The Ruined Cities of Zululand

“The schooner is edging nearer us, Captain Weber,” he said, “and there is some long black object on her decks I can’t quite make out.”

“I’ll be on deck in a moment, Mr Lowe. Steward, give me a small glass of brandy to finish with.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the seaman, as he raised the glass, “here’s to our voyage, and—”

The word was never spoken, for a distant but loud report, followed by the rending of wood, interrupted him. For a moment the old seaman stood like a statue, the next he was on deck.

The first glance explained to him the reason of the continued confusion on board the schooner, which a moment before he had sneered at as a proof of incapacity. The pirate had gone to windward, and now lay on the brig’s weather quarter, the tack of her mainsail hauled up, quite out of the reach of her fire. Her crew had been busy getting up from her hold a long eighteen-pounder, which was shipped amidships, and worked on a swivel. The first shot had struck the “Halcyon’s” bulwarks, just abaft the foremast, leaving a long white strip, where the wood had been torn away.

Both captain and mate looked at each other, for here seamanship was powerless.

“The bloody-minded villains!” ejaculated the mate.

“They have us at their mercy,” sighed the master. “Sailing more than three feet for our one, there they can stick and pound away at us as they like.”

“Shall we try our range, Captain Weber?”

“Do so, but it is quite useless,” was the reply, as the seaman leaned his elbows on the weather bulwarks, and gazed steadily at the schooner.

“Take good aim, my lads, and fire when you are ready.”

The light report of the gun, differing so greatly from the loud heavy thud of the eighteen-pounder, was heard, and the master noted the hall as it flew from wave to wave, scattering the spray, but finally dropping with a splash into the sea, a few hundred yards short of the schooner.

“I thought as much,” growled the captain. “The scoundrels have well calculated their distance.”

A puff of white smoke from the schooner’s deck was followed by the heavy boom of the eighteen-pound gun as the ball came whistling through the air. Captain Weber held his breath for a moment, looking anxiously at his spars, but the projectile, being aimed too high, passed between the masts, pitching into the sea beyond.

“It’s hard lines, Lowe, to serve as a target to those scoundrels,” he said; “and yet I see nothing for it.”

“Our only hope is in yonder cloud. If it would but come on to blow, the sea would get up quickly, and that craft would have her aim spoiled.”

“Could you not tack and stand towards her?” asked the missionary, who at that moment came upon deck with Dom Maxara.

“It would be useless. Yonder schooner lies up to the wind a couple of points nearer than we can do. It is the advantage her fore and aft sails give her; besides, she has the heels of us, and can choose her distance and position. We have nothing to do but to hold on and trust to chance.”

Again the white cloud of smoke on the schooner’s decks, and once more the iron messenger came flying over the wave on its deadly mission. The ball struck the brig’s quarter, and glancing upwards, broke its way through the deck, covering it with splinters. The man, Adams, was at the helm, and the spokes flew through his hands as he tottered for a moment, and then fell heavily forward. The mate sprang to his place, and, seizing the wheel, brought the brig rapidly on to her course, while two seamen hurrying aft bore away the wounded man, a dark stain on the white deck marking the spot where he had fallen, a large splinter having struck him on the temple.

“We must think of your daughter, Dom Maxara,” said Captain Weber. “The brig is utterly powerless; but it is better that these fellows sink us, than that they put foot on her decks.”

Dona Isabel sat in the cabin, where the breakfast things yet lay on the table, while beside her was Captain Hughes, his arm passed round her waist. The tears were standing in her eyes, and her cheek was pale, for the soldier had been telling her what sort of people the schooner’s crew were, and what fate would be theirs if captured. The tale had been as delicately worded as possible, for it was a hard one even from a lover’s mouth.

“Cheer up, Isabel,” he continued; “there is always hope so long as we keep the Malays at a distance; and if we could only have wind we might yet escape.”

“I had hoped to have lived for you, Enrico,” replied Isabel, her head resting on her lover’s shoulder. “I can, at least, die with you.”

Dom Maxara entered the cabin, seating himself beside his daughter. Placing her hand in his, she repeated—

“We can at least die together.”

“There is still a little hope,” said the anxious father; “the breeze is freshening, and with it the sea is getting up, disturbing the schooner’s aim. The wind may yet save us. Should it fail us, there is one thing remaining.”

