The Ruined Cities of Zululand

“We are in the hands of Providence, dear lady,” said the captain, as the whole party sought the cabin. “With a half-dismasted ship, a heavy gale in prospect, and a lee shore, there is much to be done; but the great peril is over. You can clear the deck, Mr Lowe, of all the boxes and bales we roused up. I don’t think the pirates will trouble us any more. Take the foresail off her, and send the carpenter aft.”

The captain had his hands full on deck. Scudding before the wind is ever a dangerous thing, because the waves following so fast are apt to break on board, if the vessel is not propelled through the water with a speed greater than that of the following sea.

In the cabin, that cabin which they had never thought to see again, the whole party knelt, and led by Wyzinski, returned thanks to Heaven, for their lives thus almost miraculously spared. The missionary prayed long and eloquently, for it seemed to him that his had been the act which had resulted in sending the whole crew of that terrible vessel to the bottom. True, life, and more than life, was at stake; true, also, that the schooner, with her low, black hull and white canvas, had been a scourge in those seas, still the loud despairing shriek which rose on the air, as the brig’s bows buried themselves in the frail timbers of the lightly-constructed vessel, rang in his ears, and though an act of necessity, it was none the less a terrible one. A fearful crisis in the lives of all had passed by, and with the sense of relief came that of deep gratitude to the hand which had turned aside the terrible fate so lately hanging over them. The missionary, then, prayed long and fervently, and never had he an auditory, more disposed to join him with heart and soul. A long life may be the soldier’s destiny, a bright career that of the Portuguese noble, a happy lot fall to the share of the dark-eyed maiden whose face is now buried in her hands, as she follows the missionary’s words, but never can any of the three actors in the scene forget that moment, when with the muzzle of the pistol buried in the powder keg, the forefinger bent on the trigger of the cocked weapon, one second would have hurled into eternity not only themselves but the entire crew.

On deck the scene was a wild one. The wind had gradually freshened, and the sea in consequence risen, the ocean, far as the eye could reach, being one sheet of green, crested with white foam, the brig rolling through the waves under her fore-topsail only, at a great rate. Two serious holes in the hull, caused by the entrance of the eighteen-pound shot, had been plugged in a makeshift manner, it is true, but still they had been boarded over.

Notwithstanding all this the party in the cabin was a merry one. So hopeless, so utterly desperate had been their situation that morning, that all the danger of a lee shore, all the discomforts of a small vessel during a heavy gale at sea, were forgotten. The old noble, too, had accepted the position which had been made for him. After late events, more particularly the half-hour passed in the brig’s hold, it was impossible to think of Captain Hughes as anything but his daughter’s affianced husband, and as such he had been frankly and fairly accepted. The marriage was to take place on their arrival in Portugal, and the whole party to proceed to Europe together.

The captain sat poring over an Admiralty chart laid before him on the table. The old noble was dozing in one corner, the missionary communing with his own thoughts and Isabel and her lover talking in low tones. The roar of the wind was heard even in the cabin, the creaking of the ropes as the gale tore through them, and now and then a wave larger than common would break over the brig, deluging her decks.

“Why don’t you run for Delagoa Bay, captain?” said Hughes, as the seaman rose, placing his hand on the table to steady himself.

“We are far to the southward of Delagoa Bay,” replied he; “the only port available is Port Natal.”

“Then run for that,” rejoined Hughes.

“It’s a nasty coast, and there is a bar there of which I am afraid. It was of this I was thinking; for some of those makeshift spars may leave us at any moment, and then I must lie-to.”

“Is the harbour dangerous at all times?” asked Hughes.

“Most certainly not; but with an easterly gale there can be no communication with the shore. I do not know the harbour, and have never been there but once, which makes the attempt, if I am forced to it, the more dangerous.”

“But you have been there once, and consequently, with a seaman’s instinct, know the place,” said Hughes.

