Will ducked his head and chuckled. The expression ‘red necks’ was a direct reference to the way sensitive exposed skin on the backs of British soldiers’ necks never seemed to go brown. Some suffered such sunburn that their skin resembled the scarlet tunics worn by infantrymen. This garment too, drew derision from the Boers. Coupled with gold braid and buttons, it made the troops extremely easy to spot. The Boers were openly scathing at the stupidity of such a uniform.
Stung by the description, the British responded by referring to Afrikaaners as either ‘rock spiders’ or ‘hairy backs’. The insults didn’t do much to cement relationships between British and Boer, and both were careful where and when they used the terms.
Buller was still talking. Up until this moment, he’d encouraged the volunteers’ independence. Now it needed a lid. ‘We’ll attack during the hours of darkness. You men will be under my direct command.’
A ragged cheer started up, quickly stifled by Buller’s ferocious scowl.
‘Our task is to scale the eastern track and capture the Zulus’ cattle. Lieutenant-Colonel Russell will take the western approach. Between us, we will cover all of Hlobane Mountain. This is a military operation, gentlemen. On this occasion you follow orders. Any man found guilty of disobedience will be court-martialled.’
Piet Uys had an expression of distaste on his face. ‘I command my own men,’ he shouted.
Buller didn’t like that. ‘And I command you,’ he yelled back. ‘Don’t forget it.’
Someone at the back said, ‘Fok yo,’ and although Buller spoke not one word of Afrikaans, the meaning was crystal clear.
The military man flushed with anger.
Dallas wondered what the Boers would do next. Clearly, although they respected Buller, they disliked having to take more than casual orders from a British officer.
Uys stepped forward until he was no more than three feet from Buller. The two men squared up to each other. They were odd and unlikely-looking allies. Buller, hard-muscled and hatchet-faced, with impatience and ambition written all over him. Uys, slow-moving, slow-talking, almost benign by comparison. Until you looked into his eyes. He had volunteered along with four of his sons and forty burghers. Nothing special in that, the Boer commando system required that every adult male make himself available for duty whenever necessary. But Uys and his men were the only Transvaal Boers who gave their services with no request for payment. This fact alone made Piet Uys contemptuous of orders. He was there of his own free will, unpaid and motivated only by a fierce hatred of the Zulu. If the whim took him, there was nothing to stop Uys and his men leaving.
Buller knew this. ‘Look here, I don’t want a quarrel with you. We have to scale the eastern side of Hlobane and drive off the cattle. Those are my orders. If we run into trouble I don’t want you and your men acting independently. There will be other troops coming in from the west.’
Uys hitched up his pants. ‘Ja,’ he said belligerently. ‘But if my men see a Kaffir, he’s a dead one.’
‘You’ll fire if, and when, I say. Not before.’
Uys turned and rejoined his men. ‘I said nothing about shooting.’ He winked at the odd assortment of irregulars and whipped a skinning knife from his belt. ‘A Kaffir dies just as easily with this.’
A murmur of appreciation greeted his remark. The burghers were the hardest of hard men, consolidated by a firm belief that Kaffirs were sub-human. After all, their Dominie had preached from the pulpit that a Kaffir’s brain was much smaller than a white man’s. On their farms, these men dispensed discipline to their Africans as they would to a dog – with a sjambok. The Boers took great pride in their toughness – it was a mark of manliness – and even young boys were encouraged to disdain the slightest hint of sensitivity.
Dallas sometimes wondered if, deep in their hearts, the Boers knew their attitude was wrong. Why else did they stick together with an almost fanatical dedication to each other and their religion? This stand by their commander – his flagrant and contemptuous dismissal of discipline followed by a display of solidarity – was typical. It said, ‘We’re with you but only on our terms.’
Buller had to leave it. A hard man himself, relying on the deeds and decisive action of others, as well as himself, to gain the esteem essential to lead men in battle, he had a high regard for Piet Uys. The man maintained the respect of his burghers and had proved himself time and again to be an excellent scout. Buller also knew that if pushed too far, Uys had it within his power to take his men and simply walk away. The lieutenant-colonel needed every man he could get.
