Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  “Rest well,” Mandlenkosi whispered to the dying man.

  His companions were far less compassionate. Many relished the chance to slay those who they once fought beside. Those among Prince Hamu’s most loyal followers especially viewed the warriors they faced as the true enemies of the Zulu people, especially after the king had ordered their lands sacked and people killed. To them, there was the perverse idea that the invasion of their homeland was somehow a liberation of the people.

  The mounted troops and allied Zulus would pursue the impi more than eight miles, leaving a trail of dead and dying all the way to Zungwini Mountain. Had the Frontier Light Horse been professional cavalry, armed with sabre or lance, the slaughter would have been even more horrific. Some men took the time to dismount and retrieve the spears of the enemy slain, using them as makeshift lances. When the Imperial Mounted Infantry came upon a cluster of exhausted warriors, they took out their bayonets and stabbed with them like short swords. It was only when they reached the base of Zungwini Mountain, their horses tired and the Zulus having scattered in many directions, that Redvers Buller and Cecil Russell ordered their men to end the pursuit.

  A civilian correspondent from the Natal Mercury newspaper rode up to Buller. His face was ashen, and he clutched his notepad and pencil against his chest. “I cannot even comprehend how many your men have killed,” he said solemnly.

  “What you see is the sight of victory,” Buller explained. “It is ghastly, brutal, and bloody. Had the Zulus triumphed, it would be our corpses which litter the ground, including yours.”

  The reporter nodded in understanding. He knew the Zulus had no concept of ‘non-combatants’. At Isandlwana and Ntombe, even the young boys who served as voorloopers for the wagons had been killed and gutted. As such, the various correspondents who accompanied each of the columns were often armed. This particular man had a Swinburne-Henry carbine, though it had remained in the scabbard throughout most of the day. None of this helped his feelings of revulsion, and he later wrote, The cavalry followed them up for about eight miles, killing everyone they could lay their hands on. It was a most awful sight.

  Even the most brutally vengeful troopers felt a sense of distaste after the ordeal. “I should not like to know how many I killed,” Trooper Hewitt of the Frontier Light Horse said grimly. His carbine was fouled from having fired so many cartridges, and the buttstock was cracked after being smashed against the heads and bodies of numerous fleeing warriors. An iklwa spear lay across his lap, its blade streaked with blood.

  “I would say, we have avenged our mates,” one of his companions remarked.

  So dreadful was the slaughter of the fleeing Zulu impi over the span of eight miles, that many would later speculate as many died during the pursuit as during the four-hour Battle of Khambula.

  Chapter XLV: The Butcher’s Bill

  Khambula laager

  7.00 p.m.

  The Mounted Pursuit, from The Graphic

  As the last of the mounted troops returned to the main laager, the sun was quickly setting in the west. While the Battle of Khambula was brought to a decisive end, there was still much work to do for the battered and exhausted soldiers of No. 4 Column. Foremost was caring for the wounded and seeing to the dead. All told, eighty-three British soldiers had fallen that day, with eighteen killed and sixty-five wounded. More than half of the column’s casualties came from Major Robert Hackett’s sortie.

  Patrols were dispatched to sweep the field and account for the Zulu dead. Each section carried a handful of pickaxes and shovels, while some of their mates prodded the enemy bodies with bayonets. Any that stirred were given a thrust through the heart. Colonel Wood said nothing about taking prisoners, and besides, not one soldier in No. 4 Column was feeling particularly charitable after the butchery their friends suffered at Isandlwana, Ntombe, and most recently Hlobane.

  Harry Davies and the survivors of C Company, 1/13th were tasked with scouring the ground east of the cattle kraal, as well as around the burning brush huts. The already understrength company now numbered just fifty-four total soldiers. During the fighting and subsequent retreat from the stone kraal, eleven of their mates were wounded and four killed, including Sergeant Walker and Private Grosvenor. Five more had fallen injured during their final bayonet charge. Harry’s section had just ten men fighting fit, including himself.

