Soldier of the Queen, page 25
The lieutenant asked, “Where are the swords and the other pistol, sir?”
Shrugging he replied, “Probably taken by others. They will be lost forever.”
We wrapped the bodies in the blankets we had brought and draped them over the two horses. We found a shallow part of the river and crossed. On the way back to Helpmekaar we found another four bodies. All were from the 24th. A combination of the carrion and the mutilations inflicted post mortem it was almost impossible to identify them but we managed to retrieve them and by looking through the tunic pockets worked out who they were. Their families would know what happened to their loved ones. It was a sombre party that returned to the garrison at Helpmekaar but we had gone some way to salvaging some honour after the disaster that was Isandlwana.
We caught up with the other survivors of Rorke’s Drift at Durban. The reunion was emotional for the colonel had thought the colours were lost forever. Lieutenant Bourne sought me out, once we were aboard the steamship that would take us home. I was alone at the stern and reflecting on the changes in my life. The newly-promoted lieutenant made certain that we were alone before he spoke.
“That day, in Liverpool, I knew that you were underage but there was something about you that made me ignore it. You have proved yourself more than once and I am grateful to you for retrieving the colours.” He touched the new uniform’s epaulettes, “You can achieve this, Roberts. You have the right stuff in you. It will be a long journey but I believe that you could be an officer.”
“Thank you, sir, you don’t know how much that means to me.”
As on our voyage out, the officers were kept apart from the non-commissioned officers and rank and file. We had, however, more room than on the way out. Apart from us, there were the wounded from the campaign since Lord Chelmsford had begun to head towards Ulundi. I was able to be close to my messmates. I was pleased that there was no awkwardness and there was no resentment at my promotion.
As we neared the cape and stood smoking at the stern rail Henry explained it to me, “You should have had a Victoria Cross too, Jack. The stripes were given to you because of that oversight. Me and the lads are happy to defer to you.” He laughed, “There was always something about you that marked you as different. We all saw that from the minute you joined our section. It was why Ada asked us to keep an eye on you.” He rubbed the whitening scar over his eye where the assegai had cut him. “You ended up looking after us. Your mad charge bought us enough time to get out of that hospital and Connelly and I are grateful to you and to poor Alf. We will not forget him.”
The long voyage home gave us all the opportunity to go over all the events at the mission station so that by the time we disembarked at Southampton we were all content. We had talked it through and any blanks in the battle were filled. We could not have done any more than we did and that brings some comfort. This time there was no troop train to take us home. We were given travel warrants and travelled with ordinary passengers. We were assaulted by questions all the way back to the barracks. Each time we changed trains we were surrounded by civilians who had heard of the disaster at Isandlwana and asked about the war. That so many had died at Isandlwana had shocked Victorian England. They were used to victories and not massacres. The newspapers, as was their wont, had taken, it appeared, great delight in the disaster. It sold newspapers.
As we marched from the station in Brecon the streets were lined with the townsfolk waving flags and cheering. It made us marcher straighter and keep our eyes facing forward. I was now a Corporal and it was my job to ensure that they were all in step and obeying Queen’s Regulations. Marching into the barracks brought home to us what we had done. The bright red and blue uniforms with the green collars we saw were in direct contrast to our faded, tattered and torn tunics and trousers. The helmet covers were no longer white but torn and stained yet they marked us as veterans and as we came to attention before the colonel and the new officers gathered around the new adjutant our eyes were drawn to the colours carried by Colour Sergeant Windridge and Lieutenant Bourne.
There was total silence as Colonel Glyn said, “Men of the 24th you have acquitted yourselves with great honour. These colours are a testament to that courage. Lieutenant Coghill and Lieutenant Melvill gave their lives in a vain attempt to retrieve them. That the colours are here and the bodies of those brave officers safely interred tells me that the future of this regiment is in safe hands.”
I felt myself swelling with pride tinged with sadness at the deaths.
“Tomorrow, we start to rebuild this regiment and from the ashes of Isandlwana shall rise a phoenix that will stand as an inspiration for future generations. The 24th Foot!” We were all at attention but those watching, the new men, all cheered. I would be part of that start and I hoped that Trooper would be looking down and be proud of me.
Epilogue
We were issued new uniforms the very next morning. It meant we all looked the same and that was a good thing, although the tanned skin marked the veterans of Rorke’s Drift. The new tunic already had the corporal stripes and there was no sewing involved. My helmet was still sound and so I was just given a new cover. The new boots were a necessity; the drenching in the river had done them no good at all. Captain Bromhead left the next day and I barely had time to exchange more than a salute. He would head to London to receive his Victoria Cross. The rest of us would have to wait until the end of the week before we could have a well-earned leave.
