The Ruined Cities of Zululand

The Matabele Hunt

Masheesh had been deputed by Mozelkatse to accompany them, and there was now nothing to stay their progress northward. The country, too, at the foot of the mountains, was comparatively bare of game, so early the following morning the small party outspanned, and took their way across the plain to strike the banks of the Limpopo.

“How easily the Matabele falls into our ways!” said Wyzinski; as on the morning of the second day after leaving the mountains, the two were riding about half a mile ahead of the waggon, which was coming lumbering along behind them, the shouts of the drivers and the cracking of the long whip reaching their ears.

“It seems strange to see him take the management of our people, and at the same time associate himself with us on a footing of perfect equality,” replied Hughes, “he a half-naked and totally uneducated savage.”

“Turn it the other way, Hughes; he is a chief in the land, known and respected; we are strangers, with nothing but the white man’s prestige placing us at all on the footing of his equal. Masheesh is naturally the leader of our party, and is responsible to his chief for our safety. It is on this I rely.”

The Matabele rode well, and he now came dashing along bestriding a small horse which had been given him. He disdained the use of a saddle, and as he came along at full speed, his ostrich feather streaming on the wind, the loose panther skin floating behind, and his long black legs nearly touching the ground, there was something grotesque and yet striking in his appearance. He held his slender assegai in his hand. Dashing up to the two in front, he checked his horse suddenly, bringing it instantly to a standstill, and sending the ground and grit beneath its hoofs flying into the air. Bending down over its shoulder, the savage pointed with the spear head to some marks on the earth, and then looking up into the soldier’s face, uttered some words in a low guttural tone, and laughed.

“The track of elephants,” said the missionary, who spoke the Zulu tongue, though imperfectly. In a moment Hughes was off his horse, and stooping low as he examined for the first time the footprint of the mighty denizen of the African forests. Masheesh rode on, and in a few moments, a low guttural cry was heard, and the Matabele was seen, halting under a tree, and signing with his spear for the rest to come on. The path had led through a forest, the trees not growing thickly together, but at intervals, and now and then broken by rich undulating plains. Following the direction of the chief’s assegai, the two halting by his side under the shade of the mohunno trees, saw stretched before them the winding silver line of the Limpopo, one of the favourite hunting grounds of the Bazizulu.

Herds of antelope, and of hartebeest, were feeding over the vast plain. They could be counted by thousands, and it was indeed a glorious sight for the hunter’s eye, that vast undulating plain, whose gentle rises concealed the distance, and were covered with rich pasture, over which were feeding great herds of cattle, who owned no master. About five miles distant the line of the Limpopo bordered by trees, was seen glistening through the foliage as it sparkled in the morning sun. To the right and close to them a large snake was curling along the ground like a big black sinuous branch, making off for the shelter of the wood, while a troop of monkeys over head were grinning and chattering at the intruders, and flights of parrots were screaming among the branches.

A sense of wildness and of vastness creeps over those who look upon these wide plains in their native grandeur and stillness—a feeling of freedom, and of liberty, and at the same time of respect and adoration for the great Creator of all. Deeply feeling this for several minutes, the three gazed in silence, then as the distant shout of the drivers came on the breeze, the nearest troops of antelope stopped feeding, raised their heads, sniffed the air, and moved off—the next taking alarm in the same way—until the whole plain, far as the eye could roam, was covered with droves of antelope, galloping here and there, and crossing each other in wild confusion. It looked like an intricate and mazy dance, the performers in the wild ballet on the plains of South Africa being the antelope.

“His are the cattle on a thousand hills,” exclaimed the missionary, breaking silence at last, and reverently uncovering himself.

“Some of them shall be mine before long,” replied the matter-of-fact soldier; “if you will get the chief to ride back and stop those fellows shouting.”

“I’ll do so myself,” answered the missionary. “I will halt them here, give you an hour’s advance, and then move straight forward for the Limpopo, where we will outspan. We want meat in the camp.”

“And shall have it. Come along, Masheesh,” cried Hughes, elated beyond measure, and letting the Arab he rode feel the spur, he dashed away followed by the Matabele brandishing his assegai. It looked very easy to procure meat among such countless herds, but an hour of violent exertion proved it was not so. The Arab was untrained, could not be brought to a standstill instantly, and was fidgety, so that it was impossible to aim from the saddle. Shy and timid, the hartebeest moved along in herds seldom exceeding ten in number, ever led by some old and cautious buck.