“And what is that, father?”

“As you said, to die together, Isabel, sooner than that a daughter of the Guzmans of Castillo should become the cast-off slave of a Malay pirate.”

The tears had been standing in Isabel’s eyes, and as she now turned them on her lover, there was a look of ineffable tenderness in the large black orbs.

“A strange meeting ours has been, Enrico; a strange life we have led together, living years in weeks; but you were quite as near death, my promised husband, when first we met, and yet you stand here by my side.”

“There is still hope, Isabel; every moment it increases with the rising sea,” replied Hughes.

“Hope or not,” continued the excited Isabel, speaking hysterically, “they shall see that the daughter of sunny Portugal knows how to die. We shall never tread our dear land again.”

The loud thud of the pirate’s long eighteen-pounder was here heard, and all held their breath, listening for the crashing of the timbers, but no such sound followed.

“And I who thought to show you, Enrico, the vineyards and the orange blossoms of fair Portugal. It is hard, father, to die so young.”

The old noble’s face worked convulsively, but his eyes were dry. Isabel had once more sat down between her father and her lover, her head resting on his shoulder; but one hand clasped in that of the noble. The soldier’s face wore a sad and dejected appearance; but there was determination in the firm lines of the closed mouth and contracted brow.

“Isabel, this is foolish. What men could do we will do, and have done. I would give what remains to me of life that you were not in this ship. What was a few short hours since the joy and pleasure of my existence, is now turned to bitterness and grief. We have done all men can do, I repeat, and, if needs be, we must perish together sooner than that worse befall us.”

Again the loud thud came down on the wind, followed by several sharp cracks like rifle reports, with the crashing of wood and the tramp of men, Captain Weber’s voice dominating the confusion.

Isabel was engaged in prayer, her eyes were closed, for the riot above, produced by the tumbling masts, was something fearful. The tramp of feet on the deck, and the hurrying to and fro as the captain shouted to his men to clear away the wreck of the brig’s spars which she had lost from the fire of the enemy, added to what for a few minutes seemed inextricable confusion.

Dejected and discouraged, Hughes had remained below, taking no notice of what was passing on deck, and perfectly aware that his presence was useless. He sat looking into Isabel’s face, and quietly waiting for the time when the schooner should bear down on the helpless brig to take possession, and the moment for the closing actions of life should come. Beside them sat the old noble, his face showing signs of deep emotion, as he too grieved, not for himself, but for his daughter. She looked very beautiful as she lay back, her head supported on her lover’s shoulder, her lips parted showing the white teeth, the eyes closed, and the long dark lashes wet with tears, with one hand clasped in her father’s.

“Captain Weber would be glad to speak to you, sir,” said the steward Masters, touching his cap.

“I will come,” replied Hughes.

Gently placing Isabel in her father’s arms, the soldier leaned over the half unconscious girl, and pressed his lips to her forehead, then turned to go.

The action seemed to rouse her, for rising suddenly, she threw her arms round him. “Enrico mio, do not leave me. If die we must, let us die together.” A flood of tears came to her relief, and she sobbed hysterically.

“I will return, Isabel—fear not,” he said, as he gently unloosed the arms which held him, and led her back to her father. “There may be some better prospect in store for us. I will return.”

When Captain Hughes reached the deck, he at once saw that if their chance of escape before was small, it had greatly diminished. An eighteen-pound shot had buried itself in the heart of the main-topmast, the wind was coming in hot puffs from the land, and the sails just at that moment feeling a heavier strain than usual, the wounded mast had gone over the side with a loud crash, carrying with it sails and yards, and now floated astern clear of the brig, leaving her running before the wind, with only her main fore and fore-topmast standing, the stump of a splintered spar marking what had been a stout main-topmast.

To windward lay the wicked-looking schooner which had done all the mischief, and astern the dark, dense, ragged mass of clouds from which the heavy puffs came now and then moaning over the sea. A hot haze had crept over the ocean, not having the appearance of clouds, but still veiling the sun.

“See,” said Captain Weber, laying his hand on Hughes’ shoulder, pointing to the schooner as he did so; “see, she hauls down her main tack, and is running down to us; she has us completely at her mercy.”

