The Ruined Cities of Zululand

Gently putting aside the brushwood which seemed to bar all onward progress, while he trailed his gun after him, Captain Hughes advanced up the bed of the stream. There was stern resolution in the knit brow and firmly compressed lips. The tangled bushes closed after him, and the great powerful Hottentot turned, to work his way back, leaving his master to face the danger alone. Once the man hesitated, turned again, took two or three paces, as if to follow, and then stopped. At this moment a tremendous roar rang through the thicket. It decided the matter, and Luji never halted until he gained the edge of the mahunoo grove, and, rifle in hand, climbed up a tree, where he sat patiently waiting the dénouement.

Foot by foot, yard by yard, the more determined soldier now alone worked his way on, the growlings and snappings growing more and more distinct, until at last he reached the foot of a large “masuku” tree, whose roots ran down the bank into the bed of the stream, the action of running water having bared them. Suddenly a roar which sounded close to him made him crouch down. It was the same which had decided Luji’s retreat. He almost fancied the beating of his own heart could be heard, mixed with the snarling and snapping of some wild animals, and the rending of flesh. His breath seemed to come quick, as, grasping the tap-root of the tree with the left hand, slowly and cautiously he raised himself to a level with the bank. It was a splendid sight for an African hunter. An open space in the bush lay before him, and at the further end, where a narrow path seemed to lead into the forest, lay the headless and torn carcase of a horse. An English saddle with its broken girths had fallen from its back, while to the right an enormous lioness, turned from him, was gently moving her tail to and fro like a great cat, as she contemplated her two cubs rending the dead horse.

Slowly and with great care bringing up his rifle, the hunter aimed deliberately behind the shoulder, knowing that there the shot must prove mortal, the lioness not being ten paces away as he pulled the trigger. Hearing some noise, the watchful animal sprang up just as the report rang out, and the ball, striking too low, instead of killing, wounded her. The next moment lioness and man were rolling together at the bottom of the gully, the growl of the wounded animal ringing savagely among the rocks and bushes. Gripping the helpless hunter by the shoulder, the lioness sprang with him up the bank. The trusty rifle lay at the bottom of the nullah, but still the man did not lose his presence of mind. The pistols at his belt might yet serve him. Slipping his hand down, he found they were gone, doubtless dropped also in the nullah, and then only a shout of agony came from his lips as he found himself, helpless and defenceless, a prey to the lioness.

Her eyes seemed to gleam with fury as she looked into his. Oh, the agony of that moment, as, bleeding and impotent, his head pressed against her shaggy neck, he was dragged up the bank, bodily, the sharp fangs meeting in the flesh of the shoulder. Reaching the open, the great brute for an instant relaxed her hold, probably only to secure a firmer grip, and the unfortunate hunter fell to the ground. Placing her huge paw on the prostrate man’s breast, she looked upwards and growled savagely. The sharp ring of a heavy rifle seemed to mix with the voice of the lioness, and a stream of warm blood deluged the face and breast of the fallen hunter, as the whole weight of the dying animal fell upon and almost crushed him, while consciousness, for the first time in his life, departed.

“Her head was within a foot of you when I fired,” were the first words which greeted his ears as he revived, and saw a stranger standing beside him, endeavouring to drag away the carcass. The cubs had bolted precipitately at the first shot, and presently Luji, who had heard the double report, coming cautiously up, the hunter was freed from the weight of the dead animal, a hole was scooped in the sandy bed of the nullah, some fresh water procured, and, some hours afterwards, the two who had thus strangely met were comfortably seated outside the little tent on the forks of the Limpolulo, discussing the eland and mealie stew which had been prepared for dinner.

“A curious situation for you, a missionary, to be in,” said Hughes, continuing a conversation which the process of dinner-eating had interrupted.

“Curious enough, and not a very pleasant one,” returned the new comer. “I was returning from the country of the Matlokotlopo, where I had been to find the chief Mozelkatse, without whose permission I knew it would be useless for me to attempt penetrating further.”

