The Ruined Cities of Zululand

“I was wondering, Senhora,” said Hughes, breaking the silence at last, “what made you think of a voyage to so remote a region as Africa?”

“Oh, that is easily told. My father has a long pedigree, but a cramped estate. Our Portuguese nobility are mostly in the same position. My mother, of the old and princely house of the Guzmans, died when I was quite a child, and my life has been passed with an aunt, in France. She, too, died, and the convent of the Augustine sisters was no longer a home for me; besides, my education was finished.”

“I wish it had comprised the English language, Senhora,” said Hughes, smiling.

“I wish it had, too, for I should like to talk to Captain Weber,” replied the girl, laughing. “To continue, my father was honoured with his present mission, and was about to refuse it on my account. It may lead to a definite appointment, and as he never denies me anything, I easily persuaded him to accept, and to let me accompany him.”

The brig’s bows had been during the last hour all round the compass, but at that moment she lay with her head to the southward. A heavy puff of hot wind struck her suddenly, taking her aback and giving her sternway, the studding sail booms snapping off short in the irons, the broken ends with their gear coming tumbling down, those of the mainyard falling on the quarter-deck. The whole was over in an instant.

“In with the studding-sails, my lads, look alive,” called the captain, as the watch on deck busied themselves with the useless sails.

“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” said Captain Weber, “that puff is but a precursor of the wind that is to follow, and I must get the sails off the brig.”

Taking off his cap politely, the captain turned to his work, while, with a ceremonious salute, Dom Maxara offered his arm to his daughter to conduct her below.

“Good night, gentlemen, we shall meet again in the morning,” said the noble. A pressure of the hand, a low “Good night,” a silvery toned voice repeating the word, and Captain Hughes found himself alone, gazing over the bulwarks into the blue sea, and thinking.

Thinking of Isabel, of course. Then she was not rich, and he was glad of it. But why should he be glad? for he was not rich himself, and beyond a few hundreds a year and his pay, he had nothing to boast of. What on earth did Dona Isabel’s position matter to him? A fair wind and the brig would spread her wings. A few days and the party would separate at the Cape, in all probability never to meet again. She was of an ancient race, the blood of the Guzmans mantled in that blush. Well, he, too, was of old Welsh blood, and could count kith and kin up to the days when the Druids held their unholy rites and sacrifices on the heights of Penmaenmawr and Snowdon, when Caswallon Là Hir, his ancestor, wandered through the forests of Caerleon and Bodysgallen, clad in his mantle of skins. But what was that to him, and what had he to do with the blood of the Guzmans? He would think of other matters.

Again his thoughts wandered, and, as he gazed into the blue ocean, he called up a picture of another land. The lofty rugged mountains of Snowdonia, the iron-bound coast, washed by the waves of the Irish Channel, the ebbing and flowing waters of the Menai Straits, a house which had stood the wear and tear of ages, embowered in its trees near the beautiful Conway. Would Dona Isabel—pshaw!

“Take a pull at the larboard braces, let fly the fore and main royal halyards. In with the canvas, my lads. Starboard the helm,” shouted the captain, as the breeze from the south struck the brig, filling her remaining canvas, and making her heel over, as she gradually gathered way. “Steady! so!” and the bubbles began to glide by the vessel’s side, the noise of the water slapping up against her bows, and the rattle of the blocks and tackle, as the canvas filled, and everything drawing, the “Halcyon,” close hauled, on a taut bowline, stood her course as near as possible.

Gradually the wind freshened, and when Hughes and Captain Weber turned in at midnight, the “Halcyon” was working her way through the seas crested with foam, in that peculiar jerking manner usual to vessels close hauled; but with little cargo, and what there was light, she made splendid weather of it, topping the great waves, or wallowing in the trough, though, as Captain Weber emphatically observed, slapping his hand down on the cabin hatchway, “She didn’t ship an egg-spoonful of water.”

“Hands by the royal sheets and halyards. In royals. Mr Lowe, see to the royal braces,” were the words heard, as the two stepped below, about midnight. Morning was scarcely dawning over the ocean as Captain Weber again made his appearance on deck. According to a seaman’s instinct, his first glance was directed aloft, his second to the compass.

“Ah, I thought you would have a reef in the topsails before morning, Blount, and I see I am right.”