“Can we do nothing with our guns, Captain Weber?”

“Yes, we may fire them once as the villains board. You see all is ready.”

The captain pointed to the two nine-pounders, which were loaded to the muzzle. The men were armed, and went about their duties with a dogged sullenness which showed their stern determination.

“Lowe will have charge of the forecastle, and I, with your friend, take the quarter-deck, the crew being equally divided.”

“You will let me fight by your side?” replied the soldier.

“Not so,” answered the old seaman. “Yours is a sterner duty. Any one can fight when his blood is up, and death sure, whatever happen. I am going to lower the Spanish Don and his daughter into the hold, and your station will be beside them.”

“And do you for a moment think I am going to be shut up like a bandicoot in a hole, while others fight for life and liberty?” indignantly asked the soldier.

Captain Weber grasped Hughes by the hand, looking into his face, and pointing to the schooner as he spoke:

“The crew of yonder pirate are not human beings. They are steeped in murder and crime. Our fate is death, sure and certain death. Maddened by the destruction of their comrades, by their defeat in yonder Bay, no torments will be spared us. It will not be simply walking the plank, but the worst torture those practised villains can invent, which awaits us.”

“Look at her white sails, and tapering spars, how beautiful she is, as she sheers down on us. Is all this possible?”

“More is possible,” replied the master, “Death will be our fate, but not the lady’s. A life-long servitude of the vilest description on board yon floating hell will be her fate!”

Captain Hughes covered his face with his hands, and his tall, sinewy frame shook with emotion. The loud boom of the eighteen-pounder, and the crashing of the shot as it plunged into the brig’s bows, the rending and riving of her timbers, were unnoticed.

“There are ten barrels of powder in the hold; to you, as the man most interested in it, I give the charge of the magazine. The barrels are piled one on another. Yours should be a cool head and a determined hand. When the last hope is over, when the brig is carried, as carried she must be, but then only, fire your pistol into the nearest keg, and rid the seas of yonder miscreant, whose white sails bear him to his doom.”

A rattling peal of thunder came from the dark mass of clouds, while a vivid flash of forked lightning seemed to bury itself in the waves.

The soldier’s face was pale as that of a corpse; as he removed his hand, the lines of the mouth twitched nervously.

“Your orders shall be obeyed to the letter,” he said, as he struck his open palm into that of the captain.

The two stood for a moment on the deck hand in hand, looking into one another’s eyes. The stern, determined face of the old seaman showed no trace of feeling as he spoke.

“Do not think, my friend, that I feel nothing. This was to have been my last voyage. The brig was half mine. We shall disappear from the face of the ocean, and in their home, in the mountains of Cumberland, a mother and her two sons will remain in ignorance of what far-away place holds the husband’s, the father’s bones.” Suddenly changing his tones, “Now, my lads, rig out a chair,” he continued, “and we will lower the lady out of harm’s way. Captain Hughes, will you tell Dona Isabel we are ready?”

It is a terrible thing, that waiting for death, to those in the full enjoyment of health and strength. When it is met face to face in the excitement of the fight, in the crash of battle, or the chaos of elemental strife, it is terrible enough. When it comes to the worn and exhausted frame, after months, perhaps years, of agony and suffering, as a liberator, as a kind and merciful friend,—even then it is feared: that step into the vast and unfathomable abyss of the future; that new world, whence none have returned. But here it was far otherwise.

Life, health, strength, all were there; and take but away from the face of the ocean that dark, beautifully moulded hull, with its long tapering spars, and canvas as white as the driven snow; take away that floating pandemonium, with its beautiful outside appearance, and its crew of men hardened in crime, and steeped in blood and murder; and not only health, strength, and life were there, but high hopes and happiness were the lot of those who were on board the dismantled brig.