This new comer was of German origin, though his name smacked more of Polish or Hungarian ancestry. He was a man evidently past his prime, and his spare muscular frame, his dark hair slightly flecked here and there with grey, his sunken cheeks and high cheek-bones, told of years of care, hardship, and, perhaps, of dangers bravely faced; while the bright, black, restless eyes, the broad, high forehead, the finely chiselled lines of the mouth, and the firm erect carriage, promised intellectual intelligence, combined with a determined spirit, well calculated to cope with the chances of a life such as he was evidently leading.

“Is this, like my own, your first trial of life on the plains of South Africa? If so we have begun well,” asked Hughes.

“Oh, I could tell you of many a tale of life among the savages of the Pacific, and of years passed with the hardly more civilised tribes of North-Western India, and my very object here shows that I am not at my maiden essay,” replied Wyzinski, laughing. “Shall I tell you the history of the land, and my own views at the same time?”

“Let us light our pipes first, and have some more wood thrown on the fire. Hallo what’s all that?” said Hughes, laughing.

What was it, indeed? for on the evening breeze there came sounds of talking and laughter, and soon, over the plain, streamed the missionary’s followers, at once swelling the party to fourteen. With them were Luji and the carcasses of the lioness and the koodoo, flung across a horse, and as evening drew on there was high feasting in the camp on the forks of the Limpolulo. Meat was plentiful, and the new comers gorged themselves with it, singing, laughing, and dancing round the camp fires. The lioness was skinned, and its hide stretched out on the branches of a tree; the stars came out, and as they did so the plains around woke into life. The cries of the jackals, the hyenas, and the deer, came on the night air, and once or twice, too, a far away low rumble told of the lion in the distant mountains, seeking, perhaps, his dead mate. The air was warm and pleasant, as, reclining by the fire in front of the tent, Hughes and the missionary talked on far into the night.

“You are among a strange nation,” continued the latter. “The first history of the Zulus is that, in the year 1810, they conquered the land, but where the nation came from or how it originated no one knows. It sprang suddenly into notice under their King Chaka, who knew something of military training, and brought his army into a high state of discipline. After he had reigned thirteen years, his brother Dingaan murdered him and then ascended the throne. This wily savage at once opened out the country to the European traders and to us missionaries, and the result was that the English annexed that part of the land now called Natal. In 1829 another brother of the murdered Chaka revolted, avenged his death by killing Dingaan, and under the title of King Panda mounted the throne. He is now a very old man, some say one hundred years of age, and a very enlightened monarch, only he won’t let any one penetrate into the interior.”

“And why should you wish so strongly to get into the interior?” asked Hughes. “Is your object to found new missions, or are you seeking a crown of martyrdom?”

“Neither one nor the other,” replied the missionary, “and I must go back some six hundred and thirty years before the birth of our Saviour, to explain my object to you.”

“Go ahead!” said Hughes.

“Well, then, about that period, Pharaoh Necho was king of Egypt, and he collected a large fleet, consisting of one hundred ships, great and small, in the Red Sea, and if he had not done this, you and I would not be talking at this moment on the banks of the Limpolulo.”

“I don’t exactly see what the Egyptian king has to do with the matter. Listen, Wyzinski, there’s the lion again!”

“Well, King Necho’s fleet sailed right into the Southern Ocean, until winter came with its cold and storms, against which the frail ships of that day could not contend. They then ran for the nearest harbour, and the crews landing tilled the soil until the fine season came round again. Then, reaping their crops, with a well-filled hold they made sail for other lands, and thus those adventurous seamen roamed about the then unknown ocean, passing Aden, Zanzibar, and Mozambique, and on one occasion wintering in a beautiful inlet hereaway to the northward, called Santa Lucia Bay.”

“And were none of the ships lost?” asked Hughes.

“Some on this very coast,” replied Wyzinski; “and their crews, unable to return to Egypt, settled in this land, and it is believed by many, by none more firmly than myself, that the present race of Zulus, incontestably the finest in Southern Africa, sprang from the fusion of Pharaoh’s seamen with the then cultivators of the soil. Others go further still, and say that this now almost savage land was the ancient Ophir, discovered by Pharaoh’s fleet, and from which at a later period the ships of Tarshish drew gold, cedar-wood, and precious stones. Some of our brethren who have dwelt long in the land tell of a geological stratum promising great mineral wealth.”

