CHAPTER XX.

ZULULAND.--THE DASH WITH THE COLOURS FROM ISANDHLANA.

At the same time that the war in Afghanistan was being carried to a successful issue serious trouble was brewing in South Africa. The Zulus under Cetewayo, who had long been restless, now threatened to overrun Natal and the Transvaal, and precipitate a general revolt of the black races against the white.

To go into the whole history of the quarrel would take too long, but it may be said that the grievances of the natives arose out of long-standing feuds between them and the Boers over the seizure of land. The immediate cause of the war was a dispute over a strip of territory extending along the left bank of the Tugela River into Zululand. To this piece of land the Zulus obstinately asserted their right, and their claim was upheld by a Commission which was appointed to inquire into the matter.

After the annexation of the Transvaal by Great Britain in 1877 Sir Bartle Frere had been sent out to South Africa as High Commissioner, and unfortunately for everyone concerned he now strongly opposed the arbitrators’ award. Regarding Cetewayo as a dangerous enemy, as a cruel, savage monarch whose power it was necessary to curb, he withheld the award for several months, in the course of which time the Zulu king nursed an ever-growing resentment towards the British.

In this interval Cetewayo, who set himself to follow in the steps of his uncle, the famous chief Dingaan, perpetrated many atrocities which showed him to be a bloodthirsty tyrant. When he was remonstrated with for his cruelties he insolently answered that the killing he had done was nothing to the killing he intended to do, a reply which was taken as a warning that the Zulus looked forward to “washing their spears” in the blood of white men.

A raid into Natal to recapture some native women who had fled thither for protection, and the subsequent murder of the captives, increased Sir Bartle Frere’s determination to take strong measures against Cetewayo. Accordingly, when the award was announced to the king it was accompanied with an ultimatum that the vast Zulu army must be disbanded and certain objectionable practices discontinued.

Cetewayo, looking over his impis, which numbered some 50,000 warriors--all well drilled and well armed--laughed at the proposal. His army had measured itself against the white men already and with no little success. So the thirty days of grace allowed him passed unheeded, and, war having been declared, a British force crossed the Tugela into Zululand.

Lord Chelmsford, who commanded the troops, divided his little army into three main columns. One marched to an important station in the Transvaal; another to a position near the mouth of the Tugela; and the third--the invading force--to Rorke’s Drift, on the banks of the Buffalo River, thence to cross over into Zululand. It was to this last column that the great defeat at Isandhlana befell, a disaster which filled all England with consternation when the news of it arrived. And to it belongs the story of how Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill made that desperate dash to escape with the regimental colours of the 24th that won them everlasting fame.

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How the disaster occurred is soon told. Although advised by Boer veterans well versed in Zulu warfare as to the necessity of laagering his waggons every evening and of throwing out scouts well in advance, Lord Chelmsford preferred to adopt his own tactics. He was an experienced and brave officer, whose record of active service included the Crimean, Indian Mutiny, and Abyssinian campaigns, but he now made the fatal mistake of despising the enemy before him.

After one or two successful skirmishes with the Zulus, the little force of about 1300 men marched up through the country, crossed the Buffalo River, and encamped at the foot of a hill known to the natives as Isandhlana, “the lion’s hill.” Here the tents were pitched but no laager formed; no proper precautions taken to guard against an attack.

This was negligence enough, but worse was to follow. Two small reconnoitring parties who were sent out on January 21st were alarmed by the sight of a large body of Zulus not far away. In some haste they sent to the camp for reinforcements. On receipt of this intelligence Lord Chelmsford got together several companies of the 24th, some mounted infantry and a few guns, and at a very early hour the next morning started out to meet, as he confidently supposed, Cetewayo’s main army. A body of Zulus was encountered and repulsed, but they did not form the larger portion of Cetewayo’s impis. While the British commander-in-chief was thus decoyed from his base, an army of 20,000 Zulus was hastening fleet-footed round the hills, to swoop down upon the doomed camp.

