by James Mace
“Damn it all!” he cried out, his body twisted as both his legs slipped out from under him.
Essex was quickly by his side, firing a shot towards the enemy skirmishers that struck down his friend. He dragged the injured captain behind the wagon. As he assisted Captain Gardner in bandaging his leg, Essex glanced up and saw a group of six soldiers working in pairs to carry the heavy wooden boxes of Martini-Henry cartridges to the line. Major Rogers had ordered the 90th Regiment to have the screws loosened, so they were easily opened. And for those that still proved stubborn, a swift blow from a rifle buttstock bent the screws loose and knocked back the centre plank. Edward let out a sad sigh, his mind flashing back to the ammunition detail he’d led at Isandlwana just three months before.
“It’s as if I’m seeing the same faces again,” he explained to Gardner, helping him into a sitting position where he could still wield his rifle. “Let us hope they don’t share the same fate as those poor lads of the 24th.”
“Today we avenge the 24th,” Gardner replied. He gritted his teeth as the muscles in his injured thigh spasmed uncontrollably, causing searing jolts of pain all the way to his spine. “Besides,” he added, as he set his rifle against the earthworks, “We may not exactly be friends, Edward, but I didn’t survive that nightmare just to die here. And neither did you!”
Near the northeast corner of the laager, by the base of the hill, Major Robert Hackett drew his pistol and bounded from the protection of the defences into the open space near leading up to the high redoubt. Major Rogers had informed him that Colonel Wood needed two companies to help drive back the Zulu ‘Left Horn’. Hackett was only too eager to comply.
Captain Woodgate was waiting for him. “Sir, if you’ll kindly follow me, I’ll show you where to go.”
“Delighted, captain, delighted!” Hackett replied boisterously. The deportment of both officers masked the grave peril they and their men faced, as bullets continued to snap overhead, while the lead ranks of Zulus from the ‘Left Horn’ reached the crest of the Khambula slope to the south.
Behind Hackett, the two companies of redcoats rushed forth from the laager in a long line. Leading each were their officers commanding, Lieutenants Arthur Bright and Richard Strong. Standing six feet tall, Bright towered over most of his soldiers, though he always said this made him easier to find during battle!
His senior NCO, Colour Sergeant Allen, was among the first to be injured by the enemy’s barrage of musketry during the scrap against the Zulu ‘Right Horn’. He had just managed to re-join the company, carrying his rifle despite his right arm being heavily bandaged. “Just a flesh wound, sir,” he said, reassuringly, to his acting-officer commanding.
Lieutenant Strong, his company in the lead, spotted the large force of Zulus emerging from the southern ravine. “Are those the fellows we need to dislodge, sir?”
“Right you are, Mister Strong,” Hackett said.
The lieutenant nodded and turned to face his company. “Fix bayonets!” he shouted, turning his attention back to Hackett and Captain Woodgate.
A correspondent from The Natal Mercury would later report that Captain Woodgate was marching as leisurely and unconcernedly as if he was pacing a piece of ground for cricket wickets.
It was, perhaps, this measured response, with the redcoats seemingly oblivious to the constant salvoes of rifle fire directed towards them, that unnerved the Zulus in the ravine. They quickly disappeared from view as the line of 180 imperial soldiers swung in a wide arc towards them.
“Charge!” Hackett called out, waving his pistol towards their fleeing foes. The assembled soldiers gave a loud battle cry and sprinted towards the ravine, bayonets levelled. Upon reaching the edge, Captain Woodgate held his sword aloft, signalling where the right of their line should end.
“Right lads, pour it into them!” the major called out.
Needing no prompting, section leaders within each company gave the command for their soldiers to open fire. The regiments of the ‘Left Horn’ were now assembling in the valley below, readying to drive into the southern flank of the camp. The sudden appearance of imperial redcoats alarmed them, even more so when volleys of rifle fire tore into their lead ranks. The British soldiers walked their shots back, hammering the amabutho with enfilade fire, and leaving scores of dead and badly injured with each volley.