“Then you are in search of gold?” asked Hughes, with a slight curl of the lip, for he could not help, when gazing on the intelligent face of the man before him lighted up by the fitful gleams of the fire, regretting that a missionary should show such a thirst for gold.

“Diamonds, gold, and precious stones are said to exist, as also vast forests of ebony and cedar-trees,” continued the missionary, gazing abstractedly into the fire; “but with these revelations came strange tales as to the existence of ruined cities almost swallowed up by giant forest growth; the remains of a mighty but extinct race, said to lie three weeks’ journey to the north and west of our settlement at Santa Lucia Bay. It is these ruins I seek.”

“And Mozelkatse’s pass is necessary to reach them?” asked Hughes.

“Yes! will you join me in the search?” replied the missionary, eagerly, pausing for a while as the other looked moodily into the embers without replying; and then continuing, “I must not deceive you as to the difficulty and even the danger of the search. Efforts have already been made to reach the ruins, and they have ever failed. The jealous care of the native chiefs surrounds them with attributes of sanctity; the terrible tetse-fly haunts the country; and the waggons must be left behind. There are danger and difficulty in the path, but it is one which has never yet been trodden by European foot. Up to the present moment all efforts made to penetrate the country have failed, and the old temples and palaces of a once glorious race, if indeed they do exist, serve as a den for the beasts of prey, or a refuge for the hardly less savage Kaffir.”

The missionary’s pale face and sunken cheek was lighted up with an enthusiastic glow. The scene was a strange one, the dancing firelight, the blue sky overhead, the far-away ghostlike outline of the mountains, the loud laughter of the Kaffirs, as they gorged themselves with eland and koodoo meat, the white tent gleaming under the starlight, and the strange cries of the wandering inhabitants of the African plain. Then, too, the words, “difficulty and danger.” Could he refuse to share them with the man who had that day saved his life?

He struck his hand into the missionary’s opened and muscular palm.

“Willingly I will go with you, sharing your danger, your triumph, or your defeat. But what about the pass from Mozelkatse? Did you obtain it?” he asked.

“No. As I told you, I was returning from the country of the Matlokotlopo, where I had been for the purpose. I had left my people at Zoutpansburgh to follow me, and came on alone, intending to camp on the banks of this river. In the grey of the morning I was waylaid by the lioness, and rode for my life. In the open I held my own easily, but once entangled in the bush, was forced to leave my horse, and had barely time to climb a tree, losing everything save my rifle. The lioness pulled down my horse in a moment, and her cubs soon joined her. My rifle was a single one, while all my powder and ball were left in my holsters. I tried the cry used in the Australian bush, reserving my fire until the last moment. The rest you know.”

“But what about Mozelkatse? On your own showing, it is useless to proceed unless you have his protection,” asked Hughes.

“He is to be back in seven days, having left his kraal, on a grand hunting expedition, at the foot of yonder mountains, and he sent me a messenger saying he would be glad to meet me,” replied the missionary.

“Then there are seven days for me to get rid of the marks of that confounded lioness. Good-night, Wyzinski; it is getting late, and my day has been rather an exciting one.”

Mozelkatse

Thanks to a vigorous constitution and to temperate habits, wounds which might have been troublesome under a warm climate soon closed, and though for days the torn shoulder gave a good deal of pain, yet it rapidly healed. Game was plentiful, and the koodoos easily approached, so that Luji and the Kaffir Noti kept the camp provisioned during the week the tent remained pitched on the banks of the Limpolulo until a runner from Mozelkatse arrived, summoning the travellers to meet him at Zoutpansburgh, then a native kraal of some importance, about twenty miles to the northward and westward, on a spur of the Drakenburgh range. The life was a pleasant one. The breakfast round the remains of the camp fire. The loud shouts of the men as they chased and harnessed the lazy oxen. The cracking of the long whip as the lumbering waggon moved off. The mount and the gallop over the plain, with herds of deer flying before the hunters. The dinner under some spreading tree, the house on wheels, oxen and men around it. The tales told round the blaze, as the difficulties of the day were discussed, and those of the morrow canvassed; and then the sound sleep so well earned by fatigue. The evening of the seventh day after the affair with the lioness, the party outspanned at the foot of the mountain range, close to the native kraal Zoutpansburgh, the morrow being fixed by Mozelkatse for the audience.