“We had better go about soon, Captain Weber,” replied the mate; “there is a little westing in the gale since midnight, and the brig has lain up a couple of points.”

“We will stand on until we make the coast of Madagascar, Blount; we must have made a good deal of southing, there are no islands between us and the coast, except ‘Barren Islands,’ and they lie far away to the northward.”

“How’s her head now, Jones?” asked the mate.

“South-east and by south, sir,” replied the man at the wheel.

“Then we shall fetch Cape Saint Vincent on the Madagascar coast; and it will have been a long leg.”

It was a grand sight as the little “Halcyon” struggled through the chaos of water. The change in the wind, slight as it was, had greatly aided her, but the gale was gradually increasing. Overhead the heavy clouds were flying before its fury, the long waves being an angry green, white with foam. Far as the eye could reach, one sheet of tumbling water was to be seen, bounded only by the horizon. No sail, not even a solitary gull was in sight, and through this the “Halcyon” was straggling, now rising on the foam, now falling into the bright green trough, as she dragged her way onward through the seething ocean, under her single-reefed topsails, foresail, fore-topmast-staysail, and boom-mainsail.

On swept the little brig, but the gale increased in its fury after sunrise. Towards twelve o’clock, the Senhora Isabel appeared on the quarter-deck, whither she had been conducted by the first-mate. The men of the watch lay close under the weather bulwarks, seeking what shelter they could find. A good many teaspoonfuls of salt foam came dashing on board the brig now, and even the captain was forced to allow it, as he held on by the weather main-shrouds, and looked keenly to windward.

“What a magnificent spectacle!” exclaimed Isabel, as she gazed on the seething ocean.

“At all events we are better here than riding with both anchors down at Quillimane,” replied the mate.

A report like the boom of a heavy gun was heard above the gale, and the foresail was seen flying away to leeward, blown to ribbons. A heavier blast weighed down upon the struggling brig, and before a word could be spoken, the bolts of the futtock shrouds, drawing one after another, with a splintering crash down came the fore-topmast with all its rigging and hamper, dragging with it the main-topgallant mast, and carrying away the jib-boom, the whole mass falling bodily over the side.

In an instant the watch were on their legs, and the remainder of the crew poured on deck, speedily followed by the alarmed passengers.

The captain stood for a moment surveying the wreck, and then with the true spirit of an old salt, accepted the situation.

“Keep her away,” he shouted to the two men at the wheel; “let her go free. Steady, my lads! Out axes and cut away the wreck. Pass the word below for the sail-maker to send up a new foresail.”

The wreck of the masts was now dragging under the brig’s lee, thumping heavily against her sides. Quick as thought the first-mate sprung forward, and, seizing an axe, began cutting away the ropes which kept the spars dragging after the ship. Holding on by the shrouds, the bright steel did its work, and no longer close hauled, but running free, the brig’s motion seemed much easier. Already a portion of the wreck was floating astern, a few ropes alone held the rest, and one by one they were severed, when a monster wave came rolling on towards the brig. The captain’s warning voice was heard far above the roar of the winds and waves, shouting to all to hold on. The mate alone did not hear him, as he raised his axe to sever the last rope. The blow fell, but at the same moment the brig plunged her bows into the green wave. Striking her on the counter, the vessel seemed to tremble and to pause in her career, as the green water curled over her bows and bulwarks, in one mass of white foam, falling in tons upon her deck, and rolling away to leeward, poured out of her scuppers. The little brig seemed pressed down into the ocean by the enormous weight of water, and as the wave rolled aft, there, battling with the foam, was the form of the gallant mate. Swept from his hold, the white face rose on the wave close to the brig, and Isabel screamed with horror as the helpless man, tossed about, like a cork and apparently not a yard from them, came surging along, the lips parting, and the words, “Save me! save me!” distinctly borne on the wind.

Quick as thought, Captain Weber caught up a coil of rope; his arm was in the act of casting it, when the mass of spars and cordage swept past. The coil whistled through the air, it fell right over the mate’s shoulder, he clutched at it as the fore-topmast crosstrees, with the full force of the surge, struck him from behind, and he sank like a stone.

A cry of terror ran through the brig, all for a moment forgetting their own danger in the horror of the scene.

“Silence, fore and aft,” shouted the old captain, his grey hairs streaming in the wind. “Heave the brig to, Mr Lowe. This is no place for you, lady; let the steward lead you below. All danger is over.”

