Cruelty of Fate Page 17

  Yet, on nights like this with the summer rains coming down in torrents, most remained in their homes. As he laid his hand on the high dais from which he often addressed his people, King Cetshwayo kaMpande felt very much alone.

  “A sleepless night, Ndabazitha,” a voice said behind him.

  The king turned to see Mnyamana, his aged advisor and chief minister. The inkosi of the influential Buthelezi clan was a tall, thin man. Though still a good deal shorter than his sovereign, he towered over all but the largest of his warriors. His neatly trimmed, pointed beard was mostly grey. He stood tall when he walked and kept pace on long runs with even the youngest regiments of the amabutho.

  “And what does my inkosi nkhulu advise?” the king asked, using a term similar to the British title of ‘Prime Minister’.

  He then waved for the inkosi to follow him and they returned to the royal hut. He sent out his servants, awakened by the commotion of the two men’s return. Cetshwayo threw the soaked blanket from around his shoulders and sat before the simmering coals of the fire in the centre of the floor.

  “Do you still think we should placate the whites, now that blood has been spilled upon our land?”

  “We have been more than generous with Shepstone and his peers,” Mnyamana reasoned.

  The man he referred to, Sir Theophilus Shepstone, was a British statesman who’d spent his entire life in South Africa. Because of his decades of living in such close proximity to the kingdom, he was the man who many Zulus viewed as the face of their white neighbours. Both Cetshwayo and his father, Mpande, had long considered him a friend. His betrayal was a crushing blow to Cetshwayo, as was the absconding of a long-time friend of the Zulu royal house, the trader John Dunn.

  “And this war has already been costly to both our nations,” the old inkosi continued. Like many families throughout the kingdom, Mnyamana was in mourning; his son, Mtumengana, being among those killed at Isandlwana.

  “Warriors from his regiment said Mtumengana died with blood upon his spear,” the king asserted. “I know he has been given a place of honour amongst the ancestors.”

  “Our warriors triumphed, Ndabazitha,” Mnyamana stated. “Yet many ill omens have emerged from the battlefields. The enemy’s numbers were few. It wasn’t even Chelmsford’s entire force that we defeated, but only part of it. He, along with half his men, were off sacking the lands belonging to Matshana while our regiments assaulted their camp at Isandlwana. How much greater would our losses have been had Chelmsford’s impi been concentrated along the mountain?” He lowered his head and stared into the fire for a few moments. The old councillor knew his king held many of the same reservations as he.

  “My brother’s insolent defiance aside,” the king said slowly, “our best regiments were repelled by a paltry number of red-jacketed soldiers hiding behind mealie bags at kwaJimu. And so many reports from the izinduna candidly stated that the amakhosi lost all control over their men during the attack on Isandlwana. This is why I chose not to grant battle honours to Ntshingwayo and Mavumengwana. They may be among my greatest generals, but their failure to enforce discipline led to many needless deaths amongst our warriors. What’s more, I received a messenger from the south. On the same day as our army’s victory and my brother’s defeat, Godide and the southern impi were soundly beaten near Wombane Mountain along the Inyezane River. One of my personal izinduna, Phalane kaMdinwa, informs me that the English were crossing the river, scattered in a long column. Yet, the ambush was completely spoiled, with the older regiments refusing to engage in battle. Godide should count himself fortunate this is not still the reign of my uncle, Shaka; he would likely find himself impaled for such a disgrace.”

  “In spite of this, Isandlwana was still a great victory, my king,” Mnyamana observed. “The defeats at Inyezane and kwaJimu do nothing to diminish this. The white inkosi, Chelmsford, does not wish to throw away lives any more than we do.”

  “You think now is the time to negotiate?”

  “I do, Ndabazitha. The English thought we would be easy prey, like the Xhosa. Isandlwana proved we can spill much of their blood and crush even their best troops.”

  “Then I will entreat with Chelmsford,” Cetshwayo decided. “Let us hope he sees reason, that dignity and honour might be preserved for both our nations without further loss.”