The morning came, bright, warm, and glorious, as usual, and the little camp was early astir.

The interview was an important one. The name of Mozelkatse was known all through the land, and his power was great. So implicitly did his people believe in him, that they actually asserted that it was he who had made the moon and the sun, and it was utterly useless to attempt to proceed without his authority. Captain Hughes had been furnished by his relative with a letter to this potentate, and both he and the missionary had resolved that unless the reply given was encouraging they would not go on. It was, therefore, not without some anxiety as to the result, that orders were given to all the men to dress themselves out in any little finery they possessed, an English Union Jack was mounted on a lance, and, the one dressed in the time-stained uniform of the gallant 150th Regiment, the other in his priestly robes, took their way, followed by their men, to the enclosure where the king was to receive them, deeming themselves lucky in that the hunting party had led the chief in their direction to this outlying village, and so spared them a long journey to his capital. They saw but few of Mozelkatse’s personal guards, most of the motley tribe through which they took their way, preceded by Luji as standard-bearer, being natives belonging to the outlying tribe, and as they gained the enclosure, which was at the same time council chamber and reception hall, the gathering seemed a numerous one, for there were upwards of a hundred braves then present, and the number was rapidly increasing. A covering of skins was fastened round the waist of each, and broad rings of copper were worn round the arms and ankles of the chiefs. A plume of feathers adorned the heads of the principal men, while, hanging behind, somewhat after the fashion of a Hungarian pelisse, each warrior wore a panther or other similar skin. The array of dusky savages looked imposing enough, and all were well armed. The left hand supported a shield of tanned buffalo hide, surmounted with plumes of ostrich feathers. The same hand grasped a long spear, while the right firmly held a short stout stick with a heavy knob. Round the neck was a necklace, from which hung a dagger, while the short beard, grizzly black moustache, and clean cut limbs, made Mozelkatse’s braves look formidable as they closed in, forming a circle round the visitors, whose flag waved from the end of an assegai planted in the centre of the circle. The enclosure itself was formed of the branches of the mimosa, strongly and tightly interlaced, and from the height on which it stood, a magnificent view of the plain below, watered by the Limpopo, was obtained. All round were situated the huts of the tribe, looking like beehives, and near each a little walled space, wherein was kept their wealth, in the shape of oxen. No women were permitted to enter the enclosure; and hardly were the new comers arrived when Mozelkatse stalked into the ring. His hut was the only one opening on the enclosure, and a murmur of applause ran through the ranks of his braves as he made his appearance.

In compliment, perhaps, to the tribe, he wore nearly the same dress. Slowly seating himself on a rudely chiselled stone, Mozelkatse glanced around his warriors proudly, without noticing his visitors. He was a man of large size, apparently in the full vigour of his age, and of great muscular development, the colour of his skin alone detracting from his appearance.

There was an air of thought and command in his face, and, unlike his warriors, his hair was thrown back, his broad forehead being encircled with a fillet of ostrich feathers, terminating in a single plume hanging behind.

Heavy rings of highly-polished copper spanned the thick part of the arms, and lighter ones the wrist. The neck was adorned with a necklace, partly formed of bits of gold strung together, from which depended a dagger, and over the broad, hairy, black breast, floated one magnificent ostrich plume. A tawny lion skin was thrown over the stone on which he sat, while a robe of panther skins hung from his waist.

His right hand held the same kind of short stick carried by the warriors, while the left rested on his naked knee. Only that the forehead was rather low, and the mouth too large, Mozelkatse might have passed muster as a splendid specimen of coloured humanity.

A chief named Masheesh now stepped forward and presented the soldier and the missionary to the king, briefly explaining in his own tongue the object which led the strangers to the country. The missionary next addressed the king, asking his acceptance of the presents, which were laid at his feet by Luji, wrapped in an ox hide, the principal object being a handsome pair of pistols, silver-mounted, which seemed to please Mozelkatse. Bowing his head in token of acceptance, the king waved his hand, and two braves stepping forward took up the hide and its contents, conveying them into the king’s hut.

