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.
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?