“Land ho!” shouted one of the men forward, as Isabel disappeared down the hatchway.

“Where away?” asked the master.

“Broad on the port bow,” was the answering shout.

“It is the high land of Cape Saint Vincent,” said Captain Weber, shading his eyes, and gazing intently in the direction named.

The wind was increasing in violence, and the barometer in the captain’s cabin still falling. The brig had been kept away, and was now running free, but the gale was increasing rapidly.

“See that the fore and main-staysails are properly bent,” called the captain.

“Ay, ay, sir,” came the ready response, as his officer stepped hastily forward.

It is always a ticklish thing to heave a vessel to when there is a heavy sea running. The brig’s sails were reduced until she was stripped to her close-reefed main-topsails, her fore-staysail was then set, and the two officers exchanged places, the old captain sprang forward, and holding on by the weather fore-shrouds, gazed wistfully over the ocean, while his mate stood near the man-at-wheel, waiting the coming order.

Sea after sea struck her, dashing the glittering spray high into the air, and wetting the veteran sailor to the skin, as he stood anxiously gazing over the ocean. At length a moment came when the long waves seemed less heavy. Captain Weber seized it, and a motion of the hand was enough.

“Down with the helm, Adams, hard down,” shouted the watchful mate.

The brig flew up to the wind. “Set the main-staysail!” was the order thundered from the quarter-deck, and steadily executed by the trained seaman, the brig being soon hove-to under her main-topsail, fore and main-staysails, making comparatively good weather of it, and everything seemed to settle down into its usual order on board the little craft.

“He was a gallant fellow, and would have made a thorough seaman,” said Captain Weber, as he joined the party below, dashing the salt foam from his eyes and hair as he spoke. “He loved the sea, and left a quiet home to find a grave here in the Indian Ocean.” Isabel seemed violently affected by the scene which had passed before her eyes.

“His was a sailor’s death, it may be ours to-morrow,” continued the captain. “Poor Blount! he was to have had command of one of his father’s ships next voyage.”

“What do you think of the weather, Captain Weber?” asked Hughes, wishing to change the theme, for Isabel was sobbing convulsively, as the thought of the sorrowing parents came vividly before her.

“These blows seldom hold long, from the fact of their extreme violence. Should it last we shall be jammed down on the Madagascar coast: indeed, we cannot be far from it, for the land hereaway is low, or we should have sighted it at daylight.”

“Shall we feel the loss of our spars much?” inquired Wyzinski.

“Not so much while lying to; but our wings are nicely clipped. The ‘Halcyon’ has been at sea, trading on this coast, for nearly three years, without ever having the advantage of a good overhaul, or such an accident could never have happened.”

During the whole day, however, the gale continued unabated, and the dinner table was a neglected one by all save the captain. The party had been so lately at sea, as to escape all sufferings from sea-sickness, but the roar of the waves, the rattling of the ropes and blocks, the howling of the wind, and the many noises incidental to a gale, prevented, in a certain measure, even conversation. Every now and then a mass of water would tumble inboard with a loud thud, as it deluged the brig’s decks and washed away to leeward. The staysails, too, as the vessel fell into the deep trough of the angry waves, would flap with a report like distant thunder; in a word, all the discomforts of a heavy gale in a small vessel were making themselves felt.

Night had again set in, and in the cabin Dom Maxara sat, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, as though asleep, while his daughter, lying on a sofa, covered with shawls, was endeavouring to read. It was nearly midnight, but no one thought of retiring. At the table, close under a lamp, which was waving wildly to and fro, the captain was seated, intently studying a government map, while Wyzinski leaned over his shoulders in earnest conversation.

“There,” said Captain Weber, as he placed a pin in the chart, “there is just where the brig is.”

“And yet it was only this morning land was sighted,” observed the other.

“There exist strong currents, which have set us bodily to leeward; the wind, too, has more westing in it, and is driving us down on the land. It is but a question of time.”

“If the wind has drawn more to the westward, could we not hold our course!”

“As I said some time since, the brig has been three years at sea without an overhaul. If you had asked me the same question this morning, I should have expressed every confidence in her powers, but you saw yourself the sticks go over the side like rotten carrots, and I should have to carry every rag we could set to claw off this shore, for I don’t want to scud before the gale if it can be avoided.”