  “Many lives would not have been lost had you heeded our council,” a voice spoke up from the darkness.

  The king looked up to see Prince Hamu; the most brazen of his numerous siblings, and in many ways his greatest rival.

  Born in 1822, during the height of King Shaka’s reign, Prince Hamu kaNzibe was four years the elder brother of Cetshwayo. His mother was the widow of Prince Nzibe, a brother of Shaka, who was killed during one of the many wars that arose during the often-times violent expansion of the Zulu Kingdom. As was custom, his chief widow was subsequently married to one of Nzibe’s brothers; in this case Mpande. Since Nzibe had died childless, it was the eldest son of this union who became heir to his lands and property. Hence, while actually the son of Mpande, Hamu, was given the surname kaNzibe instead of kaMpande. This further meant that, while still a royal prince, Hamu was not an heir of Mpande, who rather unexpectedly became king eighteen years later.

  Inner-sibling rivalry resulting in outright war had become commonplace within the Zulu Royal House. King Shaka was assassinated during a coup led by his brother, Dingane, in 1828. Twelve years later, Dingane was overthrown during the insurrection led, in part, by yet another brother, Mpande. Though biologically the eldest son of King Mpande, Prince Hamu held no place within the royal succession. By law and tradition, he was considered the son and heir of Nzibe.

  Mnyamana wished to rebuke the impudent prince, yet he held his tongue and bowed to his sovereign before taking his leave. Tensions between the royal siblings had only increased since the outbreak of hostilities with the British, and Mnyamana left to avoid any further discomfort or embarrassment.

  “I should make an example of you,” Cetshwayo growled, as he stood chest-to-chest with his elder brother. “You have done nothing for our people, only looking to your own gains, while attempting to undermine my authority and that of the House of Zulu.”

  “Will you make an example out of me like our impetuous brother, Dabulamanzi, who so blatantly defied you?” Hamu retorted. “You should have executed him for his disobedience. Instead, you allowed him to live and return to his lands in the south. What will the people, my people, in the disputed territory say, should their king attempt to ‘make an example’ of me? And will they be so forgiving towards a king who threw away the land grant which gave their homes to the amaZulu?”

  “You forget yourself,” the king growled. “We are Zulu! We do not need the white men to ‘grant’ us our lands.”

  “Instead, we are now at war with them, with the very kingdom at risk,” Hamu countered. “You mistake me, brother, if you think I have ever bowed or kowtowed before any Englishman. I know how to deal with them, how to bend them to my will. While you protect the unruly sons of Sihayo, how many thousands of our people have already perished? And how many women and children, who now mourn for their lost husbands and sons, are left as starving refugees while the red-jacketed soldiers pillage our lands in the north? Had you simply handed Mehlokazulu over to the British, his death would have been little loss!”

  Cetshwayo seethed in rage. He hefted his ceremonial axe, his breathing coming quickly through his nose. He contemplated how easy it would be to drive the weapon into his brother’s skull, ending his meddling and possible treachery.

  Hamu sneered at him. “Love me or hate me, dear brother, you need me if you intend to keep hold on the northern kingdom. The abaQulusi and that Swazi prince, Mbilini, who thinks you will help him claim his throne, will only bleed so much for the House of Zulu.”

  “They have proven more loyal to our people than my own brother,” Cetshwayo retorted. “Do not think our shared blood will keep you safe, should your impertinence threaten our p
eople or the authority of the amaZulu throne.”

  Hamu feigned acceptance and bowed before his brother, raising his hands up near his face in salute. But as the words, “As you will, Ndabazitha”, escaped his lips, he failed to conceal the disdain in his voice.

  Cetshwayo returned to his bed mat. He knew sleep would be difficult. He could not trust Hamu, whom he rightly suspected may attempt to use the current war against the British as a premise for usurping the throne. Though Hamu was loved in the north, the rest of the kingdom viewed him with indifference. The amabutho’s victory at Isandlwana only bolstered the king’s standing with the people, despite the fearsome losses suffered. And so long as Hamu remained at Ulundi, he could cause no real harm other than being a constant thorn in Cetshwayo’s side.

