The Ruined Cities of Zululand

by Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley

“You are blind, Hughes, or will not see,” returned the other, in a sharp tone. “Did not Masheesh call yonder river the Golden River—and why?”

“Because gold may have been found in its banks, or on its bar. The thing is simple enough, Wyzinski.”

“It is you that are simple,” said the excited man. “The river brought down the boats with their cargo of gold, dug near the sources of the Limpopo. The Sofala of the Portuguese is the Ophir of Solomon. Here the ships of Tarshish came, and from that trade in gold the river took, and still keeps its name—the Golden River.”

There was nothing for it but to accept the dogma. The Arab chief looked on in grave silence, but no further information could be extracted from him, and except the direct visual evidence that a strong stone fort had existed here, which was known to have been Portuguese, nothing could be discovered. The ruins were nearly buried in sand, but there they still remain on the shores of South Africa, the fort of Sofala being well-known to all the traders on the coast, and the high headland near them being a much-used landmark for mariners. The moon rose, and Masheesh having borrowed a hoe, the whole party set to work to bury their dead. They took it in turns, the Matabele chief at first objecting, but ultimately taking his spell at it. Wyzinski was in the hole, working vigorously and silently, the regular roll of the ocean on the bar being the only sound heard. Masheesh was squatted by the open grave, his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them, the palms of his hands supporting his head. Hughes stood gazing over the broad expanse of the Indian Ocean, with his forage-cap in his hand, the cool sea breeze playing amidst the heavy masses of dark hair which waved uncared for over his sun-burnt forehead. Suddenly the vigorous strokes of the hoe ceased, its sharp broad edge had struck something, and the missionary stooping lifted that something, tossed it on the bank, and jumped out of the grave. A piece of massive masonry overshadowed the spot casting a long dark shadow over the Kaffir’s resting-place among the ruins of Sofala, as snatching up what looked like a mere stone, Wyzinski stepped into the moonlight and began rubbing away the sand and dust from what proved to be a bar of pure gold, evidently smelted and worked into its present shape. It was a curious sight, the moon shining brightly on the ruined masses of masonry, streaming over the rolling ocean waves, lighting up the date and palmyra trees, with their long fan-like leaves, and showing the group eagerly bending over the gold, while stiff and stark beside them lay the dead body of the Kaffir, Noti. Then came a warning cry from the Matabele warrior, and the next moment a line of dusky savages, armed with their assegais and war-clubs, swept round them.

It was a peculiarity of the missionary’s never to lose the quiet calmness of his manner, under any circumstances, however trying. The greater the danger the more quiet, cool, and methodical he seemed to become. Unarmed, for their rifles were in the canoe, and consequently utterly defenceless, the whole party stood among the ruins of Sofala, surrounded by the warriors of the Arab tribe, while Wyzinski, as if nothing more than ordinary had happened, seated himself on a ruined slab, more accurately to examine the bar of gold.

The old chief Achmet advanced, and using the Arab tongue, addressed the soldier, who felt none of the stern coolness of the missionary.

“I thought the white men were not merchants, and refused gold,” the old man remarked. “They are then thieves who rob, and not fair traders who barter.”

“We found the gold by chance, chief.”

The Arab laughed. “The white men came down the river by chance, to the very spot where we find from time to time the gold buried; by chance they dig for it and find it. Let them not laugh at an old man, whose grey hairs will not bear it. Mashallah, let them give back the gold, or my children take it.”

“You are welcome, chief,” replied the soldier, taking the bar from Wyzinski, who seemed sunk in reverie, and giving it to Achmet. “And now withdraw your warriors, and let us finish what we are about.”