Robert Hackett walked the line, calmly exhorting his men, and firing the occasional shot with his pistol towards the mass of enemy warriors below them. He noticed that his detachment had already suffered several casualties. Among these was Lieutenant Bright, who’d taken a musket ball through both legs and now lay on the ground, bleeding terribly, and biting his lip in pain.
“Stretcher bearers!” Hackett called back to the camp, waving them forward with his pistol. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw the Zulu marksmen behind the dung heap were concentrating their fire on his detachment. They were unnervingly close, and the major was suddenly aware of bullets kicking up gouts of dirt and buzzing overhead. Three more soldiers fell injured; two were struck from behind by these enemy skirmishers.
“You have everything in hand, sir?” Captain Woodgate asked, clasping Hackett’s shoulder.
“Yes, captain. We’ll sort out these devils in the valley soon enough. But be a good fellow and ask Colonel Wood if he would do something about those bastards hiding behind our cow scat. They’re causing us a spot of bother.”
Colonel Wood was already aware of the danger posed to Major Hackett’s force and had directed all companies on the west and southwest faces of the laager to focus their efforts on suppressing the enemy marksmen behind the dung heap. It was Redvers Buller who saw that the redcoats were slow in engaging and taking too long to fire. Riding his horse over to the western defences, he gave a rare shout of profanity towards the companies. “Damn it all, it’s shit! It won’t stop your bullets! Fire into the shit!”
“Impolite language aside, the colonel makes a good point,” Edward Essex said, as he and Alan Gardner continued to lend their rifle support to the firing line.
Just to their right, an entire company from the 90th Regiment unleashed a single volley into the dung heap. This was followed by a concentrated salvo from a 1/13th company to their left, focusing their efforts on the eastern corner of the berm where most of the Zulu fire towards the flying companies seemed to come from.
“That should silence a few of them,” Gardner mused as he took a handkerchief and grabbed a spent cartridge that had become stuck in the breach of his rifle. He then added, “These cheap foil cartridges are going to be the death of us!”
Mehlokazulu sensed the enemy’s response to their barrages of musketry coming from the dung hill. He dropped down behind the earthen berm just before one of the British companies opened fire. The four-foot-high pile of cattle dung did nothing to stop the barrage. Bullets slapped clean through, spraying animal waste and bits of undigested mealies. What’s more, the Zulu marksmen were so numerous and clustered together that many were struck down. Screams came from along the line. The induna watched as eight warriors tumbled down the short berm. Three were killed outright; two shot through the heart while the other had the top of his head split down the middle. The wounded were mostly struck about the upper chest, shoulders, and arms.
Mehlokazulu hunkered low and rushed along behind the berm, his gaze focusing on a new British rifle dropped by one of the wounded. The poor man writhed in agony. The terrible injuries were, in many ways, more horrifying to their friends than seeing those killed outright. Warriors fought back their sobs of anguish, as shattered bones protruded through gaping maws of torn flesh.
The worst of the wounded, a poor young man who’d been shot through the guts, begged for death. “Mehlokazulu, my friend!” the warrior said, grabbing the induna by the wrist.
Mehlokazulu knew the man. They had served in the same company since the king raised the iNgobamakhosi Regiment. He even recalled that this warrior had been among the first to kill a white soldier at Isandl
wana. Mehlokazulu clutched his hand not knowing what else he could do. This brave man’s life was ending in extreme agony, and he deserved so much better!
“Please…” the warrior said, spittle and traces of blood spraying off his lips. “Help me…end it now.”
The induna found himself unable to speak and settled for a simple nod. Still clutching the dying warrior’s hand, he took his iklwa and plunged it into the side of his neck. The warrior sputtered and tried to gasp as blood gushed from the severed artery. It took only seconds for him to die, but for Mehlokazulu it felt like a lifetime. He was unable to fight back the tears that streamed down his face. Just a few hours before, the entire impi was chanting war songs about their last victory, looking to end the British in northern Zululand once and for all. And now, the entire ‘Right Horn’ had broken. Hundreds of his warriors from the iNgobamakhosi were dead or maimed. He knew the ‘Chest’ and ‘Left Horn’ were approaching from the south, but he had not personally seen any of the fighting near the cattle kraal. All he knew was that hundreds of brave Zulus had been slain, and still the British stronghold held.