“Many years ago,” said Wyzinski, “I was one of a party of missionaries who sailed from Delagoa Bay with the intention of forming a mission on the island of Madagascar. The small vessel which carried us was commanded by a man who had traded with the natives, and who knew the coast well. He ran into a beautiful bay, all but land-locked, where we anchored, and remained for nearly a month.”

“What course did you steer after leaving Delagoa Bay—can you remember?”

Wyzinski was silent, evidently trying to recall long-past events, while Isabel had let her book fall on to the sofa by her side, and, with her limited stock of English, was evidently trying to catch the meaning of the conversation. Above all came the wild roar of the waves’ boiling around them, the groaning and creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the boom of the fore-staysail as it shook in the wind.

“Our course lay north-east and by north,” at length said Wyzinski, his thoughtful face raised to the lamp, “for the first twenty-four hours.”

“Good,” answered Captain Weber, ruling off the course on the chart. “There, that would carry you to somewhere about the latitude of Cape Correnti, and then?”

“It is almost impossible for me to remember,” replied the missionary; “but to the best of my recollection it was east north-east.”

The old captain bent over the chart, once more using the pencil and ruler.

“That would bring you within a short distance of Saint Augustine’s Bay, as it is marked in this chart,” said he, looking upwards at Wyzinski.

“That’s it! That’s the name we gave it, because the vessel was called the ‘Saint Augustine!’” exclaimed the missionary.

“Can you give me any particulars about the entrance to the harbour?”

“None: we ran straight in and straight out. There are two clumps of trees to the right on the spit of land which sweeps into the sea, forming a natural breakwater.”

“To starboard or port?” asked Weber.

“On the right as we ran in, and the vessel passed so close to the bluff on which they stood that I could have thrown a piece of money on shore.”

“What tonnage was the ‘Saint Augustine’? Hitherto you have called her only a vessel.”

“She was a schooner of about one hundred and fifty tons,” answered Wyzinski; “and that is all I can tell you about the matter, which is a very melancholy one for me, as I lost a dear friend.”

“Killed by the natives, I suppose? Ay, ay, they are a bad lot; but I have a couple of guns on board, and I don’t fear them. If the harbour is what you represent it, we should lie there on an even keel, and in forty-eight hours I could rig out a jury fore-topmast.”

The captain rose, and turned to Isabel before he placed on his head the heavy sou’-wester. “We will have you in smooth water before this time to-morrow, my little lady,” he said, as he turned.

Isabel smiled, and looked to the missionary for an explanation.

Drawing a stool to the side of the sofa, for standing was no easy matter, so violently did the brig pitch, he explained to her exactly what had passed.

“Oh dear, how glad I shall be!” she answered. “The noise and confusion wear one out. I have often wished to witness a severe storm at sea, but I shall never wish it again.”

“I have been in many, but only one when the wind was more violent than this. Fourteen vessels, large and small, were sunk in Table Bay on that occasion.”

“Did I understand you rightly that you have landed on the Madagascar coast?”

“Yes,” replied Wyzinski; “but it is a sad tale of cruelty and death.”

“Would it pain you to tell it me?” asked Isabel, in her low sweet tones, turning her dark eyes on the missionary’s face, and laying her hand on his arm.

“When we lie in Saint Augustine’s Bay, and I can make myself heard better than at present, I will do so. Try to sleep now,” answered the missionary, rising. “I am going on deck to join Captain Hughes, and shall be very glad when morning dawns.”

And it did dawn, slowly and faintly over the boiling ocean. Large masses of dark cloud were hurrying over the sky, and chasing one another as though in sport. To seaward the horizon was clear, and one mass of foam-tipped waves were to be marked far as the eye could reach. Not ten miles to leeward lay the long line of the Madagascar coast, with Cape Saint Vincent jutting into the sea, while, with the wind blowing a heavy gale from the west-south-west, the “Halcyon,” with her diminished sail, her foremast, main-topmast, and bowsprit standing, looked terribly shorn of her fair proportions. The waves every now and then poured on her decks, rolling away to leeward, and the ropes were here and there flying loose, and streaming in the wind. A strong current must have set the brig down bodily on to the land, and Captain Weber had made up his mind to run for the bay which the missionary had spoken of.

