The Ruined Cities of Zululand

“Forced to fly, my father had nearly reached the French frontier, when he was struck down by the hands of hired assassins. A desultory and useless rising took place at different but isolated points. In these I had taken part, burning to revenge a father’s death. I managed, with great difficulty, to escape; but my property and estates were lost, and I but retained sufficient to enable me to live, and to place Isabel with a relative, the Superior of the Convent of the Augustines, in Paris. Passing into the service of France, I won a commission in the Foreign Legion, serving in Algeria, in Italy, and Austria. I rose to the command of my regiment, when, some months since, I was enabled to return to my country, was received with favour, a small portion of our forfeited estates restored, and the mission I am now accomplishing given me.

“Ah! Isabel, my child!” continued the noble, as at that moment she appeared on deck, and he bent to kiss her high forehead; “I have been burthening our friend with the tale of our family misfortunes.”

Dressed in a light muslin with a flowing skirt, her dark hair heavily braided, with the high comb, and mantilla, Dona Isabel would have looked beautiful enough; but with the left arm bound up and worn in a sling made with a crimson Andalusian scarf, and the air of fatigue and languor which late events had caused still hanging over her, Hughes thought he had never seen her look so lovely.

Nestling in between her father and her lover, Isabel passed her right hand through the arm of the old noble, who looked down fondly into her face.

The brig’s stern was now no longer pointed towards the land, for she was moving slowly along parallel with it. The click of the capstan, as the sailors stamped round with a measured step, was heard, and the vessel was slowly drawing up with the entrance to the Bay. The parrots were screaming on shore and the gulls overhead, the last rays of the evening sun tinging the tops of the fan-like leaves of the ravinala trees, just as the “Halcyon” arrived abreast of the “Onglake” river, which here discharged itself into the sea.

“It is a beautiful scene,” said Isabel, “and who could believe that it is the same quiet Bay which a few hours since rang with the demoniac yells of those horrible pirates!”

“If we have any wind it will come towards sunset, the captain says, and we shall shape our course for the Cape,” said Dom Maxara. “What leave of absence remains to you, Senhor Enrico!”

The name seemed singular to Captain Hughes; it was the first time he had heard it used; but it was, after all, decidedly prettier than plain matter-of-fact Henry.

“About eighteen months,” replied he, “which could easily be prolonged.”

“And have you any plans for the future, Enrico mio?” asked Isabel, raising her large dark eyes to his face.

If “Enrico” seemed pleasant from the mouth of the stately old noble, what was that first “Enrico mio” from those ruby lips?

The noise of the boats as they were manned, the dropping of the oars into the water, the unshipping of the capstan bars, and the preparations for casting off the rope used to tow the vessel’s head round, now told that the “Halcyon” had reached the entrance of the Bay.

“Set the fore-topmast-staysail, let fall the foresail, get the fore-topsail on her, Mr Lowe. Cast off the warp; give way, my lads, give way cheerily in the boats,” shouted the captain, as he stood on the quarter-deck. “Starboard—hard—let her feel the helm. Steady! so.”

The brig’s head slowly payed off, as she felt the strain of the boats’ towing, and her jib-boom pointed right for the entrance of the Bay. The horizon had been reported clear, nothing being in sight, and sail after sail opened its wide expanse, while the long breathings of the ocean began to be felt, and the idle canvas flapped to and fro in the calm.

“Have you any plans for the future, Enrico mio?” reiterated Isabel.

Hughes had been gazing steadily down into the deep blue water, totally regardless of all that was passing around him.

“I was thinking,” he said, “of Wyzinski’s tales, of the sad remembrances this place has for him; and contrasting them with the startling events, but bright memories, it will have for me. The name of Saint Augustine’s Bay will ever be dear to me.”

The blood mantled in Isabel’s cheeks as she answered—

“When the Senhor has done with his pleasant memories of the past, perhaps he will deign an answer to a poor maiden’s question.”

The men had strained at the oars until the stout ash staves creaked and bent in the rowlocks. The dark hull of the brig had slowly forged ahead, and at the moment Isabel spoke, the “Halcyon” had passed the entrance of the harbour, and was rising and falling on the long gentle swell outside. She did not feel the wind, being under the shelter of the coast; but slight cat’s-paws were playing on the water about half-a-mile ahead, and so the boats continued towing, while on board the main-topgallant and main-topsails were being sheeted home.

