The Ruined Cities of Zululand
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A violent spasm seemed to shake the dying noble’s whole frame from head to foot. Extending his hands, he laid them on the heads of the two kneeling beside him; his eyes were lifted to Heaven, his lips moved, and he made an effort to speak. It was useless, for no sound issued from the white contracted lips. Again the convulsion fit passed over his frame, the head fell back on the pillow, and the arms dropped heavily. The rush of the water, and the heavy clank of the chain pumps, mixed with the sobs of the orphan and the low earnest prayer of the missionary alone broke the silence of the death chamber.
On deck the men were still working hard, and the clear water poured from the brig’s scuppers, but there was no cheerfulness shown; they worked, it is true, but sullenly, mechanically, and without hope. The line of coast was visible from the forecastle, but the wind had fallen, and though now and then a puff would fill the foresail, yet the brig hardly had headway, rolling heavily, and seeming to right herself slowly. Everything betokened calm, the sun pouring upon the brig’s water-sodden decks, and the jagged stumps of her masts. The land was in sight, but there was no disguising the facts that her boats were smashed to pieces, and she herself was, despite the efforts of her crew, sinking under their feet.
“I see no other way,” said Captain Weber, who now stood talking to his first officer on the quarter-deck. “We must have started a plank; mark how clear and green the water flows from her scuppers, and that long lazy roll.”
His mate took off his cap, leisurely scratching his head. “Ay, ay, sir,” he replied, “either one of the yards has poked a hole through her bottom, or one of that scoundrel’s eighteen-pounders has done more damage than we thought.”
“She is settling down fast, Lowe. If we had only a breeze we would beach the old barky, but it is impossible.”
“Quite impossible, Captain Weber. If you will take my advice, knock off the pumps, and set all hands to work to make a raft. Let us save what we can,” earnestly replied the mate.
Captain Weber’s face was very sad. With the brig was lost the savings of a life, and he carefully turned over in his mind all the circumstances. He looked over the side and noticed with a sigh how deep the “Halcyon” lay in the water, and how sluggish was her motion. He noted the idle sail as it hung against the broken foremast, and the clank of the chain pumps came to his ear, as the clear salt-water flooded the deck.
The old seaman groaned.
“There is nothing for it, Lowe,” he muttered. “Keep the pumps going; half the hands will do the work. Serve out a good allowance of grog. Get the masts out of her, and let us have them alongside. The old brig won’t miss them.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” cheerfully replied the mate, walking aft among the men.
“Morris,” continued the captain, addressing the carpenter, “send up all the spare spars you have, and we will use the planking of the forecastle to make a staging for the raft. Rig out a pair of sheers amidships.”
All was now bustle aboard the brig. The men, who had worked at the pumps sullenly, because they knew that despite all they could do the leak was gaining fast on them, now found themselves employed in securing their own safety. The remains of the fore and mainmast were soon floating alongside, and, with a number of spare yards and heavier spars, formed a solid basis to work upon. Across these were placed a second layer of lighter spars, and the whole secured firmly. The planking of the deck forward, where it had been partially torn up by the grinding of the fore-topmast, was easily removed, and completed a kind of deck, raised two feet at least above the water. A royal yard was rigged as a mast, and stancheons were fixed round the edges of the platform, through which ropes were run. The arms were got on deck, and the best being selected were, with a liberal supply of ammunition, placed on the raft. Some loose sails were thrown in, provisions of every kind added, and as there was room for treble the number of men on the floating spars, several heavy cases, the contents of which were known only to the captain, were stowed away on the raft.
Night came on, and one by one the stars shone out. A long gentle swell was all that remained of the late storm, and the brig, barely rising to it, rolled clumsily and heavily. The men had behaved well. There had been a question raised, when they were tired of the pumps, and found that, work as hard as they might, it was useless, of breaking into the spirit-room; it had been soon disposed of, however, and each and all had worked cheerfully.
Crew and passengers were on deck. Isabel had been speaking in a pleading tone, while the dark mass of timber alongside was as yet not tenanted.
“I cannot bear to think of what remains of my poor father being left here. We are close to land; let me, at least, see him laid to rest in African soil.”
