The Ruined Cities of Zululand

Lotus-Eating on the Zambesi

Startled from his deep sleep by the shout of the Amatongas, as they leaped into the clearing, the soldier had sprung to his feet, and possessing the faculty of instantly recovering his senses, when suddenly awoke, he at once comprehended his situation. Shouting to Wyzinski to join him, and whirling round his head the heavy knapsack held by the straps, he struck down the foremost savage: a second shared the same fate, but the leather straps broke with the blow. Springing on the third, Hughes grappled with his adversary, clutching the chief Matumba, for it was no other, fiercely by the throat—but he had met his match.

Matumba, short of stature, was yet a powerful man, and though partially stunned by the fall, and his heavy knobstick having dropped from his hands, he struggled manfully for life. The fire had been trampled out, the light of the stars was very feeble, and the two rolled over and over in the death struggle, none daring to meddle with them. A dozen dark, naked forms moved round them; the long knives gleamed in the starlight, but the Amatongas could not strike, so rapid were the movements of the two struggling men. At last, Matumba’s efforts seemed to grow weaker, the deadly grip tightened on his throat, and as he lay under him, Hughes buried his short dagger in the Amatonga’s side. Casting the body from him, with a superhuman effort, and without pausing for a moment, the soldier dashed through the circle, the savages striking at him with their knives.

Seizing his rifle as he fled, with one sweeping blow he drove back the foremost of his pursuers, and shouting to Wyzinski to follow, plunged into the bush. The ground ascended, the trees grew farther apart; he was on the verge of the forest; but one of the long knives had wounded him deeply in the left shoulder, and he was growing faint from loss of blood. Pausing to listen, he distinctly heard the crashing of the underwood. Was it Wyzinski following him? Listening attentively, he could distinguish the same noise to the right and left, and he then knew that the Amatongas, paralysed and astonished as they had been at first by the desperate nature of the resistance, had spread themselves out, and were bringing up the whole country before them on three sides, just as they did when hunting antelope. On the fourth ran the Zambesi. Moving rapidly forward, and determined to trust to the river rather than to the Amatongas, Hughes came to a nullah. Its banks were covered with brush, and the masses of convolvuli almost hid it in places. A sudden thought struck him. Jumping in, he followed its course until he came to a spot completely shut in by creepers and shrubs, then placing his rifle near him, he lay down. Minutes passed, the breaking of the bushes came near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close to; the head of an assegai was thrust into the mass of verdure which formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the noises in the brush, and the cries passed on. Grey daylight came streaming between the leaves, the purple convolvuli opened their flowers, and the parrots and wild pigeons began to awake among the branches.

The wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but he felt faint and nearly unable to move. Cautiously raising his head above the level of the bank, he glanced around. “All seems quiet. If I could only reach the river,” he muttered. “My mouth is dry and parched with thirst.”

Slowly and painfully he extricated himself from the bed of the nullah, and then, his rifle on his shoulder, followed its course.

It did indeed revive him, as he scooped up the waters of the Zambesi with his hands, and then, taking off his clothes, bathed the wounded shoulder in the cool river. What had become of his comrade was now his thought, and the idea of not ascertaining his fate for fear of personal consequences, never occurred to him. The sun would soon be up, the bees were just humming along the river banks, the patches of forest-land on the plain beyond the river looked black, in the grey dawn, and the stars were fast disappearing. He would take his way back to the clearing slowly, and cautiously. Just as he had stepped on the bank reinvigorated and refreshed, a noise struck his ears.

Turning towards the river, he leaned on his rifle, listening attentively. It was a fine broad stream the Zambesi, even here, before the Shire river pours its waters into it far below the fort of Senna; and as he looked down it, he again caught the noise distinctly.

“It is the steady pull of oars in the rowlocks,” he said, speaking aloud, unconsciously. “I cannot be mistaken. Perhaps I may find help.”

Concealing himself behind a bush, he waited. The sounds, whatever they were, became more and more distinct, and soon, slowly pulling against the stream, a boat drew clear of the bend of the river. Slowly it surged onward meeting the stream, urged on by the strokes of six rowers, the Portuguese flag streaming out from the stern, and a small carronade mounted in her bows. In the stern sheets sat a tall, upright figure, the tiller ropes in either hand, dressed in a monkey jacket, pilot cloth trousers, and a sailor’s cap. His long white hair streamed in the wind, and by his side a nearly naked savage. “Could he be mistaken? No,” said Hughes again, speaking aloud, “it is Captain Weber, and Masheesh has not deserted us. He was bringing aid, alas too late.”

