The Ruined Cities of Zululand

Captain Weber turned sharply round, looking the speaker full in the face, and paused a moment as if in astonishment, ere he replied.

“Yes, I have gold dust in some of them, and if yonder ship had only stood on for an hour longer, the dust might have served me to fit out another vessel, and give me another chance; but why do you ask?”

“I lay awake nearly all last night. You know I have always thrown myself before the entrance to the little cabin.”

The seaman nodded his head.

“Well, about four o’clock this morning, I heard two of the men talking. Yonder red-bearded, blear-eyed fellow who is whittling a stick as he whistles, was the principal speaker.”

“Ah, Gough,” replied the master, “he is the worst character on board; it was Gough tried to persuade the men to break into the spirit-room, when tired of the work at the pumps. I can believe anything of him.”

“Well, he held out a dazzling picture of life in Madagascar. He talked of the warm welcome given by the Queen of the island to the English, he painted a life of luxury and ease, instead of one of toil and privation, saying we might sight the island any moment.”

“The scoundrel!” muttered the old master between his clenched teeth, “I see it all now.”

“He told of the gold on the raft, and how with it they might be kings and nobles in the land. How the wind was dead fair, and they had but to stretch forth their hands to help themselves.”

“Not while I live—not while I live, the mutinous scoundrel,” growled the seaman.

“You are not intended to live,” replied the soldier. “We were all to die, unprepared, and therefore incapable of resistance. Adams and Simmonds were to share our fate, the raft to be seized, and the loss of the brig to cover that of the crew and passengers.”

“And Dona Isabel?” inquired the captain.

“Was to die to secure her silence,” replied Hughes, shuddering.

“A pleasant lot of fellows; and when is this infernal plot to be carried out?”

“Last night was fixed for its execution, but a fear for the return of the ship we saw yesterday prevented it, and now it is determined that it be carried out to-night.”

“We may see a sail again to-day, and if we do, we are saved; but again, we may not,” muttered the captain, “and we must be prepared for the worst.”

“We had better, at all events, show no suspicion, but go to our breakfast as usual.”

“I will consult with Lowe; do you tell your old comrade,” said the captain, moodily, as the two moved away.

The simple breakfast was laid out before the cabin-door just as usual. The steward acted as cook, and Isabel superintended her breakfast table on the raft, with all the natural grace she would have shown, had she been in her father’s house in sunny Portugal.

Her face was sorrowful, as she advanced to meet Hughes, for yesterday had indeed brought her a cruel disappointment. So sure had she felt of rescue, that the blow had been very severe.

“Did I not tell you, Enrico, all is against us? Oh, I dreamed that the ship we saw yesterday had come back, and so vivid was the dream, that I lifted the sail expecting to see it,” she remarked.

The breakfast finished, Captain Weber and his mate rose to consult the chart.

“Wyzinski, help us to clear away, and we will get out the chess-board. I want to speak to you. You can lean over us as we play.”

“What on earth is wrong now?” exclaimed Isabel, fixing her large black eyes on her husband’s face.

“Hush, Isabel!” returned Hughes, throwing himself down on the planks, “a great peril hangs over us. If there was a chance of rescue, I would have said nothing about it, but the day wears on, and the horizon is clear.”

Isabel looked up. “All seems calm, there is no sign of storm about,” she remarked.

“Peril!” repeated Wyzinski, as he stooped over Hughes and moved a knight on the board. “Check to your king and castle—both. It and I are old friends.”

And Hughes told his tale, while the game proceeded in a most irregular manner.

Captain Weber sauntered up, and looked knowingly at the board, though he did not understand anything about it.

“Have you spoken to Adams and to Morris?” asked the missionary.

“Yes, and they are prepared—and what is better, yonder in the cabin is the arm-chest securely locked. It was a lucky thing I placed it there. The villains are unarmed.”

“They have their knives—there are eleven of them, and we count how many?” quietly asked the missionary.

“Seven,” answered the old sailor; “but Adams is still very weak. Will you open yonder chest, pretty one,” he continued, for he ever addressed Isabel by that endearing epithet; “will you open yonder chest, and push the revolvers within my reach with your foot.”

Wyzinski took her place at the chess-board, as Isabel rose to do as she was desired, and the captain having placed a couple of pairs of revolvers in the pockets of his monkey jacket, moved forward among the men, talking and chatting as if nothing was wrong.