“I will tell you how I know it, and what that knowledge is worth,” said the captain, seating himself beside Isabel, “and then when I go on deck you can tell the story to Dona Isabel. She may be very anxious to set her pretty little foot on land, but hardly in the same way I did. Some years since I was first-mate of the brig ‘Vestal,’ sailing under the command of Captain Bell. We dropped our anchor on Thursday morning, just off the bar, close to Port Natal. The following one it began to blow, and all that day the gale increased, just as this one has done, and from the same direction. Steward, just mix me a glass of grog. Will you join me, captain? Better had than wish you had. No—well, you have not to pass the night on deck, as I have—but to continue: All that unlucky Thursday the gale steadily increased, and the sea came rolling in mountains high. Near us lay a schooner called the ‘Little Nell,’ and further to sea a steamer ‘The Natal.’ This latter got up her steam, and under a full head went out. It was a glorious sight to see her as the waves swept her decks, and sometimes she seemed more under water than above it. The schooner parted from her anchors, and ran right across the bar, thumping heavily, but she was light, and managed to cross, though she stripped all the copper from her bottom, and had to be docked. Towards eight o’clock, our anchors parted too, and we drifted bodily in, the big waves pounding at our brig, and sweeping clean over us.”

“But why did you not try to run over the bar like the schooner?” asked Hughes.

“You shall hear,” continued the captain, leisurely sipping his grog. “Our skipper lost his head. I do believe we might have run over the bar, and, at all events, the crew have been saved, but no,—all went against us. He let go his third anchor on the bar itself. Wood and iron could not stand the fearful sea running there. She struck right between the breakwaters, the sea dashing clean over her, and the brig thumping heavily. The masts went over the side, and at last one enormous wave turned her over on her broadside, we clinging to the upper bulwarks. It was a fearful sight, for we could see the lights moving about on shore close to us. The hurricane never diminished, and the seas made a clean breach over us, carrying away from time to time some of the crew. We held on our best, for, so near land, we could not think we should be left to perish, but we waited in vain.”

“Could not a lifeboat live in that sea?” asked Hughes.

“Ay, ay, but the lubbers had none, and for anything I know have not got one yet. Lashed to the bulwarks, we waited for help all through that fearful night, but when the grey light of day came, we saw that there was no hope. I and a sailor named Hesketh determined to take our chance. We lashed ourselves to a stout spar each, and tried hard to persuade the others to do as much, but they would not. The captain was nearly speechless, and did not seem to know what he was doing. It was a fearful moment when we two threw ourselves into the raging ocean.”

“You could both swim, I suppose?” asked Hughes.

“Ay, ay; we could swim, but what use was swimming in such a sea? The first wave rolled us over and over, like corks, but could not sink us. We remained several hours in the water, every moment expecting death. I was insensible most of the time.”

“Did you remain near each other?”

“No, after the last shake of the hand as we jumped overboard, we parted company. Two lads found me rolled on the beach like a log, and help being forthcoming I was kindly treated and restored, but it was weeks before I could get about. The sailor, Hesketh, was a good deal bruised, but managed better than I did.”

“And the captain and remaining crew?” inquired Hughes.

“Perished. Not a trace of the brig remained. Captain Bell, belonging to the port, and Captain Wilson of the Point, the landing agents, and other authorities, had fires lit, and did what they could, but there was no lifeboat, and save myself and Hesketh, brig and crew went to Davy Jones’s locker, stock and block.”

“I can easily conceive your antipathy to an anchorage at Port Natal during a gale of wind,” remarked his hearer.

“If our jury masts only hold, and the gale don’t increase, we shall do very well; and now I’m for deck, and I would advise Dona Isabel to turn in. Good night, Senhora,” said the old seaman, rising, and in his heavy leggings, waterproof, and broad sou’-wester, clumping up the companion into the rough night; and when the clear ring of the brig’s bell came from the forecastle, striking eight times, the cabin was empty, and a solitary lamp shed a feeble light as it swayed to and fro, the brig pitching heavily, her timbers groaning and creaking, the gale roaring over her decks, and moaning through her rigging.

Towards midnight, Captain Weber and his mate came below, the steward mixing for them two stiff glasses of grog.

“How’s the barometer, sir?” asked the mate, as he passed the sleeve of his coat over his mouth, after having taken a good pull at the steaming liquor.

Captain Weber stepped into his own cabin, remained some minutes, and then came out again, looking very grave.

“We have not had the worst of it yet,” he replied; “the mercury has fallen since four bells struck.”

The chart was placed on the table, and the ship’s position verified.