‘We leave at dawn tomorrow,’ he said. Turning away, he barked, ‘Granger, Green, come with me.’
Dallas and Will followed Buller to Colonel Wood’s tent. The commanding officer glanced up at them then renewed his concentration on the maps spread out before him. Several minutes passed before he looked back. Stabbing a finger on the paper he said, with no preamble, ‘Do either of you know this area?’
‘No, sir,’ Dallas responded.
‘Been up there once or twice,’ Will offered.
‘Tell me about Devil’s Pass.’ His finger jabbed again.
Will was brief and informative. ‘It’s a way onto the plateau. Climbs about two hundred feet. Mainly scree with big boulders everywhere. No good for horses. Leads out onto open country higher up.’
‘Hnghh!’ grunted Wood, returning his attention to the map. Without glancing up he remarked, ‘We know about the caves. Will the enemy use them?’
‘They’re Zulus. Of course they will.’
Colonel Wood worried his bottom lip with tobacco-stained teeth. Nobody said a word. The silence lasted a good half-minute. Suddenly the finger stabbed once more. ‘You’ve been briefed?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Buller will ascend here, Russell, here. I want to know where the abaQulusi defence is strongest. Can you two get that information for me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good.’ Wood saluted absently. ‘Dismiss.’
Outside, Buller didn’t waste words. ‘Leave under cover of darkness. Get up there, find out what you can and get the hell out. Leave no calling card. Mustn’t let the buggers know we’re coming. Good luck, men.’ With that he strode off towards his quarters.
Dallas speculated aloud on how Colonel Wood expected to get so many men to Hlobane without the Zulus seeing them coming. ‘It’s as if he’s been ordered to create a deliberate diversion.’
‘Perhaps he has,’ Will said. ‘Look out, here comes trouble.’
The Boer commander, Piet Uys, planted himself in front of them. ‘Well?’ he demanded, hands on hips.
‘Well what?’ Dallas replied, not liking the way Uys made out that he and his burghers were the only ones who mattered.
‘Don’t smart-talk me, man. Where are you going?’
‘Hlobane,’ Will said.
Uys regarded them for a moment. ‘Then make damned sure you bring back the right information.’
‘What’s the matter?’ Will challenged. ‘Don’t you think a couple of Englesmen can do it, eh?’
‘No,’ Uys said bluntly, turning away. ‘I’d prefer to be protected by my own kind.’
‘Charming!’ Will muttered at his back.
‘Forget it,’ Dallas advised. ‘He’s annoyed that he wasn’t asked.’
‘The man only has himself to blame,’ Will growled. ‘We don’t need dead Zulus all over the place at this stage.’
Back in his tent, Dallas treated himself to a wash and shave before lying down and trying to rest. The task they’d been given would probably take all night and he didn’t want fatigue either to slow him down or cause him to make a mistake that could result in his and Will’s deaths. He had no doubt that the abaQulusi would have rested and alert men on sentry duty. Acquiring the information Wood needed was not going to be easy.
Waiting for sleep, Dallas found himself wondering about Mister David and all the other Zulus he’d met and come to regard as friends. So many Africans were dead. Thousands more wer
e too badly injured to fight again. Yet Cetshwayo still seemed able to summon new recruits. By now, the king had to be scraping the bottom of the barrel. Some of the regiments had been raised by Shaka. Their numbers, like the uSixepi or umBelebele Corps, were negligible, with an average age of seventy-nine. But Dallas had seen small groups of Zulus dressed for war made up of warriors barely into puberty. Was Cetshwayo so desperate that he was prepared to use old men and semi-trained boys?
He wondered how the Zulus themselves felt the war was going. There had been stunning defeats and victories on both sides. Dallas could not help but feel that the Zulus grew weary. Many clans had defected. A few even fought alongside the British.
The Zulus had their strategists, some exceedingly inspired. But they were not as flexible or experienced as the British whose officers had seen action in India, China and other parts of Africa. Despite underestimating the strength and will of his enemy, Lord Chelmsford’s strategy – a three-pronged attack on the capital and subsequent capture of Cetshwayo – looked good on paper.