  The Royal Kraal at Ulundi, from The Graphic

  Note, the actual Royal Kraal was much larger than depicted

  Among the battered warriors from the north to finally return home was the induna, Mandlenkosi kaSiyanda. His injuries still ached terribly. Streaks of white and red spread from his shoulder wound, telling of the infection his body was fighting. Being in his fifties, the older warrior did not recover nearly as quickly as during his youth.

  His family had was wrought with tragedy over the years. During his early manhood he had acquired much in the way of cattle and wealth, allowing him to provide for three wives. The younger two both died during childbirth, with one of the babies being stillborn. This left him with his surviving wife, Ayanda, and one daughter, Nofoto, now into her sixteenth year. Ayanda was also the mother of his son, Kwanele. It was with tears in her eyes that she met her husband when he returned to their homestead.

  “You return alone, as I feared,” she said, fighting to control her voice.

  “There are many families who now mourn the deaths of their sons, brothers, and fathers,” Mandlenkosi said. Suddenly unable to control his own emotions any longer, he slumped into his wife’s arms, the sobs and tears he had suppressed since first hearing of Kwanele’s death finally flowing freely. Nofoto emerged from the central hut, her own tears now flowing as she came to the realisation that her beloved brother was dead. She wrapped her arms around her father’s waist, and all three let their sorrow unleash.

  There was no chatter around the fire that night, only the mourning chants from Ayanda and Nofoto. They sang the name of Kwanele and asked their ancestral spirits to guide him home.

  “I sensed great evil on the day of the New Moon,” Ayanda said as she sat next to her husband.

  Nofoto continued to walk along the grassy field nearest the homestead, singing and calling out to her brother’s spirit, that he might return to them and find peace.

  “It was indeed a day of wickedness,” Mandlenkosi confessed. “For both our people and those of the White Queen. The ancestors and whichever spirits watch over the British were clearly displeased by the incessant slaughter wrought on such a day of ill omen. Any divine protective charms placed upon us by the izinyanga were rendered useless, with many dying who may otherwise have lived. And I fear more divine reprisals to come for both Zulu and British.”

  The loss of his son, coupled with his own injuries, left the induna a broken man. If the divines and their ancestors were angry with them, what would become of their people, and of the Zulu Kingdom? The long journey he’d undertaken alone, having first marched before King Cetshwayo with the rest of the uThulwana Regiment, had been one of silent contemplation. He and his family lived in the heart of the lands belonging to Prince Hamu, who Mandlenkosi considered a friend as well as his master. He knew Hamu was among those to speak out against going to war with the British, and Mandlenkosi was anxious for his return. He needed to hear from Hamu what his intentions were.

  The old induna felt as if he were drowning within a black abyss; the loss of his son, along with so many of his lifelong friends, threatening to destroy his very soul. He needed guidance and a sovereign who could pull him back from the edge of oblivion. What’s more, he needed to know how he could salvage the future for his wife and daughter.

  The elation Colonel Henry Evelyn Wood felt regarding the recent raids by his mounted troops was deeply tempered by a message he received from Commandant Friederich Schermbrucker in Luneburg. Schermbrucker was a German-born settler who’d once served as part of the Bavarian forces under the British Empire. He now commanded a mounted force called the Kaffrarian Rifles who helped protect Luneburg and Utrecht, as well as conducting their own raids against the Zulus and abaQulusi. He had also enlisted the support of his own contingent of indigenous warriors under an induna named Nkosana, who had previously served as a border policeman for the British. It was one of these warriors who brought Schermbrucker’s message to Colonel Wood. The column commander had just finished dictating a message to Lord Chelmsford, regarding their harrying attacks to draw the Zulus’ attention away from the centre and southern columns. It was Corporal Harry Davies and two of his soldiers who escorted the warrior to Wood.

  “This man states he is a messenger from Commandant Schermbrucker, sir,” Harry said, after coming to attention.

