Dufour’s first care was to secure himself from attack in the rear by subduing Fribourg, which, as we have said, is separated by the cantons of Bern and Vaud from the rest of those composing the Sonderbund. His strategy for this purpose was simple, but effective. The town of Fribourg is not more than sixteen or seventeen miles from Bern, in a westerly direction. It was strongly fortified, and defended by a force of from 12,000 to 15,000 men. The defenders naturally expected that the attack would come from the direction of the Federal capital, and they had made their arrangements to resist it on that side by throwing up batteries and blocking the roads with trees. Dufour caused his first division, under Colonel Rilliet, to advance in three brigades from Vevey, Moudon, and Payerne, in Canton Vaud, with instructions to reach Matran, some four miles south-west of Fribourg, on November 12th. This manœuvre was executed punctually. At the same time Colonel Burckhardt’s division, which had been stationed in Canton Bern, instead of advancing directly upon Fribourg, made a night-march to the right, and took up a position about the same distance north-west of the town. Lastly, Colonel Ochsenbein was directed to make a demonstration on the side of Bern, so as to draw off the attention of the defenders from the movements on the west and north, and at the same time to watch the approaches from the south. These dispositions were all so accurately carried out that on the morning of November 13th Dufour was able to send a missive to the mayor of Fribourg, pointing out that his city was surrounded by superior forces—they were from 25,000 to 30,000 men, with sixty guns—and that under the circumstances he could surrender without discredit. The authorities of the city saw the force of his arguments, and agreed to an armistice for twenty-four hours; and on the following day a capitulation was signed, the first article of which bound Fribourg to leave the Sonderbund forthwith. This success was not quite bloodless, for on the afternoon of the 13th some of the outposts of the first division who were stationed in a wood on the west of a town, and had not heard of the armistice, made, under some misconception, an attack upon a redoubt which was close in front of them. The artillery on both sides came into action, and the Federal troops lost seven killed and fifty wounded.

The fall of Fribourg, says Dufour, fell like a thunderclap on the Sonderbund, and astonished the rest of Europe. His own task became much easier, owing to the spirit of cheerfulness and unanimity which now took the place of the indecision and even reluctance which had been felt in many quarters. He lost no time in grappling with the more arduous part of his work—the subjection of Lucerne. Hitherto he had given strict orders to his subordinate commanders that they were to act entirely on the defensive, and his orders had been obeyed, though to do so must have required some self-restraint on the part of those officers. For the Sonderbund forces were by no means inactive. The canton of Aargau runs down in a long tongue between Lucerne and Zug, forming the district known as the Freiamt. At the northern end of this tongue, where it widens out to the full breadth of the canton, is the village of Muri, where one of the suppressed monasteries had been situated. Perhaps the Sonderbund expected to find some sympathisers in that district. At all events, on November 12th a strong force, in two columns, under General Salis and his Chief of the Staff, Colonel Elgger, respectively, entered Aargau, with the intention of marching by different routes upon Muri. The General, starting from Gislikon, entered the Freiamt at its southernmost point; while Elgger, keeping within the territory of Lucerne, was to take a parallel line and approach Muri from the south-west. It was a foggy day, and the two columns, separated by a range of lofty hills, completely lost touch of each other. In the afternoon, Salis made an attempt to destroy a bridge which the Federal engineers had thrown over the river Reuss, to connect Zürich with Aargau. But he was met with a stout resistance, and compelled to retire. Near Muri he again fell in with troops from St. Gallen and Appenzell, who received him with a vigorous fire, and he found nothing to do but return to his starting-point. Colonel Elgger was at first more fortunate, and drove the Aargau troops back with some loss. His own son, who was acting as his aide-de-camp, got a bullet in his head, but lived to edit the Swiss Military Gazette thirty years later. Presently an order to the artillery to retire in order to take up a better position, caused a panic among some troops from Valais, who probably did not understand the words, and only saw the movement. They fled, and Elgger, having lost a part of his force and hearing the sound of Salis’ guns grow fainter and fainter, had nothing to do but to withdraw. A third column, which was to have invaded Aargau further to the westward, succeeded in surprising the Federal outposts and bombarding an unfortified village; but did not wait for the arrival of the Aargau battalions, which hastened up at the summons of the alarm-bells.

In the south, where the Federal strength was less, matters for a few days looked more promising for the Sonderbund. On November 17th a body of 2000 men, with four guns, crossed the St. Gotthard Pass in a storm of wind and snow, and fell upon Airolo. The Ticino troops, who were holding that place, 2700 strong, hardly expected a visit in such weather, and allowed themselves to be surprised. Before they knew what was happening, the village was surrounded by the riflemen of Uri, and cannon-balls were crashing through the snow-covered roofs. They fled in disorder to Bellinzona, with a loss of six killed and thirty wounded, leaving weapons, ammunition, baggage, even their colonel’s despatch-boxes and dressing-case, in the enemy’s hands. This was the nearest approach to success which the Sonderbund had. It was hoped that Ticino, being a Catholic canton, at least a portion of the population might welcome the invaders; but they received no encouragement, and in a few days the approach of the Federal army to Lucerne rendered their retreat necessary.