“There is our last sight of the Bay,” said Hughes, sighing. “It must now live only in the memories of the past. Plans—no, dearest Isabel; I have been enjoying the present without care for the future.”

“And now the fairy dream is over, what do you intend to do when we reach the Cape, Enrico? Surely I have a right to ask,” said Isabel.

“If you have eighteen months’ leave of absence, Senhor,” said the noble, “come with us to Portugal for your answer; you can make your arrangements in England.”

The Senhor Enrico could not have wished for a pleasanter invitation, and he eagerly closed with it.

“That topgallant sail is drawing, Mr Lowe; cast off the tow-rope, recall the boats, and hoist them in. Tell off the watch, and send the crew to supper. Let the steward give them an extra ration of grog. Take a pull at the starboard tacks and sheets. Lay her head to the west-south-west.”

The wind, which was very light, was from the eastward, consequently the brig, her yards rounded in, was running free, the boom-mainsail was hauled out, the heavy folds of the mainsail let fall, and the jib hoisted. One by one the studding-sails were set, and the black hull once more supported a towering mass of white canvas. With all this the “Halcyon” only just held steerage way, the wind coming in hot puffs from the distant mountains of the Amboitmena range, at times filling the canvas and making the bubbles fly past as the “Halcyon” felt the breeze, then dying away, while the useless sails flapped heavily with the gentle roll of the waves.

Her captain seemed silent and anxious, and would not leave the deck. Dinner had been announced, but Captain Weber had only dived below to reappear again in a few minutes, and, telescope in hand, was sweeping the coast line with his glass. He bad evinced no signs of anxiety to his guests, but as he paced the lee gangway of the brig, he showed no such reticence to his mate.

“One hour’s good blow from yonder mountains and we should be well clear of this coast,” he said.

“Do you think, Captain Weber, the fellow dare attack us again after the taste he had of our quality last night?” inquired the mate.

“If the scoundrels could get possession of the brig, they would soon find the means to arm her,” replied the captain; “and the west coast of Madagascar is one series of indentations, coves, and bays, fit refuges for these sort of craft.”

“The clouds are resting on the top of the mountain range, sir; I fancy we shall have more wind just now. How far do you reckon we are from land?”

“About ten miles,” replied the captain. “Turn the hands up on deck, Mr Lowe. Haul up the mainsail, the brig has hardly way on her, and send the men aft. We must bury our dead.”

The moon was low on the horizon, shedding a dim light on the ocean, and making the long line of the Madagascar coast look black and indistinct as if seen through a haze.

Soon ranged, side by side, on a grating abaft the main chains, lay five forms covered with the ship’s ensign. On the quarter-deck stood the passengers and the remainder of the crew, while the missionary, in a clear distinct voice, read slowly the impressive burial service. All were uncovered, and the tears streamed down Isabel’s face, as she looked on the inanimate forms of the brave fellows who had died to save her from worse than death. The captain laid his hand on the Union Jack, the mate made a sign, and four sturdy men advanced, placing their shoulders under the grating. “We commit their bodies to the deep, in the sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life,” and as the solemn words rang out on the night air, the splash of the falling bodies in the sea followed. A stillness seemed to gather around, and the service for the dead finished, the crew retired to their different duties, for the time, at least, saddened and depressed, and the quarter-deck was soon left to the captain and his mate.

Slowly they paced it to and fro in eager but low conversation. The puffs of wind came down a little steadier, and the “Halcyon” was moving through the water once more. The night was beautifully fine, the stars shining brilliantly, but the moon just sinking behind a distant spit of land broad on the larboard bow. From time to time the sound of the ship’s bell, tolling the hour, was heard, the creaking of the blocks and ropes, and the mournful flap of the sails as the brig rolled lazily on the long swell. All at once the mate stopped suddenly in his walk, looked earnestly towards the coast line, and then, without speaking, raised his finger and pointed towards the setting moon. It was just sinking behind a patch of forest trees, their long tapering fan-like leaves distinctly marked against the light, while, sweeping past, the spars of a small vessel could be seen, the thin whip-like sticks plainly visible against the sky. Next, the long, low black hull drew clear of the land, and distinctly revealed against the light the spars and rigging of a small schooner. Not a rag of canvas was shown, and yet slowly and with a gentle caption the dark mass glided on into the night, right on the path which the brig was taking.