  “But look how bad those bastards took it,” Private Jonathan Allan mused. The soldier carried a pickaxe and shovel in either hand and stood close to his corporal, who was prodding the bodies they came upon.

  The enemy slain lay thickest closest to the stone kraal. Dozens of drag marks further out told the story of many badly injured Zulus were dragged away by their friends. How many of these escaped the slaughter only to later die of their wounds? A gory tale would soon unfold in the coming days, as blood trails and corpses were discovered.

  The most sombre moment for Harry came when he and his men returned to see to their own dead. He saw a figure in a bandsman’s uniform kneeling next to the bodies of Lewis Walker and William Grosvenor. Removing his helmet, which he then set with his rifle against the kraal wall, Harry knelt down and placed a hand on the lad’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Richard.”

  The bandsman’s face was taught, his complexion pale, as he clasped his father’s lifeless hand. His right arm was in a sling, having been struck by an assegai while helping to retrieve the wounded from Major Hackett’s foray.

  “He promised Mum he would retire as soon as I was old enough to replace him in the ranks,” the young man said, his voice cracking. A tear ran down his cheek as he continued. “They both missed England. He told me many times he wanted to stand with Mum once again on the shores near Stolford, where he first asked her to marry him nearly twenty years ago. But now…” He fought back a sob as he finished, “he won’t be going home.”

  Richard bowed his head, trying in vain to fight back the sorrow which threatened to overwhelm him. His face now red, eyes bloodshot and wet, he reached down and with much effort pried off his father’s wedding ring.

  “At least I can return this to Mum.” He then looked at Harry. “And what will happen to my Mum, eh? Dad’s plan was to purchase a small cottage in Stolford, using his Army pension to help my siblings finish their education. But now he’s dead, and there will be no pension to support the family. What am I supposed to do? Tell me…what in the fuck am I supposed to do?” The redness in his face deepened as anger overtook his grief. “Those goddamned officers and politicians back home will drink toasts and tip their hats at our ‘great victory’ here, but do any of them give a bucket of piss what will happen to my Mum?” He shook his head violently. “We’re nothing to them! Our families are nothing!”

  Harry knew he could not assuage young Richard’s grief. Instead, he simply put his arm around his shoulder and together they wept and mourned the passing of Sergeant Lewis Walker.

  Ten miles to the east, with night wrapping its dark, cold arms around the surviving warriors of the Zulu impi, Ntshingwayo and his small escort came upon the inkosi, Mzilikazi, and about twenty warriors from the uNokhenke Regiment. No words were spoken, only nods of affirmation between the two generals.

  Each man knew the defeat of the impi was total, and while the Zulu Kingdom could still muster a large force numbering in the tens of thousands, the blow to the morale of those who had defeated the English at Isandlwana was devastating. For Ntshingwayo, there was also the matter of facing his king. Cetshwayo would be furious once he learned that his regiments had disobeyed him. He was able to forgive the Undi Corps for its ill-chosen attack on kwaJimu, though this was done mostly out of sentimental deference to his old regiment, the uThulwana. Now, the entire army, including the uThulwana, had failed to follow his expressed orders and suffered a terrible defeat. Mnyamana would face the worst of the king’s wrath, as he was the overall commanding general and was supposed be the voice of Cetshwayo. And yet, it was Ntshingwayo who’d led the actual attack. There would
be plenty of reparations, provided they survived the next phase of the war.

  Above all else, Ntshingwayo was exhausted. At seventy years of age, he should have been living a quiet life, being tended to by his children and grandchildren. Instead, he was now facing being held responsible for the greatest defeat suffered by the Zulu amabutho. What beat him down worse than his wounded pride was the suffering and death of so many warriors, and the devastation upon their families and the kingdom at large. What’s more, he feared more than ever for the survival of the Zulu Kingdom.