As soon as the dead warrior’s grip loosened on his hand, Mehlokazulu composed himself and took the man’s rifle and ammunition pouch. This was not one of the Martini-Henry rifles taken from the British infantry at Isandlwana, but a shorter-barrelled carbine taken from a dead Basuto horseman at Hlobane. It functioned the same, and Mehlokazulu knew it was far better than any musket carried by the Zulus prior to the war. He saw the pouch had twelve loose rounds and a few personal possessions owned by the slain warrior. The induna took the cartridges and placed them into his own pouch.
There were more warriors being struck down by British fire from the laager, the survivors now keeping low on the berm itself rather than trying to use the cattle scat for protection. Casualties were worse near the eastern edge of the berm, as these skirmishers were attempting to engage the imperial soldiers who Mehlokazulu could now see were causing untold grief to the ‘Left Horn’. He checked the carbine and saw that the rear sight was flipped up. He sighed and shook his head. Many warriors had assumed that raising the rear sight would make their bullets travel further. In essence they were correct, for it made them raise the barrels higher; yet this also meant that many of their shots sailed well over the heads of their intended targets.
Mehlokazulu, who had at least some experience hunting with firearms, flipped the sight down and opened the breach. He fished through the cartridges and was appalled at how many were bent and gouged. Taking one of the straighter rounds, he fed it into the chamber and closed it with a click from the lever. There were six or seven other warriors clustered around the corner of the berm, and the induna could see that, despite the shortcomings in marksmanship training, that the Zulu skirmishers were still having an impact on the exposed redcoat companies. He saw at least a score of them had fallen, with numerous others being carried on stretchers from their position along the ridgeline. He then noticed a man pacing well behind the line, a pistol in hand. Mehlokazulu assumed he was the induna in overall command of these soldiers.
“Kill that one!” he ordered the nearby marksmen. A couple gave affirmative nods, and fired a volley in the direction of the British officer.
Terror gripped the hearts of every British soldier battling the Zulus along the ridgeline; however, for Major Robert Hackett, there was a feeling of exhilaration and purpose. A lifelong soldier who’d never even considered taking a wife, his very existence revolved around his regiment. This was where he belonged!
“That’s it, lads, keep giving it to those bastards!” As bullets from Zulu marksmen from three sides continued to kick up clods of dirt and shatter against protruding stones, he was marginally surprised to find that he was not afraid. He lamented the dead and pitied the wounded, yet he could not have been prouder of his regiment! Their discipline and relentless drills were now paying dividends in enemy blood. Plunging rifle fire riddling the swarm of Zulus who desperately attempted to reform and counterattack. Hackett reckoned that for every one of his soldiers that was struck down, a dozen Zulus fell.
The major constantly found himself drawn towards the centre of the line. With both Lieutenant Bright and Colour Sergeant Allen shot, their company was essentially leaderless. Hackett was pleased to see that the riflemen were still executing their drills under the sharp commands of their sergeants.
“Sir, they appear to be breaking!” Lieutenant Strong called out. He was pacing behind his own company, calling out range adjustments to his section leaders, while summoning over the occasional team of stretcher bearers.
“Splendid work, Mister Strong!” Hackett said, his grin broad. The nod of confidence from the lieutenant was the last thing he would ever see. At that moment, a salvo of musketry erupted from the edge of the berm to their right rear flank. A private fell, struck in the shoulder, while Robert Hackett’s vision went black.
Chapter XLIII: One Final Push
Major Hackett’s detachment, southern Khambula Ridge
3.25 p.m.
