it appeared the redcoats had established a small fort. Meanwhile, the ‘Left Horn’ would close the trap, travelling through the southern valley and swarming the enemy camp from the south while linking up with the far elements of the ‘Right Horn’ to the west.
