The Ruined Cities of Zululand

“Forced to fly, my father had nearly reached the French frontier, when he was struck down by the hands of hired assassins. A desultory and useless rising took place at different but isolated points. In these I had taken part, burning to revenge a father’s death. I managed, with great difficulty, to escape; but my property and estates were lost, and I but retained sufficient to enable me to live, and to place Isabel with a relative, the Superior of the Convent of the Augustines, in Paris. Passing into the service of France, I won a commission in the Foreign Legion, serving in Algeria, in Italy, and Austria. I rose to the command of my regiment, when, some months since, I was enabled to return to my country, was received with favour, a small portion of our forfeited estates restored, and the mission I am now accomplishing given me.

“Ah! Isabel, my child!” continued the noble, as at that moment she appeared on deck, and he bent to kiss her high forehead; “I have been burthening our friend with the tale of our family misfortunes.”

Dressed in a light muslin with a flowing skirt, her dark hair heavily braided, with the high comb, and mantilla, Dona Isabel would have looked beautiful enough; but with the left arm bound up and worn in a sling made with a crimson Andalusian scarf, and the air of fatigue and languor which late events had caused still hanging over her, Hughes thought he had never seen her look so lovely.

Nestling in between her father and her lover, Isabel passed her right hand through the arm of the old noble, who looked down fondly into her face.

The brig’s stern was now no longer pointed towards the land, for she was moving slowly along parallel with it. The click of the capstan, as the sailors stamped round with a measured step, was heard, and the vessel was slowly drawing up with the entrance to the Bay. The parrots were screaming on shore and the gulls overhead, the last rays of the evening sun tinging the tops of the fan-like leaves of the ravinala trees, just as the “Halcyon” arrived abreast of the “Onglake” river, which here discharged itself into the sea.

“It is a beautiful scene,” said Isabel, “and who could believe that it is the same quiet Bay which a few hours since rang with the demoniac yells of those horrible pirates!”

“If we have any wind it will come towards sunset, the captain says, and we shall shape our course for the Cape,” said Dom Maxara. “What leave of absence remains to you, Senhor Enrico!”

The name seemed singular to Captain Hughes; it was the first time he had heard it used; but it was, after all, decidedly prettier than plain matter-of-fact Henry.

“About eighteen months,” replied he, “which could easily be prolonged.”

“And have you any plans for the future, Enrico mio?” asked Isabel, raising her large dark eyes to his face.

If “Enrico” seemed pleasant from the mouth of the stately old noble, what was that first “Enrico mio” from those ruby lips?

The noise of the boats as they were manned, the dropping of the oars into the water, the unshipping of the capstan bars, and the preparations for casting off the rope used to tow the vessel’s head round, now told that the “Halcyon” had reached the entrance of the Bay.

“Set the fore-topmast-staysail, let fall the foresail, get the fore-topsail on her, Mr Lowe. Cast off the warp; give way, my lads, give way cheerily in the boats,” shouted the captain, as he stood on the quarter-deck. “Starboard—hard—let her feel the helm. Steady! so.”

The brig’s head slowly payed off, as she felt the strain of the boats’ towing, and her jib-boom pointed right for the entrance of the Bay. The horizon had been reported clear, nothing being in sight, and sail after sail opened its wide expanse, while the long breathings of the ocean began to be felt, and the idle canvas flapped to and fro in the calm.

“Have you any plans for the future, Enrico mio?” reiterated Isabel.

Hughes had been gazing steadily down into the deep blue water, totally regardless of all that was passing around him.

“I was thinking,” he said, “of Wyzinski’s tales, of the sad remembrances this place has for him; and contrasting them with the startling events, but bright memories, it will have for me. The name of Saint Augustine’s Bay will ever be dear to me.”

The blood mantled in Isabel’s cheeks as she answered—

“When the Senhor has done with his pleasant memories of the past, perhaps he will deign an answer to a poor maiden’s question.”

The men had strained at the oars until the stout ash staves creaked and bent in the rowlocks. The dark hull of the brig had slowly forged ahead, and at the moment Isabel spoke, the “Halcyon” had passed the entrance of the harbour, and was rising and falling on the long gentle swell outside. She did not feel the wind, being under the shelter of the coast; but slight cat’s-paws were playing on the water about half-a-mile ahead, and so the boats continued towing, while on board the main-topgallant and main-topsails were being sheeted home.

“There is our last sight of the Bay,” said Hughes, sighing. “It must now live only in the memories of the past. Plans—no, dearest Isabel; I have been enjoying the present without care for the future.”

“And now the fairy dream is over, what do you intend to do when we reach the Cape, Enrico? Surely I have a right to ask,” said Isabel.

“If you have eighteen months’ leave of absence, Senhor,” said the noble, “come with us to Portugal for your answer; you can make your arrangements in England.”

The Senhor Enrico could not have wished for a pleasanter invitation, and he eagerly closed with it.

“That topgallant sail is drawing, Mr Lowe; cast off the tow-rope, recall the boats, and hoist them in. Tell off the watch, and send the crew to supper. Let the steward give them an extra ration of grog. Take a pull at the starboard tacks and sheets. Lay her head to the west-south-west.”