2nd Lieutenant Arthur Bright
Subaltern / Acting Officer Commanding, D Company, 90th Regiment
“The major’s down!” a private shouted. This was the soldier who’d been injured by a musket shot to his shoulder. Spun around by the force of the blow, he watched as a puff of pink mist spurted from the left temple of Major Hackett’s head before he fell lifeless to the ground.
Lieutenant Strong was immediately at his side. As he knelt, he could see the small entrance wound where a musket shot pierced the major’s skull near the temple. Given that the bullet had passed clean through, he did not bother checking his breathing. It was then that he realised he was the only officer still left standing, and it fell to him to take charge of both companies.
“Take command, colour sergeant!” he shouted to his company’s senior NCO, before making his way over to where Arthur Bright’s company was tenuously holding their position. While it did appear that the Zulu ‘Left Horn’ was in disarray, the exposed detachment of redcoats were taking a punishing amount of fire from the ravine, as well as below the cliff face and the dung pile.
From near the palisade along the knoll, Colonel Wood noted their dangerous predicament. He was also able to see that the ‘Left Horn’s momentum was broken for the time being. It was with much relief when Lieutenant Strong and the detached companies from the 90th Regiment heard the colonel’s bugler sounding the order to retire.
“Fall back to the defences!” he shouted, as he raced along the line of Bright’s company. He then checked over his shoulder to see that his colour sergeant was giving the same order to their own men. The lieutenant then added, “Protect the wounded…leave the dead.”
These last words were said with much regret, yet he knew they were necessary. There was nothing left they could do for the slain. Their souls cared not if the Zulus disembowelled their bloody corpses. For them, the suffering of this mortal coil was over.
The one fatally stricken man the redcoats refused to leave behind was Major Robert Hackett. A soldier hefted his lifeless body beneath the arms, while another grabbed him by his legs. Hackett was that rare officer who was equally admired by the men in the ranks as he was within the Officers’ Mess, and they were not about to abandon him.
Their retreat inspired the Zulus in the ravine to continue in their assault. With shouts of ‘Usutu!’ they charged up the slope, stepping haphazardly over the bodies of their dead and dying companions, attempting the catch the redcoats who caused them so much suffering.
“Here they come!” a voice shouted from the southern ramparts.
Soldiers from 1/13th increased their rates of fire, both against the dung mound and the enemy regiments attempting to swarm Hackett’s companies.
“Come about!” Lieutenant Strong shouted, his soldiers spinning around to face their enemy.
A series of melee skirmishes broke out, as warriors charged into the fray. So anxious had been their attempt to seize the heights tha
t company line formations had broken down, with warriors engaging in one-on-one battle against the retreating redcoats. The reach of the bayonet and the volume of rifle fire coming from inside the laager kept the Zulus from converging their numbers on the fleeing companies. A single wagon was wheeled aside like a gate. The soldiers just managed to reach the inner defences before they were swarmed by the rampaging Zulus. As individual bouts broke out at various points along the southern defences, sections of infantrymen within the compound formed into a series of firing lines, shooting over the shoulders of their companions who engaged in fierce bayonet combat. The Zulus were compelled to retreat, flinging assegais and firing the occasional shot from their muskets, as they retired back down the southern slope.
“Somebody want to tell me what that was all about?” Private Albert Page said in exacerbation, as he cleared a jammed cartridge from his rifle. “The 90th just suffered a slew of casualties, while the Zulus still hold the cattle kraal.”
“Perhaps the colonel felt there wasn’t enough work for the surgeon,” his mate, Private Allan, remarked.
The bodies of both redcoats and warriors alike lay scattered about the open ground. While it appeared that the Zulus had taken the worst of the exchange, the men continuing to fire from behind the barricades knew their adversaries could shoulder the losses far more easily.
Retrieving Major Hackett’s body, from The Penny Illustrated Paper
Within minutes of reaching the safety of the wagon laager, sergeants and corporals from both companies accounted for their men and passed the information to Lieutenant Strong. In all, forty-four of the 180 men from Hackett’s detachment were dead or badly injured. Strong could not help but sense that, as tragic as these losses were, their dilemma could have been much worse.
