The Ruined Cities of Zululand

The Ruins at Sofala

Long before the tired hunter woke, a party headed by the missionary had brought in the carcass of the lion, as well as those of the springbok and panther, and strange to say, the baboon had followed them, refusing to be driven away. It was in vain to pelt it with sticks and stones, for dashing away into the bush it would climb a tree, making the most hideous grimaces, chattering and crying, but the moment all was quiet, back it would come again. Worn out with fatigue and watching, the soldier had slept late, and the sun was high in the heavens when he awoke.

Looking about him, roused by the noise, he was just in time to save the baboon’s life. Luji had been engaged for some time pelting it with sticks and stones, but the agile brute was too much for him. Masheesh stood in the act of poising his assegai, when Hughes stopped him.

“The monkey saved my life, Wyzinski,” said he; “and besides, it would be hard to kill the creature which evidently trusts in us.”

“Trusts in you, it would appear,” replied the other; for at this moment, as if recognising Hughes, it came towards him, showing the wounds on its back, and holding out its bloody hands.

“Fetch me the arnica and some water, Luji; we will soon put those scratches to rights, though they are caused by the lion’s claws.”

“The lion’s claws!” asked the missionary; “why, what had the monkey and lion in common?”

“I’ll tell you when I have had a good wash, and some breakfast,” replied the other.

The baboon was soon caught, and his back freely bathed with the arnica water, when the intense smarting, and the grotesque grimaces and loud chattering consequent on it, caused shouts of laughter.

A good wash in the river, a hearty meal of eland meat, with a dessert of the mobala fruit, strongly resembling in flavour the English strawberry, and then the hunter told his tale. The news as to the wounded elephant soon spread through the little camp, and every one, from the missionary downwards, was eager to follow up the spoor.

They soon found it, leading from the trampled river bank up the slope, and entering the wood, they at once came upon the animal itself, lying quite dead on its side; a young tree having been borne down by the heavy weight, had broken short off and lay under it. Standing near was the young elephant, waiting for its dead mother to wake, and on the approach of the party it struck the carcass several times with its trunk, and failing to rouse it, trotted away in a lumbering fashion, its trunk raised in the air, then turned to look. Like the baboon, it showed no fear, barely refusing to be caught. The men were set to work to cut out the tusks, but being unpractised hands, it took them all day to do it. The best parts of the meat were brought into camp, and then the jackals and hyenas assembled in large numbers, holding high carnival, while the tusks, together with the panther and lion skins, remained as a memento of the night. For two days the party halted on this spot, and each night the one or other watched the pool, with varying success, but not seeing any more elephants, and only hearing the lions in the distance.

Still travelling northwards, they pushed on through a fertile country, which gradually became more and more of forest. Elephants were often seen, but it was useless to encumber their march by carrying the tusks, and Wyzinski’s sole purpose seemed to be the finding of the supposed ruins. Giraffe, buffalo, antelope of all kinds, quaggas, and zebra, were plentiful, while an occasional lion was seen. The hippopotami and rhinoceros were often met with on the river banks.

The natives, who appeared from time to time, yet bore the stamp of the Zulu race, but were not friendly, though guilty of no overt act of enmity. They were men of good stature, well formed, and clean limbed; their woolly hair often surmounted with plumes of ostrich feathers. They were well armed. Vast forests of what appeared to be magnificent cedars, impeded their way. The natives, both men and women, were nearly naked, the latter particularly showing great fear of the white men, so much so as to leave their huts on the approach of the party, carrying with them their children. In some of the huts slabs of stone were seen, evidently having been fashioned by hand, and used in the construction of some building, but no information could be gathered. Gold was known, and its value appreciated among these tribes. The men, fully armed, would venture into the camp, bringing with them quills filled with gold, sealed at both ends, and offering them for sale, evidently fancying the white men traders, and asking for calico and beads in return. The young elephant actually followed the party for three days, and on the fourth was found dead close to camp, evidently from its inability to supply itself with the food its mother alone could give. The hippopotami were numerous on the rivers, and unlike those more to the south, they showed little fear of man. Shaped like a huge pig, the head massive, and the eyes placed very high in the forehead, these ponderous animals, whose carcass of a brownish-red looks like a great barrel, have thick hanging lips, and such short stumpy legs, that the belly nearly touches the ground. All day long they might be seen feeding on the sweet grasses; and on the approach of strangers would slide off the bank into the water, gradually subsiding until the whole disappeared, and then rising again slowly for air. On the Quissanga river they were very numerous. Heavy and lumbering looking, none would give these animals credit for the intelligence they really possess, and yet they will only feed on the sweetest grasses, and are nearly as cautious and cunning as the elephant, in avoiding the traps and pitfalls of the natives. They display a strong and peculiar affection for their young, and though quiet and peaceable enough, will fight for them.

