by Max Hennessy
‘You following me about?’ he snapped.
‘No.’ Von Hartmann was cheerful and friendly. ‘I’m following war about. It’s my job. I think you have quite a problem here.’
‘It’ll be sorted out,’ Colby growled.
‘Oh, I’ve no doubt,’ the Prussian said condescendingly. ‘In time. Of course, you have some splendid men here. The Boers, for instance. They would make excellent German allies.’
With the newspapermen and observers came Napoleon Eugène Louis Jean Joseph Bonaparte, the son of Napoleon III and Prince Imperial of France, whom Colby had last seen in Metz as a small frightened boy with his sick father as they had taken their leave of the Army of the Rhine. He was now almost more British than the British themselves, though he was noticeably cool to von Hartmann and his views on Waterloo conflicted with the British version. He had opted for the artillery and, bored and impulsive, had insisted on joining the British reinforcements.
When they reached Helpmakaar a few of the sick who had been left behind in Pietermaritzburg caught up with them. With them was Cosgro, bumptious and self-satisfied.
‘What are you doing here?’ Colby snapped.
Cosgro gestured. ‘Morrow’s column was disbanded,’ he said. ‘I’ve been returned to the regiment.’
Colby stared hostilely at him. He was sick of the Cosgros and he was determined this time to have done with the lot of them. ‘Well, I don’t want you,’ he said. ‘Get out of my sight!’
As Brosy’s jaw dropped and Cosgro flushed, Colby went on. ‘I don’t want you with me because I couldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you. I saw you at Tshethoselane and I know what happened when Deyer’s column was attacked. I think the best thing you can do is resign your commission before you’re cashiered.’
Cosgro’s face went white. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘I most certainly would dare,’ Colby said coldly. ‘Lord Chelmsford already has a report of what happened at Tshethoselane and he will support me. When Moriarity was overwhelmed at Myers’ Drift, Harward, who was in charge at the other side of the river, left his command to a sergeant and rode for help. He was court martialled.’
‘And acquitted,’ Cosgro pointed out triumphantly.
‘The proceedings have gone to Sir Garnet Wolseley for review. He won’t reverse the verdict, but I know what he’ll say about it: “No officer with a party of soldiers engaged against the enemy should abandon them – under any pretext whatsoever.” That’s what Wolseley will feel and he’ll make sure it’s read at the head of every regiment in the service. What Harward did, you did twice. There’s no place for you in this regiment. I suspect even there’s no place for you in the army. You’d be wiser to go home. I’ll give you five minutes to leave the camp.
Cosgro left the camp that night and they heard later he had resigned his commission on the grounds of ill health and set off for Durban to pick up a ship.
It was obvious within twenty-four hours that the story had gone round the camp. Colby guessed that the sergeant clerk had been listening at the door, but he didn’t consider that it mattered. Nevertheless, it left everyone wary and anxious not to get into trouble. Immediately, especially following the first punishments, there was a marked improvement in bearing, health and behaviour. The 19th began to look like a regiment on active service. The complaints from the officers never rose above a murmur and in no time at all they began to find they were better soldiers and proud to be able to do what other regiments could not do. Transport officers who said something couldn’t be done were treated to a blistering tongue-lashing that made them change their minds at full speed. Quartermasters who were difficult received a searing dressing down. An unsavoury surgeon, an obstructive quartermaster and a stout and lazy officer from C Squadron were whisked away to other jobs or regiments, the loudest grumblers in the ranks were punished or promoted according to their characters, whiners were threatened, and soldiers who got into fights with men of other regiments were in trouble unless they managed to emerge the winners.
‘Do you know,’ Brosy said, his lazy smile puzzled, ‘it works. We’re all in step and cantering on the right rein – all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again.’
The regiment was among the first to move over the new pontoon bridge into Zululand. There was a telegraph running back to Pietermaritzburg now and the orders that came on it were to move towards Rorke’s Drift. The following day they were twelve miles into Zululand and passing the field of Isandhlwana.
