Cruelty of Fate

by James Mace

  One of his closest confidants remained Tshwane kaSihayo, the brother of Mehlokazulu, who had followed him on every raid during the days following the Battle of Khambula. Tshwane was worried about his brother, particularly after hearing how badly the iNgobamakhosi Regiment had been mauled.

  “The only thing we can do now is harass the invaders while the amabutho regroups,” Mbilini cautioned.

  Six days after the gruesome battles, Mbilini elected to take a small party and raid a recently abandoned farmstead. The prince hoped to take more of his followers with him; however, the abaQulusi had suffered heavily during the Battle of Khambula, and many were now afraid to venture out beyond the safety of their stronghold atop Hlobane. They were further exhausted from the fighting. And as he had only four horses at his disposal, Mbilini contented himself to taking Tshwane and a pair of attendants with him.

  The day had begun promisingly enough. Three farms had Mbilini and his small group of followers raided this morning, and each had netted them between eight to twelve head of cattle. They had all been deserted, as the recent battles at Hlobane and Khambula compelled many to flee the region either for the safety of the British-held towns, or north into Swaziland.

  “How are the ribs?” Tshwane asked, as they herded their prizes along the banks of a narrow stream.

  “It is difficult to breathe deeply, but I am managing,” the prince admitted. “By the time King Cetshwayo is ready to renew his campaign against the White Queen’s soldiers, I will be more than fit for battle.”

  While the garrison at Luneburg had greeted the news of Colonel Wood’s resounding victory with cheers and accolades, there were still the incessant bitter feelings within the 80th Staffordshire Regiment, as they remained unable to avenge their own savage defeat at Ntombe. However, Major Tucker felt emboldened by recent events and began sending his patrols further afield.

  The sun crested over the open lands to the east, warming the backs of the British patrol that departed the garrison an hour before dawn. Leading them was Captain John Prior who, following Hlobane and Khambula, had returned to his regiment. Accompanying him was one section of infantry, about thirty local warriors, along with a handful of settler volunteers. Among these was the son of a German pastor. Lance Sergeant William Burgess joined the patrol, along with Privates John Mace and James Taylor, who accompanied him as a means of escaping the tedium of guard duty.

  “There is an abandoned farmhouse about six miles east of here,” the captain had explained to Burgess and his assistant, Corporal George Brew. “Colonel Tucker wants it investigated for any wayward cattle, as well as any signs of Zulu raiders.”

  The twenty or so infantrymen spread out in skirmishing formation, maintaining five to six yards between each soldier, with the indigenous warriors protecting their flanks. Captain Prior rode just behind the centre of the formation, often scanning the horizon with his field glasses.

  As they high-stepped through a stretch of tall grass, Private Taylor felt the right knee on his trousers ripping, for what he guessed was the dozenth time. “Bugger…piss!” he bickered, as the patch he’d stitched over a previous gash came completely off. “I swear the bloody leg’s about to come off me trousers.”

  “Have a little faith, old boy,” his friend, Private John Mace, spoke up. “I heard rumour from over at the quartermaster’s tent that our new uniform issue should be arriving within a week.”

  “About damned time,” another soldier muttered, noting the tears along one of the elbows of his tunic that had become so threadbare they could no longer be stitched together. “Another month of this shit, and we’d be fighting the sodding kaffirs in the nude!”

  “That’d suit me just fine,” Private Mace remarked, his naturally olive complexing adapting to the South African sun far better than most of his mates.

  “Right up until a cluster of those tiny red ticks decides to make a nest in your bollocks,” Taylor added with a macabre chuckle.

  “Oi, look alive!” Lance Sergeant Burgess called out. “You can worry about your bollocks later. Looks like we might have Zulus lurking about.”

  The patrol had been on the march for a little over two hours, and the farmstead was just coming into view. Burgess, whose eyesight was far better than most of his soldiers, spotted what he thought was a cloud of dust coming from beyond a large field of grass that had been mostly grazed down to the roots by a local herd.