The two seamen looked at each other.

“I thought as much. It is the pirate!” ejaculated the captain, with a deep sigh.

“If they had chosen their weather, it could not suit them better.”

Stepping aft, the captain glanced at the compass.

“Round in the weather-braces and sheets, Mr Lowe. Port, you may, Hutchins; keep her dead to the west.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the man, as the spokes flew through his fingers; and the ship’s head falling off, the wind was brought nearly aft, the two vessels thus moving on almost parallel lines.

“Can you make him out now?” asked the captain, as his mate rejoined him on the quarter-deck.

Long and anxiously did the officer addressed peer into the night. The missionary joined the group, and was made acquainted with what was passing.

“There she is,” said the mate, “right on our quarter. Look! in go her sweeps, for she has made sail, and is standing on the same course as ourselves, keeping way with us under her foresail, mainsail, and jib. That craft could close with us any moment, sir. Shall I rouse the crew?”

The captain did not speak; but stood, his elbows leaning on the weather bulwarks, looking in the direction of the schooner.

“If it is the vessel you suppose, she knows we carry guns,” remarked Wyzinski; “but does not know how many. She will wait for daylight.”

“You are quite right,” replied the captain. “Leave the men quiet, Mr Lowe. We will keep the watch together, and may God send us wind,” and here the old seaman reverently lifted his cap, “for yonder is a dreadful foe.”

The sound of the bell tolled out the hours, the wind, which had freshened, towards morning died away; but all night long the three anxious watchers paced the narrow limits of the brig’s quarter-deck. Time after time did the captain turn to the compass and take the schooner’s bearings. It was useless, for there, under easy sail, exactly where she had first been made out, on the brig’s weather quarter, the white canvas of the pirate could be seen, never varying a point. It was evident she was waiting for daylight to close with her prey.

The Pirate Schooner

Day dawned slowly, the breeze having slightly freshened towards morning, but still the long, low line of the Madagascar coast lay astern. The ocean was quite calm.

“Sail ho!” shouted one of the crew. On the quarter-deck, the captain, the mate, and Wyzinski still kept their anxious watch.

“What do you make her out, Williams?” asked Captain Weber.

“A schooner, sir, under easy sail, standing to the westward.”

Again the captain took the bearings of the dangerous-looking vessel, but with exactly the same result. There she was still on the brig’s weather quarter, and apparently in no sort of a hurry.

“The wicked-looking craft has the heels of us.” remarked the mate; “but we shall have a cap full of wind before long, and then we may tell a different tale.”

“She sees it too; there goes her fore-topsail. She is making sail,” said the captain; then, addressing a man who happened to be passing at the moment, “tell Captain Hughes and the foreign Don I should be glad to speak to them,” he added.

The schooner showed no flag, but setting her fore-topsail, edged a little nearer the wind, so as no longer to be running on a line parallel to the brig, but on one which would eventually bring them to the same spot. The two passengers soon stood on the deck.

“I have sent for you, gentlemen,” said the captain, raising his tarpaulin as he spoke, “to decide on our course. You see yonder schooner?”

All eyes were turned to the long, low black hull and the white canvas.

“Well, I have every reason to suppose she is a pirate, whose crew have committed great ravages in these seas. Several vessels have been chased by her, and one or two having a great number of passengers on board, the little craft, which sails like a witch, has neared them sufficiently to make this out, and has then put up her helm and made sail. But several vessels which are over due at different ports have never been heard of, not a vestige of them and their crews ever having been found. They have simply disappeared.”

“But we are armed,” replied Hughes, “and are double yonder schooner’s tonnage.”

“I know nothing of her armament; no one does,” replied the seaman. “The vessels she has boarded, whose crews could tell, have, I repeat, mysteriously disappeared from the face of the ocean. The captain of the ‘Dawn’ told that when off the island of Mayotte, away to the northward here, a brig was in his company. The two sailed about equally. One night pistol shots were heard, and when morning broke there was no brig, but where she should have been a low, rakish-looking schooner was seen.”

