The Ruined Cities of Zululand. Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley
I and Miller managed to reach it. The ship was now burning fore and aft, and presently, as you saw, went down bodily, the whole of the naphtha rising to the surface in a sea of flame. I saw many of my poor fellows swim in this bath of fire. My mate and steward went down beside me. The cook had lashed himself to a piece of wreck, and for a quarter of an hour I heard his cries, then they ceased suddenly. The rest you know.”
A bustle on deck, a loud shout, and then a voice repeating the welcome words, “Land ho!” disturbed the breakfast party, who hurried up the hatchway, the poor, spirit-broken master of the “Argonaut” alone remaining below. What to him was land? He had no ship, no crew to care for. The fierce flame and the seething ocean had brought him ruin.
The wind was now well abaft the beam, and even to those on deck the long cloud-like outline of land was soon, visible, as, every sail set that would draw, the brig worked her way on, rising and falling on the long seas, now rolling heavily to leeward as she sank in the green trough, now lifting on the surging wave and heeling over as her loftier canvas felt the full force of the breeze, until she showed her bright clean copper nearly to her keel, only the next moment to dash her wedge-like bows into the foam, sending the glittering particles high into the air, deluging the forecastle with green water, as she drove onward towards land. Above, the bright clear sky of an African day; the gulls and the Mother Carey’s chickens wheeling and circling round the masts. Captain Weber, proud of his brig, felt she was doing her best, while by his side walked the captain of the “Argonaut,” sad and dispirited, his one hand thrust deeply into his pocket, the other supported by a sling, his burned hair and scorched face looking melancholy even beneath the bright sunshine. To Captain Hughes, the long cloud-like line of the coast was a promised land, where the mighty elephant, the lordly lion, and the fierce rhinoceros waited him; and so the day wore on, and afternoon came.
“Watch and idlers, shorten sail! In royals, start tacks and sheets!” and soon the fore and main-royals were flying loosely in the wind, and the ready seamen busy securing the flapping canvas.
Broad on the port bow the high land of Cape Colato could be seen, as well as a lower bluff stretching away as it were to meet it, but failing in its object, leaving an opening between the two headlands, thus forming the harbour called Delagoa Bay, for which port the “Halcyon” was bound.
On she flew, the wind freshening and the green waves seeming to lift the brig forward on her ocean path. “Let fly the top-gallant sheets,” and soon the yards slowly settled down. “Take the foresail off her, Mr Blount. Forward there, see the anchor all clear.” The cheerful “Ay, ay, sir,” came back in reply to the loud tone of command from the quarter-deck; for much as a sailor loves his ship, he is always pleased at the sight of the port for which that ship is bound; and now the small island of Inyak, nestled within the bay, and the houses of the town, with their light verandahs and white walls, were seen plainer and plainer, seeming to rise like a mirage from the sea, as the entrance to the bay was opened. The brig’s helm being jammed hard down, the graceful craft flew up into the wind with a broad sheer, and soon she rose and fell on the waves under her main-topsail, jib, and boom-mainsail, her foresail hanging in the brails, and her foretopsail still flying loose. A puff of white smoke from her bows followed, and a small flag run up in the shape of a ball, and only breaking when it reached its position aloft, was the signal for the pilot, which was soon answered: a minute black speck, now mounting on the seas, now disappearing in the deep trough, telling of the signal being seen and complied with.
Glad to reach the land he had so long looked forward to, and yet at the same time sorry to leave companions whose life, perils, and pleasures he had shared for two months, Captain Hughes stood watching the shore-boat as it pulled towards the ship.
“You’ll be glad to land, Captain,” said a voice by his side, and as he turned, he saw close to him, leaning over the bulwarks, the melancholy-looking master of the burned ship.
“Well, yesterday I would have said ‘Yes,’ and somehow to-day I must say ‘No’,” replied Hughes.
“Ay, ay,” struck in Captain Weber, as he passed in his quarter-deck walk, taking off his seaman’s cap and pushing back the long white hair from his weather-tanned forehead, “you are as much a sailor as you are a soldier. Well, I shall work the old bark up the coast, trading here and there, I have still some months to spare, for mine is a three-year voyage, and if you are for a passage home before we leave, look out for the ‘Halcyon.’”
“I’ll land here, and work my way to London,” said the captain of the “Argonaut.”
“No, no, old fellow, we must not part so, I picked you up floating on a loose spar, and I am not going to cut you adrift. Take share and share with me, and our return voyage will be all the merrier.”
The old man shook his head, for the loss of his ship and the fearful fate of his crew, who had perished before his eyes by a death so terrible and so totally unforeseen, had shaken his intellects, and from a bold, daring seaman, he had in one night become completely changed.
Captain Weber saw this, and with his usual kindness of heart pitied his less fortunate brother, as, taking his arm, he led him away, the two diving below to seek consolation in the seaman’s universal panacea—a glass of grog, leaving Captain Hughes gazing over the sea, and wondering why he was not pleased to land.
The creaking of the oars in the rowlocks was soon heard, as the shore-boat, impelled by the efforts of four powerful men, came sweeping up on the brig’s quarter. A rope was hove, and a half-naked Malay catching at the lee shrouds, as the “Halcyon” heeled over, swung himself on board, losing as he did so his high conical hat, which, with a scanty covering round the waist, formed his only clothing.
“Up with the helm, ease off the jib sheets, fill the main-topsail,” were the words of command given the moment the Malay pilot touched the deck and walked aft. The brig’s head paid off, her sails filled, and, gathering headway, she once more surged through the seas, running slowly into the bay, and ultimately dropping her anchor not more than fifty yards from the town, where she was quickly surrounded by a whole fleet of shore-boats, eager to sell fresh vegetables, bread, or anything else saleable.
The Lioness of Zoutpansburgh
It was a glorious April morning, and the scene was pleasant enough on the banks of the Limpolulo, not far from a small kraal of native huts called Origstadt, where a tributary stream runs into the river. A light subaltern’s tent, with its single pole, was pitched under a clump of spreading trees; close to it stood a waggon, with a hooped tilt and strong canvas covering, while fourteen powerful oxen were browsing near. Behind the tent two horses were picketed. Seven men were variously employed, some cutting wood for the fire, which blazed up merrily under a tree, some cooking, and others mending the heavy harness, in readiness for the morrow’s march. On a branch near, hung the carcase of a fat eland, from which animal a strongly built Hottentot was employed cutting a large slice with his long sharp knife. In front of the tent, with a couple of Madras cowrie baskets at his feet, busily engaged sponging out a rifle, Captain Hughes was seated. There was not much water in the river, though there had been trouble enough in crossing it the day before with the waggon, on account of the huge boulders of stone rolled down during the rainy season. A rich plain stretched away towards the mountains, which were those of the Drakenburgh range, and the course of the river, as it wound here and there, could be easily marked until it was lost in the thick woods near the hills. Unlike the vast dried up plains of India, this African land was undulating, dotted with clumps of trees and covered with grass, which here and there near the river grew to a great height. A conical hill, called the Silver Mountain, rose about ten miles away, and beyond the Drakenburgh range lay the country ruled by the powerful native chief Mozelkatse. In the trees by the water side the parrots were screaming and chattering, and some beautiful squirrels were playing among the branches or chasing each other in the sunshine.
A deep dead silence reigned around, broken only by the murmur of the water, the occasional scream of the parrots, and the hum of the mosquitoes, which were so numerous on the banks of the Limpolulo as to be nearly unendurable even to the practised Indian. A more peaceful scene could not be imagined, when suddenly the silence was broken, and a long peculiar melancholy cry came floating on the breeze.
Starting up, his rifle