Kambula would be next. Dallas and Will, on Buller’s instructions, attached themselves to Commandant Pieter Raaf’s Transvaal Rangers. At dawn the next day, they rode out to try to locate the impi The Zulus were camped on the eastern side of Hlobane. Dallas could see them making preparations for battle.
‘They’re getting ready, all right,’ Will agreed.
A small fire had been lit, and whatever it was they burned in it, a great volume of smoke billowed out. Two at a time, the men passed through it and as they did, were sprinkled with muthi. A special war doctor then gave each man something to drink.
‘They don’t swallow it,’ Will told Dallas. ‘Watch. They’ll walk away and spit it towards Kambula. The warriors believe it will make them safe against bullets.’
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Raaf said. ‘They’re about to take up formation. Let’s go.’
Riding swiftly back to report, Dallas and Will agreed with Pieter Raaf that they had no more than five hours before the impi were ready to attack. They estimated the Zulus’ strength to be more than twenty thousand and delivered this intelligence to Colonel Wood.
‘Right,’ the commanding officer said briskly. ‘Enough time for dinner, gentlemen.’
The men who would be defending Kambula Hill sat down to eat. They could see the impi advancing, still six or seven miles away. Confidence had been restored despite the previous day’s humiliating losses at Hlobane. The British were well prepared for this attack – fortification was good and every man knew his duties. They were armed with Martini-Henry breech-loading rifles, had more than enough ammunition and the support of heavy artillery.
After lunch, final preparations were swiftly made. Tents struck, ammunition boxes were opened and distributed, and troops took up their battle positions. The impi approached slowly, conserving energy, in five long columns still three miles away. The massed force halted and drew together for a final council of war. The decision – to wipe out the garrison on Kambula Hill before proceeding to the town of Utrecht – had to be made by those commanding the impi. Their king had instructed his army to attack Utrecht. But, on seeing the soldiers’ tents being struck, the Zulus believed the British were preparing for flight. It was too tempting.
After debating tactics for nearly an hour, the impi advanced. The horns began to spread, like shadows in the grass. Dallas saw several men glance at the sky as if seeking a cloud that might account for it.
From one side to the other, with horns fully extended, warriors stretched for ten miles, moving in and around Kambula Hill so as to surround it completely. Out of range of the big guns they halted and divested themselves of all ceremonial covering, leaving only loincloths and necklaces specially made to provide the protection of tribal magic.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Dallas said dryly, trying to quell the nerves rising in his stomach. ‘It seems to me that we might be somewhat outnumbered.’
Will grunted.
They were. Colonel Wood’s force now totalled only two thousand, and of those, eighty-eight men were sick in the makeshift hospital.
‘Here comes the right side,’ Will observed, as he watched it advance. He sounded remarkably calm.
‘Predictability will be their undoing one day,’ Dallas replied, glad to hear his voice held none of the quivering he felt inside.
The Zulus since Shaka’s day had attacked in a pincer-like formation. One horn usually made a mock charge which allowed those in the other to conceal themselves in long grass and sneak closer to the enemy. The chest, which had the greatest number of warriors, would then advance. Behind that lay a second large force. They would wait, their backs to the confrontation so that they could not observe it. This stopped them becoming over-excited, precipitating a premature charge. The chilling war chant, uSuthu, rang out. Thousand upon thousand baritone voices, raised in unison, had unnerved many a seasoned soldier. The entire battle would be overseen by a commanding officer who stayed well out of the fray, usually on a raised point of land, and was able to direct the action by sending runners with instructions.
Still out of artillery range, the right horn stopped again. Shouted taunts carried to the waiting British. ‘We are the boys from Isandlwana.’
‘What are they waiting for?’ someone asked nervously.
Buller, well aware that with the right horn taking everyone’s attention the left was probably in the process of creeping to within a hundred yards of them, went to Colonel Wood and suggested they provoke the right horn into a premature attack. Wood agreed.
‘Come on, men. Let’s show these bastards a thing or two.’
He took the Edendale troop of Natal Native Horse and those colonial forces still left to him, Dallas and Will among them. They rode boldly forward to within rifle range. Dismounting, the hundred or so men fired off a volley of shots against the two thousand impi of the right horn. Their audacity was too great and the Zulus swept towards them. Buller and his men mounted, fell back, dismounted and fired once more. In this way, they enticed the blood-lusting warriors well into range of the big guns before turning for the laager and galloping to safety. The Edendale Native Horse, who had been at Isandlwana and had no stomach for another resounding defeat, chose that moment to desert. They headed west.
The big guns opened up but their small bursting shells were more of an irritant than anything else. Still the swarming impi came on. As soon as they were within rifle range, the accuracy of British marksmen took a devastating toll and finally forced them back. No-one, Zulu or European, realised at the time that disrupting the right horn’s intention to join with the left, behind British lines, and effectively surround them, would become a turning point of the Zulu war. Warriors of the right horn were so demoralised they forgot orders and found cover in the rocky ground, resorting to rifle fire. Most only had single-shot muzzle-loaders. With their withdrawal, the chest and left horn immediately attacked.