It was Sunday; the breeze died away towards evening, and the missionary read the service of the day in the makeshift cabin. He possessed a fine, clear voice, and, aware of their great danger, his hearers found the beautiful litany of the church more solemn, perhaps, than usual.

To Isabel it was all very strange, but as the sun sank to rest among the ocean waves, she joined in the rites of her husband’s creed with a simple, and confiding faith, not understanding them, and night gradually gathered round the crew of the raft. Inured to danger, and now fully armed, one after another of the little party lay down to sleep, and soon all was quiet on board.

The wind had fallen, and with it the sea, the motion of the spars becoming less and less. The night was warm, the stars were shining brilliantly, and the moon, in her first quarter, was rising over the ocean, making a long narrow strip of silver on the waves. The sail was raised at the opening of the cabin, and on the planking before it sat Isabel. Her husband’s arm was round her, and her head leaned back on his breast, the long hair uncared for, falling on the planks which formed the deck, while the starlight shone on her face, and twinkled in her black eyes. The sail of the raft just drew, but barely so.

“How quiet all seems, Enrico; except the splash of the waves, there is not a sound abroad.”

“Yes, many years hence we may talk of this. Does it not seem strange to be floating about on a few sticks in the middle of the ocean? Hark! do you hear that?”

A loud noise, like the blowing off of steam, was heard.

“It is a whale, Isabel.”

“I did not know there were many of them here,” said the fair girl, again leaning back, for she had started up in alarm at the noise.

“There are plenty of an inferior description to those caught further north, and further south,” replied Hughes. “But tell me of your own country, Isabel, a land I do not know.”

“No; we will have it the other way about, Enrico. Tell me of our home among your native mountains, and of the strange customs and manners of the people.”

“But they are not strange, and there is no difference between them and others, save that they are of more ancient race and speak an older tongue than the English. True tradition lives among the time-worn mountains of the Cymri.”

“Well, tell me one of them, Enrico mio.”

With that faculty of enjoying the present, without thought of the future, inherent to the Spanish and Portuguese nature, Isabel seemed to have forgotten her position, even the dread peril which menaced them from the evil humour and greed of the dissatisfied seamen. All was merged in the present, in the quiet beauty of the night, the starlight which glistened in her eyes, the long thin quivering strip of moonlight dancing over the calm ocean waves, and the presence of him she loved best.

The soldier was well armed. From his childhood he had been accustomed to scenes of danger; his manhood had been spent in a country where the European carries his life in his hand, and all on board the raft seemed quiet. The men might have renounced their treacherous purpose.

“Well,” said he, falling into the humour of the moment and drawing the thick cloak so as to cover Isabel more completely, while he looked down on the fair face turned up to meet his gaze, “I had an ancestor, who, for the sake of his religion, which was yours, lost lands and property that ought to have descended in direct line to us. Shall I tell you of this?”

“Do, Enrico mio,” replied Isabel, nestling nearer to him.

“There is an old mansion near the sea shore in North Wales. It is a small farm-house now, Isabel, and though many hundreds of people who go year after year to the two well-known towns of Conway and Llandudno pass it often, though they remark its old Elizabethan windows, its twisted chimneys, and queer odd look, none ever take much notice of it, because near it stands the lordly house of Gloddaeth, surrounded by its sweeping woods and noble park. Yet it is just of this old farm-house I am going to tell you.”

“Don’t talk of trees and parks, Enrico; it makes me feel such a longing for land,” said Isabel.

“It was a curious pile in the days of which I speak, that old house of Penrhyn, with its uncouth rambling style of architecture, belonging to no age in particular, but a little to all. The principal part of it, however, had been built in Queen Elizabeth’s time, and, as I have said, many of the queer gables and twisted chimneys yet remain. Before it lies the sea, and away to the right a chain of magnificent mountains, sweeping into the very heart of Snowdonia. The Denbighshire range, and the long low hills trending away to the mouth of the Dee, give a charm to the landscape, while the broad lands of Penrhyn lie stretched around. The woods of Gloddaeth and Bodysgallen add to the beauty of the scene, and close to the house a chapel, in good repair, the ruins of which still stand, then told of the religious faith of the Pughs of Penrhyn.