“There’s nothing for it, Lowe,” said the captain, “with a falling glass, a lee shore, and a heavy gale, there’s nothing else for it. Heave the brig to until morning.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the officer, rising, and draining the last drop in the tumbler, “it’s a good moment too, for there seems a lull.”

The mate went on deck, leaving Captain Weber poring over the chart. His broad-brimmed sou’-wester lay on the table, his coat was open, the wet dropping from it, and his grey hair was dripping with salt brine.

A momentary bustle on deck was heard. A noise of trampling feet, and a few hoarse words of command. A heavy sea struck the ship, flooding her decks; a cabin-door opened, and the steward was called; but still Captain Weber remained poring over his chart. Hours passed by, and at last the anxious man rose, and went into his own cabin once more. His face was very grave when he came out, for the mercury in the barometer had again fallen, and it now stood so low as to foretell a hurricane.

Morning broke slowly over an ocean whose long, green, angry looking waves were lashed into boiling foam. Not a sail was in sight, but the thin haze hung over the sea. The brig was doing her best, hove-to, under a closely reefed make shift main-topsail, and fore and main-staysails, the gale, if anything, having diminished in fury.

“It is a grand sight, Isabel,” said Hughes, as towards ten o’clock the whole party stood on the quarter-deck, looking over the wild, angry ocean, the speaker holding on to the weather bulwarks, with one hand, the other being passed round Isabel’s waist, who clung to him for support. Dom Maxara stood at the break of the quarter-deck, looking the picture of misery, while the missionary under the lee of the companion, was gazing over the raging ocean, his face perfectly calm and composed. Near the wheel stood the captain and his mate, in their rough sailor dreadnoughts and dripping sou’-westers.

“Well, I will never wish to see a gale on the ocean again,” said Isabel; “but how warm the wind is.”

A report like that of a heavy gun was heard over the howling of the gale, which now came down with double force, and the white canvas which had been the main-topsail was seen flying to leeward, while the shreds and ribbons left in the bolt-ropes were beating violently about in the gale. Losing the sail aft which had so powerfully helped to keep her to the wind, the brig’s bows fell off, just as the whole weight of the hurricane came down upon her. Striking her broadside on, a huge wave bore her down on her broadside into the trough of the sea, pouring over the bulwarks, and flooding her decks fore and aft. The “Halcyon” was on her beam ends, with the full fury of the hurricane raging around her. The crash of splintering wood was heard over the roar of the tempest, as the fore-topmast, with its heavy top and all its gear, came tumbling down on deck, smashing in the planking of the forecastle, and driving out the lee bulwarks, as the heavy blocks and massive wood-work surged to and fro.

Slowly the brig righted, and the voice of the master was heard above the confusion.

“Steady lads; out axes, and cut away the wreck.”

Not a man moved, for some hundred yards away a monster wave, tipped with white, was rolling furiously towards the brig. The men were stunned by the suddenness of the misfortune.

The first-mate, seeing the imminence of the danger, sprang forward; seizing an axe, he and the missionary, who had quietly followed him, were soon busy cutting away the wreck. Dom Maxara had disappeared.

“Hold on, lads, hold on for your lives,” roared the captain, as the great sea struck the brig on her starboard bow, pouring over her decks, and burying her beneath the foam, and then passed away astern. “Cut away cheerily,” now he shouted, as the bright axes flashed among the tangled mass of ropes, for their hesitation was over, and the crew, led by the first-mate and the missionary, were now working well.

Two crushed and mangled bodies lay among the broken spars, but there was no time to look to the wounded, for the safety of all depended on the wreck being cleared away, and the brig got before the wind.

“Man the down-haul. Tend the staysail sheet. Let go the halyards. Haul down,” were the rapid words of command shouted by the master, as the main-staysail was hauled down.

Again a heavy sea poured over the brig’s bows, but as it passed aft, with it went the remains of the fore-topmast, with all its tangled mass of ropes and blocks. A moment of comparative calm succeeded, and the men lay out on the fore-yard. The close-reefed foresail was set, the stout sail threatening to blow bodily out of the bolt-ropes, as feebly obeying her helm, the brig slowly righted, the sail filled, her bows payed off from the wind, and the dismasted “Halcyon” flew before the gale.

