The Ruined Cities of Zululand

A knock at the door, and Don Francisco Maxara entered; an elderly, grey-haired man, tall in stature, and stately in bearing.

“I cannot say it is a pleasure, Senhor,” began the old noble, as he bowed to the missionary, and made room for the merchant captain to pass, “but at all events it is a duty to place myself and all I have at your command.”

Boiling restlessly from side to side, his handsome features, bronzed by the sun, now flushed with fever, Hughes was unconscious of their presence. He was with his corps cheering on his men as he had cheered them on the plains of Chillianwallah, the day the gallant 10th Regiment melted away before the masked fire from the Sikh artillery, when gliding through the open door and passing her arm through her father’s, Dona Isabel de Maxara looked down on him.

Tall and graceful in figure, the girl’s face, was of that beautiful clear brown tint, found only in the sunny south, but one of the peculiarities which distinguished her was the network of blue veins, tracing themselves under the transparent olive of the skin; the eyes were large and intensely brilliant, shaded now by the long black lashes, which, with the slightly arched and beautifully pencilled eyebrow, told of Moorish blood. The mouth was small and beautifully cut, the lips parted now and showing the white teeth; and if there was a fault in the features, it was that the forehead, with all its lace-work of blue veins glancing under the clear olive skin, was too high and massive for a female face. The hair was brushed backwards, fastened behind by a large comb, tipped with gold, from which hung the long mantilla of Spain.

The sick man saw nothing of all this, he was busy among the guns at Chillianwallah.

“How long, Senhor,” said the girl, looking up at the missionary, and the large eyes filling as she did so with tears, which rolled one by one unheeded down her cheeks,—“how long has your friend been ill?”

“This is the third day, mademoiselle,” replied he, speaking in French, both father and daughter having used that language. “Have you any quinine, Senhor?” he continued, addressing the father.

“Yes, at your service; but not having had any before, what have you been using?” replied the noble, taking the sick man’s hands, and feeling his pulse.

“A drink made out of the kumbunga plant. It has cured me more than once.”

“Wait,” cried the girl, eager to be of use. “I will return in a moment,” and she flew out of the room, showing as she moved the beautiful foot and ankle peculiar to the Portuguese.

The old noble shook his head as he let the arm he held fall on the bed-clothes.

“There, use that at once,” said the breathless girl, as she returned with a small bottle filled with quinine. “And as soon as you can, get away from this terrible place.”

“We will leave now, my daughter; we are but in the way. Later on we may be useful. Command me, Senhor,” added the Portuguese; “whatever I have is at your service. I pray you do not spare me or mine.”

With a stately wave of the hand, as though he were quitting a palace, instead of a poor barrack-room in a dilapidated fort, the nobleman passed on.

“You will let me know,” said Isabel, pausing before she joined her father, and raising the large black eyes to the missionary’s face—“you will let me know how your poor friend is.” And with one more glance round the room, and at the wretched bed, she passed out.

Wyzinski stood looking at her. It seemed like a dream; but then there was the stoppered bottle of white powder in his hand to prove the reality. All that day, all that night, the missionary watched by the bedside. Towards midnight a heavy thunderstorm passed over the plains watered by the Zambesi. The air seemed blue with the forked lightning; the thunder rattled and roared over the fort, but the morning dawned calm and beautiful, and a cool breeze blew in at the open windows, bringing with it the sweet breath of the tamarind flowers. The quinine, too, had done its work; and the crisis which in the dreadful tertian fever of the Zambesi always occurs on the third day, had passed over favourably. These storms are of frequent occurrence in the land through which the Zambesi rolls its waters, and scarcely a week goes by without the thunder making itself heard round the dilapidated walls of Senna. Another of these periodical storms had just occurred, sweeping over the land, accompanied by torrents of rain, cooling the air, and refreshing the parched-up plains on the banks of the Zambesi. The river was high in consequence, rolling down branches and trees and quantities of driftwood past the brick walls of the crumbling fort. It has already been said that several small islands intersect the course of the river; and near one of these, not a stone’s throw from the water-gate, two boats were moored, swinging to the stream. The one a large European-looking pinnace—though really built on the Zambesi after an English model—possessed a covered cabin aft, and was capable of holding some twenty people. The other was of smaller and lighter mould. From the island came the sounds of laughter and conversation.