  “Do you see that, sir?” the lance sergeant asked Captain Prior.

  The officer raised his field glasses and paused for a moment. He cocked a grin as he spotted a black African astride a horse. As there were no elements of friendly African horsemen in the area, and with all settlers having long since fled, he rightly assumed the man was an enemy warrior.

  “I see at least one Zulu astride a horse, with about a dozen cattle being herded through a donga.” Prior then ordered Burgess, “Advance at the double, sergeant, but keep your eyes open. He likely has friends lurking about.” He then called out to the friendly Zulus on either flank, “Zungeze isitha! Surround the enemy!”

  When they were within a hundred yards of their quarry, the lance sergeant ordered the soldiers closet to him to load their weapons.

  “Index 100 yards,” he directed, adjusting the sites on his own rifle.

  It was Tshwane kaSihayo who the sharp-eyed redcoat had spotted. His back was towards his approaching foes, as he was busy trying to keep a handful of unruly cattle from wandering off. Mbilini had become overzealous, hoping to take so many disruptive beasts back to his stronghold with just three men to assist. It was only when one particularly large white bull—a prize worthy of the king’s personal herd—ambled past him that the young warrior turned to see the thin line of imperial soldiers rushing towards him. The traitorous enemy warriors accompanying them had easily outdistanced their white allies and were sprinting towards the ravine from either side.

  “The English come!” Tshwane shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Before Mbilini and their companions could react, the stillness of the morning was shattered by the volley of Martini-Henry fire. Tshwane’s back arched as his head snapped back, his mouth agape in pain as a trio of heavy bullets tore into his body. One smashed through his outer right buttock, ripping away fresh and muscle, while the other two shots struck him in the shoulder and upper back. Bones shattered and his right lung was torn asunder. The young warrior was, surprisingly, still alive as he was thrown from his panicked horse. He landed hard on his badly injured side, sobbing in pain and unable to stand or defend himself. He opened his eyes, blinded by the sun for the briefest of moments before seeing the enraged faces of two Zulu traitors who stood over him, their iklwa spears ready to strike. With cries of fury, their spears plunged into his guts repeatedly. Blood and bodily fluids sprayed them in the face. After what felt like an eternity, though in was reality just a few seconds, a spear was thrust into his heart, ending his life.

  Through the unbearable pain, Tshwane kaSihayo managed to find a moment of peace as his spirit departed.

  Ancestors, guide me home.

  “No!” Mbilini cried out in horror, as he watched his valiant friend so savagely butchered. His remaining companions were being chased by a band of enemy warriors, their horses inadvertently taking them directly into the field-of-view of the imperial redcoats, as well as the mounted troops. A subsequent volley felled both men; each struck numerous times in a sickening spray of blood and gore. One had the top of his head taken off by a rifle shot, death claiming him long before he fell from the saddle of his terrified mount; shredded brain matter protruded through the break in his skull.

  Gritting his teeth at the loss of his friends, as well as the prized cattle, Mbilini turned his horse to ride away. Though he was protected from the redcoats by a short donga, a group of six enemy African warriors were now in pursuit as were a few mounted men. One of the traitorous Zulus carried a Martini-Henry rifle, issued to him by his white masters. And while still only given a paltry number of bullets
, the man was determined to make them count. The Swazi prince had just managed to turn his horse around and started to gallop away when the warrior raised up his rifle and fired. At the same time, the young German settler shouldered and fired his carbine at the Swazi prince.

  Mbilini was nearly knocked from the saddle as a bullet smashed through his right shoulder. He gasped in pain, unable to cry out as one of his lungs was punctured by the bullet, which tore through his insides and exited out his left hip, shattering the bone and leaving a ghastly spray of gore in its wake. The prince wasn’t even aware of this fearful injury, only able to comprehend the pain in his broken shoulder which rendered his right arm useless. The noise of the rifle shot had startled his horse into a full gallop, and Mbilini clung to the reins with his left hand. Sweat was flicked off his brow by the stiff breeze blowing in his face. He struggled to breathe, and his vision clouded as his horse bounded away.