“This is indeed terrible,” moaned Isabel, as, supported by her lover, she took her way below, following four of the crew who bore the body of her father to his cabin. Dom Maxara had been nearly dashed overboard as the huge wave broke over the brig, throwing her on her beam ends. Sorely bruised and shaken he had been unable to rise, and each succeeding wave, as it swept the decks, had rolled him to and fro, surging about among the broken timbers and tangled rigging.

Flash after flash of lightning, instantly followed by peals of thunder, succeeding each other so closely as never to seem to die wholly away, now followed, and all day long the hurricane continued to sweep the face of the Indian Ocean, until, far as the eye could reach, the sea was one boiling mass of foam.

The brig rolled awfully, and with four men at the wheel, yawed wildly. The great thing in scudding is to keep the vessel going, with a velocity superior to the following wave. If this be not effected, then she is pooped, the seas overtaking and flooding her, whereas if she be not kept dead before the wind, and continually met with the helm when yawing to starboard or port, the scudding vessel broaches to, and down she goes at once.

Towards evening the gale broke, the main-topsail was set closely reefed, and the clank of the chain pumps was heard, in the stillness of the night, telling their own tale. The haze cleared away, the wind gradually fell, and with it the sea, but even yet the brig rolled fearfully.

On deck Hughes and the missionary were working with the men, encouraging them at the pumps, for there is no duty a seaman dislikes more than that. The captain, fairly worn out, had rolled himself in a great coat, and was sleeping heavily, coiled up against the rails of the quarter-deck. His mate was standing near the wheel, and the brig was dragging slowly and heavily through the seas. Above the clear blue sky and the bright stars, and around the ocean, with its surging waves, while on the stillness of the night came the sharp clank of the chain pumps: Towards morning the reefs were shaken out, and Hughes came aft.

“The water is gaining on us,” he said, moodily, addressing the mate. “Had the captain not better be roused?”

“What’s the use? we cannot do more than has been done. We shall sight land by daybreak, and I hope run into Port Natal, if the wind holds.”

“Have you heard anything of Dom Maxara?” anxiously asked Hughes.

“Nothing; but he got a terrible mauling. When I saw him, he was lying between the pump and the mainmast with his thigh broken.”

“Is there any one else hurt?”

“Yes,” returned the mate; “poor Stapleton has been severely crushed. That huge sea dashed them both on deck and stove in all our boats.”

“Is not that day breaking, away to the eastward?” asked Hughes.

“Yes; and if the wind will only hold, we shall soon sight the land, for with the leak gaining on us, short-handed, and nearly dismasted, the sooner we make a port the better,” answered the mate, as, wearied and moody, the soldier turned, and went below.

The Raft

Through the dim, grey light, Hughes took his way down the companion, entering the brig’s little cabin. If things had seemed gloomy on deck, where the cool morning breeze was blowing, and the dying gale moaning through the broken rigging, how much more desolate all seemed here as he paused and looked about him. The hatches were on, the deadlights shipped, and a lamp, with its long wick unsnuffed, swung wildly to and fro. Down the companion came the first faint sickly streaks of the coming day. The soaked carpets, the crimson seats drenched with salt-water, and the broken cabin furniture, were the natural results of the few minutes the brig had been lying on her beam ends. A small table had broken from its lashings and, fetching way, pitched right into a large mirror, and there it lay broken among the shivered glass. The crew were now so short-handed that the steward was working at the pumps, whose metallic clanking sound was plainly heard all over the vessel.

Pausing a moment as he glanced around, Hughes realised the scene, and then, passing on, knocked at the door of a small cabin.

The knock was low and timidly given. It produced no reply, so, turning the handle, he entered.

He stood in the Portuguese noble’s private cabin, and he became at once aware that the injuries which Dom Maxara had received were of a graver character than the mate had led him to suppose. In point of fact, the broken thigh caused by being jammed in between the pump and the brig’s mainmast was not all, for several ribs had been broken, by the heavy blocks which had been rolled to and fro, and some severe internal injury had been received. What was even worse was that there was no doctor on board, and so there on the tumbled bed lay the injured noble, his grey hairs falling on the pillow, while by the bedside, her face buried in the clothes, sat Isabel fast asleep. Several large stains of blood marked the sheet, and the sick man’s eyes, though closed, seemed sunken, and the lips deadly white. The morning was breaking fine and calm.