For Dufour did not let the grass grow under his feet. Two days after the capitulation of Fribourg had been signed, his headquarters were at Aarau, the capital of Aargau, and all his dispositions made for striking the decisive blow. Lucerne is very well situated for defence against an enemy approaching from the north. The stream of the Reuss, flowing out of the lake towards the north-west, presently sweeps round to the north-east. Just at the angle the smaller River Emme joins it from the south-west, so that a continuous obstacle is offered to an attacking force. Between the Reuss and the Kussnacht arm of the lake (which washes the foot of the Rigi) is a range of lofty wooded hills called the Rooterberg, which continue almost to the Lake of Zug; and in the other direction, a similar line of hills, cut by deep gorges, runs parallel to the Emme. It was on this latter side that the ill-starred attempt of the Free Corps had been made in 1845. Dufour determined on this occasion to approach from the other direction, along the line of the Reuss, and between that river and the Rooterberg. It was a hazardous operation: in his own words, “taking the bull by the horns.” Gislikon, the point where the main road crosses the river, while that on the right bank comes close to it, was strongly fortified; and the Rooterberg afforded an admirable position for sharpshooters and artillery. But by advancing from this side he would, if successful, separate Lucerne and Schwyz, and would strike at the heart of the secession. Therefore, while ordering all the five divisions which he intended to employ, to converge by various roads on Lucerne, from east, north, and west, he resolved to make his main attack with the fourth and fifth, under Colonels Ziegler and Gmür. Of these, the former was at present quartered in Aarau, the latter between the Reuss and the Lake of Zürich.

The attack was fixed for November 23rd. Two days before, the little canton of Zug, which had entered the Sonderbund somewhat reluctantly, seeing that further resistance was useless, capitulated, thereby relieving Dufour of anxiety for his left flank. On the 22nd the General issued a proclamation to his troops, reminding them that they were performing a duty to their country, and bidding them lay aside all feeling of hostility as soon as the victory was won. They were specially enjoined to respect all churches and buildings used in the service of religion, and to see that no injury was done to non-combatants or to private property.

That evening Colonel Ziegler’s division bivouacked in the “Freiamt,” right up to the frontier of Lucerne. It was a clear night, and round the Lake of Zug they could see the watch-fires of the fifth division, which was now occupying that canton. In the early morning of the 23rd the Aargau engineers threw a bridge of boats over the Reuss at Sins, another being placed a couple of miles higher up, at Oberrüti. Ziegler, with two brigades of his division, under Colonels Egloff and König, crossed to the right bank, and came into touch with Colonel Gmür and the fifth division, advancing from the Lake of Zug. The third brigade, under Colonel Müller, was to remain on the left bank, and attack Gislikon from the direction of Klein Dietwyl. It should have acted in conjunction with the third division, under Donatz, which occupied the next place to the westward, but bad roads hindered that commander from arriving in time to take part in the main action. About nine in the morning the batteries of Gislikon opened fire upon Müller’s brigade, compelling it to retire for a time. One of the first shots killed Captain Buk, a refugee from Lucerne, who was marching with the column. Colonel Ziegler, meanwhile, was making progress on the other side of the Reuss. In spite of the fire from the Rooterberg, and from the Lucerne artillery in front of the village of Honau, he pressed on, and presently his guns coming into action caused the enemy’s batteries to retire. They made a short stand in Honau, but were soon forced back upon Gislikon, where regular earthworks had been thrown up. Here they made a resolute defence, the battery under Captain Mazzola specially distinguishing itself. On the other side, Rust’s battery (from Solothurn) galloped through Honau, leaving the infantry behind, and took up its position in an orchard, five hundred paces—this was before the days of rifled cannon—from the earthworks. Its first shot killed and wounded five men in Hegi’s company, which retired, leaving Mazzola’s left flank uncovered. Mazzola, however, literally “stuck to his guns,” though the artillery on the further side of the Reuss was now playing upon him, and presently compelled Rust to retire behind the fighting line, barely saving his guns from capture by the Lucerne chasseurs. A plucky action on the part of one of his subordinates is recorded. Just after the Solothurn guns had retired, a body of troops was seen in the spot they had occupied. In the smoke and haze of the November day, it was not certain whether they were friend or foe. Corporal Pfiffer asked his captain’s permission to go and ascertain, which Mazzola willingly gave. Pfiffer left the battery, and went forward till he could see the others clearly; then, waving his sword, cried: “Fire, Captain; it is the enemy!” and made his way back. General Salis, who had taken up his position in the battery, pressed a piece of gold into his hand; but the sturdy Swiss rejected it, saying: “No need for that, General; I only did my duty.” The narrator of this story, himself a bitter partisan on the Catholic side, adds that Pfiffer was a well-known adherent of the Liberals. Here, as later in the American Civil War, when hostilities had once begun, men put the defence of their homes first, and let their private opinions wait for quieter times.

