by James Mace
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Private Jonathan Allan shouted. He fell against the ramparts, clutching at his shoulder.
Seven men from C Company had been struck during the exchange of musketry with the swarms of Zulus who had them horrifically outnumbered. Two were dead. The rest, including Sergeant Walker and now Private Allan, were injured. Private Grosvenor was tying a length of bandage around the upper portion of Walker’s left leg.
“Bloody hell, sergeant, a couple inches to the right and you’d never satisfy your missus again!” the private said with macabre humour.
This caused Lewis a short laugh, though it only caused the pain to shoot up his leg and all through his body. The sergeant, ever determined to remain in the fight, ordered two of their men to prop him up against the corner of the barricades. “Take over, Harry,” he said, gritting his teeth through the pain.
The thunder of cannon sounded from behind the kraal to the west. This was followed by concentrated salvoes of rifle fire. The companies of riflemen from the 1/13th Regiment, occupying the southern and southwestern ramparts, were now coming into action.
While the enemy still held a decisive advantage on the high ground, the Zulus were utilising the defilade offered by the cliff-face and sloping ground to shield their movements. Further to the west, bands of Zulu marksmen were converging behind the long dunghill about 200 yards west of the main laager. Many of these were from the iNgobamakhosi. Others were anxious skirmishers from the ‘Left Horn’, searching for a way to engage the British without having to rush at them exposed in the open.
From his position east of the knoll, Ntshingwayo saw everything transpiring. Despite the ‘Right Horn’ being forced to retreat, he knew the battle was still very much in their favour. After all, he could now see how badly outnumbered the red-jacketed soldiers were. He then focused his gaze on the two stone kraals to his immediate front. The further was very large, nearly 150 paces on each side and filled with cattle. It appeared to be devoid of any imperial soldiers. Within the small stone works now being engaged by skirmishers in the ‘Chest’, he counted less than a hundred men.
“That is their weak point,” he said to a runner, pointing with his assegai. “Send word to have the uNokhenke Regiment take the kraal. From there, the rest of the ‘Chest’ will stage for its final push into the enemy’s camp!”
“At once, inkosi.”
The uNokhenke were an experienced regiment with warriors around thirty years of age. Their izinduna wore the regalia of leopard skin headbands with ear flaps made of green monkey hide, and bunches of white ox tails hanging from the neck, down their chest and back. Their regimental shields were either black or black with patches of white. Having begun the campaign with a force of 2,000 warriors, they suffered terrible losses as part of the impi ‘Chest’ at Isandlwana. As such, they were able to field roughly 1,500 men for this phase of the war.
The runner found the regiment’s inkosi, an elderly warrior named Mzilikazi, near the edge of the slope about a hundred paces from the southeast corner of the smaller kraal. Mzilikazi was much like Ntshingwayo. He preferred to lead his men by example.
“The great Ntshingwayo commands the uNokhenke take the cattle kraal,” the messenger said. “From there the rest of the ‘Chest’ will assemble for the final push into the English camp.”
“Tell the great inkosi that it will be done,” Mzilikazi confirmed. He then glanced over his shoulder. While most of his regiment had reached the Khambula ridge, nearly half of the ‘Chest’ was still making its way up from the southeast. Many of the warriors bearing rifles had taken cover within the brush huts about 200 paces east. The rest continued to fire into the enemy’s nearest defence works. In all, he had seven companies of roughly a hundred warriors each with which to launch his attack. It would be enough.
Attack of the Zulu ‘Chest’ and ‘Left Horn’, from the collection of Ian Knight
For the men in C Company, the volume of fire directed against them was becoming intolerable. While scores of enemy skirmishers were exchanging fire with the redcoats and artillery crewmen in the high redoubt, hundreds more were focusing their efforts on the stone kraal. So great was the volume of enemy musketry, it became impossible for sections to unleash controlled volleys of return fire. Both ranks now knelt behind the wall, with soldiers crammed together, exposing themselves for the briefest of seconds, sometimes not even bothering to aim.