  “Mbilini! Mbilini!” the excited warriors shouted, pointing their spears and clubs towards the fleeing horseman.

  Captain Prior sprinted his horse up to a short rise and looked hard through his field glasses. He then handed them to Private Mace, who was the only British soldier with the patrol to have seen the Swazi prince before. The man certainly resembled the Swazi renegade, though from a distance, it was impossible to be certain. What the private could see was that the fleeing warrior was gravely wounded. He was slumped forward in the saddle, his right arm hanging useless by his side, his left arm and leg covered in blood. He said as much to Captain Prior as he handed his field glasses back to him.

  “It certainly looked like him, sir,” Mace remarked.

  “I shoot Mbilini!” the allied Zulu marksman said, in heavily accented English.

  “Where did you hit him?” Prior asked. When the man scrunched his brow, unable to understand him, the officer pointed to various places on his body, then to the warrior’s rifle.

  “Ah,” the marksman said, with a smile and nod of comprehension. He then pointed to his right shoulder before gesturing towards his left hip, making a spraying sound with his tongue and mouth as he did so. There would be some dispute, however, as the young German settler would also claim that he fired the killing shot.

  It did not matter to the captain, who simply gave a sigh of relief, sat upright, and holstered his pistol. “Lance Sergeant Burgess!”

  “Sir?” the NCO replied, rushing over to the captain and coming to attention.

  “Have your men provide a rear guard while our natives take these cattle back to the fort.”

  “Very good, sir.” Burgess then paused for a moment before asking, “Was that really Mbilini, sir?”

  “It would seem so. Mind you, I am not a gambling man, lance sergeant. But if I were, I would place a thousand guineas that we’ve seen the last of the Hyena of the Phongolo.”

  Historical Afterward

  Prince Mbilini waMswati managed to ride back to Hlobane Mountain, where his followers helped him up to the top of the plateau. His injuries were so severe that he died soon after. His grave is thought to sit along the slopes of the mountain.

  The Battle of Khambula proved to be the turning point in the Anglo-Zulu War. Colonel Wood’s forces suffered around 100 casualties, to include twenty-nine who were either killed or died from their injuries. Despite how precarious the fighting had been, with their positions nearly overrun, the battle ended as a decisive victory for the British. This also helped to mask Wood’s abject failure the previous day at Hlobane, which had seen 225 of his mounted troops and African allies slain. Losses suffered by the Zulu amabutho and their abaQulusi allies at Khambula were devastating. As many as 3,000 were either killed outright or later died from their injuries, with an equal number of wounded. The ratio of dead to wounded was unusually high, due to the terrible effects of the Martini-Henry rifle and the limited medical skills of the Zulu healers.

  The shock to the Zulu impi, which had defeated the British at Isandlwana just three months earlier, was shattering. Their southern army’s brutal defeat at Gingindlovu by Lord Chelmsford, coupled with the relief of the garrison at Eshowe, dealt another blow to the Zulu Kingdom. Ironically, from a strategic perspective, King Cetshwayo’s amabutho had actually triumphed. The emaciated No. 1 Column and Chelmsford’s relief forces were compelled to abandon Eshowe and retire back towards Lower Drift. The decimated remnants of No. 3 Column remained paralysed at Rorke’s Drift, possessing neither the manpower nor logistical resources necessary to mount a proper expedition to bury the dead at Isandlwana, let alone any sort of offensive operations against the Zulus. Meanwhile, Colonel Wood’s No. 4 Column was compelled to remain static near Khambula due to their exhausted ammunition supplies, the persistent threats from the untamed abaQulusi strongholds, and a fear of the Zulu impi’s return.