“Dearest Isabel, your wish is law to me, and the desire is a natural though I think a wrong one. We don’t know when we may reach land, and the sad sight will but increase your grief. Believe me, dearest, it is useless.”
Isabel looked up into her husband’s face.
“My first request,” she murmured.
The look was irresistible; and Hughes walked forward to where Captain Weber stood, among his crew, completing his last dispositions.
“Captain Weber, can we not take the remains of Dom Maxara on shore for burial?”
“What use will it be? The old barky, with all she contains, will soon be at the bottom of the sea, and so much of my future and hopes go with her, that I should not much care if I went also.”
“Still, it is the daughter’s wish,” urged Hughes.
The men stood grouped around on the deck, the pumps had been left, and the brig was rolling so heavily on the swell that it was time to leave her.
“Well, well! be it as you wish. Here, Anderson, and you, Forrest, come here;” and the seaman gave his directions.
The two sailors hesitated. They joined their comrades. A low whispered conversation ensued. He who had been called Forrest stepped forward, and scratching off his tarpaulin, twisted it in his hands.
“Well, what is it, Forrest?” asked the captain.
“Please your honour, if so be as I may make bold, we’ve had a run of ill luck of late.”
“I know that, none better; but what has that got to do with you?”
“The gentleman has lost the number of his mess, d’ye see, and it’s an onlucky thing to begin a new voyage with a corpse aboard.”
“Ay, ay, Captain Weber,” chimed in the rest, “we dare not set sail on yonder sticks with never a keel beneath our feet, and only a rag of canvas for sail, and that, too, with a corpse aboard.”
The group of men were standing at the gangway, and the captain turned to them, speaking in a loud voice.
“Your duty, Forrest, is to obey my orders. The ship is sinking under our feet, but while a stick of her remains floating they shall be obeyed. Do your duty.”
The men turned, but seemed mutinous, and once more the muttered conversation began, when, gliding down the ladder, Isabel stood among them. She had heard what passed.
“I was wrong, Enrico; tell these brave men I was wrong. My father could not have a nobler coffin than this. Speak to them, Enrico.”
Hughes did so, and a hearty cheer was given by the crew.
“And now,” said Captain Weber, greatly relieved, “we must leave the poor old brig. Are you ready?”
“I would say good bye to my father, Enrico,” murmured Isabel; “have we time?”
The three entered the little cabin, the missionary having joined them, and they stood for the last time by the side of the dead. A lamp burned feebly, lighting up dimly the small bed where the body lay. The grey hairs were carefully combed out, the eyes were closed, for a daughter’s hands had been busy there. The features wore a composed, but haughty look, and one or two deep stains alone told of the violent nature of his death.
Isabel sobbed bitterly, while the missionary prayed. The door opened, and Captain Weber entered. Stooping over the dead form, Isabel imprinted one long kiss on the cold lips, and, in an agony of grief, cast herself into the soldier’s arms.
“Enrico,—thou alone art left to me,” she sobbed.
Captain Weber threw the broad folds of the Union Jack over the dead; the light was left burning, and the party—Isabel sobbing as if her heart would break—passed through the deserted cabin where the water was already washing about, and, reaching the deck, went over the side on to the raft. It was time, for the brig was very low in the water, and as the captain stood on the gangway, the last man on deck, an explosion took place below. It was the pent-up air forced by the increasing mass of water to find an escape, blowing down the screens and bulkheads. The old seaman raised his hat, took one look around him, and then stepped on to the raft. “Shove off, my lads,” he cried, as with long planks ripped from the deck and hastily fashioned into sweeps, the men bore her away from the brig’s side.
“We must get a few fathom away before the old barky makes her last plunge, Lowe.”
“Ay, ay, sir; ship the sweeps, my lads, and give way.”
There was not a breath of wind, but the growing coolness of the air told of morning being near, for in tropical climates the coldest hour of the twenty-four is ever that which precedes dawn.
The sweeps were long and clumsy, and as the royal which had been set as sail was wholly useless, the motion of the unwieldy raft was necessarily very slow. Two men were at each sweep, and there were four of them, yet the raft barely moved through the water. Captain Weber sat on a case, his head leaning on his hands, and his face turned towards the “Halcyon.”