The company’s ammunition wagon near the back of the kraal was riddled with bullet holes and splinted in a score of places. It was here that Captain Thurlow stood, trying to coordinate the defence, as the situation continued to grow ever more desperate. His bugler knelt close by, though he had set down his bugle and was now carrying a Martini-Henry taken from one of the dead. Colour Sergeant Fricker was continuing to walk the line, extolling their men to keep up their fire and remain calm. This was exacerbated as his helmet was struck by a musket ball, the chin strap snapping, and the shattered helm flying across the compound.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Pardoe continued to bound back and forth from the firing line to his officer commanding, ready to relay and orders from the captain. Each time he returned to the line he fired a pair of shots towards the enemy, standing tall and remaining outwardly calm. Simply put, it was considered bad form for an officer to seek cover unless his life was in imminent danger. The subaltern had been standing next to Colour Sergeant Fricker when the senior NCO had his helmet torn from his head.
“You alright, colour sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.
Fricker felt a cut beneath his chin and nodded. “I appear to be, sir. Dash it all, was a bit rude of the Zulus to wreck my helmet like that.”
This brought some much-needed chuckles from nearby soldiers, as more musket balls smashed into the stone wall, sending shards and stone chips into their faces. Even more shots snapped high overhead. Another private cried out, clutching where he was struck in the chest near the left shoulder.
Colour Sergeant Fricker caught the man and helped him back to the wagon. “You’d best get back to the main laager and find the surgeon,” he told the private. “Can you walk?”
“I can, colour sergeant,” the private said through gritted teeth. His hand clutched at the bleeding wound. Splintered bone protruded through his torn tunic. Despite the immense pain, the soldier thanked him and crouched low. He stepped clumsily over the northwest corner of the small kraal and made his way back to the laager.
Fricker’s voice was calm yet strained. He told his captain, “It’s getting awfully hot, sir. I don’t think we can hold much longer.”
“Captain!” a voice shouted through the cloud of acrid smoke. It was Lieutenant Pardoe. He was crouching low, sprinting back to the wagon, attempting to reload his pistol. His helmet was missing and a stream of blood ran down the right side of his face. “The Zulus are forming to attack, hundreds of them! They’re only about fifty yards away, but they’re using the ravine for cover.”
A loud cry of ‘Usutu!’ was heard over the din of musketry, causing the hairs on the back of Captain Thurlow’ neck to stand up. He took a deep breath through his nose, the acrid smoke nearly causing him to gag. He stood upright. Any orders for the men to ‘fire at will’ would be futile. There simply weren’t enough riflemen available to throw back the coming onslaught.
“Bugler, sound the retreat. Mister Pardoe, get everyone to the main laager.”
As the young musician sounded the notes through his parched lips, scores of redcoats emerged from the smoke, keeping low, and often times running into each other as they attempted to flee from the wave of death pursuing them.
“The fucking Zulus are on us!” one private shouted in panic. He nearly ran straight into Colour Sergeant Fricker.
“Take a breath and calm down!” the senior NCO chastised. He grabbed the terrified soldier by the collar. “No sense in making a scene while dying.” His words caught in his throat, as the first wave of Zulus bounded over the eastern ramparts. Struggling to maintain control over his voice,
he said to his officer commanding, “Captain, I think it is time for us to leave.”
Thurlow was firing his pistol as fast as he could. Two warriors fell to his frantic shots; one struck on the side, the other grazed in the face and right thigh.
Lieutenant Pardoe and Colour Sergeant Fricker returned to the firing line to render whatever assistance they could to the wounded. As soon as he reached the ramparts, a flung assegai struck Fricker in the arm, and a musket ball slapped into his side.
“Damn it all!” the senior NCO said, falling to his knees.
An overly zealous Zulu suddenly appeared atop the wall, his throwing assegai ready to fly. As Colour Sergeant Arthur Fricker saw death staring him in the face, his assailant was stabbed through the guts by Private William Grosvenor.
