Isandlwana

I have seen your face before.

Yes, the inkusi, the chief, my father saw my face at the place of the little hand, that is, Isandlwana, on the day before the battle.

Then I remembered.

I was one of Lord Chelmsford's guides in that unlucky Zulu war, and had the good fortune to leave the camp in charge of some wagons on the day before the battle.

On that fateful January morning, the British column was split by a sudden storm, and two detachments, the main body under Colonel Watson and an isolated wagon train led by Lieutenant Coward, fell into a trap.

The Zulu war council had orchestrated an attack on a position known as Isandlwana, selecting it for its defenseless layout, no entrenchments, and minimal cover.

According to field reports from Captain William McCloud and eyewitness diaries of Sergeant Hensley, the Zulus massed some twenty-two thousand warriors along a ridge that overlooked the camp.

When they launched their charge, the British infantry formations broke under the concentrated spear thrusts, while artillery batteries failed to bring enough fire due to a shortage of ammunition and miscalculated rates.

Historians have debated whether the defeat was a consequence of faulty intelligence or a failure of discipline.

Recent forensic analysis of the battlefield terrain suggests that miscommunication between artillery and infantry made the difference.

Whatever the cause, Isandlwana remains Britain’s most devastating colonial casualty and a stark reminder that an imperial army could be shattered by disciplined indigenous forces.

Such coordination demonstrates how a colonial power’s assumption of technological superiority can be undermined by sheer organizational resilience when the enemy is fighting on familiar terrain.

The Zulu forces, under the new King Sechwayo after Shaka's death in 1828, were highly trained, used innovative tactics like the bullhorn formation, and had a deep cultural cohesion that gave them resilience against conventional British warfare.

At Isandlwana on the 22nd of January, just a week after the invasion began, the British column was ambushed by an estimated 20,000 Zulu warriors.

The result? An unprecedented disaster.

Roughly 300 of the 2,400 soldiers were killed in less than half an hour.

Rourke's drift became a symbol of heroic defense, partly due to its portrayal in the film Zulu.

But the reality was that disciplined marksmanship and well-maintained defensive positions turned the tide against the numerically superior Zulu forces.

So while the British suffered at Isandlwana, they eventually gained some tactical advantage by learning from the mistakes and reorganising their units.

This learning process also highlighted the limitations of British military doctrine when applied in colonial contexts.

I don't intend to stay in this country if war is declared, to be pounded into mooty, which means medicine, or have my eyes put out, or any little joke of that sort.

Ten days had passed, and one evening Haddon and his escort were encamped in a wild stretch of mountainous country lying between the Blood and Umvunyana rivers, not more than eight miles from that place of the Little Hand, which within a few weeks was to become famous throughout the world by its native name of Isandlwana.

For three days they had been tracking the spur of a small herd of buffalo that still inhabited the district, but as yet they had not come up with him.

The Zulu hunters had suggested that they should follow the Unvunyana down towards the sea, where game was more plentiful, but this neither Haddon nor the Captain Nahoon had been anxious to do, for reasons which each of them kept secret to himself.

A more eerie-looking spot than that where they were encamped Haddon had never seen.

Behind them lay a tract of land, half swamp and half bush, in which the buffalo were supposed to be hiding.

Beyond, a lonely grandeur, rose the mountain of Isandlwana, while in front was an amphitheatre of the most gloomy forest, ring-drowned in the distance by sheer-sided hills.

In this forest there ran a river which drained the swamp, placidly enough upon the level, but it was not always level, for within three hundred yards of them it dashed suddenly over a precipice, of no great height, but very steep, falling into a boiling rock-bound pool, that the light of the sun never seemed to reach.

Sometimes, it snapped.

The annihilation at Isandlwana in South Africa.

The ignominious retreat from Afghanistan.

But more often, discipline and cohesion carried the day, even when common sense said retreat.

Do not fail me, white man, or I shall send after you, and my messengers are sometimes rough." "This means that I am a prisoner," thought Hadden, "but it will go hard if I cannot manage to give them the slip somehow.

