The Ruined Cities of Zululand. Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley
x Walmsley
The Ruined Cities of Zululand
Preface
No one ever reads prefaces now-a-days; why, therefore, should I write one? may be fairly asked. Simply, I reply, to tell the reader that the tale imperfectly related in these volumes is not a mere work of fiction. It is based on a document sent to me by my brother, to whom I have dedicated this work, and who has for many years been a resident of the frontiers of Zulu Land.
The paper alluded to was transmitted by me, according to my brother’s desire, to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of the French, together with a map of Zulu Land, which had been exhibited in the Natal section of the great Paris Exhibition of 1867. Both were graciously accepted and acknowledged by His Imperial Majesty.
The country traversed by the daring men, whose adventures are related in the following pages, is still to be explored. The ruins of the Fort of Sofala, even now, lie buried in the sand, on the beach of the far away Indian Ocean. The Arabs still search there for the smelted lumps of gold, buried or lost by those of whose existence no other trace remains.
The mysterious slabs still exist, encrusted with the dirt and grime of ages, on the mountain land of Gorongoza, and should my tale induce any adventurous spirit to make an attempt to clear away the veil of mystery which yet shrouds the remains of the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land, I can only refer him to Captain Walmsley, from whom the primary information contained herein was first gleaned, before whom the Missionary’s depositions were made, and who, for more than fifteen years of his life, has well and honourably filled the difficult and dangerous position of Government Agent, Magistrate, and Resident on the wild frontier of savage Zulu Land.
Bellary Fort
There are few hotter places, and few more unhealthy ones, among our Indian up-country stations than Bellary, in the Madras Presidency, garrisoned in the year 1856 by Her Majesty’s 150th Regiment of Infantry. Let the reader imagine the lines of a fort drawn round a bare sugar-loaf hill, on which an Indian sun pours its rays for months. Thoroughly heated by this process of roasting, the arid rock gives out all night the caloric absorbed during the day, and a three years’ residence in the Fort of Bellary, such as had been passed by the officers and men of the 150th Regiment, was about equivalent to the same period in a baker’s oven. Years passed, and the English Government had at last perceived that it was madness to keep troops within the lines of the old fort when a rich and well-timbered plain lay around it. Barracks had been built outside; and about three-quarters of a mile distant from the main gate of Bellary, white bungalows, with their green verandahs and their well-kept compounds, lay scattered here and there among the trees, while far away, under the moon’s rays, on the night when our tale opens, a beautiful one in December, stretched the rich plain, with its piles of rock rising like huge black molehills here and there, giving welcome shelter to the wild-cats, jackals, and hyenas, whose cries might be heard from time to time ringing over the plain. The mess-house of the regiment consisted of the usual large commodious building, with its many outhouses or godowns, the whole surrounded by a low wall, and that again protected by a strong hedge of the prickly pear. A broad verandah ran round the main building, and a flight of steps led up to the house, where some half-dozen of the officers of the corps, dressed in white, with nothing to distinguish them except the forage-cap bearing the number of the regiment, were seated, chatting and smoking. The day had been very hot, but a pleasant breeze was blowing over the plain; the click of the billiard-balls was heard from an adjoining room, whose windows, thrown wide open, cast a stream of light into the compound, and the hum of voices from the messroom told of the dinner only just finished, and of the party of seasoned old soldiers who were even then loth to quit the pleasures of the table and the bottle of Madeira which had crossed the line four times, and for which particular wine the 150th had long been justly famous.
“I am half sorry that my leave has arrived, just as we are expecting the route,” said an officer, puffing out a long spiral wreath of smoke as he spoke, and reaching out his hand towards the tumbler of weak brandy pawnee standing on a small table by his side.
“Hear him, the impostor!” laughed a second. “Two years of leave, after nearly nine of foreign service, and he talks of regret.”
The first speaker was rather a slight figure, but withal strongly built; thin and wiry, he showed no superfluous flesh. The rather prominent forehead was tanned to a deep brown, save where the line of the forage-cap showed the white skin of the European; the cheeks were sunken, and bore the sallow tinge of sickness, while the aquiline nose, the well-cut mouth, and the rather heavy under jaw, spoke of determination and vigour of character. Nearly six feet in height, he lay languidly back in his chair, the dark masses of hair curling under the forage-cap, and the large black eyes giving a still more marked appearance of illness to his features.
“If I could shake off this feeling of illness, Harris,” he replied, “get rid of this terrible Bellary fever, you may depend upon it. I would throw up my leave. One’s regiment becomes one’s family after nearly twelve years’ service, nine of which have been passed in India.”
“And you are only captain,” replied the other. “A pretty look-out for me, an ensign yet. You had better stop and give me a lift, by making a death vacancy. Do, Hughes, there’s a good fellow.”
Captain Hughes laughed.
“We shall have the route to-morrow; and if the march to Secunderabad be anything like what ours was from Madras, you won’t want for death vacancies.”
“Was it such a terrible one?” asked the other, in a serious tone.
“Terrible,” replied Major Ashley, who had just left the table, and was lighting his third cigar since dinner, “why, a march up-country in India is always terrible work, as you’ll find out before you are many weeks older. There was some dispute about our destination when we were ordered up here three years since,” continued the Major, “and so we were detained until the hot weather set in, and cholera caught us up. The road we took may even yet be traced by the mounds of stones which cover our dead.”
“It was a fearful time,” said Captain Hughes. “When we arrived in sight of the walls of yonder fort, the men were dropping fast, the sentries over the hospital had often to be changed from outside to inside the tent, the surgeon and assistant-surgeon had to be carried to see their sick, so worn were they with fatigue, while round our lines all night long the wailing of the camp followers was to be heard, for they perished by hundreds, the dead being found, when the grey light of morning broke, lying stiff and stark among the tent ropes.”
“But you reached the fort at last?” asked the Ensign.
“Yes, we did reach it at last, didn’t we, Hughes?” answered Major Ashley. “Do you remember the day an orderly rode into our lines, bearing an order from General Black Jack, as we used to call him, forbidding us to enter the fort; and how, for the sake of doing something, we marched short marches daily round yonder walls, until at last our colonel saw that the men were growing mutinous, and told Black Jack that he would storm the fort if not allowed to enter?”
“I remember it well; and he gave way. The gates were thrown open, and the scourge left us. But it’s late; and if we are to have any chance of the tiger, you had better get your rifles, and we will have the sheep picketed. See, they are closing the messroom doors, and putting out the lights.”
“So they are,” returned a third, yawning; “I shall wish you luck, and turn in.”
“I say, Harris, mind you don’t make a vacancy in the Light Company yourself,” said a captain of Grenadiers, as a group of the late billiard-players went laughing and talking down the steps into the moonlight. “I don’t believe you ever saw a tiger, or know anything about a rifle.”
“Never fear for me, Hunt; an ensign’s not worth a tiger’s trouble. If you would consent, now, to be picketed instead of the sheep, Captain—”
“Go to the devil! Good-night, Hughes.” And “Good-night—a pleasant journey,” rang out cheerily from one after another as they crossed the mess-compound, and took their way to their respective quarters.
“You are an old hand, Hughes,” said the Ensign, after a short pause. “Do you remember the Rajah who was a prisoner on the top of Bellary rock?”
“Don’t