Under the trellised creepers, through which the rays of the afternoon sun were shining, sat a party of Europeans. The water was bubbling up in a stone basin; the purple grapes were hanging in rich clusters from the vines; and there, doing the honours of the table with a gentle grace which showed a practised ease and knowledge of the world, sat Dona Isabel Maxara. Near her, half sitting, half reclining on some cushions, Captain Hughes seemed lost in contemplation of the fair girl. Still very weak, and much pulled down by the short but sharp attack of the deadly tertian, he had got it into his head that the quinine had saved his life; and perhaps it was not a very unpleasant thing to be beholden for life to so fair a physician. And so he gazed on the tall, graceful, and beautifully-turned figure, the head carried with that dignified swan-like movement peculiar to Spain and Portugal, the long black lace veil now thrown back and floating behind. The clear olive complexion was well set off by the crimson lips of the well-cut mouth, and the large coal black eyes, with their long lashes, well matched by the luxuriant tresses of jetty hair. As she rose to carry the small cup of coffee to the invalid, he certainly thought the life it pleased him to consider she had saved, could not have a better use than devotion to her; and when the fair Isabel stooped over the young soldier, and one long tress, of the raven hair touched his hand, raised to receive the cap, the rosy flush flew up into a cheek once browned by exposure, but paled now by illness.

At a table close by, the Portuguese envoy, Dom Francisco Maxara, sat playing at chess with the Commandant of Senna; the two, wholly absorbed in their game, exchanging a word only at intervals. The missionary was unpacking, showing, and repacking, the various skins and small animals he had managed to secure. The birds were singing in the bushes round about, and above all came the buzz of insect life, and the ceaseless roll of the broad Zambesi.

The soldier lay back on the cushions sipping his coffee, his eyes half shut, a pleasant feeling of indolence enervating his frame, as he gazed. “She is very lovely,” he muttered; “and here am I, a captain of a marching regiment, allowing myself to fall in love with the daughter of a Portuguese grandee, whom I shall probably never see again.”

“And this,” continued Wyzinski, who seemed to have monopolised the conversation, “is it not a beautiful skin? Do you remember, Hughes, shooting this wild cat in the tree the morning of that terrible day among the Amatongas?”

“Indeed,” replied the other, “I am little likely to forget it. I shall always think it was the excitement, and the prostration consequent on the hunt, which so nearly consigned me to an African grave.”

“Tell me the tale,” cried Isabel. “I long to hear your adventures among the tribes of the interior. It seems so strange for us to meet here on this great African river.”

The conversation was carried on in French; and the soldier told of their travels; told how the baboon had first been found; how it had lived in the camp, and how it had died. The chess-players were disturbed by the silvery peals of laughter which rang round them as Hughes related, with some humour, the incident of the powder-flask; and Dona Isabel’s dark eyes had been fixed for a long time on the speaker’s face ere the tale was finished, and the sun sank beneath the horizon, the stars peeping out, while the fire-flies came floating around, and the cool puffs of the sea breeze swept across the river.

“Sing for us, Isabel,” said Dom Francisco, as he checkmated his antagonist, at the same time rising and making him a stately bow.

Dona Isabel took her guitar, and the sweet tones of her voice rang out among the trellised vines and over the broad river, dying away on the plains beyond, where the howl of the jackal was just making itself heard.

“You will give me my revenge, Senhor Maxara,” asked the Commandant.

“Nay, Dom Isidore, not possible—at least, until you do me the high honour of becoming my guest in our own land. We must leave to-morrow evening.”

“And the Dona Isabel,” asked Mujaio. “Is she, too, in such a hurry to leave Senna?”

“The Dona Isabel must abide by her father’s decision,” she replied; “but she may have a word to say to Dom Maxara on the subject.”

Rising, Isabel took her father’s arm, and leading him towards the river side, seemed to urge something, to which he would not consent.

“Impossible, Isabel; wholly so. The brig is an English trader, bound for the Cape, and takes us only as passengers. Her captain cannot delay beyond the stipulated day; but come, we will do our best.”

“My daughter, Dom Isidore has been urging our stay at Senna for some days longer, but I am forced to say nay. You, gentlemen,” continued the ceremonious old noble, bowing first to the missionary, then to the soldier, “seek to return to the Cape; will you so far honour my daughter and myself as to accompany us?”

The soldier’s face flushed with pleasure. It was just what he could have desired. Wyzinski courteously declined, urging that they must wait until the “Alert” gun brig should touch at Quillimane, as they were without funds, and unable to pay their passage to the Cape.

A stately wave of the hand from Dom Francisco followed this matter-of-fact declaration, which wounded the soldier to the quick. He almost hated Wyzinski, and yet the determination had been come to that morning, on hearing of the advent of the “Alert.”

“The brig ‘Halcyon’ waits us at Quillimane,” persisted the noble. “She is chartered by my government to convey me, its envoy, to the Cape, and can take no passengers, but is bound to receive my suite and guests. Will the senhors honour us by becoming the latter?”