Isabel had regained her courage. Her long hair floating behind, her eyes showing no trace of tears, she had walked along the deck leaning on her lover’s arm. The crew looked at her pityingly as she passed. More than one strong man shook his clenched fist in the direction of the pirate, as Isabel, her foot on the first step of the ladder, took her last look at the scene around her. There lay the schooner, rapidly nearing the brig, which was now running dead before the wind. Far astern, a long green line on the lead-coloured sea marked the coming squall; ahead, far as could be seen, the dark-coloured ocean, over which the hot haze seemed to hang heavily, while the splintered mainmast, and torn bulwarks alone showed the dire distress of the brig’s crew. The pirate had ceased firing, for the sea was rising rapidly; the black squall, too, seemed coming up like a racehorse astern, and it was time her bloody work was finished. Isabel passed forward, one squeeze of the hand—for not a word was spoken—and she was carefully and gently sent down into the hold, her father following; the old noble having taken a formal leave of all, thanked the crew, raising his hat with punctilious politeness as he was lowered away. None now remained except the soldier. Round his waist he wore a belt, in which were placed two six-barrelled revolvers. Beside him stood the missionary, his pale, thoughtful face calm as usual, not a trace of emotion visible. He held in his left hand a heavy double-barrelled rifle, and, as he grasped his friend’s with his right.

“Hughes,” he said, “you have the hardest task among us. We shall fight to the last, relying on you, on your calmness and determination. No entreaty, no delusional hope must move you.”

“Ay, ay,” muttered the seaman, “you may trust him.”

And it was evident he could be trusted, even in this dire extremity. His face was deadly pale, but the firmly compressed lips, the determined look, the high, broad, clear forehead, all told their own tale, as, without a word, he wrung his friend’s hand, and seizing the rope which dangled free, swung himself from the deck and dropped hand over hand into the hold below.

“To your stations, my lads, and we will rid the seas of the villains yet!” shouted the captain.

The brig carried little cargo, and that of a light description. Boxes and bales were neatly ranged in her hold, and piles of elephants’ tusks were to be seen here and there. A large dark lanthorn threw a small circle of light around, but beyond this all was darkness. Ten barrels or kegs containing powder had been placed end on, near each other, forming two tiers. Several had been broken open, and the wood loosely replaced.

Walking carefully towards the pile, Hughes removed the head of a cask and verified the contents. There lay the mass of black glittering coarse grains, which were to send them to their doom. Seated on a heavy case near was the Portuguese noble, and at his feet in prayer, her large black eyes tearless and raised to heaven, kneeled Isabel, the dim light just showing the two, as Dom Maxara leaned over his daughter, his grey hair mingling with her raven tresses. Having replaced the heading of the cask, the soldier looked to his pistols, examining the caps and the lock, then replacing them, walked to Isabel’s side and knelt down.

All seemed still on deck, and the noise of the rushing water could be heard as the brig surged on through the seas. Half an hour passed, each minute seeming an age; for it was a fearful thing to be caged there in the darkness, knowing nothing of what was going on. Sometimes the father’s heavy sobs could not be restrained, as he leaned over his daughter; but Isabel’s eyes were dry, and she prayed fervently; the deep darkness in which the hold lay out of the feeble rays of the lanthorn, completing its resemblance to the tomb. A loud shout and a spattering fire were indistinctly heard, telling that the last moment was near; then the rushing sound of the wind as the brig heeled over before the strength of the squall, two shots, a long cheer, with the words, “Starboard! hard a-starboard!” shouted from the deck. Gasping Isabel in his arms, Hughes rose calmly and deliberately; not a word passed, all power of speech had left him. One kiss, one long last kiss, and he strode calmly and deliberately towards the fatal pile. Passing his hand over his eyes, he removed the heading and plunged his fingers into the black mass. A loud shriek from Isabel rang out as she rushed across the space which divided them, and threw herself into his arms. Rising, the old noble steadied himself by a pile of cases, his eyes seemed glaring out of their sockets as he strained them in the direction of the powder casks. Then came a terrible shock, the crash of splintering wood, the roar of the tempest, which had burst in fury over the doomed brig, and amidst all, one loud, despairing cry, as though the last united effort of a hundred voices. Pressing his lips to those of Isabel, his left arm encircling her—

“Mine, Isabel, in death if not in life,” he murmured, as he thrust the muzzle of the cocked pistol into the powder cask.

The hatchway opened, the light streamed down into the dreary dark hold, and he knew the pirates were upon them.

His arm tightened round Isabel’s waist, his eyes glared upwards, and his finger contracted on the trigger.

“Hold your hand, Hughes!” were the words which came to his ears, shouted in his friend’s voice. “Hold your hand! God, even at the last moment, has looked down upon us, and we are saved!”