The centre column, to which Lord Chelmsford had attached himself, was nearly five thousand strong and commanded by Colonel Richard Glyn of the 24th Regiment. It was to cross into Zululand at Rorke’s Drift and head straight for Ulundi. Glyn, a man of short stature and temperament, had distinguished himself during previous skirmishes in South Africa as an excellent, steady and sensible commander.
Simultaneously, a right-hand column, commanded by Colonel Pearson of the 3rd Buffs, a veteran of the Crimean War, who had a similar number of men, was to cross the Thukela near its mouth and establish a fort on the Zulu side before moving forward to the mission station at Eshowe. There they were to await orders from the supreme commander to march on to Ulundi and assist in the final showdown.
The left-hand column, Colonel Wood’s men, was also headed for the Zulu capital but from further north. Wood had a total of 2278 men. His brief was to keep the northern tribes occupied until he too answered the call to march south and join forces with Chelmsford and Pearson.
Pearson ran into trouble with the weather. It took five days to ferry his wagons and men across a swollen and fast-flowing Thukela. Once the construction of Fort Tenedos on its north bank was well under way, two divisions set off for Eshowe. No word had been received from Chelmsford, and Pearson, knowing nothing of events at Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift, assumed that the centre column was well advanced as planned. Pearson and his men encountered a few scattered groups of Zulus but their main problem was negotiating three more rivers and numerous drifts, all flooded. Then, almost at the hill on which Eshowe mission was sited, the column met fierce resistance from a force of six thousand impi. Attacking in their traditional horn-shaped formation, the Zulus held both the high ground and an element of surprise. Without the Gatling guns, it might have been a bloody defeat. As it was, only ten men were killed and sixteen wounded. The Zulus lost three hundred and fifty warriors before withdrawing under withering fire. On reaching Eshowe the following day, the British soldiers found it deserted.
Orders being orders, the British remained at the mission station. During the next few weeks it became increasingly obvious that the Zulus had effectively imprisoned them. The ever-present impi made no attempt to conceal their presence in the surrounding hills. The right-hand column was helpless, pinned down and useless.
Eight days earlier as planned, the centre column crossed into Zululand at Rorke’s Drift. Leaving a reserve force there, the rest headed east towards Ulundi. Reaching Isandlwana, Chelmsford decided the town made an ideal advance base and set up camp. From there, before pushing on to the capital, he could send out patrols to reconnoitre the way ahead. Viewing it as a temporary stop only, and despite advice to the contrary, he refused to form a laager or build any kind of defence at all. Instead, he ordered that the reserve force left behind at Rorke’s Drift move up to Isandlwana while the main body of troops, split into two groups, would try to locate a large Zulu force reputed to be in the area. The impi avoided detection and closed to within five miles of the camp. There, hiding in a valley, they were discovered by a mounted patrol. Having lost the element of surprise, the Zulus had no option but to attack. Despite superior fire power, the soldiers left at Isandlwana were no match for twenty thousand war-crazed warriors. Chelmsford, who returned late that afternoon with one of the scouting parties, was stunned. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he said. ‘I left a thousand men there.’
While the battle raged, four regiments of Zulus broke away and headed towards Rorke’s Drift. Only one hundred and thirty-nine men remained to defend that camp. Barricades were built using anything they could lay their hands on, from bags of grain to biscuit boxes. Outnumbered by more than forty-to-one, the soldiers drove back wave after wave of Zulu warriors for twelve endless hours. Suddenly, at four in the morning, the impi silently withdrew, leaving exhausted and, in the main, wounded, defenders. They reappeared briefly at dawn, on the slopes of a nearby hill, a silent mass of black warriors who turned as one and disappeared back into Zululand. In later years, this gesture would be recorded as a tribute to the British soldiers’ bravery. In truth, the Zulus had seen Lord Chelmsford’s force returning and prudently left.
Dallas slept. He was still sound asleep when Will arrived. ‘Ready?’
‘Just a minute.’ Yawning, he crawled from his bunk.
As he made ready, Dallas wished himself anywhere but in the here and now. He didn’t want to spy on the Zulus. Nor did he wish to be overrun and killed by them. One cancelled out the other. The instinct of self-preservation strong, it didn’t stop him resenting the position in which he’d been placed.