“And you may, indeed, help us,” interposed Isabel, fixing her dark eyes on the missionary. “What shall we do on board an English brig, with no one to understand us. But will not the senhor be too weak if we leave to-morrow?”

As she stood there, with the stars shining upon her, and the fire-flies playing like an aureole round her head, it occurred to Hughes that he was strong enough to follow her anywhere. The missionary looked at him inquiringly.

“Every day will bring me strength,” he replied; “and I shall be very glad to get to the sea once more. Senhor Dom Francisco Maxara, I accept your kind and generous offer, with many thanks.”

“And I also,” joined in Wyzinski.

“Then, Senhor Commandant, we will start to-morrow evening. I shall leave my staff here until the surveys, estimates, and plans be completed, and you shall have your revenge when you come home.”

“All shall be in readiness,” replied Mujaio, as he took a whistle from his neck, and sounded a shrill call. A boat shot across the stream from the fort; the noise of the oars straining in the rowlocks was heard, and the bowman jumped ashore, holding the boat’s painter in his hand.

“Good-night, gentlemen,” said the noble. “I shall have much business to transact with the Senhor Commandant to-morrow, and may not see you. My daughter, Dona Isabel, will hope to have that pleasure in my absence. The smaller of the two boats allotted us you will look upon as yours.”

Moving towards the river, his daughter on his arm, the stately Portuguese took off his broad-brimmed hat most courteously. Senhor Mujaio followed, having first handed the missionary the silver whistle.

“When you require the boat you have only to use this. Good-night, gentlemen.”

A dark spot shot off from the bank into the starlight; the noise of the oars was again heard, and then the sound of a merry Portuguese air, in the chorus of which even the boatmen joined, though the soft, silvery female voice told who was the principal singer. Then the dark shadow thrown across the river received the boat, and all was silent. With a sigh of gratification, Hughes threw himself back on the cushions.

“Well, there is our future provided for,” he ejaculated. “Who would have thought of meeting such a divine creature here, Wyzinski? Fancy such a jewel shut up in that crumbling old fort. Why, the Amatongas even could take it.”

“There is a much more warlike tribe here to the north, named the Landeens, who have taken it more than once,” replied the missionary.

“And might do so again,” mused the other, “this very night.”

“Don’t you think you might utilise your light infantry education?” asked Wyzinski.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I mean if you were to run away, as you did from the hippopotamus.”

“What, run away from the Landeens?”

“No, from the lady,” laughed Wyzinski; “I think it would be the wisest plan.”

“Don’t be a fool, Wyzinski; I am not strong enough to bear chaffing.”

“But quite strong enough to go down the stream—of course I don’t mean the stream of life, but of the Zambesi—with Dona Isabel de Maxara?”

The captain of the gallant 150th did not reply, but fell into a musing mood. Some Portuguese cigarettes lay on the table near the chessmen. The night was cool; and it was pleasant, looking over the flowing river, and watching the twinkling lights flashing from the windows and embrasures of the fort. The cry of the jackal was heard from time to time; a distant splash told of the hippopotami; and then the moon rose, tinging the stream with its rays, and lighting up the islands on its bosom. The well-known conical hill of Baramuana became distinctly visible; and far away to the northward, the faint, ghostlike outline of the Morumbala range could with difficulty be traced; while the flat country round, closely covered with forest growth, looked like a dark blot in the moonlight. The lights twinkled and then went out in the fort; the noise in the wretched houses of Senna gradually ceasing.

“And what are your intentions, Wyzinski, on your arrival at the Cape?” asked Hughes, after a long silence.

“To organise a party; get the support of the English Government, if possible; but, whether or not, to return to the Amatonga, and by means of the ambition of their chief, Umhleswa, fully to explore the ruins now lying buried there. Will you join me?”

“No, Wyzinski; I have had enough of African life. I long for Europe and its civilisation.”

“Say for Portugal and its water-melons, and I shall understand you better.”

“Nay,” answered the soldier, dreamily; “this fever has weakened me, and I have my regiment to think of. I must shake it off, or all hopes of advancement will be taken from me.”

“You are quite right,” replied the missionary. “Concentrate your thoughts on that, and don’t think of the Dona Isabel; that haughty old noble would as soon dream of the sun for her bridegroom, as of a captain of the 150th.”

The soldier sighed; and Wyzinski, using the whistle, the boat was soon once more at the island, and Senna, its fort, commandant, garrison, and guests, buried in deep sleep, even with the fear of the treacherous Landeens before their eyes.