The soldier wrenched his bayonet free and the dying Zulu tumbled back over the wall. He then reached down and helped Fricker to his feet. “I’ve got you, colour sergeant!”
“I’m alright,” Fricker said. “Stay with your section.”
The injured colour sergeant stumbled back towards the rear of the kraal while Lieutenant Pardoe continued firing his pistol while checking to make certain none of the wounded were left behind. As another host of Zulus leapt over the ramparts, the subaltern was compelled to quickly run to the protection offered by a section of riflemen.
Corporal Harry Davies ordered his men into a firing line, having already given the command to fix bayonets.
“Grosvenor, help Sergeant Walker! We’ll cover you.”
He regretted not ordering his section leader helped away sooner. However, the Zulu fire was intense, and he’d needed every rifle they could muster. Private George Hill offered his remaining good arm to Walker, even as a steady stream of blood dripped from the cuff of his other, now useless, limb.
“Right lads, together!” Harry called out. “Present…fire!”
Half-a-dozen Zulus fell to the barrage, yet twenty more quickly took their place. There was no time for the small band of redcoats to reload. They brandished a wall of bayonets as they quickly backed away. Half the company was already over the north wall, near the long palisade that came down from the redoubt. It was here that Captain Thurlow stood atop the stone wall, firing his pistol and encouraging his men on. He was deliberately making himself a more conspicuous target, that he might take some of the pressure from the Zulus off his overwhelmed soldiers. Colour Sergeant Fricker could be seen helping an injured soldier over the wall, while Lieutenant Pardoe continued firing his pistol into the oncoming mass of Zulu warriors.
A scream alerted Corporal Davies, and he turned in horror to see Sergeant Walker with an assegai protruding from the centre of his back. The dying man slumped forward, with Privates Hill and Grosvenor unable to carry him. Grosvenor was pulled to the ground, and before he could regain his feet, a pair of Zulus swarmed him, plunging their stabbing spears into his chest, back, and neck. Private Hill scrambled away, ignoring the pain in his injured arm, as it was jarred against the stone wall of the large kraal. He tumbled over the side amongst the cattle, who were now rampaging about in terror.
“Over the wall, lads!” Harry shouted. He quickly climbed over before thrusting his bayonet towards the Zulus who’d killed poor Grosvenor. Only after the last of his surviving soldiers was safely away did he run through the kraal, ever fearful that he might be gored and trampled by the terrified beasts.
He reached the north wall of the large kraal, his heart pounding in his chest, and wiped the blinding sweat from his eyes. He saw one soldier near the palisade struck in both legs by throwing assegais. What surprised him was that it was a trio of officers who rushed down from the redoubt to save him. One of these was Lieutenant Lysons, the colonel’s orderly who’d performed so splendidly during the otherwise disastrous assault of Hlobane Mountain the previous day. And now, the No. 4 Column was facing an even greater disaster.
Harry looked back over his shoulder. Hundreds of Zulus occupied the smaller kraal. Though C Company had no choice but to retreat, he knew that if the Zulus took both kraals, it would be catastrophic.
“One good push from here towards the laager, and we’re all fucked,” he said quietly. He then turned back and joined the rest of his men in their desperate sprint towards the main defences.
Chapter XLII: A Desperate Counterattack
Khambula
3.00 p.m.
The Battle of Khambula, by Melton Prior, depicting Major Hackett’s companies firing into the Zulu ‘Left Horn’
From his position in the redoubt, Evelyn Wood watched as the lone company from 1/13th was overrun. He now regretted not placing soldiers within the large cattle kraal, or even a single cannon. These fortifications, coupled with the hundreds of oxen within, would provide the Zulus with excellent protection from both the main laager as well as the high redoubt.
“Five thousand men could occupy the kraal,” he said with dismay.
Captain Woodgate then added, “If they can stage that many men with only a hundred yards between them and the main laager, they could swarm the camp within seconds.”
“Right, time to sort this out,” Wood said reassuringly. He clambered over the western edge of the high fort.
