DURBAN - It was 2.30 in the afternoon when the battlefield at Isandlwana went dark. The fighting was almost over, with only a few pockets of resistance remaining.
It was the Zulu warriors of King Cetshwayo that had prevailed, the blood of dead British soldiers indistinguishable from their red coats, and now the moon had conspired to blot out the sun’s light and cover the whole disaster in partial darkness.
But the solar eclipse did not last long. Fugitives could be seen charging helter-skelter down to the Buffalo River, a struggling, exhausted mass. Those on foot were rapidly overtaken and stabbed to death. Even those on horseback could only trot over areas of broken ground and sometimes their pursuers could catch up, pull them from their horses and kill them.
The British Empire had suffered its worst defeat against an indigenous foe with vastly inferior military technology. Theoretically, it should never have happened.
The British commander-in-chief, Major-General Lord Chelmsford, had split his forces, leaving half to guard his camp under Lieutenant-Colonels Henry Pulleine and Anthony Durnford, while he went off with the other half to find the enemy. But the 20000-strong enemy who had managed to remain undetected moved closer and closer to the 1800-strong British camp. Like dark storm clouds pouring over the horizon they came on and on, an endless flow, countless row upon row in the traditional horns and chest of the buffalo formation, with the aim of encircling the British position.
Pulleine sent out all six companies of the 24th Foot into an extended firing line with the aim of meeting the Zulu attack head-on with all the firepower he could bring to bear. Durnford’s men, having been attacked by the Zulu centre, formed up around a dry watercourse on the British right flank where they too formed a defensive line.
Closer came the warriors, buzzing like bees in angry swarms in the blistering heat of an African summer’s day. Nothing could stop them now. And then the first volley from hundreds of Martini-Henry rifles roared and spat in response, each rifle capable of killing an elephant, and then another volley and another. Pieces of lead ripped through charging bodies, crushing bones, tearing flesh and destroying organs. The unstoppable shuddered to a halt, lying low, wondering what to do next.
For an hour or so until after midday, the disciplined British volleys pinned down the Zulu centre, inflicting horrific casualties, keeping British morale high. However, the left horn of the Zulu advance was moving slowly to envelop the British right.
Durnford’s men who were not well armed and who had been fighting for the longest began to withdraw when ammunition ran low, exposing the right flank of the British regulars who then had to withdraw to the camp. But it was hopeless. Everywhere troops were being overrun. Groups formed at various points, some formed squares, one group was as large as 150 men and a number of desperate last stands were made, where comrades stood shoulder to shoulder and fought with the gut-wrenching truth slowly enveloping them that every man was to die.
Mounted colonial troops who could have ridden off remained and fought, their horses left tethered to picket ropes. The fighting was hand-to-hand and no quarter was given. Durnford’s voice was heard above the din of battle calling out the timing for the volley firing until even he fell silent, a silence that was followed by the disembowelling of the corpses.
As it turned out, little had been learned from another battle in another continent only a few years before. This was the Battle of the Little Bighorn, a part of the Great Sioux War and commonly referred to as Custer’s Last Stand.
During the years building up to the war, conflict and tension between the US and many of the Plains Indian tribes including the Sioux and the Cheyenne had been building higher and higher. European-Americans continually broke treaty agreements and kept moving further westwards, resulting in acts of violence on both sides. Keen to take possession of the Black Hills along with their gold deposits and to protect settlers from Indian attacks, the US decided to corral the remaining free Plains Indians.
It was during this war that one of the most famous of the American Indian battles took place. Lt-Colonel George Armstrong Custer and his 7th US Cavalry had left Fort Abraham Lincoln in May, 1876, as part of a larger force. On June 15, one of Custer’s officers, Major Marcus Reno, discovered a significant trail. On June 22, Custer’s entire regiment of 700 men was detached to follow this trail, which led to an encampment near the Little Bighorn River. Custer split his forces into three battalions with himself in command of one of them, not knowing they were facing a 2500-strong enemy, with Crazy Horse as one of the leaders. Reno, who headed up one of the battalions, attacked the encampment, but came up against strong resistance, causing the loss of a quarter of his men.