I found it harder to adjust to being a corporal than I had expected. Being saluted by my former barracks mates was hard. I got on well enough with the other non-commissioned officers but it was not the same. We had but a week to endure the change and I managed it. The food tasted different somehow. We had been away long enough to get used to the different taste of South African food. It was more heavily spiced than ours. I discovered that the mess food was blander. That was another difference. I now ate with the sergeants and corporals. Luckily, I had friends like Colour Sergeant Windridge who made me welcome. I was told that there would be formal dinners during the year and I would need to prepare myself for them. All in all, considering it was just a week much happened and time flew by. We all left together on Saturday morning. As some were heading south and I was one of the few going north we had to say farewell on the station forecourt and then I went to the eastbound platform. Had he still been there then Fred would have shared the train as far as Hereford. As it was, I was the only one heading there. The local trains for Monmouth arrived first and I waved off Hooky, 716 and the others. I found it as hard a wrench as it had been leaving my family all those years ago. Trooper had warned me of the attachment soldiers had with each other and now I knew what he meant. I had two families now.
I smoked my pipe as we headed north. I had the last of the South African leaf in it. I had bought another ounce of tobacco to replenish my pouch when we had passed the tobacconist shop in Brecon but I wanted a last memory of that exotic land before I reached home. I watched the green land slip by. Even the grass in South Africa had seemed browner. It was good to be home but I did not know how long it would be until I was sent away again. As Henry had warned me, “You take the time you have with your family and hold it tightly in two hands. We could be sent anywhere in the Queen’s Empire.” It was sage advice. I thought about Fred. He had been in a bad way the last time I had seen him. The homemade bullet had shattered bones and Surgeon Reynolds had told him that the long voyage back to England was the best form of healing he could have. He had no idea, when he left us, what he would do. I knew my task all too clearly. I had a platoon to train and I now knew what the training was for.
It was dark when I walked down the gangplank of the Royal Iris at Liverpool. People were both heading home from work for many people worked all day on Saturday and it was a shopping day. Others were heading to the pubs. I had my kit bag slung over my shoulder and I was big enough to be granted space as I headed home. I heard cheery comments as I passed. Lord Chelmsford had defeated the Zulus and Isandlwana was forgotten. Soldiers in red uniforms were heroes and I nodded and smiled at all the comments.
As I neared Auntie Sarah’s the crowds had thinned out. I passed the pub where I had taken the fateful decision to sign up and then headed down their street. It was as I neared the door that I saw the black drapes that signified a death. Mother had said that Nan had been unwell but had recovered. Had she had a relapse? I silently opened the front door; no one locked their doors. I laid my bag in the vestibule and quietly entered the tiny narrow hall. I saw a glow from the back room and knew that would be where the family was gathered. I took off my hat and opened the door quietly for if they were mourning then silence was the order of the day. No one heard me and I saw the family, with their backs to the door staring into the fire. They were all there, even Nan. Who was dead? I had a moment to myself as I took in the family picture and then the slight draught I had created made Auntie Sarah turn around. I smiled but her reaction was not what I expected. She put her hand to her mouth and screamed.
All but my Nan stood and turned. Mother rushed at me and took my right hand in her two. She kissed it, “Jack! Is this you or are you a ghost come to mock us!”
My sisters ran to hug me and I enveloped them with my left arm. My mother’s hands came up to cradle my cheeks almost as though she was testing if I was a wraith or real and I slipped my right arm around Auntie Sarah. “I am here in the flesh and, though I endured danger I am alive and whole. You thought me dead?”
Billy’s hands found my right hand and he gripped it with both of his. He kissed the back of it, “The newspapers said that your regiment was wiped out in South Africa. We hoped upon hope that you were just wounded but as time passed and no word came, we believed the worst. When news came of Lord Chelmsford’s final victory, we accepted that you had died.” The boy I had left was now a man with a smart moustache but his smile was still that of my little brother, “You have been returned to us and for that, we shall thank God.”
Auntie Sarah was still as organised as ever and she recovered first. She kissed my cheek, “You will be hungry and I shall need to make another bed up.” Her teary eyes smiled, “It is good to have you home, Jack.” The normally stoic Aunt Sarah had a catch in her voice I had never heard before.
Mother said, “You three go and find Jack’s bag and bring it in here. Nan will want to see Jack.”
She led me by the hand to the fire where a weeping Nan held her hands up for me. I bent my head and she hugged and kissed me on both cheeks, “Jack, Jack, Jack, we thought you dead.”
“But I am not and how are you? Mother said that you were ill.”
“I was but seeing you is the best medicine there is.”
The back room had two good chairs, one was Nan’s on one side of the fire and Mother led me to the other. “And now, you shall tell us how you escaped the massacre we thought had taken you.”
Auntie Sarah returned with a bottle of beer and my siblings sat at my feet, close to the comforting warmth of a coal fire.
“Well, I know not what the newspapers said, but this is what really happened…” And so I told the story of my South African adventure. I had to tell it many times. They heard the version without the blood and the gore. They had the stories of heroism and brothers in arms fighting for brothers. When I took my sisters back to St Helen’s I visited Pritchard’s and retold it there. Every pub I visited during my leave had someone who was desperate to know what happened. The version I told them was the acceptable one. I did not speak of mutilated bodies or burning flesh. I told them the story they wanted to hear about how a tiny band of redcoats had held off thousands of enemies for almost two days and, in the process won more medals than any soldier of the Queen had won before. I knew that I was now two people: I was Jack, the lad from St Helen’s and I was Corporal Roberts, soldier of the Queen.