“Boat ahoy!” shouted Hughes, as he stepped from behind the bush, waving his rifle in the air.

A loud shout came over the river; the next moment the skipper’s left hand gave the yawl’s bows a broad sheer towards the bank, and Masheesh and the old sailor were by his side. His tale was soon told. Not a moment was lost, and though they found the clearing empty, the spoor of the Amatonga was plain. Masheesh was sent forward to reconnoitre, the Portuguese soldiers were landed, and the result is known.

“And what is that over yonder, which I took for you?” asked the missionary.

Hughes rose from the spot where he had been sitting, the missionary’s hand in his; he stooped over the heap, and threw the skin aside.

“It is Matumba,” he said; “look at the mark of my grip on his throat, and the dark blood-stain on his side. He gave me trouble enough,” he continued, as he threw back the skins over the dead savage; “and his face with its starting eyeballs, and tongue hanging out of his mouth, is no pleasant sight. He was a treacherous savage, but died the death of a brave.”

“I don’t see,” said Weber, who now joined them, “that there is any reason why we should not pitch the bodies of these villains into the fire and have them consumed. It is more ship-shape than leaving them to the jackals.”

The thing was no sooner said than done, and the party made short work of it. The body of the captain of the “Argonaut” was carried down to the boat, and covered with the Portuguese ensign. Those of the Amatonga placed on the fire, which was burning fiercely.

“One, two, three, and yo heave ho!” shouted the sailors, as Matumba’s corpse was launched into the air, and fell with a heavy thud into the middle of the flames, sending up a shower of sparks. Fresh brush was heaped over it, and the whole was left burning.

“Poor Mason,” said Captain Weber, as the party moved off, “he never got over the loss of his ship. Of the whole crew, only yonder man now remains.”

“But what were you doing here on the Zambesi, Captain Weber, and how came you in company with Masheesh?”

The Matabele had been in great force, during the short engagement, and now with his long assegai dyed red with blood, stalked solemnly beside the missionary, who walked with great difficulty.

“It is easily explained. You will remember when you went over the ‘Halcyon’s’ side, I told you I had but a few months of my three years’ cruise, Captain Hughes,” replied the seaman, “and that I was bound for Quillimane.”

“Perfectly, and that you would give me a passage to England if I needed it,” answered Hughes. “I shall be glad to accept it, if you can land me at Delagoa Bay, Port Natal, or the Cape; for we two have nothing save our knapsacks and rifles now.”

“Avast there! Hear my tale first. It appears a special envoy has been sent out by the King of Portugal to report on this colony on the Zambesi. With his staff he has been for the last three months at Tété. The ‘Halcyon’ has been taken up for his passage home, and I am on my way to sign articles with Don Francisco di Maxara.”

“But that does not account for my seeing Masheesh at your side in yonder boat?” remarked Hughes.

“The Governor of the fort yonder was at Tété with his Excellency when the Matabele arrived, and told his tale. The Portuguese would not get under way without orders. Reaching Senna late last night, I heard of the affair, knew it must be you, and determined to send poor Mason on to sign articles, and guided by Masheesh to go to your help.”

A cordial grasp of the hand followed this.

“Why, you are burning with fever, my lad, and more fit for the sick bay than the jungle,” said Weber, looking into the soldier’s face.

“Shove off; give way, my lads; his Excellency must wait a wee,” continued the seaman, as the boat sheered down stream, and the men bending to their oars, the stout craft dashed down the Zambesi, heading for Senna.

Don Isidore Mujao, the commandant, met them at the landing place, greatly surprised at their speedy return, and still more so when he saw the use his Portuguese flag had been put to. About forty years of age; tall, dark complexioned, and sedate in manner, he welcomed the new comers, at the same time giving his orders to the men. Taking up the body of the late captain of the burned ship, six soldiers conveyed it to the little chapel, and during the pause, the new comers looked around them.

The fort was built of brick, and was in a very dilapidated condition. Situated on the right bank of the Zambesi, the river rolled its waters under the walls, and seemed a large stream, dotted with reed-covered islands.