On the quarter-deck, holding on to windward, stood a group of three. Captain Weber, the missionary, and Hughes had watched through the night, and were anxiously waiting for full daylight. Under the weather bulwarks, wrapped in their waterproofs, with their long thick boots poking out here and there, lay huddled the crew.

“There,” said the captain, pointing to a fine bold headland just tinged by the beams of the rising sun as it shone through a break in the clouds, “that is Cape Saint Vincent. The land tumbles in board to the southward and eastward, and your two clumps of trees will guide us. Will you know the place again?”

“Everything connected with it is so stamped on my memory, that I could draw the bay for you.”

“Very well, here goes. Mr Lowe, rouse up the watch, send four men to the wheel, set the foresail.”

Mr Lowe, though second mate, now naturally took the place of the drowned seaman. The yards, instead of being braced sharp up, were eased off, the helm carefully tended, and under her main-topsail, foresail, and fore-topmast-staysail, the “Halcyon,” on an easy bowline, dragged like a wounded sea-bird through the boiling waves, running parallel with the coast. Hour after hour wore on, and all watched anxiously. The long sandy line was now not more than five miles distant, and the tall cocoa-nut trees could be seen plainly.

Now and then the sun would break out and light up the scene, but hour after hour passed on, and still the gale blew furiously, while the sea, striking the brig’s counter, poured over her fore and aft. No one quitted the deck, but now and then the captain’s steward, a Malay, popped up his head with some inquiry from below. “Tell them we shall soon be in smooth water,” shouted Captain Weber, as towards ten o’clock the man’s face appeared through the little opening.

The brig was rapidly approaching a bold headland, which bore no name on the map. She would pass it at a distance of not more than a mile. The chart was nailed down on the wood-work of the cabin hatchway, and was continually consulted by both the missionary and the captain.

“I know that headland,” shouted the former, placing his mouth close to the captain’s ear. “The bay lies about five miles to the southward of it.”

Slowly the brig crept up with the nameless cape. She neared it; she was abeam, and now it lay abaft her beam, but the land once more curved inward, and the cliffs seemed scarped down to the sea. Seizing a telescope, and steadying himself by the hatchway, Wyzinski looked eagerly in the direction of land.

“There,” he said, “at last,” handing the instrument to the captain. “Yonder is the bay, and there stand the two clumps of cocoa-nut trees.”

Captain Weber looked long and eagerly. To the southward the land trended seaward, a lofty headland being visible. The “Halcyon” was embayed; for in her crippled state to weather that cape with such a gale blowing was impossible, and to anchor with that furious sea breaking on a lee shore would be sure destruction. Saint Augustine’s Bay was their only chance now. The crippled brig dragged slowly along.

“Now, sir,” shouted Captain Weber, addressing the missionary, “come with me. Mr Lowe, send two men to lash us in the starboard fore-shrouds; take up your position here on the break of the quarter-deck; let the men be stationed under the weather bulwarks. See the best bower clear.”

Cautioning the men at the wheel, the captain moved forward, followed by the missionary, under the shelter of the bulwarks. It was a task of no small difficulty to secure the two men in the fore-shrouds, the salt brine pouring over the whole party over and over again.

“Starboard,” shouted the captain. “Ease away the fore-sheets; let fly the main-topsail; haul down the fore-staysail.” The second mate gave the necessary orders; the main-topsail yard settled down upon the cap; the fore-staysail sheets were let fly, and the sail flapping heavily was hauled down and secured. The rattle of the clue garnets was heard as the foresail was nearly squared, and the brig’s head payed off from the wind.

It was a moment of great anxiety, for as she fell off the seas struck her broadside on, but Captain Weber had watched his time. One huge toppling wave came rushing onwards. “Hold on,” shouted the captain; as striking the brig’s bulwarks it stove them in, smashing the gig, and pouring into the waist of the vessel, hid her for a moment under the white foam. The buoyant craft rose, turning her stern to the waves, and feeling the full force of the foresail, dashed along straight for the shore. “Steady, so; starboard a little; steady,” shouted the captain, as with the trumpet in his right hand, he held on with a seaman’s grip to the shrouds. His cap had blown away to leeward, and his long grey hair was streaming on the wind, both he and the missionary having been buried under the boiling foam, as the “Halcyon” wore round.