The troops whose identity Corporal Pfiffer had ascertained were some battalions of Egloff’s and König’s brigades. These were Appenzellers under Benziger, and Aargauers under Häusler. The former could not face the storm of grape with which they were received, and took shelter in some gravel-pits. Häusler’s men, with whom the Brigadier-Colonel Egloff was himself riding, began in their turn to waver. At this moment Major Scherrer, whose own battalion was also unsteady, seized the colours, and fixing them into the ground, cried out: “Switzers, do you know what that means?” Thus encouraged, Häusler’s men held their ground, and, presently, through the personal efforts of Egloff and his staff, the fugitives were rallied, and the line restored. Meanwhile, the Lucerne and Unterwarden companies had pressed too far in the direction of the Rooterberg, allowing the Federal skirmishers to penetrate between them and the artillery, so that the earthworks were denuded of all covering infantry. Egloff at once ordered up three batteries, and under the fire of these, combined with that from others on the other bank, the intrepid Mazzola, after nearly an hour’s duel between his one battery and five or six of the enemy’s, was compelled to withdraw, and abandon Gislikon. General Salis, too, who had taken up his position in the battery, had been severely wounded in the temple by a grape-shot, though he made light of his wound, and refused to leave the fight.

König’s brigade, meanwhile, to which had been assigned the duty of clearing the west slopes of the Rooterberg and sheltering Egloff’s left flank, had met with a sudden resistance. Again and again they had to fall back, until Ziegler himself, dismounting and leading the right wing, succeeded in pressing the enemy so far up the hill as to secure Egloff from a flank attack, and set part of his own main force to operate against Mazzola. König, with the left wing, attempted to force the position of Michelskappel, on the crest of the ridge, but could not succeed in dislodging the troops from Schwyz who held it. Gmür’s division, meanwhile, had captured Meyerskappel, on the eastern side of the ridge, and was advancing upon Lucerne by the road between the hills and the lake.

But the retreat from Gislikon had decided the battle. At 3 p.m. General Salis gave the order to retire upon Ebikon, a village not more than three miles from Lucerne. In the city itself men had been listening all day long, with painful anxiety, to the thunder of the cannon, but no news of the fight had reached them. At four, arrived an orderly from the General, bringing a message couched in the form usual with defeated commanders, to the effect that he had been compelled to retire temporarily upon Ebikon, but hoped to maintain his ground there for a time. He added, however, that the loss of Gislikon had rendered the position of Lucerne very precarious. A steamer had been in readiness all day, and on the receipt of this news, the Council-of-War, with Siegwart and Meyer at its head, went on board, taking the military treasury and all documents, papers, etc., with them, and steamed up the lake to Flüelen, leaving orders to General Salis to arrange for an armistice. The General himself arrived about 8 p.m., suffering from his wound, and after giving the requisite instructions, departed to Unterwalden. As an old soldier, he doubtless knew that further resistance meant useless bloodshed. Colonel Elgger, his Chief of the Staff, had been for two days maintaining a stout resistance in the Valley of Entlebuch, west of the city, to the seventh Federal division, under Colonel Ochsenbein—who had his former defeat on almost the same ground to avenge—and had hastened back to Lucerne, when night put an end to further fighting on the 23rd. He was at first in favour of defending the city; but was soon convinced of the hopelessness of the situation, and agreed to communicate with Dufour. At 9 in the morning of the 24th came the reply that it was too late to countermand the advance, but that if the Federal troops were allowed to enter peaceably, and the Federal flag was displayed, no warlike measures would be taken.

Accordingly, at midday on the 24th, the Federal forces marched into Lucerne by all the gates. Twenty days had finished the civil war. The total losses were, on the Federal side, 60 killed and 386 wounded; on that of the Sonderbund, 36 and 119. Dufour attributes the smallness of these figures to the fact that the fighting took place in a broken and thickly-wooded country, where cover was plentiful. Something was, no doubt, also due to the inexperience of the gunners.

Great care was taken to prevent any excesses on the part of the victors. The Bern division, between whom and Lucerne bitter feelings had existed ever since 1845, was not allowed to take part in the entry into the city, but had to remain, by Colonel Ochsenbein’s orders, in the suburbs. Dufour ordered a joint “Church-parade” to be held, the Catholic troops attending Mass in the chief church of Lucerne, while a service was held in the open-air for the Protestants. Subsequently he wrote, “The troops on both sides showed by their conduct that every Swiss is a born soldier.”

The Confederation had had a narrow escape. On the day when war had been declared, M. Guizot had, on behalf of France, proposed to the other Great Powers that a joint note should be sent to the Swiss Diet calling upon them to submit the questions at issue to foreign arbitration. As it was hardly doubtful that the proposal would be rejected, this meant armed intervention, with the certainty of an ultimate partition of Switzerland. The Continental Powers were ready enough, but Lord Palmerston, then English Foreign Secretary, who had, as he said, “no wish to see Switzerland made a Poland of,” managed, by objections and suggestions, to postpone the delivery of the note till November 30th. By that time the Diet was able to reply that there was no longer any Sonderbund. In the course of the following year, Prussia, Austria, and France had matters enough of their own to attend to; and the Swiss were able to proceed unmolested with the revision of their Constitution into the form under which the country has prospered ever since. Formerly a Confederation of States, they have since 1848 been a Confederated State.

The conflict left—except, perhaps, among a few of the Sonderbund leaders—no ill-feeling behind. Some years later Dufour could write: “The citizens of the old cantons (i.e. the Forest Cantons) nearly all have pipes with my picture on them, and call me ‘Our little Dufour.’” His long and useful life ended in 1875.