“See, Wyzinski,” said Hughes one evening, as with their rifles in their hands the two were walking up the banks of the Quissanga river, “look at that unwieldy young hippopotamus feeding alone. I’ll give it a start.”

“Take care what you are doing,” replied the missionary, who was busy watching some birds building near the stream.

“Never fear for me,” exclaimed the soldier, bent on the fun of cutting off the lumbering young animal from the water.

Besting his rifle against a tree, Hughes ran to intercept it, which he easily did, for the ugly little brute did not see him until he was quite close to it, and then it seemed to lose its head, waddling away towards the bush, its pursuer shouting and laughing behind. A loud call from the missionary caused Hughes to turn, and he at once saw that the situation of matters was reversed. Right up the bank came a very large female hippopotamus, in pursuit of him. Unarmed, there was nothing for it but to use his legs, and this he did; but the hippopotamus diverged, and so the pursuer pursued must cross the line of its advance, for the bush was too thick to be entered.

It was a question of speed, as the great animal came on, its enormous mouth wide open and menacing. Slow as its motion appeared, the animal would have cut off the man, but just as they neared one another, a ball from Wyzinski’s rifle struck it in the open mouth. The hippopotamus stopped as the breathless soldier dashed by, and seized his rifle, when a ball hit it right in the eye, and it fell dead.

This animal measured eleven feet six inches in length, add in girth ten feet five inches. No one of the party ever after this attempted any trifling with the hippopotami.

The baboon had grown very tame, and had taken a great fancy to Luji. The two lived together, and seemed inseparable, and whenever it became tired on the march, it would take its place on his shoulders. It was always in mischief. Seated the same night, after the adventure with the hippopotamus, round the camp fire, near the banks of the Quissanga river, Wyzinski was laughing at the morning’s adventure.

“I hadn’t a notion you could run so fast, Hughes,” he continued.

“Hadn’t you,” replied the soldier, not half liking the missionary’s quiet way of chaffing.

“No, indeed I hadn’t,” answered the other. “I see now why they gave you the Light Company in the gallant 150th.”

Luji’s wide mouth was opened to the fullest possible extent.

“Master no like Quissango hippopotamus? Luji no like Zoutpansburgh lion!”

“I’ll tell you what, Wyzinski,” answered Hughes, “I may live to see you run just as fast yet.”

A cry from Masheesh, at this moment, drew attention for the time from the subject. The baboon darted out of the small tent holding something he had stolen. Luji, with a loud shout, dashed after him. Away went the two round and round, the monkey chattering and screaming, but still firmly grasping the object, which proved to be the captain’s powder-flask.

“You should try your hand, Hughes,” drily remarked the missionary. “Your pace beat that this morning.”

Hardly were the words spoken when, with a scream of delight, the baboon vaulted right over the stooping missionary, using his shoulders for the spring, and alighting close to the fire, dropped the flask just into the centre of the blaze, and then bounding off a few paces, stood jabbering and grimacing.

The tent was only a few yards away.

“Run, Wyzinski,” shouted the soldier, “all our powder is in the tent.” The whole thing was done in a second, and the soldier and missionary scudding down the slope at a tremendous pace the next. Losing his footing, away went Wyzinski, rolling among the stones and bushes, just as the explosion took place.

Luckily, there was little powder in the flask, but the burning embers were blown right and left, and the tent struck by them. The baboon was dreadfully singed, and awfully frightened, and not a beauty before, became literally hideous; but no further harm was done.

“You had better exchange your robes against a subaltern’s epaulettes in the Light Company of the 150th Regiment,” laughed Hughes.

“I’ll think of it,” replied the missionary; “but, Hughes, will you give me a certificate?”

“Most certainly. I can’t hold a candle to you at running away, Wyzinski,” for the soldier thought he had the best of it now.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that sort of a certificate. Will you certify there are no monkeys in your Light Company?” remarked the missionary.

“Good-night, Wyzinski,” was the only answer vouchsafed; and they both turned in laughing.

Passing Quissanga and Goanha, the little caravan kept steadily on to the northward, making short marches daily, until a period of three weeks had elapsed since they had outspanned from the banks of the Limpopo. Their camp was pitched at the foot of the spur of the Nyamonga mountain range called Gorongoza. It was a pleasant spot, and here they determined to rest a while. Several streams of bright, clear, cold water burst from the mountains, and, after wandering about for some distance, threw themselves into a river, which ran away towards the sea. Forests of the cedar-trees clothed the mountain-sides, and to these Wyzinski pointed triumphantly, asserting that they must now be close to the ruins, “There they are,” would he say; “and though there may exist a marked difference between them and the far-famed cedar of Lebanon, though they may have degenerated since the days when Pharaoh Necho’s seamen lived under their shade, yet in those cedar groves lie the fallen ruins of the old cities of Zulu land, and there is enough timber to supply the world.”

“I wonder what we should do without the custard-apples?” said Hughes, the evening of the day when they arrived at Gorongoza.