“But what had become of the other?” asked Hughes.

“The pirate had carried her, taken all that she wanted, and scuttled her, making the hull serve as a coffin for her crew.”

“And this you think is the fate the wretches in yonder craft reserve for us?”

“No, I think that they are quite aware of the value of my cargo, which consists of ivory, gold dust, and ostrich feathers. If they can get the brig, they will doubtless fit her out as a sister scourge of the ocean, selling her cargo.”

“And the crew?” asked Hughes.

“Will walk the plank one and all. For the lady, such a fate would be too great a mercy.”

The captain’s weather-beaten countenance looked pale and anxious; Hughes covered his face with his hands, and his strong frame shook as he thought of Isabel at that very moment quietly sleeping below. The missionary was explaining the situation to the Portuguese.

“And now, gentlemen, your advice. But this I must premise. Yonder piratical curs shall never have the brig. I have, several kegs of powder aboard for trading purposes, and so sure as my name is Andrew Weber, I blow her to pieces rather than she turns pirate.”

The soldier dropped the hands which had shaded his face. He gazed long and earnestly at the white sails of the wicked-looking craft, which was now fast creeping up with them. His look was one of high determination and courage.

“There can be but one way, Captain Weber. Haul your brig up to her proper course, arm your crew, load your guns, and let us meet yonder pirate. We cannot fly. Your powder will be a last resource.”

“And you, gentlemen,” inquired the captain, “are of the same advice?”

“There can be no other course,” was the reply.

“Mr Lowe, send the crew aft, one and all.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the mate, cheerily.

The captain paced his quarter-deck moodily and in silence. Dom Maxara went below, while Hughes and the missionary looked gloomily over the ocean.

“My lads,” said the captain, “yonder schooner is a pirate. For months her people have plundered and massacred inoffensive ships and their crews. They are the same Malays we met in Saint Augustine’s Bay, and we purged the old barky’s deck of the rapscallions. We have lost five of ours, but their death was avenged. Yonder blackguard comes with murder and piracy in his hold. He has a full cargo of both, but so long as Andrew Weber lives, this brig shall never be his. We will fight to the last man, and that last man, mark me my lads well, that last man, or boy, no matter which, fires the powder in the magazine!”

A loud cheer burst from the crew.

“And now, my lads, to your arms! Mr Lowe, in with the studding-sails, take a pull at the lee sheets and braces, starboard you may, bring her head west-south-west!”

The wind at last was freshening, the sea was calm, and the “Halcyon” was making some four knots an hour; but the very smoothness of the ocean was against her, for her breadth of beam, rounded sides, and greater tonnage would have told in her favour hod the waves been rough; the schooner naturally labouring more in such a case.

As it was, everything favoured the latter, save that over the land hung a heavy cloud, which had been growing denser and denser. Its edges were ragged, and the captain often looked towards that quarter, conscious that in it lay his only hope.

The two vessels were now rapidly approaching each other, the black hull of the schooner becoming every moment more and more distinctly visible.

“Show our colours,” said the captain, and the Union Jack streamed out from the peak halyards.

“She makes no reply,” remarked the mate. “The bloody-minded villains have no flag to fight under.”

“Look here, Mr Lowe,” said the captain, “that craft is in no hurry; she is handing her fore-topsail again, and there goes her flag!”

“Fiery red, by George!—nothing less than blood will satisfy them.”

Half an hour would bring the two vessels within hailing distance, and Captain Weber made all his dispositions. The arm-chest which had been sent below had been again hoisted up on deck, and placed under the charge of Captain Hughes.

The two nine-pounders were heavily loaded, and the men had breakfasted.

“Mr Lowe, I intend, if yonder villain will allow me, to pass under his stern, giving him the contents of our two guns, and then luff right up into the wind, and away on the other tack.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate; “a stern chase is a long one.”

“If we had the good fortune to cripple him, we should be safe; but have the men ready to run the two guns over, and fire as I go about. Send Adams to the wheel, and let the men stand by the sheets and braces.”