About ten miles from the Buffalo river, which forms the eastern frontier of Natal, rises conspicuous a tall, rocky, precipitous hill, called in the language of the natives “Insandhlwana,” or “The place of the little hand,” from a fancied resemblance in its form to an outstretched hand. Near this hill was fought, on the 22nd January, 1879, one of the most desperate actions ever engaged in under the British flag. Here, overwhelmed by numbers, an English force suffered a complete and most disastrous defeat, and here, bravely facing inevitable overthrow and death, English soldiers sternly answered to the call of duty and fell with honour, grimly defiant to the last.

Of the actual details of the battle there are no complete records. The men who could have furnished them lie under the shade of the hill, and the veldt grass grows green over their silent and glorious bed. But sufficient is known, as much from the subsequent testimony of their gallant foes as from the words of the few survivors of the fatal field, to tell us how determined, though unavailing, was the courage, how great the self-abnegation, of the warriors who then maintained the honour of our country.

Let us tell the story as far as it can be gathered, and if it ends with no shout of victory, at least we can impress on our minds that the heroic dead left a memory of which we may be sadly proud, and that they were not found wanting in carrying on the noblest traditions of the English people.

The Zulu kingdom was a military power that, under a line of despotic and warlike sovereigns, had long been a standing menace to the English colony of Natal and to the Transvaal, the Dutch Republic, which in 1878 was annexed by England. The first king of Zululand, Chaka, had so organised his realm that it was always ready for war at short notice, and his system was maintained by his successors—Dingaan, Panda, and finally Cetewayo, who became monarch in 1872. Every able-bodied Zulu was enrolled in one or other of the king’s regiments, and no one was allowed to marry without the king’s permission. The permission to marry was generally given as a mark of favour to a whole regiment at once for long or good service, particularly if it had “bathed” its assegais—or, in other words, had covered them with blood in conflict. The discipline of the Zulu army was the sternest. Implicit obedience was required, and every fault was punished with death. Cowardice was unknown, for the coward dare not meet the vengeance and wrath of his king. The saying of each man was, “I am the king’s ox”—meaning, I accept life or death as the king may award, and my only business is to carry out his orders without question. The burden of one of their war-songs was, “If I go back I am killed; if I go on I am killed. It is better to go on.” With such feelings, added to their natural fierceness and hardihood, influencing a peculiarly powerful and athletic race of men, it may be conceived how formidable was the Zulu array, and with how much truth it came to be called “a very perfect man-slaying machine.”

The war-dress worn by the Zulu soldiers made them striking and alarming-looking figures. On the head of each man was a plume of feathers, or sometimes a single beautiful feather, taken from the bell crane, rising a good two feet into the air. Round his waist hung a kilt of white oxtails, and beneath his right knee and shoulder were small circles of white goat’s hair. For the rest, he was naked; unless he was a chief, in which case he wore a leopard’s-skin kaross, or cloak, as an emblem of authority. In his left hand he carried a fighting shield made of oxhide, of which the colour varied according to the regiment to which he belonged. In his right hand he held his great broad-bladed “bangwan,” or stabbing assegai. He also had three lighter and smaller assegais for throwing as javelins, and a “knobkerrie,” or club, made of hard “umzimbete” wood. Many of them had rifles, but very few were good shots, and their fire only became formidable when they had a broad mark, like a body of men, to aim at.

The Zulu tactics were always the same. They always tried to attack in a half-circle, throwing forward both flanks of their fighting force, like two horns, which strove to encircle and threaten the rear of their enemy, while their centre, in successive waves of men, charged to their front with irresistible determination.

It has been said that the warlike Zulu kingdom had been a standing menace for years to the European colonies on its frontier. Except in the towns these colonies were only occupied by farmers, whose solitary homesteads were scattered over the country at wide distances from each other, each European’s house having near it a small “kraal,” or village, where lived the peaceful and unwarlike Kaffirs who formed the native population. In days not long gone by, the first settlers had frequently been obliged to fight for their lives, and the Dutch names of such places as “Weenen” (weeping) kept alive the memory of old Zulu incursions. Many were the alarms which spread through the country from time to time lest these incursions should be renewed, and many were the frontier farms which had been, in consequence, deserted by their owners. Causes of dispute had arisen, moreover, with Cetewayo, and the savage potentate had showed that war would be far from unwelcome to him. The English Governor and High Commissioner in South Africa in 1878 was Sir Bartle Frere, one of the ablest of the many able politicians and administrators who have been produced by our Indian Empire, and he did all in his power to induce the Zulu king to come to such terms as might secure the continuance of peace—to no purpose. Finally, an ultimatum was sent to Cetewayo, and he was warned that if it was not complied with before the 11th January, 1879, operations against him would be at once commenced.