“Captain Weber, you can spare your men a toilsome row; his Excellency will arrive either this night or to-morrow from Tété en route for Quillimane. Gentlemen,” continued the Portuguese, “you are welcome; you will meet with scant hospitality here, but we will do our best.”

Don Mujao took off his black broad-brimmed hat as he spoke, bowing low.

“Ay, ay, then I have not much time to lose. I say, Don,” exclaimed the sailor, “this is the Senhor Wyzinski, a missionary, on the loose, and whom we found in a fair way to make a grill for Davy Jones; look at his singed hair and whiskers; and this is an old friend, Captain Hughes, 150th Regiment, who looks half dead with fever.”

Again the formal Portuguese raised his hat, bowing first to one and then to the other.

“Roderigues,” he said, beckoning to a soldier who stood near, “show the Senhors to the only room we can give them. Once more I ask your consideration for our shortcomings, Senhors.”

“Come, make sail!” cried the skipper; “don’t be all day backing and filling here.”

The gate opened, then swung to again, as passing the Governor, who stood with his hat raised from his head, and preceded by the very questionable individual who had been called Roderigues, Hughes and the missionary, literally worn out with fatigue and excitement, the one wounded in the shoulder, the other his face blistered with burns, and hardly able to walk from the effects of the tightly bound palmyra rope, took their way up a narrow, winding staircase, turning out of a landing into a large room, lighted by two barred windows looking over the Zambesi and the plain beyond.

Two rude stretcher beds placed at opposite sides of the room, two large horse buckets, evidently intended for washing purposes, a coil of palmyra rope, to haul up water from the river below, and a couple of rude chairs, formed the furniture. The roof of the chamber was vaulted, and the floor was of red brick. Such was the room into which the soldier ushered the two travel-worn men, and to them it seemed a palace. Standing at attention as they passed, the Portuguese spoke some words in his own tongue, then closed the door with a clang. Placing their rifles against the wall, and throwing down the knapsacks which had been recovered, the missionary’s first act was to push the rude bolt, and offer up fervent thanks for the protection vouchsafed them during their late danger.

The water-buckets were put into use, the knapsacks rummaged, and then the two sat gazing in silence over the river.

“We must manage a passage with our friend, Weber,” said Wyzinski, at last.

“I don’t know how it is, I don’t feel any interest in anything,” languidly replied Hughes. “These shivering fits upset me. The fever has its hold of me.”

“I wonder whether they have any quinine? What a miserable, tumble-down set of wretched hovels these Portuguese have here. A town of thirty houses.”

“The country looks fertile, and the colony should prosper,” languidly returned Hughes, shivering heavily from head to foot, and his face flushing as he spoke. “Those are curiously-shaped sugar-loaf hills, the river flowing between us and them. The thick forest stretches beyond, and how beautiful the distant mountains seem.”

“Those are the hills of the Morumbala range, but what interests me more is yonder boat, swinging to her anchor. She is of English build, has a small cabin, and pulls eight oars. I should like to drop down the Zambesi to-morrow. There must be traders at Quillimane, sailing to Natal or the Cape.”

Here a prolonged, and painful shivering fit took possession of Hughes, gradually and rapidly increasing to such an extent, as soon to incapacitate him even from talking. That night the pulse was beating at a fearful pace, the temples throbbed nearly to bursting, and the terrible shivering fits shook his frame. The following day the brain was affected and the sufferer went once more through the scenes he had lately acted. The missionary dragged his cot to that of his sick comrade, and Captain Weber shared his watch, but the resources of the fort were very small, and but for his strong constitution the chances were against recovery.

The morning of the third day, there was a great bustle within the walls of the ruined fort. Weber came to say good bye. The Portuguese envoy had arrived from Tété, the agreement had been made, and the captain of the merchantman was to drop down the river that morning to finish his preparations.

Hughes was wandering, and did not know him. “It shall go hard but that you shall have your passage in the ‘Halcyon,’ if he can bear it,” said the skipper, the tears standing in his eyes as he pressed the missionary’s hand. “An hour of the fresh breeze of the Indian ocean would do more to cooper up yonder craft than all the rubbish in the world. He’s on his beam ends now, that’s sure; but may be he’ll be all a-tanto soon.”