“But why call it custard-apple, Hughes?”

“Because it is exactly like the custard-apple of the Madras Presidency, black, rough, and repulsive-looking outside, and a white, delicious custard inside, cool as if iced. It grows plentifully, like blackberries, up-country there.”

“Well, I almost prefer the mobala fruit. Under the tropical sun, which, by the way, has tanned you to a mahogany colour, Hughes, it reminds one of the strawberries of England. I shall open a campaign against the wild duck. There seems lots of them.”

“Here comes the Matabele chief; what has he got? Eggs, ducks’ eggs, as I am a sinner. Won’t that be a treat after weeks of venison diet?”

The chief gravely stalked up to the two, and placing his eggs on the ground, squatted down, and looking the missionary full in the face, pointed down the course of the river, merely uttering the word “Sofala,” then changing the direction of his finger, pointed to the north-west, letting fall the dreaded word, “Tetsé.”

The two Europeans looked at each other. A volume could not have better expressed his meaning. Down the stream lay the ruins which had been formerly mentioned. Right in their onward path was the dreaded tetse-fly, sure death to cattle.

“Let us hold a council of war, Wyzinski,” said Hughes, after the two had looked at each other in dead silence. “Here, Luji, come here. We are going to have a palaver.”

“Masheesh, must we send back the waggon?”

The Matabele chief spoke volubly, frequently using the word “Tati,” and then pointing to the river which was running near them, calling it sometimes the Sabe, sometimes the Ouro.

“Do you hear?” asked Wyzinski, eagerly. “The Thati and the Ramaquotan rivers run into the Limpopo, and this river he calls the Ouro, or golden river.”

“Who owns the land, Luji?” asked Hughes.

“Mozelkatse once owned it, master. Now it is the country of Machin, the Batonga, and the Banyai.”

“Can Masheesh procure a canoe? and can we go down the river?” were the next questions.

Both were answered satisfactorily. The Batonga were a friendly people, like the Bechuanas, and feared the Matabele Kaffirs, whose chief, Mozelkatse, had more than once punished them; and after a long talk, it was determined to send back the waggons and horses to the nearest mission, that at Santa Lucia Bay, and go down the river to the sea, before breaking up the camp at Gorongoza.

“It is hard to send back our waggon,” exclaimed Hughes, during a pause in the work of packing.

“We should but have to leave it and all it contains on the way, if we met with the tetse-fly. Its sting is sure death to cattle.”

“And does it harm man?” inquired Hughes.

“Singular to say it does not and I do not believe in its existence so near this coast-line; still it’s no use running the risk.”

“We then resolve to strike the Zambesi, somewhere near Tête or Senna?”

“Yes, passing through the kingdom of this same chief, Machin, who seems to be almost a rival to Mozelkatse.”

It was with feelings of great regret the two saw the waggon with its great tilt, lumbering away an hour or two before sunset, under the charge of the missionary’s men, and bound for the station of Saint Lucia Bay,—it had been their home so long, that the cattle and horses seemed to them as friends. It was hard to part with them. The ground was strewed with packages, which were to be made up in the most commodious form for carrying, and the party was reduced to its original number of seven, with the addition of the Matabele and the two Europeans. A smaller tent had been fashioned by Noti and Luji, out of some spare canvas, easily carried, and it was now pitched by the river side, under the thick shade of a group of trees. Just as the last rays of the sun were gilding the river with gold, making it, indeed, look like the Gold River, Masheesh dropped down it in a canoe, and sunrise saw them on their way to Sofala. The crew of the boat consisted of the missionary, Captain Hughes, Masheesh, and the powerful Kaffir, Noti; Luji being left in charge of the camp at Gorongoza. Floating down the river in a comfortable canoe, between banks whose verdure was most luxuriant, was a pleasant change after the days of toilsome march. The palmyra, the wild date, mohanno, mowanna, and many other tropical trees grew in rich luxuriance, while the thick tangled undergrowth, mixed up with a host of creeping cane-like plants, rendered it impossible to penetrate the forest-land. Long reeds of various kinds hung over the banks, and beautiful water-lilies of gigantic size floated on the water. Wherever a break occurred among the trees, grew grass, or fields of wild maize or wild cotton were to be seen, and now and then the water antelope would dash into the stream and swim across. The party trusted to their rifles for food, and one of these antelopes coming well within range, Wyzinski fired, wounding the animal severely just as he reached the shore. The canoe dashed on to overtake it, which would easily have been done, for the deer was unable to climb the steep bank, and twice failed in the attempt, falling back into the water, when a huge alligator rose, showing his long shovel-shaped snout above the river. A ball struck the alligator, but without penetrating its mail. The deer struggled wildly for a moment, several other dark log-like forms showed on the bank, and the antelope disappeared, the water bubbling crimson for a moment; the next the canoe moved gently over the reddened river, and all was still.