It had long been foreseen in Natal that war was almost inevitable, and all the available troops had been massed along the frontier, under the command of Lieutenant-General Lord Chelmsford, K.C.B. The whole resources of the colony had been organised and prepared for a campaign. There were seven regiments of English regular infantry, a naval brigade, seventeen guns and a rocket battery Royal Artillery, and two companies Royal Engineers. There was no regular cavalry, but there were two squadrons of mounted infantry, and nearly 800 colonial volunteers and police, besides more than 300 native Basuto horse. There was also a native contingent, about 9,000 strong. The whole amounted to 6,639 Imperial and colonial troops, 9,035 native contingent, with 802 conductors and drivers in charge of nearly 700 waggons, forming the transport train.

The period allowed to Cetewayo for reply to the ultimatum having expired, a declaration of war was made by Sir Bartle Frere, who then placed in the hands of Lord Chelmsford the further enforcement of all demands.

Lord Chelmsford’s army as detailed above was divided into five columns, which were to march into Zululand at different points, and to move on Ulundi, Cetewayo’s capital, where they were expected to be able to concentrate victoriously. For our present purpose we need only consider the 2nd and 3rd columns, as the others were in no way involved in the operations which led to the battle of Insandhlwana. The 2nd column, under Colonel Durnford, R.E., was almost entirely composed of natives, and was, in the first instance, more intended to be used as support and communication between the 1st and 3rd columns than for any other purpose. The 3rd column was the strongest and most important, and to it Lord Chelmsford attached himself and his staff. It was under the immediate command of Colonel Glyn, C.B., and was formed by six guns, R.A., one squadron mounted infantry, the 1st battalion 24th Regiment, the 2nd battalion 24th Regiment, about 200 Natal volunteers, 150 Natal police, three battalions of the native contingent, and some native pioneers. This force crossed the Buffalo river on the 11th of January, and encamped on the further side. The rainy season was not yet over, and not only was there some difficulty and even danger in crossing the flooded river, but the broken country in front of the column was nearly impassable from swamps and heavy ground, so that much road-making had to be undertaken to enable the guns and transport to push forward.

A successful attack was made on the 12th against the Isipezi Hill, but the stubborn resistance that was then made by the induna, or chief, Sirayo and his followers showed that no final success was to be hoped for except at the cost of hard fighting. Several long reconnaissances were made by the mounted men into Zululand, and shots were exchanged with detached parties of the enemy, but there was nothing to show how fearful a storm was gathering in the horizon and was nearly ready to burst.

By the 20th of January all the first difficulties had been overcome, and the 3rd column was encamped at the foot of the Insandhlwana Hill. The position of the camp was thus described:—“We had a small ‘kopjie’ (stony hillock) on the right of our road, and then about fifty yards to our left rises abruptly the Insandhlwana mountain, entirely unapproachable from the three sides nearest to us, but on the further—viz., that to the north—it slopes more gradually down, and it is there connected with the large range of hills on our left by another broad neck of land. We just crossed over the bend, then turned sharp to the left, and placed our camp facing the valley, with the eastern precipitous side of the mountain behind us, leaving about a mile of open country between our left flank and the hills on our left, the right of the camp extending across the neck of land we had just come over, and resting on the base of the kopjie before mentioned.”

The camp was a martial and picturesque sight in the glow of the African sunset. Here were the tents of the Queen’s Infantry, the men busy cleaning their arms and cooking their rations, there the long lines of picqueted horses, there the gun-park, there the swart native contingent, as savage-looking as the foe that they had come to fight, while the flag of England waved over the marquee of the general, speaking pride and defiance to all assailants. There was one fatal mistake, however. The waggons, which should have been ranged end to end in front of or round the camp, in the fashion called in Africa a “laager,” forming a defensible barricade against sudden assault, were drawn up uselessly in line behind the camp, and many a veteran of the old colonial wars saw with apprehension that old lessons were neglected, and that undue confidence had taken the place of the caution taught by experience.

It was known that, at about twelve miles from Insandhlwana, there was, on the Inhlazatye range of hills, the stronghold of a chief called Matyana; and on the 21st two separate parties were despatched from the camp at an early hour to reconnoitre and, if possible, attack the place. One of these parties consisted entirely of mounted men—Natal volunteers and police—under Major Dartnell, the other of two battalions of the native contingent under Commandant Lonsdale. Major Dartnell, the head of the police, was an experienced soldier, who had served with the highest credit in the English army, and had taken part in several campaigns. Commandant Lonsdale was also an old soldier of proved knowledge and judgment. Major Dartnell’s force encountered Matyana’s men about ten o’clock in the morning, and, though the enemy appeared anxious to fight, it was not considered prudent to engage them without supports. The Zulus occupied a rugged “kloof,” or cleft in the hills; and whenever the mounted men approached they sallied out in large numbers. Mr. Mansel, of the police, a most daring officer, was sent forward with a small body to try to make them show their force, and succeeded in this, as the Zulus advanced to attack, throwing forward their two “horns” and trying to surround Major Dartnell. The volunteers and police then retired before superior numbers, and joined Commandant Lonsdale’s men about three miles from the kloof.

The native contingent had shown on several occasions that they were subject to panics, and were not to be depended upon; so Major Dartnell decided that he and Lonsdale would bivouac for the night where they were, and sent a messenger to Lord Chelmsford asking for the assistance of some regular infantry to enable them to storm Matyana’s position.

