by James Mace
“A single section of trained redcoats behind that berm could have shot our whole damned detachment to pieces,” his colour sergeant said quietly, as he passed on the information regarding their company’s losses.
Lieutenant Strong summoned the sergeants of both companies. “Have the wounded taken to the hospital and reform your sections on the firing line. This battle is far from over!”
For the battered redcoats of C Company, 1/13th, their role in the fight for Khambula was far from over. They had taken up positions with the men of Captain Waddy’s E Company near the southeast corner of the laager. Taking stock of the ongoing battle, with Major Hackett’s companies from the 90th Regiment retreating with all haste back into the laager, Corporal Harry Davies watched as the two 7-pounder guns in the redoubt concentrated their efforts on the cluster of huts to the east, where so many Zulu marksmen gathered.
“Captain Thurlow, Captain Waddy!” a voice shouted from behind them.
The two officers commanding turned to see Colonel Wood bounding towards them from the palisade along the slope. His helmet was gone, and he carried a Swinburne-Henry carbine that he’d borrowed from Private Fowler.
“Colonel, sir!” Thurlow called back, standing and waving to their column commander.
“There’s an entire regiment massing in the dead ground and making ready to attack,” the colonel exclaimed. “Time to dislodge them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Both company commanders ordered their men to manhandle the wagon along the southeast corner aside, the same ‘gate’ through which the 90th’s companies had fled. The order was then given to fix bayonets. The huts in the distance were burning, the enemy’s harassing fire having ceased. As such, Colonel Wood ordered both redoubt guns to the south wall. He also directed all four cannon within the open ground between the laager and redoubt to orient towards the south and ‘stand ready’.
“With me, sons of Somerset!” Wood shouted, waving the carbine towards the ravine.
Both companies dressed off the colonel, who placed himself on the extreme left of their line. Rather than marching out like they were on parade, the men of C and E Companies advanced at a quick jog, bayonets levelled. It was surreal for Harry Davies, charging headlong back into the fray.
“Stay together, lads!” Captain Thurlow shouted. His sword was drawn, and he ran a couple of paces in front of his soldiers. They skirted the western edge of the cattle kraal, noticing that there were still bands of enemy warriors lurking amongst the beasts. Upon reaching the rocky outcropping, they expected to find a thousand Zulus waiting for them. While there were large numbers of warriors occupying the dead ground, they were in disarray and had not expected this latest British counterattack.
“Halt!” Thurlow shouted, raising his sword. “Present…fire!”
There was no time to adjust their sights. Yet, at a range of perhaps fifty yards, the volley of musketry smashed into the assembling Zulus leaving another thirty warriors broken and dying. Just off to their right, Captain Waddy’s E Company unleashed a volley of their own into the Zulus still lingering along the southern slope.
“Charge!”
Their blood boiling, the companies of redcoats gave a unified howl of fury, levelled their rifles, and rushed at their distraught foes before they could reform. The momentum of racing downhill carried the two companies right into their foes. Bayonets plunged into bodies, leading to shrieks and howls of suffering.
“That’s sent them reeling!” Sergeant Ring shouted, as the Zulus retreated back further into the valley.
Shots rang out to their right, where they saw an entire regiment of Zulus reforming.
“Right lads, back to the laager!” Captain Thurlow ordered.
While their rivals in the uNokhenke and Umcijo Regiments were brutally pummelled by the combined fires of British cannon and rifle fire, Prince Zibhebhu stood tall above the rocky outcropping west of the camp. Dressed in his full regalia, he raised his iklwa and waved it in a circular arc, calling the warriors of the iNgobamakhosi to him. Mehlokazulu, who’d led a band of surviving skirmishers away from the dung hill where so many had been cut down, sought out his scattered companies of warriors.
Near the mouth of a small stream north of the British camp, Mehlokazulu came upon his friend and fellow induna, Bongani. Bongani was badly injured, having taken a Martini-Henry bullet through the right side of his stomach. The shot had gone clean through. While it did not appear to have ripped through his guts, the exit wound was hideous and bleeding terribly. One of his warriors had bound a pair of rags over the entrance and exit wounds with ropes made of grass.