  Groans from the wounded echoed from the vicinity of the camp hospital, where Surgeon Major Charles Cuffe, along with the two battalion doctors and their hospital orderlies, worked through the night to save the most gravely injured. All casualties were sorted by the severity of their wounds. Those in danger of bleeding to death were seen to first, followed by those with compound fractures that had not severed a major artery. Non-lethal gunshot wounds and injuries wrought by enemy spears were given the lowest priority. For those beyond hope, particularly those shot or stabbed through the guts, they were segregated from the rest and made as comfortable as possible. An orderly would check them periodically, and those who had passed on would be carried or dragged to where the dead lay in long rows behind the hospital tent.

  Surgeon Major Charles Cuffe

  Principal Medical Officer, No. 4 Column

  At his headquarters tent, Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood sat upon his camp stool, reading through the reports being compiled by his remaining staff officers. Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert and Major Rogers had directed their company commanders to make certain all soldiers were completely resupplied with ammunition and then to send reports with their expenditures through the quartermasters. It was around 10.00 that night when Commissary Hughes was able to compile the expenditure reports from the infantry and mounted units. Major Tremlett, the staff officer from the Royal Artillery, had taken it upon himself to account for all rounds fired by his six guns during the battle.

  “All told, we expended 1,077 artillery shells,” the major reported, as he handed his despatch to Colonel Wood, detailing exactly how many of each type of round was shot and how many remained.

  “And between both battalions, we’ve fired roughly 138,000 Martini-Henry cartridges,” Commissary Hughes added, placing his own report on the column commander’s field desk.

  “That’s 40% of our ammunition stores,” Captain Woodgate observed, letting out a nervous sigh. “All from a single engagement.”

  “Given that the battle lasted over four hours, I think it is a testament to our men’s fire discipline that our stores aren’t completely depleted,” Lieutenant Colonel Gilbert observed.

  “This entire battle was a splendid display of discipline and valour in equal measure,” Wood asserted. “But, as Captain Woodgate has noted, we need to replenish our stock of cartridges and artillery shells as soon as possible.” He then checked his map. “Our best chance is Greytown, which is about 160 miles south of here. Lydenburg is slightly closer, but as we all know, the northern route is still extremely dangerous.”

  “Yes, a pity the 80th lost 90,000 rounds of ammunition to the damned Zulus,” Major Rogers said bitterly. “Those stores would have been useful right about now, as would their companies of riflemen. God only knows how many of those same cartridges were fired against us here today!”

  Since the Ntombe disaster, the commanding officer of the 90th Regiment never bothered to hide his contempt for what he viewed as nothing more than extreme incompetence that cost the army so much in the way of stores; not to mention the needless deaths of over a hundred imperial soldiers and wagon drivers!

  “We cannot undo the past,” Wood stressed, seeking to end Rogers’ bickering without having to publicly rebuke him in front of their fellow officers. “We’ve won a great victory here, and I daresay broken the back of the main Zulu army. It will take some time for them to regroup again; that is, if they even manage to regroup at all.”

  “They certainly seemed scattered and leaderless during the retreat,” Redvers Buller recalled. “I suppose that actually prevented us from slaughtering even more of them!”

  The flap of Wood’s tent was flung open by a hospital orderly.

  “Beg your pardon, colonel,” the man said, breathlessly. “Major Hackett is still alive. He’s asked for you, sir.”

  At first, Evelyn thought this to be a cruel jest. After all, Robert Hackett had been shot clean through the head! He saw him briefly when he was being carried into the compound; the entrance and exit wounds clearly visible and covered in clotting blood.

  Major Rogers joined him, and they followed the orderly back to the hospital. Hackett was sitting upright on a cot. He was shirtless, with his head wrapped in bandages. His fellow battalion major sat next to him, clutching his hand.

  “Robert,” Wood said, kneeling and placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “Is that you, colonel?” Hackett asked weakly, his lips parched and his voice hoarse.

  “I’m here. And by God, sir, it is good to see you still among the living.”

  “Well, I cannot see a damned thing,” the major replied. “Awfully cruel of these hospital orderlies to keep me in the dark like this.”

  One of the men was holding an oil lamp near Hackett’s face, yet all remained dark. The orderly looked over to Colonel Wood and shook his head. Evelyn sought out Surgeon Major Cuffe, who was wiping his hands on a bloody rag, having just finished extracting the bullet from Private George Hill’s shoulder. The soldier had fainted from the pain, as the doctor was only utilising chloroform for the most gravely injured.

