The Ruined Cities of Zululand

Quietly and courteously he offered his arm to Dona Isabel, who, quite unconscious of what was passing, was still looking into the night.

A glance at the entrance of the bay told him at once that the boats were concentrating for a dash, but it told him too that help was at hand, for several dark figures came tumbling up the hatchway. Carefully conducting the lady to her cabin, the old seaman raised his cap, uncovering his grey hair as he did so, and bade her good night. The next moment he was on deck, pointing out to the astonished passengers the danger. Mr Lowe stood by the arm-chest, concealed by the bulwarks, distributing the arms, and the whole crew were now alarmed.

“See,” said Captain Weber; “there, they separate. Yonder two boats will board on the brig’s bows, the third on her quarter.”

“They are ready for the dash,” replied the soldier, “and think us unprepared.”

“Creep forward and train the nine-pounder on them, Captain Hughes.”

Sheltering under the bulwarks, Hughes obeyed. The gun was already loaded with rifle bullets, and heavily charged. The boats came leisurely on, for all on board the brig seemed buried in sleep. The dip of the muffled oars could hardly be distinguished even by those who were watching, consequently the noise could never have awoke men asleep. The wash of the wave made itself heard on the beach, and so still was the night that the quack of the ducks, and the call of the widgeon and wild geese feeding among the reeds, came on the air. On the forecastle the creaking of a gun-carriage told that Captain Hughes was not idle, and those in the boat heard it too. They stopped rowing, the three drawing closely together, apparently in consultation. This was the moment the captain chose, and the loud hail, “Boat ahoy!” rang out from the quarter-deck. A shrill yell and a musket-shot was the reply, followed by the boom of the forecastle gun, as it scattered its bagful of rifle bullets right among them. The aim had been deliberate and deadly. The loud scream of agony, the yell of vengeance, replied to by the cheer of the English seamen, rang out in the silent night. One boat had been sunk, and its crew apparently either killed or drowned, for not waiting to rescue them the other two dashed on with a wild scream for vengeance. Leaving the useless gun, for there was no time to load it again, Hughes and the three men on the forecastle made their way aft.

A spattering fire now ran along the brig’s deck, replied to from the two boats, as they dashed on, the one for the bow, the other on the quarter. In a few seconds, the Malays were alongside. Grasping the rigging, their long knives between their teeth, they swarmed over the bulwarks fore and aft.

The deadly musketry struck them down, the pistol shots, at point blank range, shattered their heads, but still they came on. The English seamen cheered as they struck right and left with their short cutlasses, and there on the main deck stood Dom Maxara, a long curved sabre in his hand, dripping with blood, cheering on the men in a language they did not understand. The boat which had boarded on the quarter was beaten off, but joining the other the two had united their numbers, and some fifty maddened and nearly naked pirates came pouring over the bows, driving the crew before them.

Among the Malays, one tall, powerful fellow, nearly naked, seemed the leader of the rest; shouting, gesticulating, and striking right and left, he urged the assailants on. Once already had the crew been driven back to the break of the quarter-deck, but, led on by Captain Weber, had repulsed their enemies. Brandishing a jagged piece of broken spar, his hat having fallen off, and a streak of blood on the forehead showing him to be wounded, the old seaman fought like a tiger.

“Give it them, my lads, no quarter for the bloody pirates. Overboard with them!” he shouted, as he dashed full at the leader of the Malays.

A furious combat again ensued, shouts, oaths, execrations, mingled with the pistol shots. The groans of the wounded, the yells of the combatants, changed what had been a quiet, peaceful scene into one of riot and bloodshed.

Dona Isabel, it has been said, had retired into her cabin; a single lamp was burning, and, perfectly unconscious of danger, she was preparing for rest, when the heavy boom of the forecastle gun startled her, and then the silence of the night seemed to be suddenly at an end, and the shouts, yells, and groans told too terribly of what was going on above her head. The cabin was deserted, the steward having joined the combatants, and as she opened the door her father’s voice was heard cheering on the men in her own tongue. She recognised the soldier’s shout as the pirates were slowly driven back, while, alone and frightened, she dropped on her knees in prayer. Suddenly a loud report right over her head startled her still more; for a moment all was silent, the yells and shouts ceasing as by magic, then a wild cheer from the crew followed, and Isabel, unable to bear the terrible suspense, rushed up the cabin hatchway. The stars were shining brightly, but the brig’s decks were slippery with blood. Her own boats had been veered astern, and close to her bows, two dark objects showed where the pirates had boarded.

The survivors of the boat which had been cut in two by the shot from the forecastle gun, had swum for the brig, scrambling over her bulwarks just as the captain so fiercely attacked the Malay leader. Both had grappled, and had rolled, struggling and fighting, into the chains, as the new comers, at once dashing forward, again bore back the crew. The forecastle was black with pirates.