At Isandhlana only eight hundred men had been left. These comprised a handful of Mounted Infantry and Volunteers, seventy of the Royal Artillery with two guns, and some companies of the 24th Regiment and the Natal Carabineers. This puny force was under the command of Colonel Durnford, R.E., who had been hastily summoned thither from Rorke’s Drift.

Lord Chelmsford marched out at about four in the morning. Five hours later the advancing Zulu impis were sighted by the watchers at Isandhlana, and an urgent message was despatched to the front. This message the General disregarded, his aide-de-camp’s telescope having assured him that the camp was unmolested.

Not everyone, however, shared this optimistic opinion, for Colonel Harness and Major Black, believing the messenger’s story to be true, started back to Isandhlana on their own account, taking four companies with them. But, to their grief, they were peremptorily recalled. Had they continued their journey they would have been in time to witness the end of the death struggle which was even then in progress at the camp; though it is doubtful if they could have done anything to save their comrades.

Eight hundred against twenty thousand. What chance had they?

By noon the crescent of the Zulu army had enveloped the camp. Drawing closer and still closer in, the ringed warriors, the cream of Cetewayo’s fighting men, armed with assegai, knobkerry, and rifle, burst upon Durnford’s little company as they hastily tried to form a laager with the waggons. Durnford himself was in the thick of it, encouraging the troopers, placing a gun here and ordering a charge there. But it was all in vain.

Before the fierce fire of thousands of Zulu rifles, and before the host of assegais that hurtled through the air, the redcoats and the Basutos of the Native Contingent went down like corn under the sickle. They fought well, as desperate men will when driven to bay; but while they fired and reloaded and fired again behind them came the right horn of the overlapping Zulu army to strike at them in the rear. _That_, and not a panic-stricken flight, accounted for the many assegai wounds which were afterwards observed in the fallen men’s backs.

There were numerous deeds of valour performed that day, of which some account has come down to us from the Zulus themselves. The 24th, the South Wales Borderers, a regiment with a famous record, knew how to die, and officers and men accounted for many a dusky foe ere they themselves were borne down.

We have a picture of little parties of them found lying with their fifty or sixty rounds of spent cartridges beside their dead bodies, to give colour to the Zulus’ story that they “could not make way against the soldiers until they ceased firing.” Then, and then only, could the deadly assegais finish their work, as the warriors leapt in with the fierce death-hiss.

And we have another picture given us of Captain Younghusband, of the same regiment, standing erect in an empty waggon with three privates, and keeping a crowd of the enemy at bay. The others fall at last, shot or assegaied by the Zulus who clamber up the sides, but the tall, soldierly figure holds the warriors off. Then, his last cartridge gone, he leaps down, sword in hand, to cut his way through to liberty if it be possible.

It was not possible. But he died fighting like a lion. Said a Zulu who took part in the attack, “All those who tried to stab him were knocked over at once. He kept his ground for a long time, until someone shot him.”

Very few escaped alive from that camp of death. Of the gallant eight hundred all but six lay stretched lifeless around the waggons and overturned tents, or on the rough ground to the rear, where a line of corpses marked the path to the river.

Lieutenant Teignmouth Melvill, Adjutant of the 1st Battalion of the 24th Regiment, was among those who got away when all hope of rescue was given up. To him Colonel Pulleine confided the Queen’s colours, telling him to make the best of his way back to safety. For himself, and those with him, said the colonel, their duty was plain. There was no thought of flight. “Men, we are here, and here we must stop!” was his brief address to the remnant of the 1st Battalion; and stop they did, till they and their brave colonel had fallen.

Meanwhile, with the flag rolled and cased and firmly gripped in his hand, Melvill spurred his horse through the press and dashed for the river. After him panted a score or more of Zulus, pausing only in their pursuit to stab any of the other fugitives whom they passed.