Kneeling down beside her, after carefully closing the door, Hughes passed his arm gently round the sleeping girl’s waist. She awoke with a start, glancing round her with a terrified look, as she pushed back the long hair from her face and forehead. For a few moments, so deep had been the sleep of fatigue and exhaustion, she knew not where she was or what had happened, but as her startled gaze fell on the narrow bed, the whole of the sorrowful present returned to her. Dom Maxara was breathing very heavily, and with great difficulty.

“Oh, Enrico, how wicked I have been,” she exclaimed. “How could I go to sleep?”

“How could you avoid it, dear Isabel, after such a time of mental and bodily fatigues. Has he spoken?” asked Hughes, looking up into her face.

“No, he has never moved, never opened his eyes; but I don’t know how long I have been asleep,” was the reply. “What is the news on deck? If we could only get him ashore, my dear dear father!”

“The gale is completely broken, the sea rapidly falling, and we shall soon have a dead calm, Isabel; but the leak is gaining on us, some plank must be started, and there is ten feet water in the hold.”

“Is land far off?” asked the girl, whose face looked pale and careworn. “If we could only get him to land.”

“We have no boats, and no means of landing. The brig is nearly motionless, and will soon be quite so. If we had wind we might run her on the coast; but at present it is only a question of how many hours we can float. The captain talks of a raft.”

“Land ho!” was heard shouted on the forecastle.

“Where away?” was asked from the quarter-deck.

“Broad on the starboard bow, sir, nearly ahead.”

The shout seemed to rouse the sick man. His eyes opened languidly, and so heavy and stertorous was the breathing, that the clothes rose and fell with the labouring chest.

Dom Maxara had regained consciousness, but it became evident that some severe internal injury had taken place, and that death was not far off. Isabel leaned over him, and kissed the white lips.

“Land is in sight, dear father; the weather is fine, and we shall soon reach it,” she whispered, placing her hand in his.

The old man closed his eyes, and prayed; he then motioned with his hand, and Hughes gave him some teaspoonsful of weak brandy and water.

This revived him, and the cushions being arranged, he managed, though with much pain, to make himself heard.

“I shall never land, my daughter,” he said, “never. Isabel, at the foot of my bed you will find a tin case, bring it.”

The weeping girl did as she was told without a word.

“Enrico,” continued the dying man, slowly and feebly, “all my papers are there. Whatever property I have is left to my daughter. Isabel, I am leaving you fast.”

The girl knelt by his side, sobbing bitterly, but without speaking.

A long pause ensued, during which the clank of the chain pumps, the swish of the water, the loud voices on deck, and the stertorous breathing of the dying noble, mixed with the passionate sobs of the sorrow-stricken daughter.

“Isabel,” said Dom Maxara, at last, “I would give you a protector. Enrico, I would give you my daughter, ere I leave you.”

“Oh, dear father, think of yourself, think not of me,” sobbed the heart-broken Isabel.

“I am thinking of myself. Enrico, tell your friend the missionary; ask him to come here.”

Wyzinski was soon found; and there, in the small cabin, the marriage service was read, Captain Weber, whose eyes were wet with tears, being present. Isabel’s voice could hardly be heard through her sobs, as she murmured the responses of the English Church. Wyzinski closed the book, and the wife’s head rested on her husband’s shoulder. They knelt by the bedside, the missionary praying fervently and long.

All had faced death together more than once; but here it was gradually approaching before their eyes, slowly but surely, and on that account the more terrible. The captain had left, his presence being urgently required on deck, and the low, earnest tones of the missionary sounded impressively in the cabin of the dismantled brig. By the bedside the newly-married couple kneeled. In Isabel’s bosom a deep and unswerving affection had long since taken root; she had read, and read truly, too, the heart of her lover; had seen, from the first, his affection for her, and had understood the plain blunt straightforward language in which the expression of it had been couched. For her own future she entertained no doubt, now that the storm was dying away, and land in sight.

“See, Enrico, he revives,” she murmured.

“It is the effect of the stimulant,” replied her husband.