“Not to worry, old friend,” Bongani said, battling against the pain. “I’m still in the fight. If the redcoats want to do me in, then it will be with my spear in their throats.”
Mehlokazulu bit the inside of his cheek and tried to give a smile for his stricken friend.
Prince Zibhebhu was sprinting in front of both regiments, taking command of the entire ‘Right Horn’ and compelling them to assail the heights once more. “Warriors of the Umcijo and iNgobamakhosi!” the prince shouted, his voice carrying across the plain, “you are the bravest of the king’s regiments! Do not allow a bunch of old women to take the camp before you!”
“Bayade!” The assembling warriors cried out in salute.
“Help me up,” Bongani said to Mehlokazulu, as he extended his hand. Mehlokazulu complied and assisted his friend to his feet.
“Now,” Bongani said, his breath weak and his countenance looking like he’d just run a great distance, “let us send these red soldiers to their ancestors.”
Mehlokazulu did not look back as he waved his men forward. Volleys of musketry, along with the bursting of cannon shot, continued to reign down from the British ramparts. Zulu skirmishers returned fire as best as they were able, yet for every musket or captured breach-loader they managed to fire, a score of redcoat rifles was fired in their direction. As the attacking regiments came within 200 paces, the enemy cannon switched to their fearsome cannister shot, with scores of lead balls flying from each blast and tearing swaths through the ranks of Zulu warriors.
Tripping on a hidden rock in the grass, Mehlokazulu fell onto his stomach, just as a salvo of musketry erupted from the ramparts that were now a hundred paces away. Warriors fell all around him, crying in pain. Their bodies were shattered into bloody pieces. What the induna thought was sweat covering his body was, in fact, blood from his nearest warriors. He was a frightful sight, like a ghoulish apparition from a Mary Shelley story. What was most surprising, especially given the large number of dead and dying men all around him, was that Mehlokazulu remained uninjured. He took his rifle and fired towards the ramparts and, for a moment, he thought he saw the head of an enemy redcoat snap back. Whether he had struck down an imperial soldier or not, the murderous rifle fire from the ramparts continued unabated. Whether the ‘Chest’ or ‘Left Horn’ succeeded in taking the camp, for the Umcijo and iNgobamakhosi Regiments, the attack was over.
“Back to the river!” Mehlokazulu shouted, waving his iklwa towards the forked stream where they’d first mustered for the assault.
He cringed as he took to his feet, expecting to be shot to pieces at any moment. Bullets kicked up clods of mud and splinters of rock around him. A shard of rock struck him just below the eye as a bullet snapped past his head, grazing his hairline and tearing a gash through the skin. Mehlokazulu winced at the stinging pain, which induced him to sprint even faster.
The entire slope was littered with the dead and dying; the ground slippery with blood and shredded entrails. It was only when he reached the stream that the enemy fire slackened and his friends quit falling.
Even Prince Zibhebhu, who only minutes before was exhorting his men into swarming the British camp, knew the enemy fort was unassailable. While he held out some hope for the assaults from the south and east, he knew there was nothing for the Zulu impi atop Khambula, except agony and a brutal death.
The Battle
of Khambula, from the collection of Ian Knight
Chapter XLIV: A Rough and Tumble
Khambula laager
5.30 p.m.
The Battle of Khambula, by Orlando Norie
Despite the success of their previous counterattacks, Colonel Wood noted the presence of large numbers of Zulus still holding the cattle kraal. Like his men, he was exhausted. He also knew the battle could still be lost, should they fail to dislodge this last holdout of enemy warriors within their defences.
“Captain Laye!” he called out.
The officer commanding of A Company, 1/13th rushed to his column commander. “Sir?”
“Order your men to fix bayonets and follow me,” Wood ordered. “We’re retaking the cattle kraal.”
Laye nodded and drew his sword, shouting, “Fix bayonets!” over his shoulder.