The starlight was not bright enough to show the tears that rolled slowly down his weather-beaten cheeks. On a heap of sails, nestling by her husband’s side, his large military cloak thrown over her, sat Isabel, and she too was looking towards the dark mass of the sinking vessel. The seaman mourned his ship, the home of many years, the companion of danger of every kind; Isabel’s cheek was wet too, for she mourned a father’s loss, and her eyes were eagerly, turned to a dim, faint ray of light shining from one of the ports. She knew that it came from the cabin where her dead father lay. The sweeps fell with measured cadence into the water, the men pulling in stern silence, until they were about five hundred yards away, and then, without, any order from any one, they ceased rowing. The grey dawn was slowly breaking over the ocean as the brig gave one wild roll to port. She seemed unable to right herself, and those on the raft drew a long breath, as she partially did so. The water, in her hold rolled heavily forward. Down went her bows, down, down into the salt sea, as lurching heavily and slowly to starboard, she disappeared, the sea boiling in foam around her.
“My father! oh, my father!” cried Isabel, as she clasped her hands together and sprang forward, as though to join him, but her husband’s strong arm was round her, drawing her gently back.
“Give way, my lads, give way, the old barky’s bones are better there than if the crew of the accursed pirate schooner had trod her decks,” said the captain, deliberately turning his back on the spot, and passing the cuff of his coat over his eyes.
The sun rose in all its splendour over the Indian Ocean, sleeping quietly and calmly under its rays. There were plenty of sails, and an awning was constructed, which gave shelter to all, and slowly and wearily the day wore on.
So long as it remained calm there was no danger, and tedious as their advance was it remained but a question of time as to when the forty miles which separated them from the land should be passed. But night set in before half the distance had been overcome, and there was a dull moaning sound over the ocean, the sailors’ eyes telling them that the scud was flying from the westward, a wind which, if it set in, would infallibly blow them off land. All night long the men toiled at the heavy sweeps. They were fairly worn out with fatigue, some of them sleeping at the oars. The captain, his mate, and passengers all took their turn, but towards two o’clock the first puffs of the westerly gale were felt, and the captain, seeing the utter uselessness of prolonging the struggle, gave orders to ship the sweeps, and for the men to lie down. Isabel had long since cried herself to sleep, and on board the raft none but the captain and Hughes watched as morning dawned over the sea.
Sail Ho!
On board everything had been done to promote the safety of its occupants that could be effected. The lashings of the timbers had been carefully overhauled and strengthened under Captain Weber’s own superintendence, while the boxes and cases of provisions, which had been lowered on to the raft before pushing off from the sinking ship, had been arranged so as to form a kind of walled cabin over which a heavy sail had been spread as its roof. A light studding sail formed the door, which could be brailed up or let down at the desire of the occupant. The weather continued moderate, and though a green wave would occasionally break on board, no great discomfort had been as yet experienced.
It had been a sad moment when the sweeps were unshipped, and when the line of coast became fainter and fainter, until at last its outline was no more distinguishable, and nothing was to be seen but the wide expanse of ocean, on which the frail raft rose and fell. The gulls and Mother Carey’s chickens were their sole companions, and the sun rose without a cloud, daily to pour its blaze of light over the calm waters of the Indian Ocean, and then to sink to rest, setting, as it seemed, in the waste of waters. Soon the stars would peep forth, and the gentle breeze which had prevailed during the day, die away into calm; no sound disturbing the stillness, except the occasional spouting of a whale near the raft, the whish of the breaking wave, and the creak of the spars as they worked together.
At first the men bore this well, for there were no watches to keep, no sails to tend, and provisions of all kinds were plentiful. Calm weather was to be expected after the late series of heavy gales, and they were sure to be picked up. They must be rapidly nearing the shores of Madagascar, too, and the men amused themselves by spinning long yarns about the savage inhabitants of the island, between the intervals of smoking, eating, and drinking. The dawning of daylight was ever an anxious moment for all, and every eye eagerly scanned the limited horizon in quest of the coming ship. The light grew gradually stronger; the wing of a gull was taken for a sail. A feeling of delight, of hope, spread through the hearts of all. The delusion was exposed as the sun tipped the tops of the waves with its light, and, do what they would, despondency took the place of hope. At first none would acknowledge this feeling, each trying to cheer up the other; but the men became gradually restless and uneasy, the tale and the laugh were less frequent; the few orders which were given them were obeyed, it is true, but slowly and listlessly, and it became evident that the confinement to so limited a space was telling, and that the crew were becoming demoralised.