  Lord Chelmsford was acutely aware that, despite his victory at Gingindlovu and Wood’s at Khambula, he was no closer to Cetshwayo’s royal kraal at Ulundi than when the invasion commenced in January. The first four months of violent struggle had seen much suffering and death, with nothing to show for it. As he awaited further waves of reinforcements from Britain, the spectre of his potentially being sacked by Horse Guards and replaced hung over him.

  The Anglo-Zulu War was now entering a new phase. Both King Cetshwayo and Lord Chelmsford knew that even more would die, before the conflict was brought to its bloody and tragic conclusion.

  The southern slope of Khambula, where Major Hackett’s companies from the 90th Light Infantry engaged the Zulu ‘Left Horn’. The large forests of trees would have been absent in 1879

  The British cemetery at Khambula

  Memorial to the Zulu fallen, located near the British cemetery at Khambula

  Appendix A: Historical Requiem – The Survivors of Ntombe, Hlobane, and Khambula

  Lieutenant Colonel John Cecil Russell was blamed by Colonel Wood for the routing of Buller’s forces at Hlobane, in part an attempt to deflect the criticism for his own ineptitude. While their decisive victory at Khambula may have taken the pressure off Wood, and Russell did acquit himself well during the foray to compel the Zulus to prematurely attack, he still found himself further isolated from his column commander. After Khambula, he was transferred to the Remount Depot at Pietermaritzburg. While this may have been an ignominious posting, it came as an immense relief to him.

  In 1881, Cecil was given command of his regiment, the 12th (Prince of Wales’) Royal Lancers in India, where he remained for six years. Upon his return to Britain in 1887, he was given command of the cavalry depot in Canterbury, where he eventually rose to the rank of major general. He was also named an equerry to the Prince of Wales, and remained in that post after the Prince became King Edward VII in 1901. The following year, Cecil was made a Commander of the Royal Victorian Order (CVO). Major General John Cecil Russell, CVO, died in Canterbury in 1909 at the age of seventy.

  Major William Knox-Leet returned to the 13th Regiment soon after the Battle of Khambula. For his extraordinary heroism in rescuing Lieutenant Smith of the Frontier Light Horse during the Battle of Hlobane, he was awarded the Victoria Cross. The VC was presented by Her Majesty in a ceremony at Windsor Castle on 9 December 1879. Sergeant William Allan of the 24th Regiment also received his VC from the Battle of Rorke’s Drift during the same ceremony. That November, Knox-Leet was brevetted to lieutenant colonel, with the promotion made substantive in 1881. He was promoted to full colonel two years later and assumed command of the Somerset Light Infantry during the Burma War of 1885 to 1887.

  Colonel Knox-Leet returned to England soon after the Burma War’s conclusion, and retired from the Army on 1 May 1887. Tragically, his wife, Charlotte, whom he married in 1871, died a year prior to his retirement. Two months after leaving the Colours, William was appointed a Companion of the Bath (CB) and given the honorary rank of major general. He subsequently moved to South London to raise his sons, who were ages thirteen and five when their mother passed away. He never remarried.

  Major General William
Knox-Leet, VC, CB, died on 29 June 1898 at the age of sixty-five. His Victoria Cross is held by the Somerset Light Infantry Museum at Taunton Castle.

  Major Charles Tucker was twice mentioned in despatches during the Zulu War, though at one point he earned the ire of General Wolseley and was accused of covering up what Wolseley considered to be cowardice by Lieutenant Harward at the Battle of Ntombe. He was present at the Battle of Ulundi, and on 9 July was promoted to lieutenant colonel. In May 1880, he returned to England along with the rest of the 80th Staffordshire Regiment. In 1881, the 80th was merged with the 38th to form the South Staffordshire Regiment. Two years later, Charles was promoted to full colonel just prior to his retirement after twenty-eight years with the Colours.

  His retirement proved short-lived. In 1891, he returned to active service, assuming command of British forces in Natal. Four years later, he was assigned to command of the Madras Army in the District of Secunderabad, India. While in India, his wife of thirty-two years, Matilda, passed away. They had three children, all of whom were grown long before Charles’ assignment to India.