“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.
A second deer swam the stream, and this time it was different.
“Let him go, Wyzinski,” whispered Hughes; “the alligators won’t touch him while he is swimming.”
“Take the shot yourself; see, he nears the bank.”
The report of the rifle rang out just as the deer scrambled up it, startling whole flocks of wild duck out of the reeds and rushes. The antelope, with a broken leg, fell, but quickly struggling up again, would have escaped into the bush, when a second ball from Wyzinski’s rifle stopped it. The deer proved to be a fine buck, of an ashy grey, with long horns like a goat, of a yellowish brown colour. The horns at first when starting from the head trended directly backwards, and then curved forwards, the tips being very pointed. The legs were remarkably short for a deer, and it could not be very swift on land, for, added to the shortness of limb, the girth round the carcass was very large. The dead buck measured nearly eleven feet in length, and ten in circumference.
“What a beautiful spot!” remarked Hughes, towards three o’clock in the afternoon. “The green bank slopes down to the water’s edge, and the turf, dotted with its clumps of palmyra, acacia, and date-trees, looks for all the world like a gentleman’s park. Behind rises the forest, where we can suppose the baronial hall to lie, and in the distance the lofty range of the Nyamonga mountains. We only want the lodge gates to complete the picture.”
“You are a bad auctioneer, Hughes,” laughed his comrade; “you have omitted the greatest charm. I mean the river, with its beautiful reeds waving in the breeze, its magnificent water-lilies, and the flocks of wild duck floating in and out.”