Joined by other cavalry, a battery of guns, infantry and a force of mounted volunteers, the lancers moved through the wrecked camp, the nine-foot spears dipping and rising as they searched for corpses. Grain spilled from the looted wagons had sprouted to conceal the remains, but a few were identified by their clothes.
As the bodies were collected and placed in shallow graves, dismounted men moved through the camp looking for personal belongings or trinkets the Zulus had missed. Most of them kept one eye over their shoulder because what had happened was still a nightmare and they were all in terror of it happening again. As evening came, they drove away those of the wagons that would still move with led horses between the shafts. Reaching the river, still oppressed by the tragedy, they were cheered by the arrival of mail from home.
There was a whole batch of letters from Augusta. She was uncomfortable, lonely and unhappy and there was such a sense of desperation about them Colby could think of nothing else but her misery. He was just trying to force her image from his mind when news came in that some fool had managed to get the Prince Imperial stabbed to death by a party of Zulus, and that the government at home, badgered incessantly about the slow progress of the war, had finally sent out their ‘only general.’ Wolseley, with a clique of Ringers, was on his way, and it suddenly seemed important that the war should be finished before he could arrive and claim credit for it.
It was quite clear that Chelmsford had no wish to be superseded, and the Prince Imperial’s body was no sooner despatched for home than the army began to move across a mimosa-covered slope cut by ravines, to drop into a deep valley through which a river meandered. Columns of smoke filled the air and it didn’t surprise Colby to bump into Buller watching his men fighting dismounted, from the top of a large antheap.
‘Hello, Coll,’ he said cheerfully, his big frame tense. ‘I hope you’ve taught those dressed-up dummies of yours how we fight out here.’
As he spoke, a crackling fire started and the Zulus ahead disappeared into the bush. Immediately, return fire came from among bunches of aloes, then as a flanking volley came from a mealie patch, Buller’s men began to fall back and a vast impi began to swarm down the slopes and through the brush to the river.
Splashing across the stream as the volunteers retired, it was obvious that the officer commanding the cavalry was itching to have a go. The 1st Dragoon Guards moved right and left and the 17th Lancers trotted backwards and forwards through the mealies looking for someone to spear, while the 19th moved up in support. But it was bad country for cavalry and, as the Zulus vanished to cover, a troop of the 17th was dismounted to return the fire. They were too close, however, and an officer and several men fell. As they extricated themselves with the bodies of the dead and wounded across the saddles of led horses, Colby galloped the 19th across their rear to a line of aloes.
‘Dismount! Tell off your horseholders! Keep them moving! Don’t bunch!’
As the Zulus swarmed down, they were stopped dead with a crashing volley. As the cavalry retired, the 19th were always between them and the rest of the force, and by the time they returned to the river there was a new feeling in the regiment that they had discovered how to fight. Their little action had been neat and well-executed and not a man had been lost or a horse hurt.
The following day the army was on the move again, the whole ungainly, unwieldly lot of them, almost a thousand wagons dragging through the muddy drifts, the vanguard waiting all the time for the rest to catch up. It was well-known now that Wolseley was on his wa
y, and among those men who had been in Zululand from the beginning a curious loyalty had sprung up for the hard-pressed Chelmsford. The sincere hope was that the thing would be done with before Wolseley could interfere.
Pushing ahead determinedly, regiments and brigades leapfrogging over each other to keep up the pace, the army still moved only at a mere five or six miles a day. A month later, however, they could see Ulundi, the Zulus’ capital, plainly visible across the White Umfalozi, with the Indian Ocean glittering in the distance to the east. Three days later they were moving across a cactus-covered plain within striking distance of the royal kraal and, with news arriving that Wolseley was at Pietermaritzburg, everybody was praying that he’d fall off his horse or have a fit that would delay him just long enough for them to finish the job before he arrived.