In the middle of the night Dartnell’s communication was received, and, as it told of the enemy being in far greater numbers on the Inhlazatye hills than had been supposed, the general considered that an overwhelming strength should be brought against them, and that an opportunity was presented of striking a paralysing blow against an important part of the Zulu army. He therefore ordered the 2nd battalion 24th Regiment, the mounted infantry, and four guns to be put under arms at once in readiness to march, and, placing himself at their head, he moved with the first faint grey of morning to join Major Dartnell. As this detachment would considerably weaken the camp, Lord Chelmsford at the same time sent orders to Colonel Durnford—who, with a portion of the 2nd column, was now near Rorke’s Drift—telling him to move at once to Insandhlwana with the rocket battery and the Basuto horse.

Lieutenant-Colonel Pulleine, of the 24th Regiment, was left in command of the camp. He had with him six companies of the 24th, two guns R.A., about eighty mounted men, including mounted infantry, police, and volunteers, and four companies of the native contingent. His orders were to draw in his line of defence and infantry outposts, but to keep his mounted vedettes still far advanced.

After the departure of Lord Chelmsford with the detached column, nothing unusual occurred in the camp till between seven and eight o’clock, when it was reported from a picquet about 1,500 yards to the north that a body of the enemy could be seen approaching from the north-east, and the appearance of various other small bodies was subsequently noticed. Then, in the camp, there was all the bustle of quick preparation for battle. Lieutenant-Colonel Pulleine put every available man under arms. The draught oxen, which had been grazing, were driven into camp and tied to the yokes; the native contingent was pushed forward on advanced duty on the hills to the left; the guns were put in position on the left of the camp; the mounted men stood ready by their horses; and the 24th were formed up, awaiting the duty which the turn of events might bring.

About ten o’clock Colonel Durnford arrived in camp, and, as the senior officer, became by right the commander. He did not, however, take the dispositions out of Colonel Pulleine’s hands, and the two officers worked cordially together. Colonel Durnford had served for more than six years in South Africa, knew the natives and their customs thoroughly, and, with the most undaunted valour, which he had proved in war and to which a disabled arm bore testimony, he combined a chivalrous and sympathetic heart towards all who were brought in contact with him, whether Europeans or natives. A handsome, soldier-like man, with a long, fair moustache, he had an anxious expression of face, as of one who is born to misfortune.

Repeated and more or less conflicting reports now came rapidly from the outposts on the left: “The enemy are in force behind the hills;” “The enemy is in three columns, one moving to the left rear, and one towards the general;” “The enemy is retiring in all directions.” The estimates of the enemy’s strength were most varied, but none approximated to the real numbers that were threatening the doomed English force, and the full extent of the danger was not realised.

On hearing these reports Colonel Durnford sent one troop of his Natal Native Horse to reinforce his baggage-guard, which had not yet joined him, and two troops, under Captains G. Shepstone and Barton, to the hills on the left, while he himself determined to go out to the front with the remaining two troops, which were to be followed by Major Russell’s rocket battery, escorted by a company of the native contingent.

It is here worth while to say a word about the Natal Native Horse, than which no corps fought more loyally, bravely, and disinterestedly during the troubles in South Africa. They were principally recruited in Edendale, a Basuto agricultural settlement formed by Wesleyan missionaries, who had recognised that Christianity could best be taught to people who had given up a savage life, and had been trained in and appreciated the arts of peace. The good missionaries had taught the wild Basutos to build houses, to make waggons, and to cultivate the ground scientifically, and, in conjunction with these benefits, had inculcated the Christian’s moral law and the Christian’s sentiments. The settlement at Edendale flourished exceedingly, and the Basutos became not only prosperous citizens, but God-fearing men. When war threatened, they were appealed to to give their services to the Queen, and they eagerly responded. As soldiers, they were like the old Covenanters. Every morning they assembled round their head-man for prayer, during the day no troops were more daring and trustworthy, and at night, before they lay down to rest, they again assembled for united worship. In truth, they were soldiers whom any general would be glad to command, and disciples whom any religious body would be proud to claim.

Colonel Durnford had asked Colonel Pulleine to let him have two companies of the 24th, but when it was represented that they could ill be spared, the request was not pressed.

As has been said, the full amount of the impending danger was not realised, and there was no expectation of an attack on that day. As a precautionary measure, however, a company of the 24th, under Lieutenant Cavaye, was sent out as a picquet about 1,200 yards north of the camp, while the remainder of the troops were dismissed from parade, but to remain in readiness to fall in at a moment’s notice.

The two troops which had been sent out under Shepstone and Barton had proceeded about five miles from the camp, when they met a large Zulu force on the march. Captain Shepstone at once ordered a retreat, and himself rode in with the warning that an attack was probably imminent, but the appearance of masses of the enemy surging over the hills had already given the alarm. Meantime, Colonel Durnford had, with two troops, moved to the front at a canter, followed by the rocket battery at a slower pace. After he had proceeded some miles, his advanced files reported an immense “impi” behind the hills, and almost immediately the Zulus appeared in force on his front and left in loose order, ten or twelve deep, with heavy masses in support. They opened fire and advanced with the startling rapidity which marked all their movements. Colonel Durnford retired a little way behind the shelter of a “donga,” a ravine-like crack in the plain. There he extended his men and commenced a steady fire, but the numbers against him were so overwhelming that he had to continue his retreat, only to find that the enemy had been beforehand, and had annihilated the rocket battery, slaying its commander, Major Russell, with all his gunners. Deserted by the escort of the native contingent, the battery had fought with unflinching courage, but had been overwhelmed by the fierce charge. Durnford, sorely pressed, disputed every inch of ground until he reached another donga, where he found himself in line with the camp troops, and was reinforced by thirty or forty Natal Volunteers, under Captain Bradstreet. Here his last desperate stand was made.