“Between them and the powerful family of the lords of Gloddaeth a feud existed, and the Sir Roger Mostyn of that day had added to it by forcing his neighbour to remove the stone cross which formed the only ornament of the chapel. The owner of the place, Robert Pugh of Penrhyn, was old, and a mere tool in the hands of a wily priest, Father Guy. This latter was a dangerous man. Bred in the Jesuit ‘Collegio dei Nobili’ at Rome, he had by accident inherited his brother’s titles and part of his estates. The rank Sir William Guy never publicly assumed. Wholly absorbed in his religious views he had visited many countries, and had in his fanaticism longed even for the crown of martyrdom.

“The small Catholic community, existing by sufferance only in the heart of this wild Welsh land, had attracted his attention, and he had asked and obtained the small chaplainry of Penrhyn, soon acquiring a complete ascendancy over the owner.

“The tenants of the place, as well as those of Coetmore, were at his disposal, old Robert Pugh’s only son and heir, Henry, being affianced to Lucy Coetmore. Help had been promised by the Earl of Shrewsbury and other Catholic nobles in England, so the fanatic priest had determined to raise the standard of revolt, and thought he saw his way to success.”

“And Lucy Coetmore, Enrico, was she beautiful?”

“You shall see her picture yourself, Isabel. It hangs in the entrance of Plas Coch, on the banks of the Conway;” and Hughes paused, for the memory of the quiet valley and the flowing river, with its grey ruins and old Roman remains, came over him as he glanced at the waste of waters, while their helpless position struck him in contrast with a sickening sensation.

“What a curious red star that is down in the horizon!” he remarked. “I could almost fancy it goes out sometimes; but to continue—

“Lucy was a tall stately heiress; her hair was not like yours, Isabel, but of a golden brown, and her eyes blue and full of melancholy softness, her complexion of that transparent white and red so seldom seen united with strong constitutions. The white was the enamelled white of ivory, and the red was the blush of the wild rose. The charm of her beautiful face and well-turned head was heightened by the graceful neck and slender figure. Lucy was a Saxon beauty.”

“And did she die young?” languidly asked Isabel.

“She did; leaving one daughter, who married my great grandfather, and through whom the property came into my family; but now we must leave Penrhyn for a time, dearest.

“It was ten o’clock in the morning, and Sir Roger Mostyn sat in the great hall of Gloddaeth. There was the ample fireplace with its old-fashioned dogs, the panelled and carved oaken walls and roof. There was a balcony at the further end, where the white-haired harpers played, and sang tales of war and love; curious antique mottoes were blazoned on the walls in old Welsh characters. There, too, were the arms of the Mostyns and the Royal device of the Tudors, with the red dragon grinning defiance to the world. Sir Roger seemed uneasy as he threw open the latticed window and let in a glorious flood of sunshine and fresh air into the ancient hall. On the terrace beyond several children were playing, while before him, for many a mile, lay his own broad lands. The woods of Bodysgallen and of Marl were waving in the wind. There were the grey towers of Conway Castle and the glancing river, the noble background of the Snowdonian Mountains closing the view, with the splendid outline of old Penmaenmawr as it sank with one sheer sweep into the sea.”

“I don’t want to hear of all that, Enrico,” said Isabel, slipping her hand into her husband’s. “I don’t care for waving trees, old ruins, and rivers—at least not here.”

“Well, I don’t think Sir Roger Mostyn did either at that moment, for his face was clouded with care.

“‘And so, Griffith,’ he said to a man who was standing near the door, ‘that was all you learned?’

“‘It was, Sir Roger; but not all I saw. Susan was as close as a miser with his gold, and though I slept in an out-house and only returned half an hour since, she would tell me nothing.’

“‘And you say great preparations were on foot for the reception of guests?’

“‘Messengers were coming and going, Sir Roger, the whole night long; the butchers were busy slaughtering; all was bustle and excitement.’

“Thou art a poor lover, Griffith, if this is all thou couldst obtain.

“‘About twelve o’clock, Sir Roger,’ continued the fellow, reddening, ‘I heard the tramp of men, and looking out, I saw a company of about fifty. They appeared to obey a word of command, were dressed in grey frieze, and armed. The windows of the chapel were a blaze of light. I learned that they were Irish from the Isle of Man.’