  The colonel nodded to the warrior, who pulled a single-page despatch from his shoulder pouch. The corner of Evelyn’s mouth twitched before ordering Harry and his men to wait outside with the runner until he could send a reply. The colonel and his staff met inside the tent, but with his keen sense of hearing, not to mention how loud Wood tended to speak, Harry could hear all that was said.

  “Dash it all, this Swazi prince is playing us for fools!” he heard Wood lament. “He’s taken most of his fighters north and is now harassing the settlements north of the Phongolo River.”

  “It would seem no place is safe between Luneburg and Derby,” Captain Woodgate remarked, having read the despatch.

  “They’ve most recently destroyed a large settlement near the Bivane River,” Wood added. “Even the women and children were shown no mercy.”

  “The trouble, sir,” a voice spoke up, “is the Zulus are simply too manoeuvrable. They can cover thirty miles across rugged terrain in the time it takes our column to march seven! Most of the white settlers are now besieged within their own laagers surrounding the major towns. The stubborn ones who remain on their farms, not to mention all the natives, are now at the mercy of this barbarian.”

  Though Harry did not recognise it, the voice belonged to Major Hackett from the 90th Regiment, who was representing the battalion on Major Rogers’ behalf.

  “What’s more, Derby is a supply depot for both ours and Colonel Rowlands’ forces,” Captain Robert Campbell added. “Logistics convoys have little choice but to utilise the road between Derby and Luneburg.”

  “Sir, I recommend we send a message to Colonel Rowlands,” Hackett suggested. “He may not be fully abreast of the situation.”

  “Agreed. I’ll have a despatch sent to him at once, through Commandant Schermbrucker. We’ll make certain he knows the same details we do regarding the recent disaster.”

  Wood did not mention that he would need to, tactfully, request Rowlands be ready to detach some of his infantry companies to No. 4 Column. Every day, Evelyn grew more nervous regarding the Zulu impi that had destroyed the forces under Anthony Durnford and Henry Pulleine. Where were they now? Would they head south to assault Colonel Pearson’s besieged column at Eshowe, or would King Cetshwayo send them north to destroy Wood’s forces?

  After another ten minutes of waiting, Harry Davies saw Lieutenant Lysons emerge from the command tent, a folded message several pages in length clutched in his hand. He handed it to the African messenger, who nodded as he placed it within his pouch.

  “Escort this messenger to Major Knox-Leet,” Lysons ordered. “He can have supper with the other natives and rest here tonight before he returns to Luneburg.”

  “I understand,” the messenger replied in English.

  Lysons raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Right, well, off you go then,” he said with a quick nod before exchanging salutes with Corporal Davies,
who then escorted the messenger away.

  At the artillery battery’s camp, Lieutenant Bigge sat outside his tent, updating notes in his journal for The Times. He was joined by 2nd Lieutenant Arthur Bright, a young subaltern from the 90th Regiment who Bigge befriended during the past few months.

  “I see a number of Colonel Buller’s horsemen are making ready to depart on patrol again,” Bright noted. At twenty-one, he was eight years younger than Bigge. He also stood a half-head taller than his fellow subaltern and was powerfully built.

  “They’re not heading out on patrol, they’re leaving,” Bigge replied. “Poor sods have been run ragged these past few months. Unlike the Boer burghers, they have no spare horses and are only good for short to moderate-range patrols. While I have no love for most of these frontiersmen, who are scarcely more civilised than the Zulus, I cannot say I fault those who elected not to extend their contracts.”

  “Bugger me,” Bright replied. “I counted about sixty or seventy of them saddling their horses.”

  “Seventy-two,” Bigge corrected. “And as the column is already short of cavalry, those who remain will be even more overworked.”

  This loss of manpower, especially mounted troops, made the young officer uneasy. Colonial volunteers could scarcely be expected to exude the same level of loyalty to the Crown as the Regular Army soldiers, but Arthur felt there should be some way to maintain their services, at least until the Zulu threat was contained.

  Chapter XIV: The Empire’s Resolve

  Pietermaritzburg