His subalterns, colour sergeant, and section leaders echoed the order. As the triangular spikes were fixed to the ends of their rifles, A Company was ordered to spread out into skirmishing order and form into two ranks.
“The smoke will help conceal how few we are,” Colonel Wood explained. He then directed C and E Companies from 1/13th to lay down covering fire as A Company made ready to attack. These men had only just retired from their own counterattack near the stone cliffs. Every man in Captains Thurlow and Waddy’s companies was soaked in sweat and exhausted. Still, they heeded the orders of their section leaders, checked the sights on their rifles, and commenced firing in the direction of the cattle kraal.
Once the men of A Company were ready, the colonel nodded to Laye. “In your own time, captain.”
“Yes, sir.” Captain Laye took a deep breath and shouted, “Bayonets ready!”
The assembled company gave a loud shout, as they levelled their weapons in the direction of the kraal.
His face turning a shade of red with a surge of fearsome rage, he cried, “Charge!”
A concentrated volley was fired from the laager to help suppress the Zulus, as well as providing more smoke with which to shield the attack. With a unified battle cry, the redcoats from A Company sprinted across the open expanse towards the stone kraal. Shields, spears, and clubs danced about behind the wafts of smoke creating a terrifying and surreal display. Colonel Wood could only hope his brazen charge terrified the Zulus.
The Zulus attempting to hold the kraal were suddenly put to flight by this latest barefaced charge. The British bayonet had a greater psychological effect on them than even the terrifyingly accurate volleys of enemy musketry. Through the wafting haze of smoke clinging to the ridgeline, it was impossible to tell how many red-jacketed imperial soldiers were so boldly attacking them.
Many of the skirmishers along the nearest rampart threw down their rifles and took up their spears and clubs, as they quickly backed away. Izinduna attempted to form their men into battle lines, as the first wave of redcoats scrambled over the wall. This was made even more difficult by the rampaging swarms of cattle still remaining within the kraal. Had they known this force of imperial soldiers numbered less than a hundred men, it would have taken little effort to surround and annihilate them. As it was, each warrior assumed there were at least a thousand redcoats attacking them, and while those in the first two ranks stood their ground, the rest fled to the eastern ramparts.
In one-on-one combat, the British soldier held a distinct advantage due to the reach of his weapon and the relentless hours of training he’d received in bayonet drill. For the Zulu warriors, they could only seize the initiative once they’d established a decisive numerical advantage and were able to attack each redcoat with multiple warriors simultaneously. The warriors of the Undi Corps were equal in bravery with their younger counterparts, yet the effects of age slowed their fighting prowess. A dozen men fell dead or badly injured from the plunging thrusts of the fearsome bayonets, while only two had managed to strike down their red-jacketed assailants.
Within minutes, the last remnants of the Zulu ‘Chest’ within the kraal broke and fled. Those unable to reach the eastern wall were stabbed through the back and legs, the redcoats without mercy. Ever since Isandlwana, it was understood by both sides that no quarter would be given. Soldier and warrior alike knew, once close combat ensued, they would either win or they would die.
As the last of the enemy warriors fled from the compound, either east towards the burning huts or chancing a fall down the short cliff, the 80 redcoats pursuing them took up positions along the eastern and southern ramparts with section leaders ordering them to open fire. For several more minutes, the fleeing warriors were subjected to volleys of musketry before they disappeared out of range.
For the men of A Company, 1/13th it was unnerving, occupying the same defence works previously held by their C Company. Zulu bodies littered the ground, with soldiers feeling compelled to bayonet each one, lest they should only be pretending to be dead. What’s more, there were the bodies of redcoats intermixed with the enemy. Captain Laye ordered his men to check each one to see if any were still alive. There was little doubt in anyone’s mind as they came upon the corpses of Lewis Walker and William Grosvenor. Despite being in the midst of a fearsome battle, the Zulus had taken the time to stab both men repeatedly and disembowel them.
While Captain Laye’s company reoccupied the stone kraal, Evelyn Wood returned to the main laager and sought out Lieutenant Colonel Buller. Since retiring behind the defences after drawing the enemy ‘Right Horn’ into the fray, the mounted troops took up positions along the ramparts, adding their carbines to the rifles wielded by the 90th and 13th Regiments.