Judging by the prisoners they took, the Zulu urge for war had subsided rapidly. Startled by the unexpected early victories of his impis, Cetzewayo was now trying to mediate. Messages had been received but they were vague and could give no guarantees, though one or two of the minor chiefs, clearly growing concerned, were coming in with their followers. At the end of the week, a message arrived to say that Ziwedi, a chief with a kraal near the river, wished to surrender but daren’t because of the proximity of the main Zulu army, and the 19th were sent out to escort him in with his wives and children and all his tribe.
Establishing a small fort in a group of abandoned buildings on top of a hill which had once been a mission station, Colby left Brosy in command. The fort was within reach of the main army and could pass on signals by heliograph, but the expedition was risky and from time to time they saw groups of Zulus, some of them still wearing red coats taken from Isandhlwana or Myers’ Drift.
Ziwedi’s people were holed out in caves and it was after dark before they reached the area. As they bivouacked, the guides spread out and all through the night old men, women and children hurried in. At first light, news came that an impi was approaching and that stragglers were being speared.
As they returned to the fort, the exhausted children were riding behind troopers who muttered darkly about ‘bloody black vermin’ but who surreptitiously slipped them portions of their rations. Colby arrived with half a dozen clinging to his jacket. His own children had often ridden with him in the same way, and it made him think of Augusta.
As they drew nearer, a rider burst from the fort, lashing at his mount. ‘Sir! They’re trying to flash a message!’
Handing over his small passengers, Colby spurred forward, Brosy was waiting for him, frowning.
‘They’ve been trying to contact us all day,’ he said. ‘But there’s too much cloud and we can’t get the message.’
As the last of Ziwedi’s people straggled in, followed by a line of lancers watching their rear, Colby was called to the heliograph again.
‘It’s a private message, sir,’ the sergeant pointed out. ‘It’s addressed to you and it says “Personal”. It said “Mrs Goff is–”’
‘Is what?’
‘Then the clouds came back again, sir,’
Furious, worried, aware of Augusta’s uncertainties, Colby went to watch the Ziwedi’s people arrive. The fittest were already pushing west towards the main army when the sun came out again and the sergeant at the heliograph shouted.
He was taking down the last of the message as Colby reached him and he handed over his slip of paper with a grin.
‘“Mrs Goff is well and delivered of a son,”’ he said. ‘Congratulations, sir.’
Late in June, the army moved into the valley of the White Umfalozi – without tents or kits and with rations for only ten days. That there were Zulus about was obvious. Groups were seen from time to time and the watering parties heading for the river were constantly fired on.
Splashing through the stream, Colby led the 19th forward in an attempt to goad them into attacking, splitting up his men in the hope that they would draw the black hordes down on them. The game went on again the next day, this time with Buller leading the mounted force. On this occasion, however, the Zulus were waiting in the long grass and only the fact that Buller was an old hand and suspected a trap enabled him to extricate his force with few losses. That evening, they learned the army was to move on Ulundi the following day. As the orders went out, a messenger arrived from Wolseley instructing Chelmsford to retire and complaining about the way the campaign was being handled. There was a great deal of hilarity as the message was relayed through the camp.
The moon rose on the army sleeping in the open in a rising mist. It was cold and there was a continuous wailing and shouting from across the river. The Natal Kaffirs knew exactly what was going on and, as they announced that the men Buller had lost that morning had been turned over to the Zulu women, soldiers who had been chaffing a few moments before became silent, because they knew what it meant; with the battle impending, in every mind was the memory of Isandhlwana and the knowledge that even against savages things could go wrong.
The 19th supplied the outlying pickets, watching nervously through the hours of darkness and not returning to the camp until first light. The place had already come to life and a few of the Colonials were holding a prayer meeting to prepare themselves for the coming battle. As Colby hobbled stiffly among his men, von Hartmann offered him a hundred guineas there would be no battle.