‘Christ!’ someone yelled as seven-pounders blew huge holes in the Zulu ranks. ‘Look at that. They just close up and keep coming.’
Dallas could hardly believe what he was seeing. The Zulus had little cover and no defence against artillery fire. Not once did they falter. Some even carried large stones on their heads which they threw to the ground and sheltered behind whenever firing in their direction became too intense. Wave after wave swept towards the garrison. Inevitably some made it into the laager, having miraculously survived the hail of shells and bullets.
One warrior, eyes red with fighting madness, a war chant emanating from deep within his chest broke through and rushed at Dallas. It was assegai and shield against empty rifle and bayonet. Standing toe-to-toe, both men grappled for the upper hand. Dallas barely had time to register the shining black skin and rank odour of sweat before he was fighting for his life. Will was wrestling another Zulu next to him.
The Zulu was strong. Time and again he used his shield, deflecting the bayonet and trying to hook it so that he could pull the white man off balance and deliver an upward thrust with his assegai. Dallas knew he was weakening. Then, without warning, the African staggered backwards and slumped to the ground. Buller grimaced as he withdrew his bayonet from the man’s back, then turned and dispatched Will’s opponent in a similar fashion.
There was no time for thanks. Dallas rushed forward, knelt, reloaded and began firing again. The fighting continued for hours. At one stage the Zulus’ left horn almost succeeded in overrunning the laager. They were driven off with bayonets.
Dallas, Will and the rest of the colonials were now firing under word of command. Buller, calm as can be, stood in the open, ramrod straight, snapping orders, never taking his eyes off the enemy. It was a courageous display of precision and discipline – attributes the impi had abandoned in the heat of battle – that turned the conflict in Britain’s favour. With rifles nearly too hot to handle, the British coolly held their nerve and systematically repelled each new attack. By five in the afternoon, confidence had deserted the Zulus. They were preparing their retreat.
Bugles sounded ‘to horse’ and three columns led by Buller took off in hot pursuit after the fleeing impi. The cry rang out: ‘No quarter, boys. Remember yesterday.’
Defeated and dispirited, not believing that all the strengthening and purification rites had let them down, the Zulus put up little or no resistance. For seven miles, Buller’s men either shot them down or, in a display unworthy of the courage the impi had shown, speared them with their own discarded assegais. Dallas had no heart for it. Hundreds died during that retreat and he could not bring himself to account for even one of them. They deserved better.
Later, the morbid tally would reveal more than a thousand Zulus and eighteen British soldiers had died. Victory on Kambula Hill was the beginning of the end.
Well after dark, the garrison was still busy clearing the laager of dead or dying Zulus. Dallas, wandering aimlessly, found himself at the place where he’d gone hand-to-hand with a warrior. The man was still there. In the flickering light of burning torches he realised there was something familiar about the face frozen in death. One eye stared straight up, the other sideways. A sick feeling hit him in the guts as he crouched down next to the body. Tobacco had fought well. Dallas doubted the Zulu had recognised his foe.
‘Shit!’ The word wrung from him carried all the despair he felt about such a useless waste of life and a war that could so easily have been avoided.
Buller found him still crouched beside the body. ‘Know him, do you, son?’
‘Yes.’ Dallas found his throat was tight. ‘He saved my son’s life.’
Buller squeezed Dallas on the shoulder. ‘Hell of a business. We shouldn’t be fighting these poor devils.’
Dallas dragged his eyes from his former employee, the man who had picked up Cam and run for the wagons in the face of charging elephants, and looked up. ‘What happens now, sir?’
‘We finish it,’ Buller said firmly. ‘Reinforcements have arrived from Britain. Lord Chelmsford has more recruits than he needs. Volunteers who wish to leave will be free to return home. Today we’ve demoralised half of Cetshwayo’s army. Not many will take arms against us again.’ Buller indicated Dallas’s thigh. ‘Get yourself to the hospital, Granger. I see you’re wounded.’ With that, he turned and walked away.
As Dallas rose, Will materialised from the darkness. ‘Tobacco,’ was all he said.
Will could only nod. He looked exhausted, and had a jagged gash across his forehead and a stab wound in one arm. His clothes were covered in grime and dried blood.
Dallas didn’t doubt that he looked much the same. His thigh throbbed where the bullet had creased it at Hlobane. He presumed the wound had turned septic. There was a deep cut across his left palm and one boot had filled with blood after an assegai cut through the leather to flesh.
Suddenly everything ached. Dallas had a desperate need to lie down and close his eyes. ‘Come on,’ he said to Will. ‘Let’s get patched up.’
Will’s arm needed stitches but his forehead was only bandaged. Dallas’s thigh had turned red and ugly. The poison bubbled, fizzed and hurt like hell when an orderly poured peroxide into the wound. His hand and lacerated foot were cleaned up without difficulty.