“Lie down, men, shelter under the break of the quarter-deck!” shouted Hughes, as he jumped aft, and with nervous strength slewed round the second nine-pounder, pointing it so as to sweep the forecastle. “Down, down, for your lives!”

The next moment the loud report which had so startled Isabel rang out, and the rifle bullets swept in a storm of lead right among the black mass of men crowding the forecastle. Seizing the moment, with a loud cheer the now inspirited crew dashed on, over the dead and dying, and the broken pirates leaped madly over the bows. Many dropped into the sea, but swimming, were picked up; the boats shoved off, crippled, and pulling but few oars, a ringing cheer from the crew following them just as the frightened girl found herself on deck.

Hughes stood by the gun, his clothes torn, and his face black with the smoke; the peculiar smell of blood was perceptible, mixed with the odour of the gunpowder, and Isabel feeling it became sick and weak, just as a dark form, bounding from the main chains, leaped on to the quarter-deck. A loud shriek burst from her lips, as the Malay leader threw himself on Hughes. Partially overpowered, the soldier grasped his powerful foe by the throat. They swayed to and fro, struggling and fighting; the frightened girl rushed forward, the Malay striking wildly at her with his dagger. With a scream of pain Isabel fell on the deck just as a tremendous blow from the broken spar, given with a hearty good will, smashed in the Malay’s skull, both he and the soldier, who was held in the death grasp, falling to the deck.

“Hurrah for Old England!” shouted the excited captain, as he flourished the jagged and blood-besmeared spar over his head with one hand, and dragged Hughes clear of the dead Malay with the other. “See if any of the miscreants are below. A short shrift and a pistol bullet if you find any, my lads. Here, Mr Lowe, lend a hand with this lubber; he nearly did for me just now, but we are quits.”

A loud splash in the water told that the pirate had gone over the side, and every now and then a similar splash, with a “Yeo, heave ho!” from forward, marked the fate of a fallen Malay.

Carefully and gently Isabel was lifted from the deck and borne below by the steward and Hughes. Dom Maxara was forward, staunching a severe wound from a Malay creese in the shoulder. Wyzinski, who during the hand-to-hand combat had fought like a tiger, and received a stab in the leg, now remembered he was a missionary, and, though weak with loss of blood, was engaged smoothing the passage of one of the crew from the world his soul was quitting. Four men killed, and almost every one of the crew wounded, three severely, were the casualties on board the brig, while those among the pirates were never known, but must have been very severe.

The Malay had dealt his blow wildly, his intention being revenge, for Hughes’s grip held him by the throat, and the savage pirate was choking as he struck. The creese had entered Isabel’s arm above the elbow, making a nasty jagged wound.

They placed her on the crimson cushions in the cabin, Masters, the steward, bathing her head with water, while the wounded arm hung down, the soldier kneeling near her, and doing his best to bandage it. His was a curious figure as he knelt by her side, for both face and hands were nearly black with the powder and smoke, his dress torn in many places, and what had been a shirt showing very many tokens of the bulky pirate’s terrible grip. All this was forgotten in the anxiety of the moment, and there the two were in the almost deserted cabin eagerly waiting for returning consciousness. Isabel’s face was pale and bloodless, and her teeth firmly clenched. There was no doctor on board the brig.

“Masters, I wish you would step on deck,” said Hughes, “and send Wyzinski here.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the man, rising, and handing the basin and sponge to Hughes.

“And, Masters, just ask Captain Weber for some arnica.”

The man disappeared up the hatchway. On deck all was bustle, the crew being busily engaged removing the traces of the late bloody affair. He found the missionary forward, but unable to leave a wounded seaman, so Masters knelt by his side and joined in the fervent but simple prayer over the dying man. An oil lamp gave out a feeble light in the fore-cabin, showing in one corner a large white sail. The heavy folds covered something, which bulging out here, falling in there, took the shape of the human form. The dead lay there, while, breathing heavily, his hand plucking at the coverlet, the dying seaman passed slowly away.

His shirt was open, showing the jagged, ragged hole made by the Malay creese in the broad, hairy breast.

The man spoke, but his tones were low. Masters leaned over him, and caught the faint eager tones.

“Tell the skipper to heave up the anchor, and get into blue water. I know these fellows, and they’ll come back.”

“Ay, ay, Sedley,” answered the steward, “I’ll tell him, sure enough.”

“Trouble not yourself about the brig, my poor fellow,” said the missionary. “Prepare to meet your God.”

The man rolled restlessly from side to side, the hand ever plucking at the coarse blanket.

“I’ve done my duty,” he said. “There’s no one left to ask after me in the old house at home, so I may slip my anchor as soon as I like.”

“Pray with me, Sedley,” replied the missionary, and the faint light glanced and flickered over the dark cabin, making the white sail seem to take strange shapes, sometimes even to move; for the feeble daylight began to mingle with the yellow rays, and the dying sailor’s lips parted in prayer, as he tossed wearily from side to side. It was a sad and solemn spectacle.