‘Come on,’ he said roughly, surprising Will. ‘Let’s get this done with.’
‘Something bothering you?’
‘Nothing that doesn’t worry you too?’ Dallas countered.
Will looked down at his sodden, mud-caked boots. ‘A lot of things about this war worry me,’ he said finally. ‘But there’s one thing that doesn’t.’
‘What’s that?’
‘My conscience,’ Will replied. ‘And you know damned well that Logan would have said the same.’
Dallas dropped his head, smiling. ‘The pair of you couldn’t muster half a conscience between you.’ he looked back at Will. ‘Thanks, friend.’
Will grinned too, then looked serious. ‘I’m not like you, thinking everything through. On this occasion that helps. You can’t take this war on your own shoulders. We’re not responsible for it, so why burden yourself with guilt? Do it or die. That’s all we need know.’
Dallas swung into the saddle. ‘For once,’ he said, when Will was mounted, ‘you could just be right.’
As they rode he thought about Will’s words. Just who was responsible? Who had such power over life and death? There were many, but three names stood out – Sir Bartle Frere, Lord Chelmsford and Cetshwayo. If there was a reckoning at the pearly gates, or wherever, Dallas hoped that Frere at least would have his work cut out trying to justify this war.
The rain continued to fall ceaselessly. It was a blessing in disguise. Obscuring their vision, it also prevented them from being seen. Not that they expected Zulu scouts to be off the mountain at night.
Although they were used to roughing it, the conditions tried both men. Water soaked every inch of them as surely as if they’d jumped fully clothed into a river. The horses continually shook their heads, trying to rid straining eyes of rain. Every noise they made seemed uncommonly loud. Underfoot, the ground squelched and sucked at every step.
Dallas shivered, despite the warm night.
‘Have you heard from home?’ Will asked softly.
‘Two letters in Monday’s mailbag. One from Cam,’ Dallas replied as quietly. Although seeming to be lost in the rain, their voices might carry.
‘How are they?’
‘Fine. Torben continues to disrupt everything. The others are well.’
‘And my godson?’ Will was godfather to Duncan and took his responsibilities s
eriously.
‘Heathenistic.’ Dallas grinned. ‘He tore about thirty pages out of that Bible you gave him.’
‘I’ll get the lad another,’ Will said firmly.
‘I’d wait until he can read,’ Dallas advised. ‘He seems hell-bent on destruction at the moment.’
‘He’s only finding out how things work,’ Will defended the youngster. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘True,’ Dallas agreed. ‘It’s also got a lot to do with the sound of paper tearing. He’s stripped his bedroom of wallpaper as high as he can reach.’
Will chuckled indulgently. ‘He’s a fine wee laddie. Reminds me of Cam at that age.’
‘Cam didn’t try to destroy the house.’
‘As I recall he didn’t have one to destroy.’
They fell silent. Dallas smiled in the darkness thinking back to the day he met Will. Never in his wildest dreams would he have anticipated they’d become friends. He doubted Will would have believed it either.
The Yorkshireman hadn’t changed. Will was still the same conniving chancer he’d always been. Just a bit more mature. Still too fond of a drink and addicted to gambling. Always broke and full of scheming ways to acquire money. However, he was devoted to Dallas and his family and, in his own way, had proved to be a loyal and reasonably honest friend.
‘What are you going to do when this mess is over?’ Dallas asked.
‘Take my pay and open a trading store in Swaziland. You?’
Dallas shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Farm, I suppose.’
‘Ludukaneni?’
‘Depends. Who knows how Zululand will be carved up? If the land is decreed tribal it may not be allowed. The old days of seeking the king’s permission are over.’
‘Where then?’
Dallas sighed. ‘I don’t know, Will. Best wait and see.’ He glanced at the dark profile next to him. ‘Why Swaziland?’
‘Just like the sound of it.’
Dallas smiled. As far as he was concerned, that gave as good a reason as any. ‘Be careful who you swindle, my friend. The Swazis don’t take kindly to mischief.’
Shadows in the Grass Page 48