The following morning, Will and Dallas were formally released from duty. Along with that of other volunteers, their departure further depleted British numbers on the battlegrounds of Zululand. Reinforcements were expected any day and the British wanted fully trained men for the final assault against Cetshwayo. The beautiful land of the past had gone. Bodies from the carnage of the day before still littered the ground. The garrison had cleared and buried only those close by. The rest were left for the scavengers and carrion eaters of Africa. It was a relief to turn away from such a distressing sight.
They took a chance and went to Ludukaneni. The kraals stood empty. What few cattle Dallas left behind were gone. Everything in the trading store had been stolen before the store itself was burnt to the ground. The schoolhouse also had gone up in flames. Surprisingly, the homestead was still standing, though many of its contents were no longer there.
The water pump still worked. They hand-pumped enough for baths and to wash their clothes. Feeling cleaner and more refreshed, Dallas found that the cellar had not been touched. Perhaps those who ransacked the house had decided not to bother with the dark cellar. Whatever the reason, dry field rations tasted so much better washed down by several bottles of decent red wine.
Whoever had taken most of the furniture had no use for beds. Dallas and Will slept on mattresses for the first time in nearly two months.
Just before drifting off to sleep, Dallas found himself wondering what Cetshwayo would do next. Would his army stand for more fighting? The tactics established by Shaka had made the Zulus unbeatable. Suddenly they faced the fact that these were no match for rifles and heavy artillery. The invincible impi and their famous umkhumbi, or horn formation, was a thing of the past. Some might fight again but would they ever muster the courage and tenacity that had so recently deserted them? They had been the stuff of legends in southern Africa. Now there was a superior force against which they had no response.
What about the king? Cetshwayo had done all he could to avoid a fight. But two things had worked against him. The British wanted his land, and his warriors, spurred on by a desperate need to wash their spears in blood in order to take wives, could not be contained. Today the once indestructible impi were returning to their kraals saying they had had enough. How could Cetshwayo still hope for victory? The best he could seek was a truce.
Would it be granted? Dallas didn’t think so. Lord Chelmsford was determined to atone for the defeats at Isandlwana and Hlobane. He seemed consumed by a desire to capture the Zulu king. Perhaps the man believed that doing this would clear the stigma that attached to him over such an enormous loss of British lives.
Dallas and Will rode into Durban three days later. The two men said farewell outside Cato’s store. Dallas turned a weary Tosca towards the Berea and home. He’d only been away a couple of months but it felt much longer. His body ached and his healing wounds itched. He longed to lie in a hot bath fragrant with one of Lorna’s soothing herbal balms to soak away tension. He wanted the lingering smell of blood and sweat gone from his clothes, skin and hair. More than anything else, Dallas needed the softness of Lorna’s perfumed body next to his, her sweet breath tickling his ear, her long, tapered fingers stroking tired muscles.
Tosca seemed to know they were headed home. She picked up her pace, ears pricked forward. Dallas imagined that she was thinking of a clean stable, soft straw, fresh water and the luxury of a good grooming. His mount had never let him down. He’d worked her hard and she deserved a little spoiling. Perhaps it was time for retirement, shady pastures and treats of apples and sugar.
He heard his children well before seeing them. They were playing on the front lawn – a game of cricket, by the sound of it. An unfamiliar male voice warned, ‘Come on, Torben, that’s not fair. Ellie can’t handle that kind of speed. If you’re going to play, then kindly remember she’s only five.’
Frowning, because he recognised the voice but couldn’t for the life of him think who it might be, Dallas turned into his front gate.
‘Papa!’ Cam spotted him first and came running. Ellie dropped the bat and was close behind. Torben took a couple of steps and stopped while little Kate hung shyly back, holding onto a man’s hand.
Dallas dismounted just as Cam and Ellie launched themselves into his arms.
‘You smell bad,’ Cam said bluntl
y.
‘He’s been in a war, silly.’ Ellie defended her father, although she kept one hand over her nose.
‘Welcome home, Father.’ Torben was formal.
‘Yes, old boy, welcome home.’
Dallas finally recognised his brother. ‘Where on earth did you come from?’ He put Ellie and Cam down.
Boyd stepped up to Dallas and clapped him on a shoulder. ‘Wanted to join in the fun. Requested a transfer to the 1st King’s Dragoons. Seems like I’ve missed most of it.’
Dallas said nothing but picked up Kate. ‘How’s my little girl? I’ve missed you.’
Thumb in mouth, she snuggled into his chest.
He looked at his brother and boyhood memories skittered briefly through his tired brain. They had once been close. Had Boyd always squinted with his left eye? Was the gap between his two front teeth wider? Had his smile held a mocking quality all the time? Even his brother’s accent sounded different, somehow out of place. It had been a total of eight, nearly nine, years since they’d seen each other. It was a shock to discover a breakdown in their connection – something Dallas had taken for granted. Where was the brotherly affection?
‘When did you arrive?’ he asked, more to give himself time to collect his thoughts than out of interest.
‘Couple of weeks ago. Place is a bit basic, old boy. Don’t know how you stand it.’ Boyd flicked a small piece of lint from his scarlet tunic. ‘So many damned savages,’ he said, apropos of nothing, as if in those few words he could sum up the entire Zulu conflict.
Shadows in the Grass Page 50
