The Ruined Cities of Zululand

by Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley

The “Halcyon,” it will be remembered, was moored head and stern, but her bows did not point to the opening of the bay. A warp had been run from her starboard hawse-hole, and an anchor earned out far beyond the narrow entrance, so as to enable Captain Weber to cast his ship in that direction when he wished to sail. With his masts in the state they were, and the weather besides dead calm, it would have been a slow and tedious affair to move the brig from her anchorage. There were no boarding-nettings now she no longer belonged to the navy, and but for the missionary’s warning, the “Halcyon” would have been wholly unprepared for resistance. Creeping aft, Captain Weber rejoined the party on the quarter-deck.

Quietly and courteously he offered his arm to Dona Isabel, who, quite unconscious of what was passing, was still looking into the night.

A glance at the entrance of the bay told him at once that the boats were concentrating for a dash, but it told him too that help was at hand, for several dark figures came tumbling up the hatchway. Carefully conducting the lady to her cabin, the old seaman raised his cap, uncovering his grey hair as he did so, and bade her good night. The next moment he was on deck, pointing out to the astonished passengers the danger. Mr Lowe stood by the arm-chest, concealed by the bulwarks, distributing the arms, and the whole crew were now alarmed.

“See,” said Captain Weber; “there, they separate. Yonder two boats will board on the brig’s bows, the third on her quarter.”

“They are ready for the dash,” replied the soldier, “and think us unprepared.”

“Creep forward and train the nine-pounder on them, Captain Hughes.”

Sheltering under the bulwarks, Hughes obeyed. The gun was already loaded with rifle bullets, and heavily charged. The boats came leisurely on, for all on board the brig seemed buried in sleep. The dip of the muffled oars could hardly be distinguished even by those who were watching, consequently the noise could never have awoke men asleep. The wash of the wave made itself heard on the beach, and so still was the night that the quack of the ducks, and the call of the widgeon and wild geese feeding among the reeds, came on the air. On the forecastle the creaking of a gun-carriage told that Captain Hughes was not idle, and those in the boat heard it too. They stopped rowing, the three drawing closely together, apparently in consultation. This was the moment the captain chose, and the loud hail, “Boat ahoy!” rang out from the quarter-deck. A shrill yell and a musket-shot was the reply, followed by the boom of the forecastle gun, as it scattered its bagful of rifle bullets right among them. The aim had been deliberate and deadly. The loud scream of agony, the yell of vengeance, replied to by the cheer of the English seamen, rang out in the silent night. One boat had been sunk, and its crew apparently either killed or drowned, for not waiting to rescue them the other two dashed on with a wild scream for vengeance. Leaving the useless gun, for there was no time to load it again, Hughes and the three men on the forecastle made their way aft.

A spattering fire now ran along the brig’s deck, replied to from the two boats, as they dashed on, the one for the bow, the other on the quarter. In a few seconds, the Malays were alongside. Grasping the rigging, their long knives between their teeth, they swarmed over the bulwarks fore and aft.

The deadly musketry struck them down, the pistol shots, at point blank range, shattered their heads, but still they came on. The English seamen cheered as they struck right and left with their short cutlasses, and there on the main deck stood Dom Maxara, a long curved sabre in his hand, dripping with blood, cheering on the men in a language they did not understand. The boat which had boarded on the quarter was beaten off, but joining the other the two had united their numbers, and some fifty maddened and nearly naked pirates came pouring over the bows, driving the crew before them.

Among the Malays, one tall, powerful fellow, nearly naked, seemed the leader of the rest; shouting, gesticulating, and striking right and left, he urged the assailants on. Once already had the crew been driven back to the break of the quarter-deck, but, led on by Captain Weber, had repulsed their enemies. Brandishing a jagged piece of broken spar, his hat having fallen off, and a streak of blood on the forehead showing him to be wounded, the old seaman fought like a tiger.