The Ruined Cities of Zululand. Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley
eagerly. The men had evidently heard it too, for their chattering ceased; the tall, powerful Kaffir, who had been cutting up the eland, pausing with the knife between his teeth, a large lump of meat in either hand, and his head bent on one side, in an attitude of deep attention, a perfect bronze statue. An interval of silence intervened, and then once more the same prolonged, tremulous, far distant cry came floating as it were down on the breeze.
“No Zulu cry that, master,” said Luji, dropping, as he spoke, the knife from between his teeth, and his frame relaxing from its stiffened position of intense listening. Again the tremulous cry came, sounding so far away that even in that clear air it seemed as though the final notes of the word coooi, long dwelt upon, alone reached the river bank.
“I have it, Luji!” suddenly exclaimed Hughes. “Put that venison down, get your rifle, and follow me.” The Kaffir obeyed, dropping the two huge lumps of meat into a cauldron, which, half filled with mealies, was destined to make a stew for the twelve o’clock meal, and then deliberately washing his hands in the water, he went to the waggon, disappeared under the tilt for a moment, and soon stood by his master’s side, armed with a heavy rifle.
“What master think the cry?” he asked.
“I think it is the Australian bush cry, which I never heard before, but which I have read of; and if I am right there must be a European, not able to find our camp.”
Luji, as has already been said, was a Hottentot, and a true type of his class. He was not brave to rashness, but was a merry, careless fellow, ever ready for anything, and reckless and improvident to a degree seldom equalled. He was no beauty, his woolly hair surmounting a yellow-black face, ornamented by a mouth large enough to suffice for even his enormous appetite. High cheek-bones, the elongated eyes peculiar to his race set widely apart, a broad powerful chest, and sinewy limbs, complete the portrait.
He was faithful, very idle, and a fair shot. Merry as a child when pleased, but if wronged or annoyed, passionate and revengeful. He spoke the language of the Zulu Kaffirs, had a fair smattering of English, and was a good cook.
Over-readiness with his long knife was a fault in him, and had already given much trouble. The rest of the men were Kaffirs and Bechuanas, one of them named Noti being a good shot, and a well-known hunter; and all were picked men, models of manly beauty cast in bronze.
Restless, active, and unused to control, the whole band were difficult to manage, but far above the average stamp of their class,—waggon, horses, and men having been carefully selected by the Government Agent on the Zulu frontier, one who had enjoyed a long experience in the country.
So long as the way lay across the plain, all was simple enough, and the two followed a sort of rough trampled path made by the antelope. Now dipping into a deep hollow where the grass grew luxuriantly, now topping a gentle rise, and pausing to listen for the direction whence came the guiding cry, they neared the forest-land at the foot of the mountain range of the Drakenburgh. Troops of eland crossed their path from time to time, but their minds being pre-occupied with the thought of some danger abroad, these were not molested. At last, just after having mounted the slope of one of the undulating rises, they entered upon a green plain, where, feeding about a hundred yards away, were a herd of antelope, such as Captain Hughes had not yet met with. They were of a grey colour, while a narrow white line, taking its origin between the shoulders, ran to the base of the tail, following exactly the vertebral column.
From this line seven or eight others of a similar colour ran downwards towards the belly. The horns were beautifully twisted, like corkscrews, and the grey colour of the face was broken by an angular white bar. Shading his eyes with his hand, Hughes gazed at these graceful antelope.
“They are koodoos, master,” whispered Luji.