  “Ah, colonel,” Cuffe said wearily. He followed Evelyn out of the tent while an orderly bandaged Hill’s shoulder and made the table ready for the next patient. In a few moments, another injured soldier would be brought in and the ordeal would begin once more.

  “It’s about Major Hackett,” Wood began. “Dash it all, I cannot believe he’s still alive.”

  “Nor can I. It looks like a small calibre musket ball struck him. Had that been a Martini-Henry bullet, the exit wound would have taken the side of his head with it. Judging by the path of the shot, it appears to have gone behind his eyes, likely severing the optic nerves.”

  “Which means he’ll never see again,” the colonel surmised. He then nodded slowly. “Well, I suppose he should count himself fortunate to still be alive.”

  “If you can call this a life,” Cuffe muttered. This brought a hard gaze from Wood, though the colonel said nothing. The doctor continued, “And understand, colonel, he’s not out of danger yet. There is still a substantial risk of infection, especially if the lead ball splintered inside his head. And of course, such trauma brings the chance of brain swelling, which would most certainly kill him.”

  An orderly then spoke up. “We’re ready for you, doctor.”

  “Your pardon, colonel,” Cuffe said. “It is time for me to try to mitigate the ‘butcher’s bill’ once more. We’ve had several men die on the operating table already, and I don’t intend to lose any more.”

  Wood nodded and took his leave. He considered going back to check on his old friend again, but saw that Major Rogers was talking with him and decided to leave them be. It seemed no one had the heart to tell Robert Hackett that, even if he survived his horrific injuries, he would never see again.

  “And to think, he loves nothing more than to hunt.”

  The following morning, to the north of the laager, from the direction which the Zulu ‘Right Horn’ had attacked and been subsequently repulsed, a cemetery was established for the column’s dead. The soldiers from each regiment saw to their fallen comrades with scores of men digging into the hard ground with pickaxes and shovels. With as much reverence as was possible under the circumstances, each body was wrapped in a blanket and placed in the back of a mule cart.

  The column staff and battalion commanders were gathered with Colonel Wood, while the enlisted men formed into a large square. Conducting an en m
asse funeral felt so impersonal to Harry Davies, yet he understood the necessity of the matter. After all, the dead could not be left out in the open, and there simply wasn’t time to perform a more personal tribute to each of the fallen. What’s more, there was still the spectre hanging over the column, regarding the 225 troopers and allied warriors who lay unburied along the slopes of Hlobane, not to mention the 1,300 at Isandlwana!

  In the coming days, eleven of the wounded would succumb to their injuries, bringing the total to twenty-nine bodies in the Khambula cemetery. The 13th and 90th Regiments had each dug their own graves. Separated from the fallen enlisted ranks was a smaller plot for the two officers slain during the battle; Lieutenant Frederick Nicholson, Royal Artillery, and 2nd Lieutenant Arthur Bright, 90th Regiment. Bright’s injuries had, at first, not appeared serious. It had been far too late once it was discovered that the enemy musket ball had cut into his femoral artery.

  While all wished to have a proper stone memorial erected to honour their fallen comrades, for the time being, a series of simple wooden crosses would have to suffice.

  The much greater task awaiting the column was the burying of the Zulu dead. Wagons were dispatched all along the perimeter, as far as the forked stream to the north and through the valley to the south. By midmorning on the 30th of March, the Zulu bodies within 300 yards of the Khambula stronghold had been buried in a series of mass graves. In all, 758 corpses were found, though Colonel Wood and the men of No. 4 Column knew this number only accounted for a portion of the enemy’s losses. Hundreds more had been cut down during the eight-mile pursuit by Redvers Buller’s mounted troops, and roving patrols would find bloody drag trails, not to mention additional bodies, over the coming days. Estimates placed the Zulu losses at around 1,500 killed, with an equal number of badly wounded who would likely die from their injuries.