“‘Very well, Griffith; send the steward here;’ and Sir Roger leaned on the sill of the latticed window in deep thought. The children called to him in their play, but he did not see them; the birds sang and the leaves rustled, but he did not hear them.

“There you are, Enrico, with your birds and trees again, and we on the broad ocean, with the sea below us, and the blue sky overhead.

“Yes, but there is love in both cases. As to who is in love on board the raft, you know as well as I do,” and the speaker bent over the form nestled on his bosom, and kissed the fair forehead.

There was a moment’s silence, and one of the apparently sleeping men lifted his head, glanced around, and then, as Hughes continued his tale, dropped again on the deck, uttering a heavy curse.

“Father Guy had brought over a strong body of the Catholic peasantry from Ireland, the cutter which landed them lying in a snug little bay near the farm. It is such a beautiful spot that bay, Isabel, formed by the hills dying away into the sea, and the rugged sides of the Little Orme.”

“Now, Enrico, I won’t have it. Tell me of anything except rocks, trees, and birds,” murmured Isabel.

“Well, night had set in. The stars were gleaming round the twisted gables and chimneys of Penrhyn, but the windows of the little chapel were a blaze of light. Inside it some twenty noblemen were assembled, the last relics of the Catholic religion among the mountains of North Wales. The altar was decked out for mass, the long tapers lighted, the fragrant incense floated on the air, while, in the full splendour of his robes, stood Father Guy.

“He was speaking eloquently and earnestly, just as a man, wearing a heavy horseman’s cloak, glided in through the doorway of the chapel.

“His audience were so wrapped up in the words they heard, and in the powerful appeal to their feelings so carried away by his eloquence, that he only remarked and recognised the intruder, who was no other than Sir Roger Mostyn.

“‘Yes, my sons,’ concluded the old priest, ‘prompted by the Master of Iniquity, they would deny us the worship of our God, they would destroy religion by the introduction of schismatic doctrines. They would make the tenets of an ancient and holy Church subservient to the will of an earthly king, putting off and on its principles at pleasure, like to a raiment. I say unto you, that death is a meet reward for these usurpers of our Church—that he who aids not in the holy work set on foot this night belongs not unto us. Go forth, my sons, uphold the banner of the Church: let its enemies perish from the face of the earth, and, as a sign unto you that the God of our fathers is with you, turn, and behold whom he has delivered into your hand.’

“The long, white, transparent fingers pointed towards the doorway, where Sir Roger Mostyn stood.

“It was a strange scene that chapel blazing with light, as, dropping his cloak, Sir Roger strode into its centre, dressed in the uniform of his own regiment of Yeomanry.

“‘Away with him,’ cried the priest, and a score of blades leaped from their scabbards.

“‘Silence, gentlemen,’ said the baronet, no way dismayed, his voice sounding clear and sonorous above the tumult, ‘the place is surrounded. I have but to raise my voice, and the soldiers enter. Disperse while there is yet time.’

“The conspirators looked into each other’s faces with blank amazement. Some moved towards the door of the chapel and, returning, told that men wearing the Royal uniform were outside.

“‘It shall not be said that we, the last remnants of the faithful in this land, put our hands to the plough and turned back,’ exclaimed Robert Pugh of Penrhyn. ‘Philip Wynn, fall in our men. Forward, gentlemen.’”

“Is that the star you mean, Enrico?” asked Isabel, interrupting the tale, as she pointed to the westward; “it does not set, and seems larger than it was. Can it be on land?”

Midnight, the hour fixed for the outbreak, had long passed, and all was as yet quiet on board. The voices of the speakers ceased as both concentrated their gaze on what seemed a red star, for Hughes did not like to wake the sleepers for nothing.

A form moved at the far end of the raft. It was the man Gough, who raised himself gently on his elbow, listening cautiously. Hearing no noise save the swish of the waves, he pushed one or two of the men who, wrapped in their coats, were fast asleep, and then throwing the covering from him, he rose. The starlight gleamed from the blade of his long knife as he stole his way round the cases which formed the sea wall of the cabin. Step by step he advanced, but just as he rounded them, Hughes rose, his back turned towards the man.

“I will wake the captain, Isabel. I know not what it is.”

With a loud curse, the ruffian raised his arm, and the blow fell, with such force, that it precipitated Hughes, who was wholly off his guard, into the sea.