Two companies of the 24th, under Captains Mostyn and Younghusband, had been pushed forward to the support of Cavaye’s picquet, but they were too weak for the gigantic task, and all were driven in upon the main body.

The situation was now this: The usual Zulu attack in half-circle was being made on the camp, while a whole Zulu regiment, the Undi, was pushing round the English left to gain possession of the waggon road and line of retreat upon Rorke’s Drift.

The two guns and the whole of the 24th were in line, the native contingent was on the right of the 24th, and then came Durnford’s shattered and weary band. All were doing their duty manfully and well. The guns were in action, served coolly and steadily as on a home parade. The 24th, one of the smartest battalions in the service, was dealing withering volleys, and Basutos and Volunteers fought stubbornly for the homesteads of Natal. The enemy fell in hundreds, but kept on advancing with undiminished resolution. Rank after rank of the foremost were swept away, but still others pressed forward. The air was rent with the roar of battle. The guns, which had been firing shell, now at such close quarters were pouring in case, and each shot of the infantry told on the dense masses. Even Zulu courage could not maintain an advance against the deadly hail, and Cetewayo’s chosen warriors wavered and lay down, seeking shelter and covering the valley in detached groups to the depth of three-quarters of a mile. It almost seemed for a space as if English tenacity was once again, as in the past, to be rewarded with victory.

But the dire crisis of the day was at hand. The widespread horns of the Zulu army had worked their way round the flanks, and were even now showing themselves in rear of the English position. The native contingent had always been a broken reed upon which to lean, and it now broke and fled in the utmost disorder, thus laying open the right and rear of the 24th. The ammunition began to fail, and the Zulu opportunity had come. Nor were their chiefs slow to note and profit by it. Hitherto the attack had been made in the silence of perfect discipline. Now, as the iron-hearted warriors recovered from their momentary check they raised the ominous Zulu war-shout, and dashed forward in a last irresistible charge. They poured through the fatal gap in the line of defence, and in a moment the English soldiers were lost in the midst of the seething savage crowd.

So sudden was the catastrophe, so rapid the charge, that but few of the English soldiers had time to fix their bayonets and prepare for the hand-to-hand struggle. Many a brave heart among the defenders was cold in death long ere this, and sadly reduced were the numbers that strove desperately against the nervous Zulu arms and the assegais thirsting for blood. The savage warriors closed upon the doomed men with a shout of “Bulala umlongo!”—Kill the white man! Then followed a scene of direst confusion. Horse and foot, English and Zulu, friend and foe, in one writhing slaughtering mass, slowly pushed through the camp towards the road to Rorke’s Drift, the road of retreat to safety. But of the 24th, few, if any, left the ground where they had fought so well. The battalion fell and lay by companies, surrounded by slain enemies. When the battle-field was revisited, the remains of officers and men were all found in the line of their last parade. No man had flinched, and all had died as they had lived, shoulder to shoulder. When all was lost, the artillery had limbered up and striven to save the guns, and the mounted men who were yet unwounded forced their way, weapons in hand, through the press. But the right of the enemy already occupied the waggon road and barred the outlet. There was no safety except in seeking another passage to the Buffalo River, and the ground to be traversed was rugged, boulder-strewn and broken. None but mounted men had escaped from the precincts of the camp, and the ground was such that an active Zulu could cover it even faster than a horse. The guns were soon hopelessly impeded, and the drivers were assegaied in their saddles. The long ravine, which has since been called the “fugitives’ path,” was a scene of continuous slaughter, and even when the Buffalo was reached, it ran swift, deep and fordless, an alternation of boiling current and sharp rocks. Not half even of those who arrived on its bank succeeded in crossing. Many were drowned, many assegaied, some were shot, and the unrelenting pursuit continued even into Natal. The only troops which had maintained a semblance of cohesion were some of the Natal Native Horse. These gallant Basutos assisted many in the flight, which they covered as well as they could under Captain Barton, who rendered essential service by checking the pursuit on the Natal bank of the Buffalo.

Such a day as that of Insandhlwana could not pass without the performance of many deeds of gallantry and devotion, but the actors and spectators in too many cases were left among the slain, and their voices are dumb. We know of the heroic death of Captain George Shepstone, who, having disengaged his men, and finding that Colonel Durnford was still among the foe, said, “I must go and see where my chief is,” and turned his horse again into the mêlée, there to lay his body with that of his friend and leader. Private Wassall, of the mounted infantry, gained the Victoria Cross by plunging a second time into the torrent of the Buffalo, under a heavy fire, to save a wounded comrade, who would otherwise have been lost. Captains Melville and Coghill, of the 24th, who were both mounted, saved the Queen’s colour of their regiment after they had fought to the last in its ranks. They made their way to the river, and Coghill managed to get to the further side. Melville lost his horse, and was left struggling in the swift current. With sublime chivalry Coghill rode back to his assistance, when his horse also was shot. Both these brave officers succeeded in reaching the Natal shore, but, exhausted and wounded, they could do no more, and were overtaken and killed, fighting till the fatal “bangwan” did its work.