The herd was led by a noble buck, and showed no fear, approaching the two strange figures with signs of great curiosity. Advancing to within thirty paces, they stood still and gazed. No sportsman could resist the opportunity, and as they turned to fly the report of the rifle was heard, and the buck, which stood at least four feet high, bounded into the air and fell dead, the ball having entered just behind the shoulder. Leaving it where it lay right in their return path, the remainder of the herd having galloped away at a tremendous pace, the rifle was again loaded, and the two pursued their way. They had advanced about six miles across the plain, hearing the cry from time to time, and replying, when suddenly it ceased, just as their onward path seemed barred by a closely set forest of mahunoo trees, with an undergrowth of dwarf acacia and tangled creepers. It seemed impossible to pass, but at length, after long search, the dry bed of a stream was found, up which there seemed a chance of progressing. Slowly and with much difficulty they made their way on; sometimes crawling on hands and knees, dragging their rifles after them, and winning patiently yard by yard; at others fairly stopped by masses of rock, and forced to cut their way through the spiky branches of the mimosa, bound together with the wild vines and creeping cane-like plants. For fully half a mile did the two thus work their way onwards, their clothes torn and their hands bleeding. The cry had come from the thicket, and yet further progress seemed hopeless, and they were fairly exhausted. Pausing to rest, the deep stillness of the African plain seemed oppressive, when suddenly Luji put his black hand on the Captain’s shoulder, wildly signing to him to listen, his great mouth working convulsively. Nothing was to be seen as they crouched in the bed of the stream, and, for Hughes at least, nothing to be heard. A few seconds passed thus, when, from the tree tops, the long, plaintive, trembling cry peculiar to the Australian bushranger came, quivering and undulating through the air. There was no mistake now; it was close to them, whatever it was; and sounded like the cry of some enormous bird in pain. Luji seemed dreadfully agitated, and then for the first time, his hearing sharpened by his position, the soldier could distinguish sounds the more practised Hottentot had heard before. The noise was that of bones being crunched by powerful teeth. This then was the meaning of the long mournful cry which had come sweeping down to them on the banks of the Limpolulo, and perhaps it was over the remains of a fellow creature some savage animals were holding high carnival. The soldier’s blood ran cold as his imagination pictured the scene passing close to him, while Luji’s eyes seemed to roll in their sockets as he gesticulated wildly and signed to his master to retreat, hoarsely muttering in his ear, “Lions, master; two, three lions!”
Gently putting aside the brushwood which seemed to bar all onward progress, while he trailed his gun after him, Captain Hughes advanced up the bed of the stream. There was stern resolution in the knit brow and firmly compressed lips. The tangled bushes closed after him, and the great powerful Hottentot turned, to work his way back, leaving his master to face the danger alone. Once the man hesitated, turned again, took two or three paces, as if to follow, and then stopped. At this moment a tremendous roar rang through the thicket. It decided the matter, and Luji never halted until he gained the edge of the mahunoo grove, and, rifle in hand, climbed up a tree, where he sat patiently waiting the dénouement.
Foot by foot, yard by yard, the more determined soldier now alone worked his way on, the growlings and snappings growing more and more distinct, until at last he reached the foot of a large “masuku” tree, whose roots ran down the bank into the bed of the stream, the action of running water having bared them. Suddenly a roar which sounded close to him made him crouch down. It was the same which had decided Luji’s retreat. He almost fancied the beating of his own heart could be heard, mixed with the snarling and snapping of some wild animals, and the rending of flesh. His breath seemed to come quick, as, grasping the tap-root of the tree with the left hand, slowly and cautiously he raised himself to a level with the bank. It was a splendid sight for an African hunter. An open space in the bush lay before him, and at the further end, where a narrow path seemed to lead into the forest, lay the headless and torn carcase of a horse. An English saddle with its broken girths had fallen from its back, while to the right an enormous lioness, turned from him, was gently moving her tail to and fro like a great cat, as she contemplated her two cubs rending the dead horse.
Slowly and with great care bringing up his rifle, the hunter aimed deliberately behind the shoulder, knowing that there the shot must prove mortal, the lioness not being ten paces away as he pulled the trigger. Hearing some noise, the watchful animal sprang up just as the report rang out, and the ball, striking too low, instead of killing, wounded her. The next moment lioness and man were rolling together at the bottom