Settling himself in his seat, Mozelkatse looked round the circle, and all at once poured forth a torrent of words, which were those of welcome to the white men who had come to see him, ending with a request that they would settle among and trade with his people. The circle of black warriors applauded, striking their shields with their spears, and as their numbers had greatly increased, there not being less than two hundred and fifty armed men in the enclosure, the applause was noisy enough. As it died away, Wyzinski rose and stood before the chief, his clear silvery voice ringing through the enclosure, “Some years since,” said he, “I was travelling with my brethren far away on the banks of the Limpopo. I saw much of the various nations around, and by chance met with intelligent men of the tribe which calls Mozelkatse king.”

The savage bent his head in token of acknowledgment of the compliment, glancing round the circle of his braves proudly.

“I began,” continued Wyzinski, “to speak their language, and as I did so became aware of strange stories as to a spot far away towards the north, where stone buildings exist. One of these I was told was as large as Mozelkatse’s kraal, having an opening about half its height, through which they who desire to see the ruins must pass. My Matlokotlopo brethren told also of strange figures cut in stone, and of curiously carved birds also in stone. These houses must have once been the dwellings of the white man, and the legends our fathers have taught tell us of such white men, who came many thousand years since from the regions of the rising sun, landing on these shores. To reach these ruins, to prove that our fathers spoke the truth, is our object, and in the name of our ancestors we ask thy protection, chief.”

Drawing his robes round him, Wyzinski sat down, and for fully a minute there was a dead silence.

“The broken huts exist,” at length replied the king, “though none of us have ever seen them, and none know what far-away tribe made them. To reach them my white brethren must pass over the vast plains which lie between the Limpopo and the Zambesi, which the foot of the white man has never yet trod. The elephant and the lion abound there. The savage moohoohoo breed undisturbed, and not less cruel tribes, to whom Mozelkatse’s name carries no terror, inhabit them. Let my white brethren stay to hunt, and to trade with us. A party of my braves shall seek the fallen huts and bring back the images.”

The rattling sound of the rude applause was once more heard.

“No, chief,” replied Wyzinski; “we are not traders. We have turned from our road to ask your aid. Give it, and we shall succeed. The report will go far and wide that through the protection of a great king our fathers’ truth has been manifested, and traders will follow in our footsteps. Speed us on our journey, chief.”

Mozelkatse did not reply, and for a few moments there was a deep silence. It was broken in a sudden and startling manner. A little man, almost a dwarf, deformed in person and fearfully ugly, leaped into the circle. Executing a wild dance, which he accompanied with shrill screams, he spun round, the warriors crouching down and applauding, not as heretofore with their spears, but by beating on the hard baked ground with their sticks, sometimes altogether, sometimes in an irregular manner.

Stopping as suddenly as he had begun in his mad dance, the sorcerer, for such he was, threw himself violently on the ground at Mozelkatse’s feet, breaking as he did so a necklace of bones which he wore round his neck. For the first time the living circle of dusky braves gave way, and all able to do so crowded round the sorcerer, who with fixed and straining eyes was staring at the masses of bones lying here and there, from the position of which the augury was to be drawn. Luckily for the travellers, the omen was tolerably propitious, the seer pronouncing that though there was danger in the path, the white chiefs should return in safety.

The circle was again formed, and a long discussion ensued, in the course of which several of the more noted chiefs joined in, and the result was a mass of evidence as to the existence of ruins somewhere in the neighbourhood of Manica, a country lying to the northward, well watered by tributaries of the Zambesi, all the evidence being however merely hearsay. Eventually the king’s aid and protection were promised, and Mozelkatse retired, two braves as he did so advancing, and taking from their sheaths the long glittering knives, performed a curious dance round the strangers, eventually cutting away the grass upon which they had sat, and burying it in a hole under the stone which had served as a throne. This being a ceremony always performed by the chief who wishes to retain the friendship of his visitors, during their temporary absence, was of good augury. The audience was at an end, the king disappearing inside his hut, and the Union Jack being struck, the new comers, escorted by a band of armed braves, singing a monotonous song, and accompanying themselves with the regular but discordant noise of the spears striking against the shields, marched off to the camp, where an ox previously purchased was slaughtered, cut up, and distributed among the braves, the absent but friendly sorcerer not being forgotten.