“Where are you going, sir?” the captain asked.
“To take back the cattle kraal and keep the Zulus from overwhelming us, of course!”
The inkosi, Mzilikazi, allowed himself a grin of satisfaction, as he knelt next to the heavily splintered wagon near the northwest edge of the stone kraal. Thirty or forty of his warriors now lined the north wall and were shooting back at the desperate redcoats atop the knoll. His regiment, the uNokhenke, had once again shown their mettle and driven the red soldiers into full flight.
“Drive away their cattle, and we will occupy this position with our warriors,” the inkosi ordered some of his men.
He then took stock of their situation. While he knew that speed was crucial to overwhelming the redcoats, he felt the regiments of the ‘Chest’ and ‘Left Horn’ were too scattered. They needed to take the time to reorganise before executing one final push. Plus, the ‘Left Horn’ was making its way through the valley, and it would still be about half an hour before the remainder of the ‘Chest’ was in position to occupy the cattle kraal. Meanwhile, his marksmen were doing a splendid job of keeping the English soldiers in the redoubt occupied, while at the same time suppressing those within the main laager. He hoped this might take enough pressure off the ‘Right Horn’ that they could regroup and join in the final attack. Mzilikazi only hoped that his brethren amakhosi were as aware of the situation as he.
Enemy fire was intensifying all around the laager, most notably from the cattle kraal to the east and the dunghill to the southwest. The long piece of raised ground, topped with another four or five feet of animal scat, was proving especially problematic.
Captain Alan Gardner made note of this as he stood near the seat of a wagon along the western face of the defences between the positions occupied by the 13th and 90th Regiments.
“Sounds like a damned swarm of bees over our heads,” he said, as he was joined by Captain Edward Essex.
Though technically still the Director of Transport for No. 3 Column, Essex had accompanied Major Francis Clery, offering whatever services he could render to No. 4 Column. While he and Gardner were most certainly not friends, and in fact it was Essex who first coined the rather disparaging verse accusing Gardner of ‘running off to Dundee’ following Isandlwana, both men were willing to put their differences aside this day. And as neither of the captains had any actual troops to command, there was little they could do except take up their rifles and join the fight along the perimeter.
“I cannot help but wonder how many of those devils are carrying rifles taken from our boys at Isandlwana,” Essex added, as he fired at a group of skirmishers lurking behind a rock outcropping about 300 yards distant.
Captain Edward Essex, 75th Regiment
Director of Transport, No. 3 Column
Much of the ‘swarm of bees’ the two officers heard were, in fact, rifle shots coming from the dung mound, where scores of warriors were wielding their cherished breach-loading rifles for the first time in battle. Only about one in every twenty Isandlwana veterans had left the field with a Martini-Henry rifle. Even then, they each were only able to carry perhaps 20 to 25 rounds in their sacks. The Zulus also did not have designated marksman units, nor had they ever changed their standard battle tactics to accommodate for firearms. The rifle and musket were supplemental weapons, nothing more. Yet during this war against Queen Victoria’s redcoats, their employment had proven crucial, and those in possession of these newer, more dangerous rifles were intended to make the best use of them.
The mound they lurked behind stunk. Swarms of flies and ticks covered the mounds of animal dung. It was only about a hundred paces from the enemy laager, and the skirmishers behind this short rise numbered around a couple hundred. Whether they wielded old muskets or captured breach-loading rifles, their numbers alone ensured the British were in for a terrible ordeal.
The volume of musketry coming from the dung hill was causing duress for those within the laager. Wagons and tarps were riddled with holes, and the sounds of bullets traveling overhead and between the wagons created an eerie buzzing sound. There was also the occasional casualty. One of these was Buller’s staff officer, Captain Alan Gardner. Buller had ordered him to remain within the laager, ready to relay any additional instructions from Colonel Wood. Once the mounted troops returned to the defences, Alan took up a position with his fellow Isandlwana survivor, Edward Essex. While standing behind the long bar of one of the wagons, a bullet struck him in the outer thigh.