Of a yellowish orange colour, striped with black under the horns and down the forehead, they had seemed heavy, lumbering animals. The thighs and extremities were tinged with black, and the horns most curiously formed, curving at first backward and outward, but subsequently sweeping inwards, the eyes being like most of the antelope tribe, large and full. Ever on the watch, the hunters quite failed to get near them, and just as after long and cautious labour, they would be almost within shot, away would scamper the herd, in Indian file, and clumsy and ungainly as they were in their movements, all attempts to cut them off utterly failed. Convinced at last of the impossibility, Hughes followed the advice given him by the Matabele, and, dismounting, concealed himself behind a clump of trees, Masheesh, Luji, and others of the hunters who had now found them, making a long sweep to drive the antelope towards him. This at last proved successful.

A herd of hartebeest came cantering along, the leader pausing within ten paces of the clump where he lay hid. The moment sufficed, as a ball crashed through his skull, and he fell heavily, stone dead. The herd instantly turned to fly, but not before another shot had bowled over a second deer.

The buck was a noble animal, measuring seven feet ten inches from the nose to the base of the tail, and carrying a splendid pair of horns, one foot ten inches in height; the second being a female, and consequently much smaller in every respect. The deer were slung across the horses and sent to camp, where they proved a most seasonable supply, and after a rest under the trees the hunters prepared to follow. Before them lay a green rise, hardly to be called a hill, and yet high enough to conceal the country beyond. Masheesh, no longer dressed in his savage finery, but quite nude save a hide girded round his loins, was stalking on some paces in advance, the soldier following and looking with a covetous eye at the troops of deer which he could not approach. Suddenly, Masheesh threw himself flat on his face, as though he had been shot, motioning to the other to do the same. Cautiously and noiselessly the two dragged themselves up the rise, and peeping over its crest, saw spread out before them a rich undulating valley, the grass land broken here and there by groves of mimosa trees, a small river wandering through it on its way to join the Limpopo. The country of the Batonga lay mapped before them, while far to the westward rose the hills of the Drakenburgh range.

Feeding, not five hundred yards from the crest of the rise, was a herd of strange animals. The head and breast had the appearance of buffalo on a small scale, the horns of the males being enormous and very dangerous looking. Twisting spirally downwards when starting from the head, they then curved upwards like a hook. The head and chest were covered with dark shaggy hair, the eyes looking fiercely from under the tangled covering. The shoulders and neck carried a mane like that of a horse, while the remainder of the body and hind quarters were those of a pony, except the tail, which was that of a cow, and the legs, which were those of an antelope.

These strange animals seemed full of fun. Tossing their shaggy, fierce looking heads, one would leave the rest, tear round in a ring at full gallop, and then dash into the centre of the herd, pulling up suddenly.

Captain Hughes seemed lost in contemplation, but Masheesh, laying his hand on his shoulder, signed to him to come away, and both letting themselves slide down the slope, the herd remained quite unconscious of their presence.

The two were silent for some time, but when the savage deemed they were far enough distant to allow of it without giving the alarm, he spoke rapidly enough. Luji coming up at the moment, Hughes learned that the strange animals were gnus, and a whispered conversation followed, it being agreed that under cover of the crest, or green ridge, Hughes and Masheesh should gain the outlet of the valley, while Luji and Noti were to make a long détour, and coming down the wind, drive the herd before them.

The savage carefully posted his companion, and then pointing to a bend in the valley, about forty paces distant, uttered some sentences volubly, and going away buried himself in a neighbouring thicket. All seemed dead silence, and the watcher soon grew weary of it. A quarter dragged itself on into half an hour, and still nothing save the deep silence of the African plain. Suddenly the soldier who had been watching the serried ranks of the ants as they marched along in countless numbers, ever in a straight line, became conscious of a clump of bushes, at the bend of the valley to which Masheesh had pointed, which certainly was not there a quarter of an hour before. The bush had a curious motion, and Captain Hughes concluded there was some wild animal concealed therein—a lion probably, watching the distant herd, and by its presence hindering the gnus coming. His rifle on full cock, firmly grasped in his hands, he eagerly watched the bush. Yes, it certainly moved, slowly but surely.

Raising the deadly rifle, the hunter took a deliberate aim right into its centre. Just as the finger was about to pull the trigger, the thought flashed over him, that if it concealed a lion and the fire were not fatal, the risk would be great. Lowering the weapon, he watched the bush intently, determining to wait till the lion made its spring, or to fire if he could get a glimpse of the animal. An hour had passed, and the temptation returned in full force.