I don't intend to stay in this country if war is declared, to be pounded into muti, which means medicine, or have my eyes put out, or any little joke of that sort." Ten days had passed, and one evening Hadden and his escort were encamped in a wild stretch of mountainous country lying between the Blood and Umvundzana Rivers, not more than eight miles from that place of the little hand which within a few weeks was to become famous throughout the world by its native name of Isandlwana.

For three days they had been tracking the spoor of a small herd of buffalo that still inhabited the district, but as yet they had not come up with them.

The Zulu hunters had suggested that they should follow the Umvundzana down towards the sea where game was more plentiful, but this neither Hadden nor the captain Nahoon had been anxious to do, for reasons which each of them kept secret to himself.

A more eerie-looking spot than that where they were encamped Hadden had never seen.

Behind them lay a tract of land, half swamp and half bush, in which the buffalo was supposed to be hiding.

Beyond a lonely grandeur rose the mountain of Isandlwana, while in front was an amphitheater of the most gloomy forest ringed round in the distance by sheer-sided hills.

In this forest there ran a river which drained the swamp, placidly enough upon the level, but it was not always level, for within three hundred yards of them it dashed suddenly over a precipice of no great height but very steep, falling into a boiling rock-bound pool that the light of the sun never seemed to reach.

I don't intend to stay in this country if war is declared, to be pounded into mooty, which means medicine, or have my eyes put out, or any little joke of that sort.

Ten days had passed, and one evening Haddon and his escort were encamped in a wild stretch of mountainous country lying between the Blood and Umvunyana rivers, not more than eight miles from that place of the Little Hand, which within a few weeks was to become famous throughout the world by its native name of Isandlwana.

For three days they had been tracking the spur of a small herd of buffalo that still inhabited the district, but as yet they had not come up with him.

The Zulu hunters had suggested that they should follow the Unvunyana down towards the sea, where game was more plentiful, but this neither Haddon nor the Captain Nahoon had been anxious to do, for reasons which each of them kept secret to himself.

Haddon's object was to work gradually down to the Buffalo River, across which he hoped to effect a retreat into Natal.

That of Nahoon was to linger in the neighbourhood of the Kral of Umgona, which was situated not very far from their present camping place, in the vague hope that he might find an opportunity of speaking with, or at least seeing, Nanea, the girl to whom he was affianced, who within a few weeks must be taken from him.

and given over to the king a more eerie-looking spot than that where they were encamped hadden had never seen behind them lay a tract of land half swamp and half bush in which the buffalo were supposed to be hiding Beyond a lonely grandeur rose the mountain of Isandlwana, while in front was an amphitheatre of the most gloomy forest, ring-drowned in the distance by sheer-sided hills.

In this forest there ran a river which drained the swamp, placidly enough upon the level, but it was not always level, for within three hundred yards of them it dashed suddenly over a precipice, of no great height, but very steep.

Though a body of our soldiers were sent to cut off the enemy's retreat, the Maoris abandoned the fort and managed to make their escape during the night.

End of chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Stories of the Victoria Cross by Frank Mundell This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Saving the Colours Seldom have the British arms suffered such a terrible reverse as that which happened at the Battle of Isandula, when an overwhelming force of Zulus attacked the camp, carried all before them, and left not a single soldier alive on the field.

Just before the Zulus made their last rush, Colonel Pullein, seeing that the day was lost, called Lieutenant Melville of the 24th Regiment to his side and told him to take the colours and ride for his life and not to rest until he had put them out of the reach of the enemy.

When the Colonel had started Melville, he returned to the fight.

The two comrades lay side by side, pierced with many wounds, and around them were the bodies of many large and powerful Zulu warriors, silent witnesses of the desperate fight Melville and Coghill had made for life.

Their field of fame was their grave, for they were buried together on the spot where they had fallen.

Thus perished the last of the British officers killed in the battle of Isandula.

Some time afterwards the flag they had vainly tried to convey to a place of safety was found in the bend of the river.