For six miles the adjutant galloped on his ride for life, gradually leaving the Zulus behind, though their shots continued to follow him. He had now been joined by Lieutenant Nevill Aylmer Coghill, of his own regiment, who had cut his way through the circle of Zulus. Then the tossing waters of the Buffalo came in view, and how the fugitives’ hearts must have risen at the sight. For on the other side of the river lay Natal and safety.

A last desperate spurt and the bank was gained. Down the steep slope scrambled horses and riders, and plunged into the swirling stream. The Buffalo runs swiftly between its high banks, the water being broken up by large rocks, dotted here and there. Exhausted after its flight, Melvill’s horse failed to make headway against the swift current, and in its struggles the adjutant was swept out of his saddle.

Not far away from him, on another rock, was an officer of the Native Contingent, named Higginson.

“Catch hold of the pole!” cried the adjutant; and the other, leaning over, made a grab at it as the colours came within reach. But he, too, was carried away.

By this time the foremost of the Zulus had come up, and they at once opened fire upon the helpless men in the river. Lieutenant Coghill, meanwhile, had swum his horse across the stream and gained the opposite bank in safety. Reining up on the top of the slope, he looked back and saw Melvill struggling in the water below.

There was a chance of life for him. His horse was still fresh, and the road to Helpmakaar stretched away behind him. But Coghill gave no thought to himself, or if he did he banished it instantly from his mind. Riding down the bank again, he plunged into the river with a cheery call to Melvill to “hold on.”

Then, just as he reached the other two, his horse was shot. The current carried it swiftly down the stream, as a few moments later it bore the colours which it had wrenched from Melvill’s grasp.

The three were now still more at the Zulus’ mercy. Bullets splashed the water round them, and several of the warriors were scrambling down the bank towards them. By making great efforts, however, Coghill being hampered by an injured knee, they reached the Natal side. Here, before they had gone far, the Zulus caught them up, and the two lieutenants turned to make a fight for it.

I need not dwell on the last sad scene. Higginson--and we may think no shame of him for doing so--had gone on alone. He had no revolver or weapon of any kind with which to defend himself. Coghill and Melvill had their revolvers.

Standing in front of an enormous rock, the two officers faced their foes, to sell their lives as dearly as possible. And when their bodies were discovered days later the stiffened corpses of a dozen Zulus lying almost in a circle round them bore eloquent witness to the gallant stand for life that they had made. They were buried side by side on the spot where they had fallen, while a simple granite cross was raised to mark their grave and tell to future generations the story of how Lieutenants Melvill and Coghill died to save the colours of their regiment.

The flag itself, it may be added, was found by a search party some distance down the river. It was brought back to England at the close of the war and presented to her Majesty the Queen, who tenderly placed upon it a wreath of immortelles in remembrance of the gallant pair whose lives had been given for it.

At about the same time an announcement appeared in the _London Gazette_ to the effect that had Melvill and Coghill lived they would have received the V.C. And so their names, too, are added to the glorious roll of honour.

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On the same day that Merrill and Coghill won fame, Samuel Wassall, a private of the 80th Regiment who had been serving with the Mounted Infantry, earned the third Cross that is associated with Isandhlana. Having escaped from the Zulus, he too turned his horse towards the Buffalo River. He was pursued, but managed to outdistance his enemies, and gained the river unharmed at a point farther east than the ford.

Just as he was about to enter the water Wassall saw another soldier--Private Westwood--battling vainly with the current and evidently on the point of being drowned. To jump from his horse was the work of a moment. Then, throwing himself into the stream, he swam to the sinking man’s rescue, brought him out, got himself and the exhausted Westwood on to the horse, and plunged once more into the river.

Some Zulus had appeared on the rocks above him as he was in the act of mounting, and their bullets came perilously close, but neither he nor his burden was hit. The horse needed no urging to get across the stream, and ere long Wassall was out of reach of his discomfited pursuers.

The Staffordshire private takes an honoured place among the wearers of the Cross for Valour, for his courage in turning to the rescue of his drowning comrade stamps him a true hero.