The Ruined Cities of Zululand

by Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley

Seizing his rifle as he fled, with one sweeping blow he drove back the foremost of his pursuers, and shouting to Wyzinski to follow, plunged into the bush. The ground ascended, the trees grew farther apart; he was on the verge of the forest; but one of the long knives had wounded him deeply in the left shoulder, and he was growing faint from loss of blood. Pausing to listen, he distinctly heard the crashing of the underwood. Was it Wyzinski following him? Listening attentively, he could distinguish the same noise to the right and left, and he then knew that the Amatongas, paralysed and astonished as they had been at first by the desperate nature of the resistance, had spread themselves out, and were bringing up the whole country before them on three sides, just as they did when hunting antelope. On the fourth ran the Zambesi. Moving rapidly forward, and determined to trust to the river rather than to the Amatongas, Hughes came to a nullah. Its banks were covered with brush, and the masses of convolvuli almost hid it in places. A sudden thought struck him. Jumping in, he followed its course until he came to a spot completely shut in by creepers and shrubs, then placing his rifle near him, he lay down. Minutes passed, the breaking of the bushes came near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close to; the head of an assegai was thrust into the mass of verdure which formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the noises in the brush, and the cries passed on. Grey daylight came streaming between the leaves, the purple convolvuli opened their flowers, and the parrots and wild pigeons began to awake among the branches.

The wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but he felt faint and nearly unable to move. Cautiously raising his head above the level of the bank, he glanced around. “All seems quiet. If I could only reach the river,” he muttered. “My mouth is dry and parched with thirst.”

Slowly and painfully he extricated himself from the bed of the nullah, and then, his rifle on his shoulder, followed its course.

It did indeed revive him, as he scooped up the waters of the Zambesi with his hands, and then, taking off his clothes, bathed the wounded shoulder in the cool river. What had become of his comrade was now his thought, and the idea of not ascertaining his fate for fear of personal consequences, never occurred to him. The sun would soon be up, the bees were just humming along the river banks, the patches of forest-land on the plain beyond the river looked black, in the grey dawn, and the stars were fast disappearing. He would take his way back to the clearing slowly, and cautiously. Just as he had stepped on the bank reinvigorated and refreshed, a noise struck his ears.

Turning towards the river, he leaned on his rifle, listening attentively. It was a fine broad stream the Zambesi, even here, before the Shire river pours its waters into it far below the fort of Senna; and as he looked down it, he again caught the noise distinctly.

“It is the steady pull of oars in the rowlocks,” he said, speaking aloud, unconsciously. “I cannot be mistaken. Perhaps I may find help.”

Concealing himself behind a bush, he waited. The sounds, whatever they were, became more and more distinct, and soon, slowly pulling against the stream, a boat drew clear of the bend of the river. Slowly it surged onward meeting the stream, urged on by the strokes of six rowers, the Portuguese flag streaming out from the stern, and a small carronade mounted in her bows. In the stern sheets sat a tall, upright figure, the tiller ropes in either hand, dressed in a monkey jacket, pilot cloth trousers, and a sailor’s cap. His long white hair streamed in the wind, and by his side a nearly naked savage. “Could he be mistaken? No,” said Hughes again, speaking aloud, “it is Captain Weber, and Masheesh has not deserted us. He was bringing aid, alas too late.”

“Boat ahoy!” shouted Hughes, as he stepped from behind the bush, waving his rifle in the air.

A loud shout came over the river; the next moment the skipper’s left hand gave the yawl’s bows a broad sheer towards the bank, and Masheesh and the old sailor were by his side. His tale was soon told. Not a moment was lost, and though they found the clearing empty, the spoor of the Amatonga was plain. Masheesh was sent forward to reconnoitre, the Portuguese soldiers were landed, and the result is known.

“And what is that over yonder, which I took for you?” asked the missionary.