A heavy step was heard coming down the fore-hatchway, and a moment later Captain Weber stood by the man’s berth. He was without the tarpaulin hat he usually wore, and his forehead seamed with a broad bloody gash.

“Ay, ay!” ejaculated the old seaman. “Four of them under yonder sail, and here goes a fifth.”

On deck the tread of the men was heard, the splash of the water as it was dashed about the stained decks, the loud, careless laugh, and now and then the “Yeo, heave oh!” followed by a splash, as the dawning day showed some corpse, hitherto overlooked, lying stiff and stark among the spars and rigging with which the deck was strewn.

The dying man appeared to revive; he looked around him.

“Heave up the anchor, captain! Fourteen years of Jack Sedley’s life has been passed off this here coast. Heave up the anchor, and make sail on the old bark! Them murderous beggars will—”

The man fell back heavily, a rattle was heard in the throat, the eyes became glazed, a long breath was followed by a deep silence; again the chest filled, as though by a laborious effort, the eyelids twitched nervously, a heavy sigh, and the seaman’s course was run.

Captain Weber turned away, passing the sleeve of his coat over his eyes, and so smearing his face with the gore which still flowed from the wound in his forehead, as he slowly left the cabin.

The steward did not come back; but gradually the blood resumed its wonted course, and Isabel’s consciousness returned.

“Where is my father?” she asked. “What has happened?”

“The brig has been attacked by pirates. They are beaten off, and your father is safe.”

“Santa Maria! my arm, how stiff it feels! Ah, now I remember,” she continued, half rising, and a look of honour overspreading her countenance.

“But for your scream,” replied Hughes, “I should have been taken by surprise. The smoke of the gun was in my eyes, blinding me, and so I could not save you from the felon’s blow.”

The wounded arm, with its stained bandages, the kneeling figure, all begrimed with smoke, the certainty of her father’s safety, and of the departure of the pirates, seemed to strike the girl’s imagination. A smile passed over her face.

“Isabel,” said the soldier with a sudden burst of passion, his emotion mastering him, “I have loved you from the first time I ever saw you!”

The black eyes had been gazing on him with a wild vacant look, as the girl lived over again, in imagination, the terrible scene she had witnessed on deck, when the bulky form of the Malay leader had so nearly borne her lover down; the day, too, when on the banks of the Zambesi he had stood between her and a terrible death; and now the tension of her nerves giving way, she sobbed deeply and convulsively.

“I have loved you ever since I saw you, Isabel, and strange to say it is the only love I have ever known,” he continued, breaking the silence.

The heavy, convulsive sobs shook her slight frame, but she made no answer.

“Left an orphan when a mere child, joining my father’s regiment when a youth, I have never known what even a parent’s love may be, and it seems now as if the devotion of a whole life were concentred on you, Isabel.”

Again the soldier paused, and the sobs of the girl were alone heard in the cabin. The grey light of dawn was showing itself down the hatchway, and through the ports. The same grey dawn which was lighting the dying seaman’s long journey, was gradually creeping over the lover’s dream.

He took her hand carefully, gently, for it was the injured arm; he looked up into her face.

“Isabel, can you return a soldier’s love?” he asked, eagerly.

The head fell on his shoulders, the hot tears deluged his hand.

“Dearest Isabel, speak!” he urged, as he passed his arm round her waist.

“I can—I will!” whispered the girl. “But, oh, for pity’s sake be silent now.”

And he was silent, for his heart was full of sweet emotions, while Isabel sobbed on, and the grey light grew more and more perceptible.

“And your father, Isabel?” at last asked her lover.

“He never denied me anything; my happiness is his; and here he comes.”

Dom Maxara and the missionary at this moment entered the cabin. The former had only just heard of his daughter’s wound, and as it had been exaggerated, his face, pale from loss of blood, showed great anxiety. Rising, the girl threw herself into her father’s arms.

“Oh, father, I am so happy!” she sobbed.

The old man’s grey hair mixed with the dark tresses of his daughter, as he bent over and soothed her, Wyzinski standing for a moment as if astonished at the scene.

“Pardon me, Dom Maxara, you had better conduct the Dona Isabel to her cabin, and I will dress the wound. It is but slight, and I am a bit of a surgeon.”

“I thank you, Senhor,” replied the old Portuguese, again assuming all the stateliness of manner which usually characterised him. “Come, Isabel.”

Isabel de Maxara turned, gave one look at her lover—a glance teeming with gratitude and love, even though the eyes were running over with tears, as she held out her hand. Hughes pressed it to his lips, and the next moment she was gone.

“The Dona Isabel might have a cleaner lover,” observed Wyzinski, after a long silence.

It was the first time Captain Hughes had been conscious of his dirt-begrimed, ragged condition; would he have risked the confession he had made, had he been aware of it?