The End
Glossary
amaFengu - the tribe displaced by the Zulus who later fought alongside the British
amaGcaleka - the name of the rebellious tribe who fought against the British in Cape Colony
appelliefie - Cape Gooseberries
Butty (pl butties) - 19th-century slang for close friends
en banderole - worn diagonally across the body
Half a crown - two shillings and sixpence (20 shillings to the pound, 12 pennies to a shilling)
Iron Gang - labourers in a workshop or factory used to lift and move heavy equipment
Kopje- a peak
Laager- an improvised fort made of wagons
Lunger - nickname for the sword bayonet
Xhosa - the name of the largest tribe in the southern part of Africa
Historical Background
I decided to bookend this novel with two interesting battles. The charge of the Heavy Brigade at the Battle of Balaklava is less well known than the Charge of the Light Brigade. That may be something to do with Tennyson’s poem. It is strange that two incredible pieces of British military prowess, the Thin Red Line and the Charge of the Heavy Brigade should be overshadowed by a reverse, the fatal charge of the Light Brigade due to awful leadership and poor communication. RSM Grieve and Private Ramage were two of the first men to receive the new award of a Victoria Cross. That 300 men should charge uphill against 2000 men and win is incredible. General Scarlett led the charge and suffered five sabre wounds as well as a mighty blow which his helmet stopped. His ADC lost his helmet and had his head split open yet he continued to fight.
Like many people my age I first came to know about Rorke’s Drift through the superb film Zulu. It inspired Keith Floyd to join the Guards! That too came alongside a British disaster, Isandlwana. Both the charge of the Light Brigade and the disaster at Isandlwana have much in common. Whilst the leadership and planning were appalling the behaviour and courage of the ordinary rank and file could not be questioned. If general Scarlett had commanded the Light Brigade things might have ended differently. He refused to obey Lord Lucan’s command to charge without being formed into ranks because he was a good soldier and I can’t see the short-sighted general riding up the wrong valley.
For those who expected this novel to be a rehash of Zulu then I am sorry to disappoint you. Great though the film was the characterisation was typical Hollywood. I used the Michael Glover book as my Bible for this work. Henry Hook was a teetotal Methodist who had been given a special service award not long before the battle. He was as far from the James Booth character as it is possible to get. His elderly daughters were so appalled at the portrayal of their father that they left the premiere in disgust. Lieutenant Bromhead was in his thirties and deaf. I make allusion to his dullness and that is what emerges from the accounts of the period. I have tried to colour him in but he is no Michael Caine. Similarly, it was Acting Assistant Commissary Dalton who was responsible for the building of the defences. He was played as a far gentler character than he really was. He was awarded the VC for his work. Lieutenant Adendorf was played as a local who fought with the British and that, too, was a fabrication. He fled before the battle began and was later arrested and executed for his behaviour.
The film got much right. The horsemen who should have stayed fled as did Captain Stephenson and his men. Hook and the others behaved courageously as they dug their way out of a death trap. The 9’ high redoubt was built but not used and so the final cataclysmic slaughter did not take place. In fact, few men of the 24th died at the mission station. The main deaths came from the hospital. As for the Zulus, despite the portrayal in the film of seemingly thousands being killed, the estimate was that less than 1000 perished.
This book is about life as a soldier, ordinary soldiers. The soldiers of the Queen did not care who they were fighting they just knew they were fighting for their Queen and country. That idea may seem a little old fashioned now but I am not rewriting history I am trying to show what it might have been like to live in 19th Century Britain. The British Army saluted with their left hand until the First World War. The weapons used are, according to my research (see book list) the ones used in the period.
Many men joined the army as a softer option than the incredibly hard and dangerous work in the factories. I worked in an iron gang in the 1970s and I can attest to the hard work even then. I tended presses that reached 3000 degrees and needed the consumption of gallons of squash during each shift. How much harder would it have been a hundred years earlier? I was working an eight-hour shift while ten and twelve-hour days were the norm a hundred years earlier.
Anyone who has researched their family history in the nineteenth century and looked at the census records will know how even relatively well off factory workers rented or boarded. Four and five to a bed was the norm. We take so much for granted today but even in the 1950s life was hard and had a pattern. With coal fires, no bathroom, an outside toilet, no carpets and little money for food then it was closer to life in the 1870s. Offal was often on the menu and you ate what was there. Nothing was wasted. Drinking beer and smoking were not considered unhealthy pastimes. There was a teetotal movement but it was only in the latter part of the nineteenth century that the water the people drank became healthy. Until then it was small beer that was drunk.
This series will continue but unlike my British Ace Series and my WW2 one, I will not be working my way through wars. I intend to look at how British soldiers served this country and how their lives changed as Britain changed.
Books used in the research:
The Oxford Illustrated History of the British Army- David Chandler
The Thin Red Line- Fosten and Fosten
The Zulu War- Angus McBride
Rorke’s Drift- Michael Glover