The wind, which was very light, was from the eastward, consequently the brig, her yards rounded in, was running free, the boom-mainsail was hauled out, the heavy folds of the mainsail let fall, and the jib hoisted. One by one the studding-sails were set, and the black hull once more supported a towering mass of white canvas. With all this the “Halcyon” only just held steerage way, the wind coming in hot puffs from the distant mountains of the Amboitmena range, at times filling the canvas and making the bubbles fly past as the “Halcyon” felt the breeze, then dying away, while the useless sails flapped heavily with the gentle roll of the waves.

Her captain seemed silent and anxious, and would not leave the deck. Dinner had been announced, but Captain Weber had only dived below to reappear again in a few minutes, and, telescope in hand, was sweeping the coast line with his glass. He bad evinced no signs of anxiety to his guests, but as he paced the lee gangway of the brig, he showed no such reticence to his mate.

“One hour’s good blow from yonder mountains and we should be well clear of this coast,” he said.

“Do you think, Captain Weber, the fellow dare attack us again after the taste he had of our quality last night?” inquired the mate.

“If the scoundrels could get possession of the brig, they would soon find the means to arm her,” replied the captain; “and the west coast of Madagascar is one series of indentations, coves, and bays, fit refuges for these sort of craft.”

“The clouds are resting on the top of the mountain range, sir; I fancy we shall have more wind just now. How far do you reckon we are from land?”

“About ten miles,” replied the captain. “Turn the hands up on deck, Mr Lowe. Haul up the mainsail, the brig has hardly way on her, and send the men aft. We must bury our dead.”

The moon was low on the horizon, shedding a dim light on the ocean, and making the long line of the Madagascar coast look black and indistinct as if seen through a haze.

Soon ranged, side by side, on a grating abaft the main chains, lay five forms covered with the ship’s ensign. On the quarter-deck stood the passengers and the remainder of the crew, while the missionary, in a clear distinct voice, read slowly the impressive burial service. All were uncovered, and the tears streamed down Isabel’s face, as she looked on the inanimate forms of the brave fellows who had died to save her from worse than death. The captain laid his hand on the Union Jack, the mate made a sign, and four sturdy men advanced, placing their shoulders under the grating. “We commit their bodies to the deep, in the sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life,” and as the solemn words rang out on the night air, the splash of the falling bodies in the sea followed. A stillness seemed to gather around, and the service for the dead finished, the crew retired to their different duties, for the time, at least, saddened and depressed, and the quarter-deck was soon left to the captain and his mate.

Slowly they paced it to and fro in eager but low conversation. The puffs of wind came down a little steadier, and the “Halcyon” was moving through the water once more. The night was beautifully fine, the stars shining brilliantly, but the moon just sinking behind a distant spit of land broad on the larboard bow. From time to time the sound of the ship’s bell, tolling the hour, was heard, the creaking of the blocks and ropes, and the mournful flap of the sails as the brig rolled lazily on the long swell. All at once the mate stopped suddenly in his walk, looked earnestly towards the coast line, and then, without speaking, raised his finger and pointed towards the setting moon. It was just sinking behind a patch of forest trees, their long tapering fan-like leaves distinctly marked against the light, while, sweeping past, the spars of a small vessel could be seen, the thin whip-like sticks plainly visible against the sky. Next, the long, low black hull drew clear of the land, and distinctly revealed against the light the spars and rigging of a small schooner. Not a rag of canvas was shown, and yet slowly and with a gentle caption the dark mass glided on into the night, right on the path which the brig was taking.

The two seamen looked at each other.

“I thought as much. It is the pirate!” ejaculated the captain, with a deep sigh.

“If they had chosen their weather, it could not suit them better.”

Stepping aft, the captain glanced at the compass.

“Round in the weather-braces and sheets, Mr Lowe. Port, you may, Hutchins; keep her dead to the west.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the man, as the spokes flew through his fingers; and the ship’s head falling off, the wind was brought nearly aft, the two vessels thus moving on almost parallel lines.

“Can you make him out now?” asked the captain, as his mate rejoined him on the quarter-deck.

Long and anxiously did the officer addressed peer into the night. The missionary joined the group, and was made acquainted with what was passing.

“There she is,” said the mate, “right on our quarter. Look! in go her sweeps, for she has made sail, and is standing on the same course as ourselves, keeping way with us under her foresail, mainsail, and jib. That craft could close with us any moment, sir. Shall I rouse the crew?”

The captain did not speak; but stood, his elbows leaning on the weather bulwarks, looking in the direction of the schooner.

“If it is the vessel you suppose, she knows we carry guns,” remarked Wyzinski; “but does not know how many. She will wait for daylight.”

“You are quite right,” replied the captain. “Leave the men quiet, Mr Lowe. We will keep the watch together, and may God send us wind,” and here the old seaman reverently lifted his cap, “for yonder is a dreadful foe.”

The sound of the bell tolled out the hours, the wind, which had freshened, towards morning died away; but all night long the three anxious watchers paced the narrow limits of the brig’s quarter-deck. Time after time did the captain turn to the compass and take the schooner’s bearings. It was useless, for there, under easy sail, exactly where she had first been made out, on the brig’s weather quarter, the white canvas of the pirate could be seen, never varying a point. It was evident she was waiting for daylight to close with her prey.