In this terrible disaster there perished twenty-six imperial officers and 600 non-commissioned officers and men, while the loss of the colonial forces was not less severe, twenty-four officers being among the slain. All the waggons and oxen, two guns, 1,200 rifles, and an immense quantity of ammunition and commissariat supplies, were also lost.

Of all the regiments in the Queen’s army, the 24th has perhaps paid as high a price as any for the glorious legends inscribed on its colours. Insandhlwana was the second battle-field in which a battalion had been practically annihilated. About thirty years before, at Chillianwallah, thirteen officers and the greater part of the non-commissioned officers and men had laid down their lives for the honour of England. Then the cheers of victory had been raised over the dead. The evening of the second fatal day in the regimental history closed in gloom and unrelieved sorrow.

We must return to Lord Chelmsford and the column which he had led forth in the morning to the support of Major Dartnell. Between six and seven in the morning the general had joined the force, which had bivouacked out during the night, and operations against what was then supposed to be the main portion of the Zulu army were at once commenced. The mounted infantry were despatched to the left front to press the enemy seen in the distance, while the general with the main body and the guns, protected on the right by the police and volunteers, moved up the valley against the position which had checked Dartnell on the previous day. That “kloof” was now found deserted, but a strong force was seen to be established on the mountain spurs. It was engaged and driven back with heavy loss. Everywhere the English troops gained ground; everywhere the Zulus retired before them. But it is more than probable that the retirement was a piece of elaborate strategy, intended to draw the general farther and farther away from his camp and thus reduce the force available for its defence. Whether such was the case or not, the result was the same, and at midday the general found himself twelve miles from Insandhlwana, looking for a spot on which to form a second camp. Several messengers had been despatched to him by Colonel Pulleine, telling of the threatened attack, but by fatal mischance none of them reached him. Between twelve and one reports were brought in by scouts that firing had been heard at Insandhlwana, but when, from the top of a hill, careful examination had been made with a powerful telescope, nothing unusual could be detected, and, consequently, no uneasiness was felt. The presence of large bodies of Zulus on the plain which had been traversed in the morning was now announced, and Lord Chelmsford resolved to retrace his steps with the mounted men and the native contingent, leaving the artillery and the second battalion of the 24th in bivouac. At four p.m., when he was within six miles of the camp, a solitary horseman met him, reeling in his saddle and riding at a foot’s pace. It was Commandant Lonsdale, who, having been taken ill with fever in the morning, had sought medical aid. He brought the ghastly news, “The camp is in possession of the enemy.” It appeared that when, riding in the half-lethargy of sickness, he was entering the camp, he was startled by a shot fired at him. He looked up and saw, sitting in and around the tents, groups of redcoats. He then saw a gigantic Zulu stalking out of a tent with a blood-smeared assegai in his hand. Looking more carefully, he saw that the wearers of the red coats were black men, and black men only. The real state of the case flashed upon his mind, and he turned and galloped off under a scattered fire. Providentially he was not hit, and was able to meet the general and prevent him from riding with his staff into the trap of destruction.

Orders were at once sent to the guns and the 24th to join the general, but it was six o’clock before they came. The force then collected was in little case for much exertion. They had covered nearly thirty miles under an African sun with only the slight supply of food which each man carried in his haversack. They knew that a nearly equal force of their comrades had been destroyed, and that a victorious army was between them and support. English soldiers never lose heart, however, in the hardest straits, and Lord Chelmsford’s men did not fail to respond gallantly to the call which he made for renewed effort. The march was resumed, and at nightfall they were again beneath the “little hand.” There was no sign of life or movement, but the enemy might be lying hidden ready to break forth. Two or three rounds of shell were fired, but they only awoke the slumbering echoes. Then two companies of the 24th, under Major Black, ascended to the neck of ground south of the great hill. The enemy had gone, bearing with them their blood-stained plunder.

The night had fallen, and the silence of death was around. There was nothing for it but to bivouac on the spot. No one who shared that bivouac will ever forget its horrors. The air was heavy with the scent of blood, and mangled corpses of English soldiers and Zulu warriors lay thickly around. It was well that the shades of night hid the blood-curdling details. The infantry lay down grasping their rifles, and the mounted men held the reins of their horses during the long, anxious night. Shots were fired and alarms spread at intervals, but it is doubtful whether the enemy wished to make any real attack. If they had, though each man was prepared to die in his place, the attempt would in all probability have been successful.

With the earliest light of morning the retreat to Rorke’s Drift was continued unmolested. Bodies of the enemy were seen on the hills overhanging the road, but no collisions with them took place. When the Buffalo River was reached a first gleam of encouragement and hope for the future came from the British flag, still waving over the feeble fortifications which Lieutenants Chard and Bromhead had so resolutely made good against the long assault by a numerous and determined foe.