The dead deep silence weighed upon him, the strange motions of the bush made him nervous. Again the rifle was raised, when a loud trampling noise was heard, as with their heads down and their spiral horns glittering in the sun, the troop of gnus came on at top speed. A more ferocious-looking lot could hardly be imagined, as they headed dead down the valley. Still the hunter’s attention was divided, and more engrossed with the bush than with the game. The gnus rapidly neared it, urged on by the shouts of Noti, while Luji’s voice was plainly to be heard far away in rear. They were close to it; about to pass in safety, when a piercing yell rang from the bush, and a bright spear glancing in the sunshine struck the leading gnu, while Masheesh, casting his leafy covering, sprang to his feet. The report of the soldier’s rifle followed, and one of the herd rolled heavily forward, breaking its horns in the impetus of the fall. The animal struck by the spear halted at once, stamping violently with its forefoot, and lowering its head for the charge. The savage stood awaiting it, his knobstick in his left hand, the long glittering dagger in his right, tall, erect, and fearless, the very picture of a dusky brave. With an angry snort the bull rushed on, but the savage stepped lightly aside, and the steel sank deep into the flesh near the spine. Again the gnu turned to charge, for a moment hesitating, as it lowered its shaggy head, but at that instant a ball from the deadly English rifle struck right between the eyes, and it fell heavily close to Masheesh, the blood gushing from its mouth. It was a much larger one than that first killed, when measured proving fully seven feet four inches from the top of the nose to the base of the tail. The horns were one foot ten inches in length, and the animal stood at least four feet in height at the shoulder. The hoof, as Captain Hughes and the delighted Masheesh stood beside the carcass, seemed too large for the legs, and the knee joints were covered with a hard substance like those of a tame ox. In fact the animal seemed to resemble much the half-wild oxen of India, and, before it charged, the wounded gnu pawed with the forefoot, tossing its head exactly as a wild bull would have done. Hughes now learned that the natives regularly hunt the antelope and zebra in the way Masheesh had done that day, whole herds feeding carelessly up to the supposed bush, but on this occasion the concealed man had run unconsciously a terrible risk.

The sun was sinking towards the west—telling that it was time to strike the river, by whose banks the rest of the party had outspanned; so leaving Luji, Noti, and one of the Kaffirs to cut up and bring in the meat, the two stepped out for the Limpopo. Any fatigue, any privation Masheesh would endure, but even such manual labour as that of cutting up the carcasses of the slain he utterly disdained. It was sunset when the camp was at last reached, and there a messenger from Mozelkatse was found.

“It would appear,” said the missionary, who was busy preparing some skins of birds he had shot, “that a strong party of the Matabeles have joined their king.”

“Well, all I can say is, a good wash and something to eat are of more importance to me just now than all the kings in the world. You don’t know how tired I am, and then nothing to eat besides.”

“Look at Masheesh, whom you called an uneducated savage this morning,” replied Wyzinski, pointing towards the individual named, who after a drink of water had quietly seated himself, not even noticing the runner of his people, and was smoking, varying the amusement with an occasional pinch of snuff, and waiting calmly until some meat should be cooked by some one, he cared not by whom, provided he had nothing to do with it.

“Well, I suppose you don’t want me to smoke and take snuff as proofs of civilisation.”

“You have heard of the man, have you not, who thanked God he had at least reached a civilised country on seeing a gibbet? However,” continued Wyzinski, “yonder runner brings us an invitation from Mozelkatse, to join a great hunt in which the tribe is taking part on the banks of the Limpopo.”

“That will be worth seeing. And when is it to take place?” asked Hughes, forgetting hunger and fatigue.

“To-morrow.”

“Accept it, by all manner of means.”

Masheesh was interrupted in the tobacco-smoking process. The runner, who since his arrival in camp, had been gorging himself with meat, was sent back; great steaks and collops of venison cut from the hartebeest were grilling on the clear wood fire, and soon the howling of the hyenas, as they tore the bones of what had been left behind of the two gnus, as not worth bringing away, were the only sounds which disturbed the quiet of the little camp on the banks of the Limpopo.

Early morning saw the whole party afoot.

“Had we not better send Luji back to the tent?” said Hughes, as the morning light becoming clearer, they looked back from the crest of a rise, and saw it shining in the early sunbeams.