“Colonel Buller!” he shouted, waving with his borrowed carbine.
“Sir?” the cavalry officer asked as he rushed over to his column commander.
“The Zulus appear to be retiring along the perimeter. It is time we make certain they have no intentions of returning.”
“Very good, sir.” Buller then ordered a bugler to sound the command for the mounted troops to take to their horses one more time.
Wood had not bothered to seek out Lieutenant Colonel Russell, though he, too, had heard the bugle call and ordered the Imperial Mounted Infantry and Basutos to mount up and make ready to join the pursuit.
“Yesterday, we were routed,” Buller said to his assembling troops. “Today, it is the enemy’s turn. They have been beaten, and now we will make certain they remember us. With me!”
Raising his carbine, Lieutenant Colonel Buller turned his horse about and rode out of the northern entrance to the camp. Crewmen from a pair of cannon under Lieutenant Bigge waved their helmets in the air and cheered as the mounted troops galloped past them.
Captain Cecil D’Arcy of the Frontier Light Horse, who’d survived the harsh tumble down the krantz of Hlobane, was crushed by a falling horse, and only saved from death by the timely arrival of Redvers Buller, was particularly incensed.
“Give them no mercy!” he shouted. “And remember yesterday!”
“Remember Hlobane!” many of his troopers shouted in return. Others added the battle cry, “Remember Isandlwana!”
Hundreds of vengeance-driven horsemen spilled forth from the Khambula fort, eager to slay every Zulu warrior before they could reach the Zungwini or Hlobane Mountains. The state of the Zulu army was one of broken exhaustion. Though they numbered in the thousands, there was no effort made to rally into battle formations to repel this latest assault. Instead, each warrior seemed only concerned about his own survival. Fatigue now crippled many of them, and they were either shot down or had their skulls bashed with carbines.
“Just like a game of polo!” one gleeful trooper shouted, his eyes filled with lustful rage.
“If only Her Majesty had seen fit to issue us with sabre and lance!” another added, gripping the barrel of his carbine and swinging it at a staggering Zulu. The buttstock struck the man at the base of the skull with such force that it nearly knocked the weapon from the trooper’s hand. He glanced back quickly, only to see the stricken man lying face down, his body twitching
violently.
Further to the left of the massed formation of pursuers, Lieutenant Edward Browne led the Imperial Mounted Infantry. Though sharing in their colonial comrades’ rage, they were more controlled in their execution of the fleeing Zulus. Each time the enemy was within a hundred yards, Edward would order a short halt. Men dismounted, loaded their carbines, and fired a single volley towards their foe. It lacked the barbaric fearsomeness of the Frontier Light Horse, yet was even more effective.
The Basutos from the Natal Native Horse were, perhaps, the most vicious of all within the British and allied mounted troops. The same could be said for the remaining warriors from Wood’s Irregulars and Hamu’s followers. Mandlenkosi had spent much of the battle with his men, holding in reserve within the main laager. Now was their chance to avenge themselves.
With the mounted troops committing most of the slaughter, it was only the stragglers they’d somehow missed who fell victim to the spears and clubs of the turncoat Zulus. Mandlenkosi swallowed hard, as he saw a slightly stooped warrior roughly thirty paces ahead of him. The man’s hair was mostly grey, and he wore the gummed ring in his hair of a married man. He was clearly much older, and the induna hoped he was not an old friend of the uThulwana. As the warrior was directly in his path, Mandlenkosi knew he had no other option but to slay him. He half-closed his eyes, hoping that he would not accidently have to see his victim’s face, sprinting the last few feet and plunging his spear into the back of the man’s neck. It was the one place where he knew he could grant an old comrade the quickest death, though he panicked when his weapon became stuck between the vertebrae. The stricken warrior fell to the ground, convulsing. Mandlenkosi struggled to wrench his iklwa from the hideous wound. The spear finally came loose with a sickening crunch, as it further split the neck bones.