The morning of the third day since the loss of the “Halcyon” had dawned, and the raft still rose and fell on the gentle swell of the ocean. The studding sail was brailed up, and Isabel was seated at the open entrance. Captain Hughes was lying on the spars at her feet, while close by Weber and his mate were endeavouring to prick off their position on a chart, which was spread on a barrel. The men were just finishing their twelve o’clock dinner, and the raft was slowly driving through the water before a gentle westerly breeze.
On a box between the two at the entrance of the improvised cabin stood a chess-board. The pieces were ranged in position, but the interest of the game seemed languishing.
“You might have checkmated me, last move, Enrico,” said Isabel. “Either you did not care to do so, or you are thinking of something else.”
In fact Hughes had been gazing up into the speaker’s face, and had forgotten all about the game.
“A game at chess on a raft in the Indian Ocean is another thing to one in a lady’s drawing-room,” remarked the missionary, who had been looking on at the play, with a smile on his face; “and yet,” he continued, “it has been much the same kind of game as usually takes place between a lady and gentleman thinking only of each other.”
“Oh, how I should like to have my foot once more on the carpet of that same drawing-room!” exclaimed Isabel. “This eternal hoping against hope is dreary work.”
“We have known worse moments together, Isabel,” remarked Hughes, who had raised himself from his elbow to a sitting position, and was gazing intently over the waves.
“I dare say I am impatient, Enrico; but everything seems to go wrong. First of all the storm, and then, when safely moored in the land-locked bay, where everything seemed so quiet, the frightful affair with the Malays. I think I can hear their terrible yells yet.” And the girl covered her eyes with her hands.
Hughes had risen, and was leaning moodily against a pile of boxes, and still gazing over the sea.
“No sooner,” continued Isabel, “had we made all right than the pirate schooner was upon us, and, as if that was not sufficient, the storm which caused my dear father’s death followed.”
“To me, Isabel, there seems still one bright point in all the black past you are looking into,” replied Hughes, as his gaze left the distant horizon, to fix itself on Isabel’s fair face.
Raising her lustrous black eyes, and returning the look with one of deep confiding tenderness, Isabel placed her hand on his arm, as she continued—
“But just as we were close to land, when I could see the undulations of the coast line, and mark the clumps of trees on the shore, to be driven away,—and now this fearfully monotonous life, ever rising and falling on the waves. One of these days we shall see Madagascar, and just as we are about to land, be blown to sea again.”
“Sail ho!” shouted Hughes, in a voice which startled every one on board.
“You are right!” exclaimed Captain Weber, starting to his feet. “See there away to the westward.” And he laid his brown hand on the mate’s shoulder, pointing in the direction named; and, sure enough, no bigger than a man’s hand, like the wing of some far-away sea-gull, a small patch of white appeared on the horizon.
A hearty cheer burst from the missionary’s lips, and it was taken up by all on board. The men, however, did not evince much satisfaction. They were sorry, it may be, after all to change a life of idleness for one of toil; or they knew, perhaps, that the passing sail might not come near.
However this might be, certain it is, that after gazing on the white speck which told of coming help, one after another sat down in a dogged, sullen manner, as though they cared little about the matter.
Grouped round the entrance to the little cabin, Captain Weber, his mate, and passengers began the midday meal, and it was a more cheerful one than usual. Provisions were plentiful, and Mr Lowe had reported the strange sail to be nearing them rapidly.
“She is working to the southward on a wind,” remarked he; “and if she makes a long leg will run us slap aboard.”
“See the union jack set over our mainsail, Mr Lowe,” returned the captain, “it will not help us along much, but will make us more easily seen. They don’t keep a very bright look-out on board yonder craft, I’ll be bound.”
“Ay, ay, sir. Come, my lads, make sail on the frigate,” said the mate, laughing, “we’ll soon run yonder fellow aboard.”