“We shall need him as an interpreter, perhaps. I can just manage, and that is all, to be understood,” replied Wyzinski; “everything is safe. Noti will keep a look-out.”

“See, there are a lot of Matabeles,” exclaimed Hughes. “They are quite naked, and have bows and arrows.”

“And there are more. Look in what numbers they are turning out! Yonder fellows have flint musquets: where did they get them, Luji?” asked the missionary.

“The Portuguese on the Zambesi—him sell, Master,” was the answer.

And now detachment after detachment came on, spreading out across the country, like infantry skirmishers, some carrying only spears, others bows and arrows, and a few, a very few, musquets, but always in line: shouting, yelling, and driving everything before them. Soon the antelope came bounding past, endeavouring to escape, but were driven back again, as the long line of savages, throwing forward the two flanks, enclosed them in a crescent miles in length, and drove them back on the river. Herds of koodoos, eland, and hartebeest came scouring along, attempting to break through in vain, while the painted zebra, the graceful leche, with its long tapering horns, were remorselessly driven back by the yells and shouts of the Matabele.

“I suppose we must find Mozelkatse. Tell Masheesh of our wish, Luji,” said the missionary. He alone of the whole party was mounted, being weak from the effects of fever, and as he spoke, they topped the crest of one of the green ridges so common to the undulating plains bordering the Limpopo, and on passing it the whole party were stopped by the presence, right in their path, of a huge rhinoceros.

He was quietly standing under a tree, apparently studying the landscape, and not seeming to think of the distant noise. At the foot of the tree rose one of those curious structures, the nest of the African ant, while a strange little animal, covered with thickly-plated scales of a yellowish tint, the under part of the belly only being undefended, was busy feeding on the ant-hill. In length the ant-eater was not more than three feet, and it was engaged shooting out its tongue into the heap, which tongue, being covered with some glutinous substance, always returned black with ants. The spot was comparatively quiet, for the time at least, and the rhinoceros did not seem in the least alarmed. He was a huge, heavy, massive creature, of a pale brown colour, carrying two horns, one very long and pointed, the second short, strong, but blunt. The longer one rose just above the tip of the nose, and seemed a most dangerous arm. Above the shoulders was a kind of hump. An uglier brute certainly could not have barred the path which ran towards the river; but the moohoohoo would have been perhaps inoffensive had not Masheesh, confiding, doubtless, in the power of the English rifle, crept towards him, throwing his spear. The weapon struck fairly and well, but glanced from the tough hide as though it had been hurled against a brick wall, and being made of the soft native iron, it literally curled up with the force of the blow. Having thrown his spear, which elicited only a wrathful grunt from the animal, Masheesh bolted, just as the huge mass put itself in motion, advancing straight up the path. Luji and the rest disappeared among the reeds and bushes, but Captain Hughes had just time to fire, the ball glancing from the mailed coat like a child’s marble.

“Look out!” shouted the missionary; but it was too late, and the next moment the unlucky soldier was lying on the ground, with the enormous bulk of the rhinoceros standing over him.

“Lie still, for God’s sake,” cried Wyzinski, as he unslung the heavy rifle, seeing that the animal did not strike at the fallen man. He was just in the act of raising it to his shoulder, when, attracted by the horse, the moohoohoo suddenly charged, the long pointed horn literally burying itself in the pony’s flank, just behind the rider’s leg, the rifle harmlessly exploding as horse and rider rolled over. Not pausing for a second blow, the enraged brute drove on, eventually shambling through the line of natives, who opened their ranks gladly to let him pass.

Rising unwounded, but sorely shaken, Hughes extricated the missionary.

“Are you hurt, Wyzinski?” he asked, anxiously.

“Not a bit,” was the reply; “but look at the poor grey.”

“He is past saving,” answered Hughes; and it was evident it was so, for so frightfully had the sharp horn done its work, that the entrails were hanging out, and the animal fast bleeding to death.

Placing his revolver to the pony’s head, the report rang out; a few convulsive movements, and the carcase of the horse lay still.

“Where is Masheesh?” enquired Hughes, as he returned the smoking weapon to his belt. “If it had not been for his nonsense, that pistol-shot would have been saved.”

Wyzinski had seated himself on the grass, for the whole thing had passed so quickly, that it was difficult to realise the danger.

Slowly stalking out of the bushes, Masheesh, as though nothing had happened, gravely walked to the foot of the tree, took up the ant-eater which, alarmed at the noise, had rolled itself up like a hedgehog, and brought it to where the missionary was seated.