In the beginning was The Word and, regardless of whether you’re being literal or putting forward a theological argument, The Word was spoken and it was part of a story.
Sorry to sound like a fuddy-duddy but one result of the video age is that many people have forgotten how to imagine things that are not obvious to the naked eye. Horror movies and thrillers have lost much of their impact because we’ve largely lost the sense of dramatic anticipation that stems from immersion in a narrative.
No film can do similar justice to the battle that engulfed the mission station at Rorke’s Drift on the afternoon and night of January 22-23, 1879 as a personal visit and narration of events by Rob Caskie.
It’s a bright winter afternoon in KwaZulu-Natal with a chill wind coming in from the east (within two days there will be heavy snows on the Drakensberg) when Rob sits us in the lee of the tiny church that, on the night of the Zulu assault, served as an ammunition store. He begins to weave his magic.
The story begins with the calamitous British defeat at Isandlwana on January 22 by the regiments of Zulu king Cetshwayo. Some of the survivors, who abandoned the battle early, arrived at Rorke’s Drift, gave the garrison the bad news and left.
The small group of about 400 soldiers, which included critically ill patients, spent the afternoon fortifying the mission station – even using mealie bags and tins of army biscuits – and expected the worst. The attack was far from inevitable though, since Isandlwana was in Zululand and Rorke’s Drift was across the Buffalo River in Natal, British territory.
Cetshwayo ordered that his army was to act only in defence of Zulu territory but his half-brother Dabulamanzi, who had not fought at Isandlwana and craved glory of his own, ignored this decree.
Caskie, big and burly as a rugby prop forward, pauses and looks to the Oskarberg, the high kopje that looms over Rorke’s Drift.
There’s a silence accentuated by the muted cawing of crows, chatter of children and slow clarion from the church calling its choir to practice. Soon the story will be given an entirely coincidental but spooky soundtrack of a dirge-like Zulu hymn set to the tune of God Save the Queen.
When scouts returned in the late afternoon with reports that Dabulamanzi’s regiments (3 000 to 4 000 warriors) were about five minutes march away, more than half the force at Rorke’s Drift fled, leaving 150 soldiers to their fate.
Can you imagine, asks Caskie, how that handful of men felt? Of course we can’t, but our imaginations have gone to warp-speed. We shiver.
The history of the battle of Rorke’s Drift is well known but it can’t be comprehended merely in the terms of numbers: 17 British soldiers were killed and 15 wounded, 351 Zulu warriors were confirmed dead and at least 500 wounded – the latter still there on the ground when the sun rose on January 23.
However, citations for the 11 Victoria Crosses – Britain’s highest decoration for bravery – that were awarded to living and dead defenders allude to desperate hand-to-hand fighting, some of it in pitch darkness, on a piece of land no bigger than four tennis courts.
Bravery citations are written in dry military language, a constraint Caskie is not obliged to follow.
He fills in the ghastly, glorious details and – as the sun finally dies – after four hours of talking he concludes gruffly with Laurence Binyon’s immortal soldiers’ eulogy; “They shall not grow old as we grow old…”
I have lost friends in battle against overwhelming odds so, for me, these are words and the sentiments they convey are incredibly poignant. The ghosts of Rorke’s Drift – British and Zulu alike – stand at attention at my sides along with those of my comrades lost in the bush of Namibia, Angola and other countries. Tears roll down my face.
Rob notices. For him, I suspect, my response is the equivalent of a standing ovation.
The next morning, our group pile into two 10-seater Land Rovers and head to Isandlwana. It’s cold and blustery, with rain squalls sweeping intermittently across the veld, so Rob’s story-telling skills are put to the test.
Nevertheless, he holds us rapt for nearly four hours before allowing us to walk the lonely field where 1 300 British and at least 1 000 Zulu fighters died in just over two hours.
I climb the lower slopes of Isandlwana – the hill the better-travelled British soldiers said reminded them of the Sphinx – to the cairn that marks the last stand of Captain Reginald Younghusband and his men, among the last men to die.
Below are dozens of similar cairns, each one covering the remains of between five and eight redcoats.
Visiting Rorke’s Drift before Isandlwana is a chronological arse-about-face but I’m glad it happens that way; there’s no way I could have coped with both on the same day.
“A lot of the people who come here experience emotion-overload,” Rob says as the two of us sit down at Fugitive’s Drift, the 2 024ha game reserve and lodge started by the late David Rattray in 1989.
Born and raised in the KwaZulu-Natal Midlands, Caskie speaks fluent Zulu and has been working at Fugitive’s Drift for the past 11 years.
“I studied agriculture in Pietermaritzburg and a chap who was with me at university recommended me to David Rattray – for no other reason than he thought I told a reasonable story.”
Rattray, murdered at the lodge in January 2007, was looking for someone to share his story-telling load.
“When I heard David speak for the first time, I was terrified. I felt there was no way I could provide a reasonable alternative to thelectures he was giving.”
He turned down the offer of a job but Rattray would have none of his refusal. “David and Nicky (David’s wife) called me every week, saying ‘if you don’t try it, you’ll never know for sure’.”
The pestering paid off and Rob arrived at Fugitive’s Drift in 2000.
“I sometimes get very tired telling the story, but I’ve never become tired of telling the story.
“Story-telling, especially when we do it in windy and cold conditions is exhausting… more so when you do it seven-days-a-week.
“Some days it feels as if you’re pulling teeth, but most of the time telling the story is an absolute privilege and a pleasure.
“To some extent I am an actor doing a one-man show. I’m very aware of the time, effort and expense our guests have made coming here and the fact that they expect entertainment of a very high standard.”
The gist of the stories comes from Rattray’s father, who learned them from George Buntting, a cattle-farmer in the district. Buntting learned them as a boy from mNandi Ngobese who would escort him on the nearly 200 kilometre horseback ride from the family farm to Glencoe station at the start of each school term.
Family legend has it that the two would always spend one night of the journey on the plains below Isandlwana and the old man would share the memories of his father and uncle who survived the battle.
“David took enormous pride in gleaning Zulu information and perspectives on the two battles.
“This goes way beyond the conventional history of Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift,” says Caskie.
“In many ways I think this is the real legacy that he has left.” - Saturday Star