Custer moved north to try to sandwich the Indians between his forces and Reno’s. The precise details of Custer’s fight are largely conjectural as no one survived to tell the story and accounts from surviving Indians were conflicting. It would seem that Custer was forced to turn and head for the hill, where he would make his famous last stand.
The hill was probably too small to accommodate all the survivors as well as the wounded. Nevertheless, according to Lakota accounts, more casualties were sustained by them at Last Stand Hill than anywhere else during the battle. The extent of the soldiers’ resistance revealed that they had few doubts about their chances of survival. In less than an hour, no cavalryman was left alive and the mutilations began.
Today it is generally believed that the whole disaster should never have happened. In his book, Custer and the Sioux, Durnford and the Zulus, Paul Williams states that in 1890, at the funeral of General Alfred Terry, Custer’s commanding officer, the minister used the opportunity to clarify who was responsible for the disaster. “Custer’s fatal movement was in direct violation of both verbal and written orders.”
Disobedient or not, after his death, Custer achieved lasting fame. The public saw him as a tragic military hero and exemplary gentleman who had sacrificed his life for his country. Custer’s wife, Elizabeth, dedicated herself to preserving and enhancing his image at every opportunity. She wrote several books on his exploits.
Controversy, though, crept in during the decades that followed. Why had Custer not accepted extra troops, as offered by General Terry? Why had he not taken his Gatling guns along? Why did he divide his force into three when faced with vastly superior numbers? Biographer Evan Connell wrote: “These days it is stylish to denigrate the general, whose stock sells for nothing. Nineteenth-century Americans thought differently. At that time he was a cavalier without fear and beyond reproach.”
Following the Battle of Isandlwana, the British desperately needed a scapegoat and Durnford, a colonial, fitted the bill perfectly; after all, why should an English lord take the blame? Like Custer, Durnford also had a woman devoted to him. To Frances Colenso, the love of her life had died a hero, covering the retreat of others. He was there to the end, along with members of the Natal Police, as well as the Carbineers. For the heartbroken Frances, not only had she lost the man she adored, but this same man was blamed for losing the battle. With the courage of a cornered lioness, she went to work publishing two books. The first was the History of the Zulu War and Its Origin, in 1880. She fearlessly placed the blame for the defeat at Chelmsford’s door.
Chelmsford did his best to label the defeat “Durnford’s Disaster”, but the evidence against Chelmsford was overwhelming. After all, it was he who had underestimated his Zulu foe and ignored solid Boer advice. It was he who had failed to fortify his camp and it was he who split his force, knowing there were 20 000 Zulu warriors nearby. One of Britain’s most famous generals, Sir Garnet Wolseley, was difficult to fool and he wrote on September 30, 1879, how “the blame was thrown upon Durnford” in an attempt to “screen Chelmsford”.
Extracts from Paul Williams’s prologue are as follows: “Government and general public alike would be shocked and awed, and all the world would wonder how “stone-age” men could inflict such a blow. This disaster occurred twice.
“The first time was at the Little Bighorn River in 1876 and the second at Isandlwana in 1879 where the British Army had taken no heed of the mistakes made by the United States Army fighting the Sioux Indians and a bloody repeat of history was the result.”
But perhaps it is an artist from more recent times who captures the futility of war and the bravery, camaraderie and loyalty of the soldiers who fight in them. Brothers in Arms, a song written by Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits in 1985 does just this:
“But it’s written in the starlight
And every line in your palm.
We are fools to make war
On our brothers in arms.”
It is Knopfler’s wailing guitar that carries us through the battlefields, under the screaming shells and over the death scenes, the suffering and the madness to the end where some of our brothers in arms find survival and then thanksgiving and finally reflection.
Catherine Greenham is a teacher and published author of the novel Rebellion. Michael Greenham is a chartered accountant and lecturer.
- THE MERCURY