As the cavalry formed up with the Frontier Light Horse, the leaden-hued lance-points catching the light, Colby waited in brooding immobility, tapping his saddle-bow with impatience and watched warily by his officers. Finally moving out across the drift to cover the crossing, they watched regiment after regiment splash through the water and labour up the slope on the other side, blocks of scarlet and blue topped with the white of their sun helmets. As they came together again, they formed a huge hollow square with the Gatlings and the guns in position at the corners.
‘Keep your dressing.’
‘Move back B Company.’
‘Mister Hutchinson, will you, for God’s sake, watch what you’re doing!’
The shouts rang out in the still air as they took their places. The native contingent was placed in the centre, surrounded by wagons and carts laden with tools, medical supplies and ammunition. The cavalry rode ahead and on the flanks, pushing through the long grass to flush out any groups of Zulus that were in hiding. It was a large force, powerful and well-drilled, but they were all aware that if anything went wrong and a side of the square collapsed there were enough Zulus to overwhelm them. Company officers, their taut faces concealing their thoughts, moved along the lines, watching the dressing and keeping the lines closed up as the square moved forward. They needed nothing now but the Zulus.
As they edged ponderously across the Mahlabatini plain, the bandsmen were playing regimental marches. The plain was bare and the few kraals they passed were empty. Then a shout rang out and all eyes followed the pointing finger. In the distance they could see Zulus on the hills in groups that grew bigger all the time as they began to swarm down the slopes and vanish into the hollows. As they began to find the bodies of the men killed during Buller’s near-ambush the previous day, over on the right a large kraal was burning, the smoke held low by the breeze and rolling among the mimosa and euphorbia trees. Gradually they edged nearer to Ulundi and began to climb a gentle slope. Then, as the mounted men scrambled out of the river-bed, they saw the plain ahead come to life.
A Zulu regiment had risen silently out of the grass and, one after the other, more appeared on either side, parting the tall grass to display their shields and plumes. More appeared on the heights and began to join them until the plain was ringed by groups of black figures.
Alongside Colby, von Hartmann was watching through binoculars. ‘There will be a battle after all,’ he said. ‘How many do you reckon there are?’
‘Over ten thousand. Over fifteen even. Less than thirty. Say twenty.’
‘Shall we prevail?’
Colby paused. Everybody at Isandhlwana had thought they would win. ‘We’
ll prevail,’ he said quietly. ‘These aren’t the Zulus of the early days. They’ve lost too many, and the old men aren’t eager any longer.’
The square had been halted with the rear and sides turned outwards, ready for an attack from any quarter. Every man was watching the Zulus who were moving forward slowly, the regiments marked by their distinctively coloured shields. As they broke into a sprawling semi-circle running from east through north to west, cutting off the track to the river and forcing the mounted men back towards the square, another huge mass of warriors appeared behind the burning kraal on the right, waiting to close the circle when needed.
‘Here they come!’
The black masses were moving forward more quickly now, one or two of the regiments breaking into a trot. Others joined them until the whole circle of black figures was approaching at a flat run. A humming had started, a low noise like a vast beehive, ominous and menacing, above it the rattle of spears on the cowhide shields and the swish of grass as thousands of warriors pushed through it.
‘Load!’
The weapons clattered as every man checked his rifle. Buller’s horsemen were falling back slowly, allowing the Zulus to come dangerously close before firing their carbines and wheeling to reload.
‘What are those madmen up to?’ Von Hartmann asked.
‘They’re trying to goad them into a charge,’ Colby said. ‘Once they start, the whole lot’ll come.’
There was a roar and a swish as a rocket battery on the corner of the square came into action. The rockets soared too high, trailing smoke, sparks and flame, and the crews adjusted screw settings, studied the wind a little and tried a new elevation. As the second salvo shot away, the Zulus paused, then there was a howl as they came forward in a rush.
As they surged forward, the mounted men wheeled and cantered for the square, always just ahead of the moving Zulus.
‘Close ranks! Move up there! Shoulder to shoulder!’
‘Fix bayonets!’