With a loud shriek, which aroused every one on the raft, Isabel rushed forward. Seizing her with his iron grasp by the hair, the murderer’s knife once more gleamed in the starlight, when a straightforward blow from Morris the carpenter struck him full between the eyes, knocking him overboard; while shriek after shriek from Isabel rang out on the air.

The men had now formed, and came on with their knives gleaming in the starlight, and a savage determination on their faces.

“Lay down your arms, my lads,” shouted Weber; “your plot is known, and we are armed.”

For a second the crew seemed disposed to obey the voice whose tones of command had so often rang in their ears.

“Come on, my lads,” shouted a burly sailor; “follow Jack Smith, and we’ll soon have the gold.”

A wild shout rang out, a pistol shot, and the speaker, struck right on the bridge of the nose by a ball from the captain’s pistol, gave a fearful scream as he spun round in his intense agony; dropping the knife, he uttered a volley of hideous imprecations, then came an appalling yell, and he fell dead.

The men were startled, two of their leaders were gone, while opposed to them, and fully armed, stood the captain and his party.

Isabel lay senseless on the planking of the cabin, and the seamen held a hurried consultation together.

Meanwhile, in the sea, a fierce struggle had been going on. His left arm pierced by the knife, which had sought his heart, but in the darkness missed its aim, Hughes had risen to the surface after his first plunge, the body of his antagonist Gough falling on him as he did so, both instantly grappling.

The soldier’s arm was powerless, as with a savage shout, and deep guttural oath, Gough pinned his enemy by the throat; dashing back his head against the rough planking of the raft, while with his clenched fist he dealt him blow after blow.

Clutching wildly and impotently at his aggressor, Hughes felt his strength failing. Soon his head was below the water again, he struggled to the surface, his senses were rapidly leaving him, and the fierce exulting shout of his enemy rang vaguely in his ears. Down came the sledge-hammer blows on his defenceless head, the man Gough fighting like a fiend, roaring in his fury, and biting like a wild beast at his foe, as he once more tore away his victim’s hold and pressed his head below the raft. The water gurgled in his ears, the savage shout mixed with the noise of the waves as he went down, when suddenly the grip on his throat ceased, his antagonist’s eyes rolled wildly; with a yell of agony, he seemed to leap half his height from out of the wave, and then all around it became reddened with his blood.

A violent struggle followed, making the sea boil for a moment, as a monstrous shark disappeared with its prey, and the strong arm of the carpenter seizing the drowning man by the collar, drew him from the ocean crimsoned with the blood of his antagonist, and cast him, stunned and senseless, on to the planking of the raft.

The Rescue

Isabel, recovered from the state of insensibility into which she had fallen, on seeing all at once the quiet of the night turned into a scene of murder and of bloodshed, had taken refuge in the cabin. She paid no attention to what was going on around her, but sat on a pile of sails, rocking herself to and fro, and moaning as she did so. Several balls passed through the canvas screen, but she paid no attention to them. She had seen her husband, the last friend left her, stabbed as she believed to the heart, and thrown into the sea. What was the result of the fight now to her, and yet, as she saw even in her misery the helpless body drawn from the ocean, and cast on to the raft, she rose, and threw herself beside it, sobbing bitterly in her anguish of heart.

A few minutes’ pause had ensued after the fearful death scream of the mutineer, Smith, had rung forth on the night air, for the seamen consulted together, and the result was soon seen.

On they came with a fierce shout, but this time, taught by experience, they divided into two parties; one, attacking the captain and his men in front, received their fire and were soon beaten back, losing one of their number, the uncertain light alone saving them. The second, under cover of the diversion, dashed into the cabin, and rifled the arm-chest, which they broke open.

“Now, my lads, it’s our turn,” shouted one of the men as he loaded and fired, hitting the carpenter Morris, who fell uttering a deep groan.

Three of Captain Weber’s small party were hors de combat. The carpenter was fast bleeding to death. Hughes was lying senseless on the planking of the raft, while Adams, whose wound had broken out again, was in a helpless condition. The ultimate result of the struggle seemed no longer doubtful.

“It’s but a question of time, Lowe,” said the captain. “I’ve always been kind to the lubbers. Let the scoundrels have the gold—I’ll tell them so.”