The Pirate’s Fate

His passengers in the hold, Captain Weber, fully relying on the soldier’s promise, and certain his brig could never fall into the hands of the pirates, had made his last dispositions. An old sailor named Porter was at the wheel, the crew, as it had previously been determined, were divided into two watches, one under the mate on the forecastle, the other with Wyzinski, commanded by the captain. The break of the quarter-deck had been fortified with a number of bales and boxes roused up from below, an opening for the nine-pounders having been left. The same arrangements had been made for the forecastle, and the companion ladders removed. The “Halcyon” surged along, the wind aft, under the little sail she could show, but the schooner was coming up, hand-over-hand, the wind over her quarter. The brig already felt the coming squall, and, had she not lost her masts, would have cared little for the pirate. Hauling down his foresail under his mainsail and jib, the piratical craft came sweeping up with the diminished sail. It was a beautiful sight as her low black hull drew through the waves, her flush decks crowded with men, and the long eighteen-pounder slewed fore and aft. Feeling the first puffs of the squall, she heeled over, showing the bright copper nearly to her keel, while the water swirled in jets from her wedge-like bows. On she came, driving through the seas until she was a couple of lengths only from the brig, and then a discharge of musketry, and a shout to heave-to followed.

“Run up the Union Jack,” said Captain Weber, in deep guttural tones, “we will show them the temper of the old flag yet.”

“Do you see yonder fellow at the wheel? If I did not know to the contrary, I should say it is the very man who led the attack in St Augustine’s Bay,” exclaimed the missionary.

“You are a dead rifle shot,” replied the captain, speaking slowly and deliberately, “are you not?”

Another hail from the schooner followed. She was now, as has been already said, running under her mainsail and jib, and yet fore-reaching on the brig though her main tack was hauled up, her crew once more getting the eighteen-pounder ready to discharge before boarding.

“I am,” replied Wyzinski, the schooner’s hail being unanswered.

“Pick off that man when I raise my hand. Remember, sir,” added the captain, speaking sharply and sternly, “remember, sir, I am about to play my last stake, and all depends on your aim.”

Leaving Wyzinski, the seaman stood by the wheel, his eyes fixed on the schooner. It was evidently her intention to pass under the brig’s bows, and range up under her lee using her gun before boarding. So near were the two craft that a biscuit could have been thrown aboard either.

“Port a little. Luff you may, Porter—”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the man. “Luff it is, sir,” and the schooner passed ahead.

“Now!” shouted the captain, raising his hand. The double report of Wyzinski’s rifle followed. The bulky Malay, shot through the back, loosed his hold of the wheel, the spokes flew round as he threw up his hands, and with one long unearthly yell fell forward dead on the deck; the schooner, as Captain Weber foresaw, under the pressure of her enormous mainsail, flying up into the wind, and almost crossing the brig’s fore-foot.

“Starboard! hard a-starboard!” roared the captain, as the whole fury of the squall struck the two vessels. Dashing madly onward, the “Halcyon” tore through the water as with one broad sheer to port she neared the black hull. For a moment her decks seemed to overshadow those of the doomed craft, while her broad bow, with all the force of the tempest driving her, struck the schooner amidships.

“Hurrah!” shouted the master, in his excitement, “Hurrah! To Hell with the pirates!”

The shock was tremendous, as the brig bore down her small antagonist bodily, burying her beneath the sea. The crashing sound of splintering wood followed, a hundred half-naked yelling figures were grouped on the schooner’s decks, the next a few floating spars lay astern, a few drowning wretches cried for the mercy they themselves had refused, and the “Halcyon” passed on her way. Half-a-dozen Malays had escaped, as, clutching at the ropes and gear which hung from the jib-boom broken with the shock, they scrambled on board, to meet the cutlasses of the enraged crew. Their bodies were hove overboard, and then not a vestige remained of the dreaded pirate, the scourge of the Indian sea.

Leaping from the quarter-deck, Wyzinski hauled at the hatchway, shouting down it to his friend below. He was just in time, for but another moment and the brig, disembarrassed of her enemy, would have been blown to atoms; as it was, a wild cheer burst from the crew when five minutes later Hughes was hoisted on deck, his pistol black with the loose powder into which it had been thrust, and his face pale with excitement.