Mr Lowe was a steady, cool, courageous officer, and his dispositions were soon made. All was quiet on board the brig as she slipped through the water; while the schooner, her decks literally covered with men, came up rapidly, evidently intending to board.

Captain Weber stood on the weather quarter, as the wicked little craft came sweeping up, her enormous mainsail well filled, and her sharp bows cutting the water like a knife. She had a flush deck fore and aft, and forward was built like a wedge. There appeared to be no ports.

“Schooner, ahoy!” shouted he, as the two craft neared each other.

A musket-shot was the reply, which missed. The captain raised his hand, and the roar of the two nine-pounders was heard. Down came the schooner’s foresail, as she flew up into the wind, and a yell of vengeance, mingled with cries of pain, rose from her crowded decks.

“Run the guns over!” shouted the captain. “Man the starboard head-braces! Tend the boom-sheet! Haul on the weather-braces and jib-sheet! Hard a-port, Adams, hard a-port!”

Shooting up into the wind, the brig payed round on her heel, the two guns being again fired into the schooner’s bows, as the sails filled, and the “Halcyon” stood on the other tack.

“Hurrah, my lads!” shouted the delighted captain. “We’ve given her a taste of our metal.”

A spattering fire ran along the schooner’s decks, the balls striking the brig’s bulwarks, but without doing any damage.

All seemed confusion on board the smaller vessel, the halyards of whose foresail having been shot away, and nothing save the jib counteracting forward the overpowering pressure of the enormous mainsail aft, she had flown up into the wind, with her sails flapping and shivering. The crew were shouting, gesticulating, and running here and there.

The “Halcyon,” on the contrary, stood steadily on her course, from time to time firing the nine-pounder from her quarter-deck, but, from want of practice of her crew, without doing any apparent damage.

The shot soon began to fall short, and the “Halcyon,” tacking once more, lay her course with a gentle wind from the eastward, and a smooth sea. Three miles of salt-water were between her and her antagonist, before the schooner’s foresail was again set, when the vessel once more made sail on a wind and with her gaff topsails, fore and mainsail, fore-topmast staysail, and jib, seeming to fly through the water, making three feet for the “Halcyon’s” one, going well to windward. The glass, however, still showed a vast amount of bustle and disorder on her decks; and Captain Weber, rubbing his hands, dived down below into the cabin to breakfast.

“Call me at once if there is any change on deck, Mr Lowe; but I think that fellow’s had enough of us,” said the jubilant master.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the mate, taking charge of the deck.

“Keep a bright look out on yonder jagged cloud; it will take in our flying kites for us before sunset,” were the captain’s last words as he disappeared down the hatchway.

Below, the table had been laid for breakfast by the steward, who, with all a sailor’s carelessness, had proceeded with his ordinary duty, just as though nothing out of the common way had happened. In the cabin the passengers were gathered, if such they may be termed, for the scenes of peril through which they had passed had so identified them with the brig, that they seemed to look upon her as their home, while the captain, quite unused to carry passengers, and having seen the men of the party fighting as if under his orders, and Isabel wounded on his decks, had got quite to consider them as part and parcel of his crew.

Captain Hughes appeared thoughtful and preoccupied; but the rest, the master included, revelled in the idea of danger past.

“We lie our course, and shall soon have plenty of wind,” he remarked, drawing towards himself a massive English ham, which he proceeded to carve. “I only wish I had a few more guns, and I would not let that blackguard off so easily.”

“You think we shall have a storm?” asked Wyzinski.

“It is just the season for it in these seas,” replied the captain, “and yonder cloud over the land will make itself felt before long. The mercury is falling in the barometer rapidly.”

“Do you think our guns did much damage among the Malays?”

“No. It was a lucky shot that brought the villains’ foresail on deck; but even in this smooth sea it needs practice to make gunners, and my lads have had none.”

“But you think the pirate has left us?” It was Captain Hughes who put the question, anxiously.

“The fellow is hugging the wind instead of running down to us; and as he completely outsails us, it is a proof that he does not wish to close.”

“How do you account for the great confusion on board her? With so strong a crew, the foresail should have been hoisted directly.”

“The lubbers can fight like savages, but can’t sail their ship, that’s all,” said the captain, laughing.

Steps were heard coming down the hatchway, and the mate opened the cabin-door.