The flag was hoisted, the whole party watching anxiously. The sun shone brightly on the white canvas of a full-rigged ship, which was coming bows on towards them. At the door of the rude cabin Isabel sat, her hand clasped in that of her lover-husband, her head resting on his shoulder, and her eyes intently fixed on the ship.
“How beautiful she looks as she heels over to the breeze,” she murmured. “Surely, they see us now.”
“The ship is more than ten knots away,” replied Captain Weber, “and if even the look-out saw us, and most probably there is none, we should only be taken for a gull or albatross.”
“Could we not make them hear us?” asked Isabel.
“Impossible,” replied the master; “but we will try. Now my lads, a good hearty cheer,” he shouted. “Hip! hip! hurrah! One cheer more; fancy yourselves at the Jolly Tar in Portsmouth Harbour. Hooray! Why, I have heard you make twice the row when I wanted you to knock off shouting,” he said, as the cheer died away. In point of fact, the crew seemed too idle even to exert themselves for their own safety.
“See,” said Isabel, “see, they hear us!” and she clasped her hands together as she spoke with delight.
Captain Weber and his mate knew better. There were, indeed, indications of a bustle on board the ship. The sun was shining brightly full on her white canvas, and even the dark mass of her hull could be made out, as she came careering through the waves, with all sail set to her royals on a taut bowline. Then her sails shivered, the black bows came sweeping up to the wind, the yards were braced round, as the ship, now on the opposite tack, every moment lessened the chance of those on board the doomed raft.
“One effort more, my lads; stay a moment, they’ll be coiling down the sheets and bowlines just now. Are you ready? ‘Ship, ahoy! ahoy! aho-o-o-y!’” roared the captain with all the force of his powerful lungs, producing a shout, with which the voices of all on board joined, even the feeble treble of Isabel being heard.
It was useless; the ship neither heard nor saw them, but kept calmly and steadily on her course, leaving them to their fate. Towards sunset her royals only could be seen on the horizon, and when the stars shone forth, the raft was once more rising and falling in helpless loneliness on the waves of the sleeping ocean, slowly dragging on her way.
Isabel had retired, and cried herself to sleep. Hughes had thrown himself, as was his wont, before the opening of the cabin, and was quite motionless. Near him lay several recumbent forms wrapped in cloaks or tarpaulins, while the men, grouped together, were, or seemed to be, sleeping.
He had bitterly felt the cruel disappointment of the morning, and, though it was nearly midnight, was in reality wide awake. A low confused murmur reached him, and he listened attentively.
“I tell you he has all the gold aboard, Phillips; enough to make men of the likes of we,” were the words which came to his ears.
“For the matter of that, Gough, he’ll die hard, the old beggar, and some of us will lose the number of our mess.”
“All the more gold for them as remains,” muttered the man Gough.
“Well, if so be as we are to go in for the yellow boys, why not now? They’re all caulking soundly.”
“No, yonder ship may be within hail to-morrow morning, and a fine mess we should be in,” answered the ruffian.
Hughes at once became aware that mischief was brewing, and determined to discover what it was. Slowly he dragged himself onwards, inch by inch, until he lay in a position where he could hear well. The two were sitting up, wrapped in their greatcoats, and spoke low and cautiously. The pale light of day was just breaking over the waves as hours later Hughes regained his position, gently and cautiously. Tired with watching he fell fast asleep, and it was broad daylight when he was aroused by Captain Weber shaking him by the arm.
“Rouse and bitt, my lad,” said the old seaman, laughing. “The bare planks seem to suit your humour. We want your place for breakfast.”
There was no lack of water round about them, and while he made his hasty toilet the soldier determined on the course to be taken. An attempt to possess themselves of the gold would certainly be made that night, and, as Phillips had said, Captain Weber was not the man to give it up quietly, “I have a few words for you, Captain Weber, before breakfast,” he said, as that officer passed near him.
“Heave ahead, my hearty, I’m not pressed for time,” was the reply.
“Have you noticed how sullen the men seemed yesterday, how apathetic they were when the ship went about?” asked Hughes.
“It is the natural consequence of this state of relaxed discipline and idleness,” replied the master.
“One more query. Have you not gold in these cases, in some of them at least. Are we not nearing Madagascar?”